My Most Difficult Confession Yet

I started this post a half dozen times before concluding that there is no right way of saying what I'm trying to say. There are no words to sugar coat it or break it down nicely or make it easier to read. This is by far the most raw, emotional post I have ever written and, after months of struggling over whether or not to write about it, whether or not to drudge up the awful feelings associated with it, I have decided that it is worth an hour or so of painful memories in order to help even one person. So here it is. My most difficult confession yet.


Nearly 4 years ago, on a warm September night during my first semester of college, I was raped. That word - rape - was something I had a hard time saying for months, if not years. I tried to convince myself that it was something else - I had "made a drunken mistake" or I had been "taken advantage of" but I did NOT want to say the word rape. I felt that using the word took my power away from me, that it made me a victim. But what I didn't realize at the time was that it wasn't the word rape that made me feel powerless or that made me a victim, it was the rape itself. And it wasn't my fault.


But it felt like it was my fault. I was drunk when the incident occurred and, for that reason alone, I remember saying to myself over and over again, "You brought it on yourself. Nobody would believe you anyway. Just let it go and move on."


Moving on was hard to do when the rape changed the very way I viewed men and, more than anything, the way I viewed myself. The only way I can describe how I felt for the months following that night is empty. I remember going to class or going to parties, terrified that I was going to run into him. He was a guy I was becoming friends with during the first few weeks of school, a guy I had a trusted to walk me home when I was feeling sick at a party. It was the kind of scary, uneasy sickness that made me think at first that I had drank too much. But I had drank far more in the past than I did that night and had never felt the kind of confusion and dizziness I did as I stumbled around that party. I have speculated that I was drugged that night but, with no evidence to prove one way or the other, the night remains a mystery. 


I remember asking him to walk with me. I remember fumbling and struggling to put on my shoes. I remember feeling safer thinking that a guy I trusted wouldn't let anything bad happen to me. I remember saying goodbye to my friends as they walked to another house. But halfway through the walk home, I don't remember anything. I don't remember the rape. In some ways, that's comforting. But in other ways, it's terrifying. 


Not remembering the incident was the main reason I refused for so long to call it rape and the reason I never pressed charges. I come from a small, fairly conservative town. There are hundreds of open minded, educated, intelligent people in that town but for every one of them there is also a person with a narrow mind and a loud mouth. The ignorance that I grew up around led me to believe a very misguided assumption: "It is only rape if somebody says no." I couldn't have been rape if I wasn't screaming, kicking, fighting him off. It couldn't have been rape if I knew him and trusted him before that night. It couldn't have been rape if I had asked him to walk with me to my dorm. There were so many reasons that it couldn't have been rape. But it was. I felt it in the deepest part of my soul. It comes down to this very simple fact - how was I supposed to say no when I wasn't in a state of mind to say anything at all? 


I remember a male acquaintance of mine, completely unaware of what had happened to me just months before, making a joke that women who get that drunk (referring to an obnoxious, flirty girl at a party) are "pretty much asking for it." To that person, and to others who think that way, I say this: the punishment for drinking too much should be a hangover not rape. Before running your mouth about things you know nothing about, before joking about sexual assault, before making light of a topic that is so painful for so many people, remember this story. Before you say that a you got "totally raped" by an exam, or countless other similar comments I've heard over the years, remember that 1 in 4 women will be sexually assaulted in her lifetime. The way you felt after failing an exam will never compare to the violation and horror somebody feels after being raped. Find a more accurate metaphor. 


To anybody who has experienced sexual assault, please know that there is never any circumstance under which it was your fault. Don't justify it. Don't push it aside to deal with it later. You need to let it out, whether that means talking to a counselor, a family member, or a friend. You're still beautiful, even though ugly things have happened to you. The assault does not define who you are or what you can be. You deserve happiness and you are worthy of more respect than you can imagine. 

I Married My Glass of Wine

I am currently 22 years old. Many of the people near and dear to my heart, the ones I took shots with and yelled inappropriate chants with at house parties just a few years back, are in their late teens and early twenties, the peak of what they may soon refer to as the good ol’ days. A good majority of those friends from back home are currently headed out to a soon-to-be legendary party in rural Mercer County. A small part of me is envious – the part of me that used to run barefoot down county roads after midnight, jump over bonfires with a little too much liquid courage, and shotgun beers in my swimsuit.

And now here I sit on my apartment balcony, sporting my fitness capris, and a high ponytail, sipping on an Amber Woodchuck in between sentences and admiring the beautiful plants we’ve managed to keep alive. This simple life, the one seen by many my age as monotonous and boring, is exactly the life I wanted all along. I am what my grandmother refers to as an old soul. I enjoy quiet. I am comfortable in a routine. Nothing makes me happier than peaceful relationships and calm surroundings. For a long time, in an attempt to be viewed as interesting and adventurous by the guys in my life (because when you’re 17, that’s who matters after all), I tried denying my old soul. I tried playing up the wild child side of me, milking it for all it was worth, because the guys I knew never seemed to fall for the balanced, nurturing old soul type. 

But then I met the guy who proved me wrong. And then, after three plus years, plenty of disagreements and countless unforgettable memories, I married him. Three weeks ago, I promised forever to the most balanced, calming, and overall greatest influence in my life. I have never seen anybody look as handsome as Robert Trefethren did on that hot, windy June afternoon. The way his face lit up when we first looked into each other’s eyes, the smile that covered his face all day long, the way he walked with such purpose and spoke with such passion – he epitomized every reason I fell in love with him in the first place.

Our love story is far from average and even farther from perfect. We met at a college party. Since he was moving across the state just a few days later, we were both certain it was going to be a weeklong fling, from which we could take away a few wonderful memories and maybe even a decent friendship. Neither of us expected that we would want to spend every waking moment together that week or that he would inevitably choose to stay in Fargo. He knew, commitment-phobe that I was at the time, that admitting I was the reason he stayed would have freaked me the hell out so he waited months before finally coming clean. Good choice. In hindsight: very cute.

Robby’s dad told me last weekend that he has never known two people more compatible than Robby and I. Hearing a man, usually so reserved and soft-spoken, give such a heartfelt approval of me and affirmation of our relationship meant more to me than he will ever know. And it got me thinking – is that true? Are Robby and I very obviously compatible, the kind of “match made in Heaven” that you read about in fairytales, or do we just work really hard to make it work? I have concluded that it is a little bit of both.

There’s a Blake Shelton song with a line, “You be my glass of wine, I’ll be your shot of whisky.” It is clear that the woman in the song is meant to be the classier, more delicate glass of wine, while the man is meant to be the rowdier, more rebellious shot of whisky. The line makes me smile every time because it is very clear that, in our marriage, the roles are reversed. Robby is the glass of wine; I’m the shot of whisky. That young girl at those parties, the reckless, fun loving, wild child, is still very much a part of me. The songs, the smells, the way that a cold Bud Light tastes on a hot summer day – those parties and memories shaped the very core of who I am. The late nights spent running from things I couldn’t explain and discovering parts of myself I hadn’t known existed until I went far enough to find them, those were moments that defined me more than I may have wanted to admit at the time.

Robby, on the other hand, has always been, at least for the time I’ve known him, so driven and focused. Word on the street is that before we met, the now professional, hard working political whiz kid wasn’t always so responsible, but I just can’t believe it. He never was much of a drinker or partyer. He has never tried a drug in his life. He has no tolerance for bullshit. That guy, my dear husband, is exactly what people mean when they say, “That guy has a good head on his shoulders.”

He’s my glass of wine; I’m his shot of whisky. He’s my right brain; I’m his left brain. He’s my confidence boost; I’m his support system. My father-in-law was probably right, we are pretty darn compatible, but it has also taken a great deal of work.  There have been so many times in our relationship when, for lack of a better phrase, shit got complicated. One of us was more committed than the other, one of us wasn’t as certain as the other, or one of us wasn’t paying as much attention as the other. There are so many reasons why we could have given up. But the key is that we never did. At the end of the day, no matter what our disagreements escalated into, we always came to the same conclusion – life is better together.

This so-called boring life, a life of Netflix dates and snuggling in our pajamas, a life of asking each other’s “highs” and “lows” of the day, a life of routine goodbye hugs and goodnight kisses, this life right here is the kind I love. So cheers to the drunken nights that got me to this very moment and cheers to the beautiful life I’m building with my husband. Even if I were given the chance to go back, I would never change a thing. 

  

The Perfect Example of Grace

  

I have been told approximately 500 times during my life that I look just like my mother. I take that as a tremendous compliment considering how good she makes almost-50 look. I know what people are referring to when they draw the comparison: I have my mother's smile, chin, cheeks, mannerisms, and cheery disposition. When we laugh, we crinkle our noses and throw back our heads. When we're nervous, we sound very matter of fact. When we're angry or sad, we become quiet and isolate ourselves. We can take on the world. We've got this. Headstrong. That's my mother. That's me. 

On a warm night in the summer after my sophomore year, I remember slamming the door of an ex boyfriend's truck for what I swore was the last time, tears streaming down my face and a pounding in my forehead. I opened the front door quietly, sliding into our entryway, trying to control my sobs enough to sneak down to my room unnoticed. I heard my mother's voice in the living room up the steps. 

"What's wrong, Jelly Bean?" 

I started to insist that I was fine but my voice cracked - a dead give away. She walked to the stairs, looking at me with the kind of empathetic eyes only a mother can give. She reached her arms out wide. 

"Come up here and snuggle with me." 

She held me there on the couch for more than an hour. She didn't interrogate. She didn't ask what she could do to help. She just held me. She could have been waiting for me to say whatever it was I needed to say to feel better or she could have been waiting for my tears to stop. But maybe she wasn't waiting for anything at all; I think she knew that simply being there was all I needed from her.

My parents have always been, and forever will be, the most beautiful gifts God could have ever given me - the kind of gifts I had from day one, the kind I was born with, the kind I in no way earned - the perfect example of grace. By God's grace, I was raised in a home of guidance, encouragement, growth, freedom, patience, acceptance, and the kind of unconditional love that is so rare in this world. 

To my mother, the woman who read me the first few Harry Potter books out loud before bed each night, the woman who never judged my tears or frustration, the woman who allows me eat half of her sandwich even when her stomach is growling, Happy Mother's Day! I hope to someday provide the same strong, selfless love to my own children.

"No one else will ever know the strength of my love for you. After all, you're the only one who knows what my heart sounds like from the inside." 

Wrapped Up in Happy

Written 4-7-05:

"Someday, somebody is going to ask who I am. By saying my name, they won't hear the true answer. I am a girl who doesn't always have all the right answers, no matter how much she says she does. I am a girl who tends to fall in 'like' quickly, due to a wild imagination. I am a girl who fears getting her heart broken almost as much as breaking someone's heart. I sing what I can't express, write what I don't dare speak, dream of what I've not yet done, and admire those who I will never be. I'm opinionated, bossy, and often times judgmental. I'm working to change what I do not like about myself. I fear being judged, being hated, and failing. All opinions impact my thinking. Thoughts keep me awake in the early hours of the morning. Time is a concept I have yet to understand. I am a young, sophisticated, and often uncertain girl who wants to love how she spends her life. I sometimes wonder where I'll live, who I'll love, and what I'll do. All I can hope for is that I'll be happy, in love, and secure. I value trust, strength, faith, and unconditional love more than anything. I have a tendency to speak before I think, answer rhetorical questions, and trip over my own feet. I can be an overachieving slacker, which sounds like an oxymoron but it's the truth. I can be jealous and I can procrastinate. I'm a contradiction. I want to be unlike anybody else."

I was 16 when I wrote this reflexive statement of who I was, what I valued, and what I wanted. It amazes me that after six years, countless crushes, several first kisses, several last kisses, a few all-nighters, many new friendships, a few faded friendships, and two graduations, I can still see myself in a very similar way. I am very much the same person I was in that moment back in the spring of 2005.

Let me reiterate one point that is especially true to this day, maybe even more so than in the moment it was written: “I am an uncertain girl who wants to love how she spends her life.” I wrote this so nonchalantly but it is a very intense idea - happiness. In the deepest part of my heart, I feel that is exactly what I want. I want happiness. I want to be proud of the life I live. I want to be proud of myself. But what in God’s name does it take to get there? How do I get from here to there? Or am I already THERE? Where the hell is happiness?

I used to think of happiness as a landing point – a destination. Once I got to ultimate happiness, I would surely look back on the past as some sort of dark time. What I am learning more and more is that happiness occurs in the most unexpected, beautiful, fragile moments; the kind of moments that can never be recreated, no matter how badly we wish for them or how much we plan. Happiness may not last weeks or days but there are simple moments, sometimes only seconds at a time, that remind us why this life, often filled with uncertainty and pain, is worth every tear and every heartbreak. Happiness makes up for it all.

Pure happiness. The giggles that play like a soundtrack to any and all of my childhood sleepovers. The chills I felt the first time a boys’ hand touched mine in a dark movie theater. The buzz I felt as I sipped my second beer at a bonfire in the middle of nowhere North Dakota surrounded by people I’d known since preschool. The flutter in my chest I felt as I spotted a familiar face after too many years apart. The freedom I felt on the back roads of Mercer County. The therapeutic smell of home after I had been gone for too long and made choices I wasn’t proud of. The raw emotion I saw as I looked into my sister’s eyes on her wedding day, just knowing that she was marrying her perfect man. The warmth of my mother’s arms as I snuggle up with her on the couch, no matter how old I get. Hearing my dad’s whole-hearted laugh at something only he and I understand. The comfort in knowing that I will wake up tomorrow morning and my best friend will be right there next to me. Those simple moments, no matter how fleeting or seemingly insignificant they may have seemed at the time, are wrapped up in happy.

There is no use trying to create perfect, happy moments. Perfection is impossible. It is much more effective to strive for spontaneity. The most unforgettable moments of happiness will come naturally and they will be speckled with imperfections. Happiness is a strange thing but, in those wonderful moments when you know you feel it - truly happy - make sure to be grateful for whatever caused it.

Learning from My M-Words

One of the most beautiful gifts we are given in this twisted, amazing, terrifying miracle of human existence is that, on multiple occasions over the course of our lives, we get the choice to go in one of two directions: a) make a big ol' mess and declare ourselves absolute failures OR b) make a big ol' mess and clean it up, vowing to learn from that mess in order to prevent future messes of the same magnitude. 


I'm a messy person. Not literally speaking; despite what my fiance would tell you, I am actually pretty neat and orderly. Or perhaps I have what you may call "organized clutter..." but that's beside the point. By messy, I mean I make a lot of mistakes. I type the word mistake with a great deal of trepidation because I truly don't view them that way. They're not regrets either, really, but as of now Webster's has yet to think of another word for it, so I will refer to them as mistakes (blah!). 


All of the mistakes in my life, all of the lies I told to myself and others, all of the people I hurt in the process of trying to lose myself or trying to find myself or maybe just forgetting who I was at all, a part of me wishes I could undo each and every one and avoid the hurt that I caused. But why would I even think to do that? What's the point of dwelling and ruminating on the idea of erasing something that is so incredibly permanent? 


I can't go back. I can't change anything I've done years ago, months ago, or even moments ago. What I am left with, after 22 years of falling flat on my face, is a whole lot of memories and stories and moral lessons to learn from. And, starting just a couple months ago, I felt that I needed to share those lessons - the ones I learned the hard way. Hence: this blog. For a short time, I felt like this may all be yet another mistake. I worried that nobody would care what the hell a sociology-trained, latte-making, middle class, word-nerd from Beulah, ND would have to say regarding love, life, or really... anything. I'm sure that, to an extent, that is true. Some people do not give two shits. But those who do care, the people who take the time to read each post (no matter how lengthy or rambling it may be), the ones who leave me comments and the ones who have written me some of the sweetest, heartfelt messages I have ever read, this blog continues because you have made me feel like my words have meaning and that my thoughts have value. I wanted to know that what I say and what I think really matter. I truly feel that now. Thank you. 


I have concluded that starting this blog was in no way a mistake. That's not the case with other decisions I have made. Some were undeniably irrational, impulsive, and... well, stupid. In a feeble attempt at saving people from making the same mistakes (ugh!) that I have, I compiled a list of advice that I would give to a younger version of myself... this girl. Right here. The one who thought she knew everything there was to know.

She was very wrong. She didn't know everything.. not even close. And now, in hopes that even one person may make a better choice than I did in certain situations, I am sharing the same advice with you.


1. Whenever you give a hug - do it 100%. A hug should come directly from the heart. I can feel a half ass hug. They can feel it. Let's not waste each other's time. Hug the right way or don't do it at all.


2. When a true friend asks you to go to a movie, to dinner, to the mall.. hell, even to the dumpster.. and you have nothing going on otherwise: go. You will only regret it if you don't.


3. When somebody tells you that they love you and they're looking you square in the eye - believe them. 


4. Don't perm your hair. Trust.


5. Give a dollar or two to the homeless man on the street corner. Don't fall for it when people say, "That guy makes more money in a day than I do in a week." Life is too short to be that cynical. 


6. Forgive. Enemies and otherwise.


7. Don't pop your zits. They'll scar. In fact, try not to touch your face unless you're washing it. 


8. Don't toy with people's emotions. Don't manipulate words. Don't accuse.


9. When you're standing next to a bigger person than yourself, don't say that you're fat. In fact, don't say you're fat at all. Ever. Because you're not. 


10. When your dad asks you to go fishing, don't hesitate. Say yes. Leave your phone at home.


11. Don't gossip. But, if you must, don't do it in a small town.


12. When you're still living at home, even if you're completely wasted, nearly passed out in the middle of a wheat field in the middle of nowhere, don't ignore your parents' phone calls. I can assure you that knowing you're drunk but alive beats the idea of the alternative any day of the week.


13. Don't curse your freckles, your scars, or your big legs. Those are your mom's freckles. Those are the scars that saved your life. Those are strong Wold legs. Be thankful for the body you have. It carries you where you need to go. Treat it right. 


14. When you miss someone... call them.


15. Don't keep too many secrets. They make you bitter. 


16. Don't make promises you don't intend to keep. 


17. If somebody tells a joke that you find offensive, call them out. Don't laugh because everyone else does. Stand up for people, especially if they're not there to defend themselves. 


18. Make more time for your family. 


19. Don't trust anybody who calls you baby within hours of meeting you. That's not cute, it's creepy. No they cannot put their number in your phone. Your number is 701 - Hell No.


20. You're smarter than you think you are. Don't be so damn hard on yourself.


21. Don't count calories, points, carbs - count the number of ingredients in your food. If you can't say it, you probably shouldn't be eating it. Research where your food comes from. Grow your own vegetables.


22. Do something you love, whether or not you think you have time for it. Some of the best memories you will ever have of being alone are the times when you sat on the kitchen floor painting canvases in your pajamas.


23. Be okay with being the funny friend. Looks fade. Humor rarely does.


24. Compliment people. Genuine compliments. Not, "I love your hair!" Tell people what you truly love about them, not the way they look.


25. Don't expect others to read your mind. If somebody makes you angry, say it. If something hurt your feelings, express why. 


26. You are not a one-woman army. Everybody needs help sometimes. It is completely okay to ask for help. 


27. Go home more.


28. Let me save you hundreds on medical bills in the future - don't let your boyfriend crack your neck. He has no idea what he's doing. 


29. Dream so big that it gives you the butterflies just thinking about it. Those are the only dreams worth having.


30. Put your hand on your chest. Feel that heart beating? That is all the proof you need that you're still here for a reason. Be grateful for every breath. Take advantage of every opportunity to better yourself. Never stop learning. Be proud of your existence.

Loving Those Confusing Creatures

January 7, 2000

Written in my 5th Grade Diary

“I think this boy at school is cute. I’m not saying I love him but I think he is hotttt. I guess when you say that you love someone that it doesn’t just mean someone likes you and you like them too. It means something that I only thought I was. Now that I’ve been dumped I guess I can say that I wasn’t even close to loving [my ex boyfriend]. I just wanted to know what it was like and it went too far I guess. How can people be married to those confusing creatures? BOYS! First they cheat on you then they say they will love you forever. NOT!” 

Aside from my tendency to use multiple Ts in words like hotttt and my embarrassing nonchalant confession that I was "dumped" (ouch!), I found this entry interesting for a couple of reasons. First off, it amazes me that one little boy, no older than eleven years old at the time, "cheated" on me (code for: had a crush on my friend) so I went on to assume that all men were cheating, lying scum that could never be trusted, let alone married! As I sit here, two months from marrying one of those "confusing creatures", I can assure you that my assumption that all men cheat has changed. I stick to my accusation that they are confusing though. Sitting one foot from the television, controller in hand, staring at the screen and screaming obscenities at what I call, "just a game," to which he responds, "a game I want to snap in half," is something I will never understand. 

Secondly, for a ten-year-old plagued with horrible fashion sense, god awful hair, and some extra pounds, I really did have some incredible insight into the very adult concept of true love. I wish that I would have read this in the latter part of my high school years. In the midst of the most unhealthy relationship I ever had, the kind where the bad days outweighed the good days by two times, where we tip toed around each other because we were so worried that the other would snap, where we were in constant fear of losing each other but were uncertain why we would even miss each other at all - right in the middle of that mess, I wish I would have read this so I could have reminded myself of that long-lost wisdom. Just because somebody likes you and you like them back, that does not constitute love. 

Love isn't always as glamorous as I imagined it to be when I was in 5th grade. With Robby, the man who will soon be my husband, most days are absolutely wonderful. Even so, we do have some really crappy days - we get a flat tire, we sleep through our alarm, we misunderstand each other, we don't always have enough time for a good talk at night. He doesn't always know the perfect thing to say at the perfect time to make me feel a perfect way. Imagine that! He isn't perfect. Neither am I. Our love is something more than perfect - it has some beautiful scars. It is shaped by all of the promises we broke, mistakes we made, and words we said that we wish we could take back. And it's stronger because of it. I've learned that even on those crappy days, when we get a flat tire, sleep through the alarm, misunderstand each other, or are too busy to have a lengthy conversation... hell, even if that happens all in one day... I would still rather be at his side than next to anybody else. 

True love is way more than driving around dirt roads in an old pickup, stargazing on the 50 yard line of a football field, or taking hour-long road trips to the closest town with a decent date-night restaurant. That's the easy stuff. Real, honest love has to be so much more than that. You have to ask yourself, who do you want to hug on a camping trip, even when you haven't showered in two days and you're covered in bug spray and sweat? Who do you want to take care of you when you have the stomach flu and can't seem to work your way off the couch? Who do you want to wake up next to if every smoke alarm in the house going off at 3 am for no reason and you haven't the slightest clue how to shut them up? Who do you want to clean the bathroom with on a Sunday afternoon? That person right there, that one is the true love. 

There's Beauty in the Breakdown

Frustration, jealousy, anger, and bitterness are awful emotions. But the worst feeling I have endured thus far in my young life, worse than being fighting mad or green with envy, is a sense of absolute helplessness. Completely helpless. It's that rotten, empty pain I felt in my gut when I learned that my childhood best friend died far too young in a car accident before our senior year of high school. It's the feeling I relived when I learned my high school crush and another high school friend died in separate tragic accidents a couple years later, not even 2 weeks apart. It's what I felt over and over again as I watched people I love damaging their souls and spirits with destructive behavior. It's that aching in my chest when I learn someone I love is sick. It's the feeling I have as I sit here right now. Helpless. 

There are things in life that we have absolutely no control over and, to be completely honest, that drives me bat shit nuts. I come from a long line of disciplined, organized women. Fixers. We may not know the right answers all the time but we will work tirelessly until we figure it out and we will do so in a timely fashion. Guaranteed. You need a dozen bars for a bake sale? We'll make 2 dozen! You need somebody to chaperone a dance? Done. And we'll find a friend to help too. You need somebody to be on the most boring church committee in the history of church committees? Oh sure, I suppose so. I mean, what would Jesus do? 

We Wold women are good with problem solving, that's for sure; but give us a situation where we have no control, where we are forced to give it to God, to karma, to any power other than our own two hands and the brain in our heads? That is our achilles heal. We're not so good at giving up the reigns. I used to think that I was the free spirit of the family, the one most likely to accept things as they are, to trust that it will all turn out as it is supposed to be. But as I grow older and as more painful things happen in my life, I find that I am asking one single question more and more - WHY!?

Why do things just seem to fall into place for cold-hearted people while the most painful experiences happen to the sweetest, most loving people I know? Why did two of the most genuine, authentic people I ever met die before they could even have a legal drink? Why do I get to marry my best friend while another woman, who has just as much love in her heart, has to visit her boyfriend at his grave? Why does an athletic, hard working 22 year old man have to fight for his life, then fight to regain basic life skills, while others his age are risking their life every day with drugs and alcohol? Why is my closest friend, my sunshine and confidant, going through such a confusing, painful experience without any clear answers? Helpless.

My friend Amy - the friend that taught me to love without limits, to accept people as they are instead of how I wished them to be, to dream without fear - the same friend who died the summer before our senior year, she choreographed a dance to the song "Let Go" by Frou Frou the year before she died. The main line in the song, a line that repeats over and over, states: "It's alright 'cuz there's beauty in the breakdown." 

The helplessness in a moment of pain and frustration has the ability to form an emotional prison. There are moments in my life when I feel just that, imprisoned - trapped by a sort of emptiness and hurt that caused me to curl up in my bed, crying for the kind of hours that seemed like days. Yet right there in that moment, right in the middle of the whys, the what ifs, the if onlys, there is a sort of beauty. A release. An acceptance that I don't need to have it all together all the time. A beautiful breakdown of all that I was holding in for far too long. 

Never expect to have all the right answers. Don't try to do it all by yourself. There is a special kind of strength in asking someone for help - to listen, to hug, to remind you that it will get better. There is always a glimmer of hope in the darkest of situations and, just like that song foreshadowed so many years ago, there is always a little beauty in the breakdown.