Hey at least we didn't die

like everyone else. Though hey, Mr. Trump's going to be president in a few days, so we (brown people) might count 2017 as our last year on earth.

But man, this year, eh? What an absolute shit show.

Dear 2016,

You. Broke. Me.

That's right. On more than one occasion, I, the invincible woman, the Mexican Geordie, thought that it would be better to just stay in bed, under the covers, and wait until I dehydrated to death or something like that, rather than to face you.

You, with your injustice. You, with your deceit. You, with your selfishness. You, with your darkness. With your death.

In many ways it is as if you'd killed me. Like you killed my joy, my trust, my faith, my dreams, my desire to love. In some very dark days, even my will to be alive. Because there were times when I wondered: wait, is life this? Just this? That's it? I have to do this for the rest of it? And the prospect just seemed so overwhelming and terrifying that I wanted to scream until I had no voice left.

And yeah, people are complaining because you're an asshole, 2016, and you've taken away so many wonderful people and all. But I'm complaining about all that you've taken away from me. How painful the losses of this year have been.

It hurts so much, physically, to have to continue breathing even in the moments when you can't find a single reason to do so. It is unbearable to have to watch those people whose names are knitted in the very fibers of your heart suffer and writhe in pain and despair and not be able to do anything to help them, to save them, to buy them more time.

So we humans--being humans--find it easier to cope by blaming you, a year, for being an absolute piece of shit scumbag. Pardon my language. But really, when we start thinking about it, what are we doing here? Blaming a span of 12 months? For the mistakes of others? For their betrayals? For their greed and selfishness? For our own flaws? For life being life and death being death?

Life's so damn hard. It really is. I type that as I attempt to tune out the absolutely horrifying meltdown of a pre-teen boy with autism who has been in tantrum-mode for over 24 hours now. No one can help him. No one can calm him down. I'll leave you that for a picture of helplessness. A person you love, abusing himself, abusing those around you, because he cannot help it. Life is so hard sometimes that it feels exactly like that.

Why? Why does it have to be this way, right? It's atrocious. I'm telling you this with a heart full of anguish, which is my typical state nowadays, I think.

I do not know why. I do not claim to have an understanding of God, or humanity, or even myself, to be honest. All I know is that, despite it all, 2016, somehow, quite inexplicably to me, I am still here.

Somehow, stupid year, you are dying, and I'm still alive. I am a living organism and, what's even more fantastic, I seem to be able to get up in the morning, shower, brush my teeth, and hustle. In this broken world, with this broken heart. Show up early to work. Bust my ass. Get nominated for Teacher of the Year. Encounter not-so-little dudes and dudettes who tell me they miss me and they wish they could be my students again. Answer the questions of curious will-be-Catholic children. Wash my dishes. Pay my bills. Write a baby masterpiece on this blog once in a while. Make someone spit their drink with laughter.

I've spent this year feeling so defeated and useless. Perhaps I am. God knows the only thing I was ever the best at was being a footballer. Not much since, and it's been 14 years. But heck, by pure stubbornness, by just my ridiculous pride, ego, whatever you might call it, I am still kicking around this world and working like a beast and trying. Trying to do the adult thing. Trying to do the life thing.

Then I think, just for a tad, of the people who showed kindness instead of selfishness; loyalty instead of betrayal. And I realize quickly that they're the only reason I'm still here, getting up from bed and feeding myself and bathing. The loves of my life. The ones that pick me up when I'm down, and when all fails, drag me around until I get my act together.

THE LOVE. It is so mystifying to be pierced in the heart by the affection of people who love me despite my own imperfections, who take care of me when I don't want to take care of myself anymore, who revive me with their own silliness, and sweetness, and sincerity, and bluntness. People who gave me the fuel, via memories, to keep going when all systems failed.

2016, you broke me. I felt my heart bleed dry at times. I felt anxiety crawl in the walls of my throat. I felt despair gripping my head with its claws. Yet, perhaps to spite you, perhaps because God did have some mercy of me after all, I made it. I'm making it.

And you want to know what's even more incredible than that? I swam in the Mediterranean. I made a difference in at least one child's life. I saw how wonderful I am as a girlfriend. I walked more than 20 miles on two completely blistered feet. I held my best friends in my arms unreservedly and I made sure they knew what they are to me. I wrote amazing poetry. I shopped until I dropped. I did the Running Man challenge. I ate banana off the floor for 10 bucks.

Lastly...

I literally laughed my ass off.

Can't say I'll miss you, 2016. But thank YOU, person reading this, for giving me the strength to keep going. You stay in my heart. 

Fa-la-la-la-NO

I suppose you are expecting a Christmas blog (plus the blog I promised like five months ago about the rest of my summer vacation--which I honestly do not remember very well), but instead, you are getting an angry post!

I was at JCPenney Christmas shopping (that's my store--do not judge me) and I noticed a man who kept staring at me from the other side of the shoe aisle. I knew that he was going to talk to me because his gaze was fixed on me, so I tried my best to pretend like he wasn't there (naturally). Then, of course, because men are men, he can no longer contain himself:

"Hey, how are you?"

I look up. I can see a familiar face, but I am having a hard time thinking of who this is. High school? Yes. Friend? Definitely not. Name? No clue.

"Oh hi, I hadn't recognized you!"

He comes around to shake my hand. I see his eyes traveling up and down my body. Then he says, in an animated voice:

"Wow! You got fat!"

You wish.

No, I did not punch anyone. But I think my facial expression did enough for me, because the dude tried to correct himself by saying "well, you've got a fuller figure". He then proceeded to ask me if I had children, then if I had a husband. For both of those answers in the negative, he rebutted with an almost-reproachful "But why?"

So let's break it down:

1. Insult her body.
2. Question her womanhood by being outraged that she has no children.
3. Question her adequacy as a female by being outraged that she has no husband.

And people think I'm going to end up alone. Pshhhh. This guy is a winner in that category.

Or is he? Because, chances are, there is someone, out there, pining away for this asshole. Willing to surrender her heart, her intimacy, her blood, sweat, and tears, for a man like this.

Well, I suppose I am not just writing this to let you know how my day went today. So here's my two cents. Absolutely not suitable for work. Pardon my french. Sorry, mom.


To you, oh high school guy who's name I can't even recall,

First off, go **** yourself.

Secondly, I feel truly sorry for you. I feel sorry that you didn't have anyone to teach you better. I feel sorry that women are to you just a body to produce children and be bound to a man. I feel sorry that you even considered that you had a shot at speaking to me (because, let's face it, a random man does not ask a random woman if she is married and has children for no reason) and that something was going to come out of it. I feel sorry for you as I recall your panicked face in my mind when you realized that you had screwed up your chance with me (as if you ever had one-- 15 years ago or now).

But above all, I feel sorry that you are so wrapped up in your assumptions of what a woman is that you will never be able to love one properly or make her happy. Because, whichever woman falls for you (if there is ever one) will only be an attractive body, or the bearer of a child, or a wife to satisfy your needs. She won't be worth to you anything else. You won't see her for who she is, beyond motherhood and marriage. You will not understand her. You will not support her. You will take, and take, and take.

Perhaps I'm wrong for assuming these things. But it is just so mind-boggling to me that you had the nerve to speak to a strange woman you barely know the way you did. So I can only assume that once you get to know a woman, it only gets worse. Could I safely assume that you suddenly become a vindicator of the rights of women the moment one of us earns your respect or affection?

Well, if that is the case, I still feel sorry for you. Because you shouldn't need to love a woman in order to respect her. You should just... well, shit, respect her! But what do you know? You were brought up in ignorance, in violence, in lewdness. You've grown up in a culture that teaches you not to feel, that tells you it's okay to use people, that throws pornographic images at you and orders you to knock yourself out. You were bred in the dark, pestilent bosom of sexism. Even worse, you were knit in the fiber of selfishness.

So I feel sorry for you. You are pathetic in your blindness. You are a laughingstock in your lack of respect. You are a caricature of what a man ought to be. But don't feel bad. You are most definitely not alone.

I mean, I am acutely single for a reason. The bad ones literally make me want to become a hermit. The "good" ones are riddled with insecurities, self-doubt, and the self-righteous pretentiousness of thinking that they are the best thing that could happen to you.

Which brings me to  my next point...

Dear men,

Yes, it's me again. I'm aware that we do not get along very well, mostly because you all insist on being assholes, but hear me out...

STOP BEING ASSHOLES!

It's the future already-- why am I having to tell you this??? Like, we are past the Back to the Future year. What are ya'll doing, seriously? I'm going to give you the advice (lecture) I give my male students, who are riddled by hormones and sex-crazed:

"If you wouldn't say it to your mom/sister, don't say it to her."

or

"If you wouldn't like it said to your future daughter, don't say it."

It's really bloody simple.

The moment you treat a woman like she's a) an object, b) a baby maker (also an object), or c) your own personal source of marital pleasure, you blew it. She's officially too good for you. She's out of your league.

To the good guys who feel constantly victimized by women who only "want the bad guys": grow an actual pair. Love yourselves enough to be brave to fight for the women you love and brave to retreat when said women do not want anything to do with you. Your "goody-goodyness" doesn't entitle you to anything. Again, we are not a trophy. The moment you feel like you deserve a woman, she's already too good for you. She;s out of your league.

To the few men doing what they're supposed to: I'm not going to congratulate you because it's your job. But well done. Don't get cocky.

Dear women,

Stop. Enabling. These. Assholes.

You are worth so much more than objectification. You deserve to be an absolutely adored wife. You deserve to be a proud mother. You deserve someone who practically has a meltdown over the fact that you've given them the greatest gift there is: unconditional love, a family, and offspring. Anything less than that is settling.

Of course no one is perfect. But they have to at least try. For you. Because they love you. Because you are so damn beautiful, and smart, and sweet, and fierce, and amazing. Do not settle. Even if it means renouncing to your dreams of being a wife and a mother. Do not settle.

And that is perfectly okay. 

Dear world,

I am a fat woman. I have a back roll. I have stretchmarks not caused by pregnancy. I have arms that flop like wings. I have thighs that rub until they bleed. I have a triple chin. Sometimes I have to unbutton my pants after a big meal.

I am so FUCKING beautiful.

My legs are so mightily strong.
My arms are a fortress.
My face is the sun.
My eyes sparkle like redwood in the flames.
My hair rages like a sea of waves.
My mouth's small but my voice roars.
My hands are regal and rough.
My shape is heavenly, forged in bronze.

Add to that is the fact, as all of you know, that I am incredibly funny: I make my supervisor spit her drink. I make my principal break character and go from dead-pan face to a meltdown of laughter. I make my best friend snort. Most importantly, I make myself laugh, and even laugh again when I remember what I did later on.

I am literally brilliant, the love child of two people with crazy high IQs. I, thankfully, inherited the emotional intelligence of my mother. And her charm. I suppose that also comes with the comical awkwardness courtesy of me dad. *Eye roll*

I am a force to be reckoned with. Stubborn to no end. Determined to death. Dedicated to the core. Passionate in every fiber of my being. I might be shot down (now more than ever, it feels), but I carry on, running, walking, or crawling (this last one seems like the means of moving around, so to speak, in the last couple years). Who knows, I might secretly be a gorilla or something.

I am kind. I mean, maybe not to jerk-faces who call me fat in public. But I try to give of myself. I try to remind myself to love others. I put my heart on the line for people I consider my friends. Once someone accepts me in their life, and I them, I take them up in the figurative arms of my soul, and cradle them, and then put them to sleep, "sh-sh, there, there, baby love", and then keep them in my heart forever. I swear I am not drunk. This is the best metaphor I could come up with. Creepy and stalker-ish. Hilar!

I am honest. I am a hard-worker. I am sincere. I am a nurturer. I am a fighter. I crave justice. I am brave. I am independent. I am self-sufficient. I am compassionate. I am empathetic. I am hella loyal. I'm an awesome cook. I'm a pretty decent dancer. I am creative. I am crafty. I am musical. I am a fairly good writer. I try to live up to a moral code. I am horribly flawed. I fall short all the time. I am riddled with fear and anxiety most of the time.

But I love myself.

It is so hard to love one's self.

It's easy to do it when a petty asshole calls you names in a department store because you don't give a shit about him and he is nothing to you and will always be nothing. It's easy to love yourself when you are fighting trolls on the internet because you know there's something terribly wrong with their own self-esteem.

But it's hard to love yourself when that one person you look up to tells you you'd be so pretty if you lost weight; or when the people you care about say that you're a little bigger than last year; or when the man you love with all of your heart, who says he loves you just the way you are, who swears he adores you with all your imperfections, suddenly decides that you're not what he wants and walks away, or stops fighting for you.

Yet, you have to love yourself. Because it's what God wants. Because it is your duty.  Because you have to lead by example. Because, sometimes,  you have no choice because if you don't then you'll sink in a sea of despair. You have to love yourself, even when you look shattered, when you have to donate your beautiful clothes away because they no longer fit, or when you look at high school pictures and realized you've let yourself go. You've got to do it despite the nights of utter sadness, the comfort eating, the anxiety attacks, the thinning hair due to stress. You've got to do it because you're worth it. If God thought you were worth creating, then you are most definitely worth loving. Especially being loved by yourself.

And by God, you are so phenomenal and out of this world, that if someone could comprehend what you are, the thing that you embody, they would hold onto you and never let go of you, a beautiful, bright, mighty supernova.

So  you're going to say that if no one sees that greatness in you, why should you believe me? Well, if they can't see it in themselves, if they don't see God's likeness and image in their own face, how will they see it in yours? Moreover... if you don't see it in yourself, how can they see the blinding shine if you cover it up with self-loathing?

Well, I'll tell you this: even if no one ever does see it, it doesn't mean it's not there. Sometimes the sun shines so bright that people shield away from it. That doesn't make the sun less powerful. It just shows how weak people are.

So dear former classmate,

1. Insult her body.     Love God with all your heart, mind, soul, and strength. 
2. Question her womanhood by being outraged that she has no children.   Love Thy Neighbor
3. Question her adequacy as a female by being outraged that she has no husband.   As Yourself.

VLOG-A-THON

Video's up, family.

Hope you enjoy!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dRyWpA4m3xw

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dRyWpA4m3xw

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dRyWpA4m3xw

OLE!!!!!!!!!!!

Hi friends and haters alike!

On behalf of #TeamMexicanGeordie (me), I'd like to thank you for being here today, on this memorable occasion, in which your eyes shall feast on the beautiful words flowing out of my nonsensical brain AND also feast on my booty-licious body, because--hear, hear!--there's a VIDEO at the end of this post.

Now, don't be a jackass and skip to the video. I know you want to see my face, but listen to what I have to say!!

Honestly, it has been so long since my vacation that I don't remember much. And I didn't take any notes, so...

But let me see what I can conjure up.

Ah, yes, let's start at the beginning, which also happens to be the most interesting part.

Ugh, it's so tacky...

I arrived to Spain in a state of mind that I can only described as the most incongruent, contradicting, and heart-breakingly fragile. I had been wanting to go to Spain for such a long time, so it was a dream come true in that respect, but at the same time the fact that this was a change of plans in my original itinerary would never leave my mind. I was keenly aware of the "should haves" and the "would haves" and it was at times such a sharp pain that it left me breathless. Nevertheless, I had spent hundreds of dollars changing my trip, so I had to make the most of it, and Spain seemed like the perfect destination to distract myself from what was not to be.

Anyway, cryptic as shit, but I'm sure most of you have figured out things have happened in my life in the past few months... and I rather not talk about some of the crippling, debilitating effects of--let's move on.

I HATE to ask strangers for photos... worst part of traveling alone!

MADRID

1. Intensely gorgeous.
Small, clean, and with beautiful architecture. Everywhere you look you see a beautiful building. La Puerta de Alcala. The Royal Palace. The Prado. El Parque del Retiro. I MEAN CAN IT BE ANY MORE BEAUTIFUL? I got to take a night bus-tour of the city and enjoy its cultured buoyancy and powerful majesty. There were several points during the three days when I told myself this was my goal city to live.

2. Feeling of safety.
I was walking alone well after midnight, roaming around like thousands of other people, enjoying a pleasant summer night (the temperature really does drop a ton... but the days are horribly hot and dry). I didn't feel in danger at any moment, and I saw many families out with their children strolling around.

3. FOOD GALORE.
You really can't go wrong. There's food for everyone. I found me a fantastic taqueria one night, and the night after I had Subway. I mean, YOU CANNOT LOSE (weight).

4. No sleep for you.
Between jetlag and anxiety, my sleeping schedule was shattered. I was going to sleep at 4am and waking up at 9... and if I decided to stay in bed, it was a lost day because...

5. HOLY HEAT, BATMAN!
I'm talking well over 40 degrees Celsius (that's well over 100, America!). I was melting like delicious yet sticky chocolate Popsicle under the dry Madrid sun. I had to come to the hotel room every day from 4-6 to just shield myself from the radiations (and I totally did not wear sunblock the first couple days so I was a nice crispy toast color by day three... not to mention with the most bizarre tan lines in the world, including a perfect circle in the middle of my chest caused by a combination of camera straps and the shirt I was wearing that day. I don't know... don't ask me how.

BONUS: WROTE A POEM ABOUT MYSELF:

Caught the ocean in my hair,
Gumption for the ages,
Freckle constellations,
Lava in my veins.
Crystal joints, shifty knees,
Samson-with-hair strong,
Pearly whites, hips don't lie,
Honest to the core.
Story-telling eyes,
Voice made to speak aloud,
Piano hands, football feet,
Nuclear-hot heartbeat.
Unquenchable, unfathomable,
Unending 'spite the storm,
My heart's still afire,
And You. Will. Get. Burned.


AVILA

1. St Teresa everything!!
I mean, isn't that self-explanatory? Museum, church, another museum, convent. Guess what, though? St Teresa's relics... NOT THERE! #KILLME

2. Death by exposure to heat.
This was the hottest day. 45 degrees. Pretty sure I was delusional as I waited outside one of the museums for them to come back from lunch.

yikes... gory!

3. Beautiful Medieval town!
I climbed up to the tower and walked on the city walls, beholding the red roofs and stone houses.

ZARAGOZA

1. Our Lady of the Pillar
Need I say more? Walked through the Door of Mercy, got confession, communion, AND got to kiss the pillar where Our Lady first appeared to St James. First Marian apparition in Church history. Catholic Universe implosion! The priest I confessed with was holy and gentle, and he knew exactly what I felt and what to say in response. It was like having a personal face-to-face with the Man Upstairs Himself! God's mercy at work!!!

2. Food poisoning
Just when I had finally gotten over my jetlag. Three days of torture courtesy of a Tapas Buffet. THAT'S why I always look for Subway.

BARCELONA

1. Crappy hostel.
Broken AC, LOUD PIPES running water at all ours of the night, tiny-ass bed, shared bathroom.
SPEAKING OF SHARING A BATHROOM. So one day my jeans got soaked, and they were fairly new, so they dyed my legs and bum dark blue. Then my body dyed the toilet seat dark blue. Then I panicked and thought of ways to fake my own death but I figured, 'Hey, it's a shared bathroom... no one has to know it was my tainted butt that did this." I regret nothing.

2. MASSIVE PLACE
This city is huge. Unless Donald Trump's hands. ANYWAY, it's big like London so you have to use transportation to get around, or else you end up walking a marathon, like I did. Why do I always do this to myself? Sigh...

At least I got to see a lot of the city, even the uninteresting parts!

3. SANGRIA!
Met some whinny Americans (from California and Florida.. DUH) and they bought me some sangria, which honestly I had never tried before. The stuff is delicious and quite cheap. I drank it like Kool Aid. I stuck with the Americans for a few hours and then we parted ways amicably.

4. ALTITUDE
Having the privilege to see the city from above was just priceless. I went up to mount Tibidabo and made myself nauseated with the height. I also went to Montjuic, where I paid 8 euros for a Cable Car trip down (instead of having done it going UP, so I didn't half-die on the climb... well, you live, you learn).

This is Tibidabo

5. I LOVE BEACHES!
As a beach-lover, I had to make my way to La Barceloneta, the main beach of Barcelona. On the last night of my stay in Spain, I walked to the beach and decided to take a dip... fully clothed! Besides almost drowning and looking ridiculous, I'd say it went pretty well.

There's a moment I do want to share...

After getting into the Mediterranean fully clothed, I came out and sat on the sand to try to dry. As the night began to fall, I started shivering because the temperature after sunset was quite cool and I was drenched. I knew there was a way to stop shaking so violently: I could just take off my shirt. But I kept thinking "HOW? I CAN'T DO THAT... I'm not like... well.. I don't look like someone who should take off their shirt in public..." So I sat there, trembling, cursing because I had not just brought a bathing suit and a towel.

But then, I started to think. Well, first, I started remembering what the last few months had been. Then I started thinking about who I was, and the poem I had written a couple days before. And I asked myself... "who? Who says you can't take off your t-shirt? You're at the beach. That's what people do at the beach." Of course, one is prone to think that flabby bellies with stretch marks are not what beach-goers want to see. But then, for just a moment, I thought...

"Who the hell cares?"

Who cares if I sit at this beach in my jeans and sports bra? Who cares if I have three levels of rolls of fat? Who is going to come tell me to cover up? Or laugh at me? Or scoff at my grossness? No one.

Not a single person. Because they won't dare. Because I am going to sit here, and breathe the salty breeze, and look straight ahead at the Mediterranean, and smile, and push my shoulders out, and keep my chin up, and none of these people will dare to break me because they can't. Because the only one telling me to cover up and to hide my embarrassment of a body is me. It's that high-pitched voice of the insecurities passed on to you generation from generation, the immature comments of your high school friends, the rude remarks of annoying older women who don't know any better. But I have the power to drown that voice. I have the power to punch that voice in the face, so to speak. And hear my own, my very own voice tell me, "Who the hell cares? You are who you are and you're cold and you need to take this shirt off and don't give a fudge about the teens over there. No, they are not laughing at you. They're smoking pot, they're laughing at everything. No, that lady didn't look at you, don't mind her. Sit here. Feel the breeze. Breathe. Enjoy not shivering to death."

I sat there, God knows for how long, and watched the waves come and go. And I felt like I was almost gazing at myself from outside my body. And I told myself that, even if he'd gone, even if he'd taken my poetry, my secrets, my dreams, and my favorite songs, he hadn't managed to take me completely. I told myself that I still had me, broken and raw, but alive and breathing. I told myself that if everyone else failed, I'd still love me. Always and forever. I'll love me even after everyone else is gone.


Thank you, España. You were exactly what I needed.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EnfOT34X5bc&feature=youtu.be

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EnfOT34X5bc&feature=youtu.be

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EnfOT34X5bc&feature=youtu.be

GUESS WHO IS BACK?

Howdy.

I can't really say that it has been ages because that would be saying the same thing I say in every other blog post. So I won't say it...

This post was going to be about something else. I'm sure you are all dying to know about the summer (or are you? I'm not entirely sure anyone is still reading these...), but that's just going to have to wait until another time because... the thing is...

I almost (sorta) died today.

I was driving home this afternoon when I had to stop at a traffic light. I was the first car in the row of cars waiting for green. It was hot and I was a little distracted with picking a song to listen to (the car was, after all, not in motion). Before choosing a song I instinctively looked up as the light was switching to green, so I let go of the brake and stepped gently on the accelerator.

It all happened so fast.

As I was going under the metal structure of the traffic lights, I noticed a blue object from the corner of my left eye. It was a car going at full speed, coming out of nowhere. It didn't really register though. I didn't react quickly enough. I just kept my hands on the steering and continued stepping on the gas pedal.

My lack of reaction saved me.

From my rear-view mirror I saw the blue car crumple like paper into a white SUV that was right behind me, a mere 10 yards away. There was a loud boom that rippled through the air as pieces of debris floated around. The small car, going at full speed, managed to push the SUV a good 10 yards off the side of the road, then proceeded to give a full 360-degree-spin-around.

I watched the whole thing as my car moved away from the collision slowly, my mind unable to react. It was like watching a movie in slow motion. People immediately got out of their cars to go help. I kept driving until I lost sight of them.

Then my soul came back into my body. I started shaking, blinking, breathing heavily, cursing, crying. I thought about pulling over on the side of the road. I started slowing down. There was nowhere to stop. Just go home, I told myself. Get home. I picked up the phone. I called my best friend. Crying, cursing, shaking, breathlessness.

Nothing had actually happened to me. Yet...

Yet it was going to. It would have. It was going to be me. A second, maybe two, made the difference.

Why them and not me?

It was a strange reality-check, considering the things I was (and have been) thinking: If I were to go tomorrow, what would I leave behind? What would have been the purpose of my life? And constantly feeling like the answers to those questions were disappointing and frustratingly unsatisfying.

But those questions, they've always been around. When I was a little girl, I mean LITTLE, I would go every day up to my mother's room to check if she was breathing during her nap. I would stand there and watch her chest rise and fall and breathe with relief because I didn't have to think about "what will I do now?" Mortality has always had a terrifying grip of me. Probably in part due to my vivid imagination and also because of my natural disposition to pessimism.

So I think about these things. What would happen if tomorrow I'm not here? It's silly and I'm sure people wonder that all the time then quickly dismiss the thought, as if it was bad to think about it or as if it was actually inviting Death in. But I dwell on things, so I dwell on this, and most of the time it brings me incredibly low.

But today, faced with the fact that this car would have hit right on my driver door and would have probably crushed me to death, my mind started racing with these questions:

If it was over right now, what would your legacy be?

The initial response is a dry "nothing". I wasted my talents in an unfulfilling career. My writing never amounted to much. I wasn't a particularly benevolent person, nor a good daughter, sister, teacher. I didn't do anything remarkable. I complained a lot. I cursed waaay too much. I felt sad the majority of the time.

But there was a flash of lightning, a light bulb turned on in the dense dark. I had no success according to the world. Heck, I had no success according to God (I am far, far, FAR away from being close to my saintly role models). The only thing I did sort of right was... to love.

I've loved.
I've loved until my bones have ached and my joints have snapped.
I've loved until my heart has sank on the ground.
I've loved until it's broken my soul and has made me questioned if I'm wrong.
I've loved because I'm sick, insane, incorrigibly stubborn.
I've loved with the rage and the fire and the storm.
I've loved with all the tenderness and care and meticulousness of a poem.
I've loved ephemeral like the stars and mighty like a meteor shower.
I've loved in all seasons and in every hour.
I've loved intensely and fiercely and silently and pathetically.
I've loved against exhaustion, reason, indifference and practicality.
I've loved until the wound gushes no more blood.
I've loved until numbness has dried up the flood.
I've loved with stomping feet and held up fists and fits of laughs.
I've loved with sunshine in my eye but also well into the night.
I've loved so hard, so rash, so tough, so fast, so natural
That I've yet to stop and think twice before I'm quickly falling down.

That's all I've done in my life. I've loved sports with the intensity worthy of a stroke (if anything that's always been the way I imagined I'd go). I've loved football like one loves one's first love (forever). I've loved my mother until wishing to go first so I don't have to live without her. I've love food like couples love in rom-coms. I've loved this world: with its colors and its textures and its shades of wrong. I've loved seeing and hearing and touching and tasting in every place I go.

But most importantly, I've loved people. People who have been all sorts of vicious and cruel and selfish. People who are loyal and kind and lovely. Both sorts of people who are easy to love. I've loved them all imperfectly and tragically so. I wish I would have loved them like my God expected me to do.

My blood, they've gotten the worst from me.
My friends, the best there is.
And men... ah yes, men...
If I was going Home today it would be to meet the only one of them worth anything to me (but Purgatory might be a scale for an indefinite period of time).

And I'd go finally having fallen in love with myself. At long last. Despite the deterioration of age, of stress, of heartbreak and tiredness. I'd watch my body from above and behold its lovely form one last time, and be sorry to see it so torn apart in that crash. Because the scales in my eyes have fallen off, and I've beheld the beauty of creation. Who I am, who I've been, it's all a masterpiece. It took me long enough to figure that out.

So what if life's been rubbish (which it hasn't)? What if life has been a waste of time (which it hasn't)? I've loved, and I've been loved beyond anything I could ever deserve. By you, and you, and you. In an equally imperfect, beautiful way. So I thank you, and farewell.

Except... I'm not dead.

God decided today was not the day. Instead, today is the day I say:

   I
Love
 You

I'm not going anywhere.

-Cris

Now I am going to tell you about my feelings.

Dear reader,

How are you? Yes, I know, Donald Trump might be president. 

You know it's been a while when I have to bring up Donald Trump. He's a horrid creature and all,and of course I hope he chokes on his wig one night, but he's got a very nice quote that I love dearly:

"It's going to be great. I'll tell you something--it's going to be beautiful!"

What profound and moving words! So simple, yet vague enough to be universal truth!

Now you might wonder--what on earth is this blog post about?

I have to confess, dear reader... life's been knocking me down a bit much in the last few months. If I ever complained about 2015, it all seems nothing in comparison with the darkness of these past three months. 

I don't want to dwell on my personal problems, but I can say that it felt like a thick cloud of darkness (and sadness) was enveloping me. I pride myself on being a person that powers on despite the heavy loads of life, but I think for the first time in a very, very long time I felt like just giving up. You know, just stop getting out of bed, stop going to work, just let that darkness fall and drown in it.

It was like being in a poorly lit room, staring at this massive thing before you, on the floor. The massive thing is black with fear and anxiety and frustration and helplessness, and you stare at it, you hunch lower and lower to stare at it closer. The more you look at it, the less you see anything else around it. Does that make sense? So there I was, hunched and defeated and absolutely mortified, praying to God to help me lift up my eyes, to help me with this huge load.

And I get it--what are my problems compared to the problems of my brothers and sisters in Syria? Or to my dear friend lying in a hospital bed, going through chemotherapy? Nothing! It's bloody embarrassing to even be talking about this. But sometimes we can get so wrapped up in our little world of negativity, you guys. It's terrifying. 

You know me, of course, and know that negativity runs in my nature. When people on Facebook post stupid shit about how you should cut off negative people from your life, it really angers me. What are we supposed to do if we don't have you positive people? You're just going to let us die out there in the cold (dramatic, I know). We might tend to melancholy, but we have hearts that are capable of love. Hell, we are some of the most caring and loving people! DAMMIT, YOU MOTIVATIONAL SPEAKERS! 

But I digress. 

So there was I, panicking and having meltdowns and begging God for a life-line (you know, like Who Wants to Be a Millionaire but better), and then something happened. 

I mean, at the time, I didn't know it was God's response to my prayer. I expected some sort of miraculous event where I suddenly won the lottery without buying a ticket and could leave my job and go live off an island somewhere with a golden retriever and write my autobiography (coming to a Kindle near you in 2017ish). 

Instead, God was moving stuff (and hearts) around, and before I knew it I slowly started looking up again. The lights in the dark room gradually turned on. Someone reached out and offered his hand.

Yes, his hand.

Like anything in life, this wasn't all rosy and perfect. But, as we all know, things that are totally worth it are hardly easy. Relationships are hard, especially for people that are used to being on their own--like me. But if you know something about me (if you're a faithful reader), you know I don't take these things lightly. I just don't give my heart out like it's a flyer for the grand opening of a new Mexican restaurant in town. 

You also must know, that this is a HELL OF A MAN. Like, Mexican Geordie approved, ya know what I'm saying?

Now, it was all fun to tell you about my nonexistent love life when it was precisely that--nonexistent. But now, I feel as if I don't really have to tell you all, because there are stories and details that belong in future speeches, future conversations, future anecdotes. YEP. 

But don't think I'll leave you hanging, dear reader. Here's what I can tell you:

1, I wake up with about a million percent more energy in the morning.

2. I have become a cell phone addict.

3. I smile for no reason.

4. I am strangely made feminine and giddy... you wouldn't actually believe it.

5. I am looking forward to the future, not trying to ignore it like I used to.

In short, in case you still haven't figured it out: I am completely, absolutely, unequivocally, stupidly, ridiculously, intensely, hilariously, undoubtedly and wonderfully in love. 

Yes with a man.

No, I said a man, not a pet.

No, no, not an analogy for food.

Yes, he is real. 

Yes, an actual person.

No, not a character.

Yes, he knows I exist.

Yes, he actually does like me. 

Yes, he actually sees me. 

He sees me, just like it had to be. Just when I thought I had been waiting years in vain, God sent someone to turn on the lights and say 'HEY YOU! I CAN SEE YOU--YES YOU! YOU ARE NICE!' Just when I thought God was maybe asking something completely different of me (a.k.a. living alone with cats), in comes this incredible human being. So yeah, sort of an incredibly miraculous event, really. 

Yes, we appreciate your good thoughts, vibes, prayers, cake. Possibly cash. Cash never hurts.

I am, simply put, happy. And I know, in the words of Donald Trump, that "It's going to be great. It's going to be beautiful!"

At last, this Miranda has found her Gary.