"It happened, therefore, it can happen again..."

"It happened, therefore, it can happen again: this is the core of what we have to say."
-Primo Levi

Most anyone who knows me or follows me on instagram know that I had the amazing opportunity to go on a trip to Poland and Germany entitled "Tracing the Holocaust in Eastern Europe" this summer. Sounds morbid, I know. I can honestly say, though, it's a trip that has changed me. I know it's not your typical vacation destination, but I honestly encourage anyone who ever has the chance- DO IT.

After a semester of studying the Holocaust and an extremely intensive two weeks of interviews, museums, concentration camps, and former Jewish ghettos, I needed a little break from it all. It was not that I had become bored with the subject, more that I had become drained by the subject- as I'm sure you can imagine.

-A little background information: Auschwitz was one of the largest death/labor camps utilized by the Nazis. It was broken up into three sub-camps which served various purposes. Auschwitz III (Monowitz) was destroyed after the liberation. Auschwitz I and II (Birkenau) are the two available for tours. Auschwitz I has been renovated into several mini-museum displays that provide a lot of factual information. Birkenau, though,  has been sanitized and cleaned but has-for the most part- been left as it was when in use. The last part of Auschwitz I is the room that holds the Book of Names- a book with the names of all the known victims. Across from the book is a wall covered with electronic picture frames all showing different current pictures of survivors with their families. From there, you turn to leave and what is in front of you is a wall with a Primo Levi quote painted across it: "It happened, therefore, it can happen again: this is the core of what we have to say."-


Well about two weeks ago, I was browsing Books-A-Million, and I found a section of books they were promoting and found The Boy in the Striped Pajamas was one of them. I had already seen the movie, but I had been encouraged by my trip leader to pick up the book. I almost put it back, but I decided to flip through it. The last few lines literally felt like a kick in the stomach. I was taken right back to standing in front of that wall with that Primo Levi quote staring back at me. I thought of standing at Treblinka- another death camp- staring at the monument with "Never Again" written in multiple languages. I thought about standing there and thinking, "But it has happened again. How does this keep happening?"
No, there has not been another genocide against the Jews. There has though been a genocide in Cambodia. There has been one in Bosnia. There has been one in Rwanda.

We never think something so awful could ever happen. But then it does. And then we think, "Oh, that can never happen again." But, again, it does.

I don't write this to trash talk the human race or to talk about how awful society is. I write this because I still am unable to wrap my mind around the 11 million people- that we know of, a figure that will forever be just a fraction of the number who were truly killed, a number that we can never know- that were killed in the 1940s. In civilized society with educated people. I honestly don't even know how else to describe it other than just questioning, How? How did this happen? How does this keep happening?

All I can say is Primo Levi was right. It did happen. It can happen again. And, unfortunately, it probably will happen again. Maybe not on the same scale. Maybe for different reasons. But it can happen again.



I began this post to more or less talk about The Boy in the Striped Pajamas, but it turned into something a little different. Instead, I'll let the book speak for itself. Even if you've seen the movie, take a minute and pick up the book. It is short, and you can read it in just a few days. I will say this, it is able to very accurately describe the events without a single derogatory name or gruesome description. It's from the eyes of someone with an inability to understand what exactly is happening and how something so awful could happen.


I guess that makes two of us.

Since It's Been Forever...On Being Scared

So last semester I wrote a post on how differently my freshman year turned out from what I had expected. And I think I have only made one other post since then. Oops.
I also talked about the possibility of transferring. Well if you know me, you know it happened. And if you don't, guess what. I go to Clemson now.

Funny thing is, just a few days after I wrote that post- and signed my apartment lease and got my acceptance letter- I went from beyond excited to crying my eyes out every single day thinking "WHAT. DID. I. DO?!" No joke. I sat in Marion Square with my best friend and in cried my eyes out in public because I didn't want to go through with it. I remember what she said to me pretty clearly. I remember her telling me that she would be concerned if I wasn't scared, because this was a big deal. She told me she felt like tiny little CofC was holding me back and that she honestly believed a big school like Clemson was somewhere I would flourish. Over and over, though, she kept telling me that it was okay to be scared.
I remember sitting on the floor in my suitemate's room crying my eyes out again while she told me that everything I was feeling then was exactly what she was feeling at the end of her senior year in highschool.
I remember crying at lunch with my sister because I didn't want to leave her. I'm still not totally sure if she really thought it was a good idea for me to go or if she just wanted to shut me up. Either way, it worked.
I remember pacing back in forth in Anna's living room honestly believing it was something I couldn't go through with.
I  couldn't leave the school I had always dreamed of going to. I couldn't leave the city I had always dreamed of living in- let alone to move out into the boondocks of Clemson. I couldn't leave my family that lived in Charleston. I couldn't leave the security of having them 15 minutes away. I couldn't leave my sister. I couldn't do it. I honestly didn't think I could do it.

Two conversations made me think otherwise-
First, I'll start with my conversation with my favorite professor from CofC. He told me going to class and watching Netflix in my dorm if my sister was busy wasn't a life. He told me I needed to enjoy more than just a few hours of my day.  He told me he believed Clemson could take me further than CofC ever could.

Second, a conversation with a teacher from highschool that I knew could give me some invaluable advice. After about a week of phone tag, we finally got to talk. It was a long conversation so I don't remember all of it, but I remember some of the highlights. He, like Mary, told me that it was okay to be scared. He told me it was okay for it to hurt and for me to cry, because what I was leaving wasn't all bad- in fact, there was a lot of good. Then he said that he had been praying about our conversation and what kept coming to his mind was the story of Abraham. In short, he told me about how God called Abraham from his home to go to a place that he would show him. Abraham obeyed, and settled somewhere new. Before long though, God said, "Okay, now go just a little bit further." I really can't explain what a weight was lifted off my shoulders when he said that.
Finally, I felt like maybe I could do it.

So fast forward to now. October, in Clemson. And guess what- I can't believe I ever had so many doubts. I can't believe I cried so much. I can't believe I came close to giving up on what has become easily one of the best decisions I've ever made.

To sum up Clemson I'll use the words of Joe Sherman:

"There is something in these hills that brings together and binds together and holds together man and woman of all persuasions, of all heights, sizes, weights, and cultural backgrounds -  something that cuts across every difference, spans every gap, penetrates every wall - something that makes a man or a woman stand taller, feel better and say with pride to all within earshot, 'I went to Clemson.' There is something in these hills that you and I can't define and that others can't understand. A wave of warmth that surges through me when 'outsiders' say, 'I don't know what is is about you Clemson people, but your undying love for Clemson is admired by everyone I know'... Yes, there's something in these hills where the Blue Ridge yawns its greatness..."

Finally, to sum up my rambling I'll use the words of Charles Martin-

"'Remember, courage is being scared to death- and saddling up anyway. Being scared is okay. It's better than not being scared. If you're not scared, you're probably cocky and about to get in a whole mess of hurt. Trust me, scared is good."

On Charleston

I've been lucky enough this past year to live in what is easily one of the most beautiful cities in the country- Charleston. This city, along with its beauty, is full of history and epitomizes the south.

This city, at least where I am and in my opinion, is broken up into a few different parts.
There's the predominantly restaurant part, along the same street follows the shopping district, and that intersects with what begins my favorite part of the city- Market Street.

King Street is nice, of course. Ya know, full of really expensive restaurants that serve a lot of food that you can't pronounce and overpriced shrimp and grits. After you spend on arm and a leg on lunch, you can walk down a few blocks to fight your way through the overly crowded, claustrophobic streets filled with tourists where you can finally get into a store where you can then sell your soul and your first born child for a plain white tshirt. After you leave there you realize that the five glasses of sweet tea have finally hit you, but you now have a problem- no public restrooms. So you scurry along and hop into a place where you can buy an over priced water or another sweet tea just so you can use their bathroom. And then you return to fighting the crowd or the ridiculously slow walking people who spread out across the entire sidewalk blocking you from getting where you need to go.
Oh, and did I mention that towards the evening these same streets are filled with drunk college students raising all sorts of hell before going into their dorm and pulling the fire alarm multiple times in the middle of the night just for kicks, or setting off the fire alarm because they're too drunk to remember it requires water before before it goes in the microwave?
Lovely, isn't it?

Well when I finally can get by all the slow sidewalk-hogs and tourists, I hit Market Street. From there, I hop on over and walk by the old city market and remember going through there to working on a project where I got to interview the sweetgrass weavers who grew up there, and I think about all the history the Market holds. To the left and the right, I can walk by ice cream shops and get hit with the enchantingly sweet smell of homemade ice cream. I tend to stick to South Market Street for no real reason. Walking down there I pass Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. and think of southern classic that is Forest Gump. And about how much I love fried shrimp, but that's another story. Walking down Market Street, I find myself a lot less annoyed with the tourists because now these are families. I'm weaving in and out of little girls skipping around in sundresses, little boys on top of the world on their dad's shoulders, and retirees enjoying their 80th year.

After Market Street, we are intersected with East Bay Street. Another street with overpriced restaurants, yes, but this one has a different charm to it. And a Subway with a public bathroom. East Bay is home to some of that classic Charleston architecture that I'm so deeply in love with. East Bay also has that city liveliness that I love. Along this street you can walk by some restaurants with outdoor seating, and old southern men sitting outside of Charlestowne Tobacco & Wine smoking cigars and waving as you walk by.
When I walk down East Bay, I think of my senior year in high school when my class came down to Charleston for the day to take a tour of the Old Exchange. When I walk down East Bay, I think about that trip and my class- the people I grew up with in my little tiny school from my hometown. I think about the bond we all had, and I think about one teacher in particular who went on the trip with us. I think about her not just because she was my senior English teacher, but because she poured her heart and soul into teaching us more than just sonnets and literary interpretation. She poured her heart and soul into teaching us about duty, responsibility, and wisdom. During the years I got to know her, I grew to admire, respect, and love her for her strength, tenacity, wisdom, and the love she had for us.

Down East Bay, across from South End Brewery I take a left turn and am at the Waterfront Park. Here, I walk by the kids running through the fountain and remember when my sister and I did the same thing both as little kids, and later as high schoolers. I walk down a little further to the dock, where I went many a time last semester just to get away from campus and the city noise, look out over the water, and clear my head. I remember my first time there. I got the dock, sat down, and took the first deep breath I had taken in a while. Recently I started eno-ing a little further down in a shady spot when the weathers nice. Just a few days ago, in fact, I decided to take my exploration a little further.

I had been to the Battery before, but this time was different. I sat down on a towel, underneath one of the many trees at White Point Garden and just looked around. There weren't any drunk teenagers, no expensive stores or restaurants, no commercialism, none of it. There were people eno-ing, family picnics, dogs playing fetch, kids chasing bubbles, a wedding that had just finished, and people taking leisurely strolls near the water. In the midst of a hustle and bustle city, here was a place that was calm and relaxed and everywhere I looked there was a happy family. Just a few yards away from me was a little family picnic with a few young kids and two little dogs. The adults just sat on the blankets and ate sandwiches while the kids ran around the spot playing with the dogs. Something about that picture just made me really happy as cliche as it might sound.

                                                       (my view, minus the family picnic)


I continued my exploration along South Battery Street, crossed over to Murray Street and just walked until the road curved near Tradd Street before turning around. When I walk down there I think of my mom. I think of how much I miss her and how much I know she misses me. One of my mom's biggest dreams is to move down here to Charleston near her sister and near my sister and me. She always talks about taking walks down at the Battery and jokes about me buying her one of those South of Broad homes overlooking the water if she doesn't win the lottery first.

I kept exploring and just fell in love with Charleston all over again. Walking through their is like walking through an old southern fairytale.
I fell in love with South of Broad. Anything that has ever described it as anything short of perfect was an absolute lie. I love everything about it. It's like somewhere between King Street and White Point Garden took you into a different time. There is just something about walking through there and weaving in and out of traveling families and locals fishing and walking by old, southern Charlestonians sipping sweet tea from their porch and waving to me as I walk by.

It's like everything about the south wrapped up in just a couple of streets.

 

                                      Just a few snapshots from my most recent exploration :)

On Being a Freshman

Freshman year of college. Big adjustment to say the least. It's been both a good year, and a difficult one. It definitely has been full of some unexpected challenges and is leading to even more unexpected roads.
By the end of senior year, everything seemed perfect. I had been accepted to my dream school, got my first choice dorm, and was going to be living with a very good friend. I was getting out of the small town and even smaller school that I had grown up in and was off to a big city filled with new people and also a new sense of independence. I was so ready to get out. I was so ready for something new. I was so ready for my freshman year of college.
I had it all planned out- I knew exactly what I wanted to major in, what career path I wanted to take, I was going to make all these new friends, stay out late, and do what I pleased. My sister is also a senior here, so I've visited many times over the years. I knew so much about the school that most people learn freshman year. I had it all figured out.

Then first semester hit my like a brick wall.

My dream school that I've always loved so much began to change- leaving its past and beloved traditions behind and pushing more towards a generic face. My first living situation was rather.. incompatible- though things did end on good terms and I do still talk to some of my first roommates. This big, new city got small very quickly. And making friends didn't come as easily as I thought it would.
I also didn't realize how big of an adjustment it would be.
Here's my year in a very small shell:
August- Move in day. New city, new place to live, surrounded by all new people, basically LOTS of new.
October- New room with a new roommate and new suite mates.
January- Roommate transfers to another school, so I now have ANOTHER new roommate.
(Side note: this is in non way meant to be an insult to my roommates. Love them to death. Just talking all the adjusting I've had to do this year.)

I realized my major and career plans weren't actually where I wanted to be.

Next, the big difference between my hometown and here:
Hometown- Conservative die-hard GOP Republicans to the bone
Here- Deep blue in the deep south. And very vocal about it.

That's not to say anything against either political party, just to show what a culture shock this year has been.

Like I said before, my sister is a senior at the school. I knew so much about the school before coming here. I knew which dorms to request, I knew which dining halls were better, I knew which restaurants downtown were the best(on a student's budget at least), I knew which upperclassmen dorms to try to get. I didn't know it all, but I certainly came in knowing ALOT. And I thought that would be a good thing. I realized quickly though, that it took away a lot of the adventure for me. This year I learned that I'm the kind of person who thrives on adventure, so knowing so much coming in came with some disappointment. Suddenly, this place didn't seem so new anymore.

Lastly, I didn't realize just how much I was going to miss my mom. Being away from her as been incredibly, incredibly difficult.

I'm going to stop there about all of that so I can get to what it is I really want to say-


Yeah, I got my dream school. And, despite all of the craziness this year has brought, I still love this school. I still love this city. What I've realized though, is that things don't always work out. I achieved a dream of mine, and I realized it wasn't what I thought it would be. It hasn't been all bad. But we make our decisions the best we can and sometimes we realize that God's plans for our lives are different than our own. Sometimes we realize, just maybe the place we belong is the last place we expected.
You can make these decisions for all the right reasons, and sometimes it still won't work out.
What I've realized though is that it's okay. It's okay for things to not work out. It's okay to get there and realize it's not what you want anymore. Maybe the place wasn't what you thought. Or maybe it's exactly what you thought, but you're the one that has changed.
I never would have thought in a million years that I would ever even consider transferring.
But here I am, hoping and praying that it my transfer for the fall works out.
Anyone that tells your freshman year is easy- either they got REALLY REALLY lucky, or they're just plain lying.
Freshman year is tough. But, freshman year is also unlike anything else. Like anything in life, it will have its ups and its downs. You'll meet some great people, and you'll meet some people you try to avoid whenever you see them. You'll love your roommate, and you'll fight with your roommate. You'll love where you are, and then sometimes you might wish it was different. You'll probably learn a new thing or two in class; but, more importantly, you will learn so much about yourself.
For me, that's been the best part.

Travel Is Rebellion In Its Truest Form

"Travel is rebellion in its truest form... 

We follow our hearts. We free ourselves of labels.

We lose control willingly. We trade a role for reality. 

We love the unfamiliar. We trust strangers.

We only own what we can carry.

We search for better questions, not answers.

We truly graduate.

We, sometimes, never choose to come back."

-Anonymous

From as young of an age as I can remember, I've had a good, hard bite by the travel bug. I remember being five years old and talking to my dad about walking on the Great Wall of China one day. I remember listening to my grandma tell me stories and show me things she had bought on her trips abroad. I remember spinning globes and wondering what each country I touched looked like in person. 

Unfortunately, my family was not able to do any traveling growing up. My first time out of the country was on a mission trip to Jamaica with my church my freshman year of high school. That trip is one of my fondest memories. I remember getting off the plane and being hit with the smell of spices. I also remember getting to the campsite and being hit with the smell of decaying animals and trash. I remember the incredible sunsets from the top of the mountains, and the incredible mid-summer Caribbean heat. I remember the painfully cold showers, and the lack of laundry for ten days. I remember the Coastal Carolina blue ocean in Ocho Rios and the soft, tan sand. I remember climbing Dunn's River Falls, and also climbing the steep hill from the supplies to the worksite everyday. I remember the people. I remember their happiness- yes, the people that we were on a mission trip to help were without a doubt the happiest, kindest people I have ever met. I remember their love for Jamaica. I remember the kids at the orphanage, running up and hugging us as we got off the bus. I remember how they just wanted to sit in our laps and to hug us and lay their head our shoulder. There so much about the trip that I could continue to write about, but to avoid writing a novel I'll wrap up his part of the blog. 

What I remember most of all, was despite the fact that we were sleeping on hard, uncomfortable beds; in Jamaica in June with no AC, no electronics/cellphones/social media/etc. for ten days; no laundry, no hot water (the water was bone-shilling, painfully cold btw), and no contact with home- it was the most amazing ten days of my life. I didn't miss home for a second. I had a new love and appreciation for how simple life could be- how simple it was there. I came home, but I left a piece of my heart there. 

I did get an opportunity to return to Jamaica the summer after my junior year in high school. Though the circumstances were the same, this trip was anything but the same. I remember-easily one of my fondest memories period- was our first day on the campsite. One of the workers/family members we were working with was walking down the hillside where the team stood in a line passing cinderblocks down to the worksite and one-by-one introducing himself. As he introduced himself, he also asked if it was our first time to Jamaica. The people before all said it was their first time, and he said, "Welcome to Jamaica!" When he got to me, I told him that I had been once before, he hugged me and said "Welcome home."

My junior year, my school combined the junior and senior class for the senior trip because the classes were so small. I was lucky enough to go to a school where are senior trip was a nine day trip to England and France with an incredible historian. I honestly don't have words to describe what this trip was for me. I can say, though I've always wanted to travel, I never actually considered studying abroad. This trip completely changed that for me. I fell in love with everything Europe. I kept a nightly journal while I was there, and I continue to look through it to remember the trip. I remember feeling like I was literally walking through a fairytale with the breathtaking, awe-striking architecture. I remember being amazed by the size and ornateness of the architecture that was built in a day with so much less technology. I remember getting lost at Harrod's. I remember my night in Piccadilly Circus. I remember seeing genuine knight's armor and crowned jewels in the Tour of London. I remember getting lost in my love of Paris. I remember meeting a WWII civilian survivor and hearing his story about spending his life searching for the name of the American paramedic who delivered his baby brother and kept them safe as a battle raged outside of their home and was then killed before he could return. I remember visiting C.S. Lewis's house and sitting in "Narnia. I remember being enamored with the French desserts. I remember visiting the American D-Day beaches and being hit with the reality of what happened there. I remember being absolutely terrified as I went to the top of the Eiffel Tower. I remember never wanting to leave and everyday wishing I could be back there. 

Currently, I am lucky enough to be preparing for a two week trip to Germany and Poland this summer. It's a trip based on the Holocaust so we will be visiting two-three concentration camps, and abandoned ghetto, working in a Jewish cemetery where we will be illuminating names on the headstones and memorials with gold paint, visiting many museums and synagogues, attending a Shavout service, and going to the Carnival of Cultures in Berlin. I'm sure I'll be writing one lengthy blog on that if not many smaller ones so be on the look out in about 6 weeks :)

So basically, I am about as wanderlust as it gets. If I could, you better believe I would spend months backpacking through Europe. And who knows? Maybe one day I will be able to do just that :)

My thoughts are in places I've never been to. My dreams are in pictures I've seen. 

My heart is abroad, and I'm not quite sure just where it is. Maybe that is what it is I'm in search of.

2014 Walk for Water

I know, it has been MONTHS since my last blog.
This semester has been crazy to say the least.
But here I am, and I'm definitely going to try to do better this time :)

So this morning I had the privilege of participating in the Water Missions International annual Walk for Water. I definitely recommend participating if you ever have the chance.

(For anyone who may not know about the Walk for Water or Water Missions International, just take a quick look at this link-
http://www.watermissions.org/event-faqs)

When I first heard about it I was super excited for a chance to be a part of a community service event. It was a super easy thing to do to- go online and register, show up and pick up your t-shirt, carry on empty bucket for a mile and half, fill the bucket, and carry it a mile and a half back where it is poured into a filtration system(3 miles is the average distance women and children have to walk daily to collect water-dirty, unsanitary water- for themselves and their families). It was nothing that required a lot of time or fitness or anything. It was such a great and easy way to raise awareness and funds for a great cause.

It didn't hit me though until later today when I scrolling through twitter and I saw this picture-

Even looking at it now, it affects me in a way I can't really explain.
It made me think of  a mission trip I went on to Jamaica. While we were there, my team and I helping a 19 year old named Devon build a house for him and his mother. While we were working one day, Devon cut his hand on a shovel. It was a deep cut. We had a doctor in our group who was able to properly clean it and to bandage it, but said if we were in the US he'd have had to go to the hospital for stitches. Before she made it over to Devon with the first aid kit, he had gone over to the faucet to clean the blood and dirt out of his cut. The water that I watched pour out of the faucet and into his wound was very noticeably tinted brown. I realized then that this was his family's only source of water. This was their drinking water, the water they cooked with, and the water they cleaned their wounds with.
After my mom picked me up from the airport, she took me to Outback to celebrate my homecoming. I sat there and ordered a nice cold glass of water-fresh, filtered water. As soon as it would start to get low, it would get refilled with more cold, fresh, clear, clean water. Later, I went home and walked to my faucet and I turned it on to wash my hands in clean, clear water. For months, each time I drank a glass of water or went to wash my hands I thought about Devon and about his deep, bleeding cut being washed with brown, dirty water.
I don't say all of this or think of that story to make myself, or anyone, feel guilty for the things we have been blessed with. That is far from what I am saying. I hold that story near to my heart because it reminds me of how truly blessed I am.

So no, you should never feel guilty because of the blessings you've received. You should never think that your pain or discomfort means nothing because someone else out there has it worse. You should, however, be aware and thankful for the many blessings you do have. And whenever you get the chance, it honestly feels so great to be a part of giving back to the people like these little boys in the picture. They truly are some of the most amazing- and thankful- people you will ever meet.

New Beginnings

Yes, I am a little late for New Years. However, I still felt like writing this anyway. I hold a different view of New Years than I believe most people do. Some might say it's a little pessimistic, and maybe they are right. New Years is, obviously, a new year. It's a new beginning. Out with the old, in with the new. A time of resolutions and a revived since of optimism. To me, however, it is a day like any other-just with a different number that I will be adding to all my papers for the next 365 days. I may have a bland view of the New Year, but that doesn't mean that I don't take the excuse to celebrate ;) However, my bland view comes from a question- why do you need New Years to make a resolution? Why wait till then to get rid of what's holding you back and bringing you down? Why do so many seem to need New Years to better themselves? Why wait? Why not start today, right where you are- no matter what time of year it is.

If there is something holding you back, let it go now. If there is something bringing you down, get rid of it now-even if it hurts. Diamonds go through a hell of a lot of heat before they can shine their brightest.
Carpe diem! Seize each and every day. It won't always not be easy. You will have weak days, you will have days when you fail at your resolution. But guess what, it's okay. Each day is a new day. Each day brings its own challenges, as well as its own gifts. It brings us life and beauty. Celebrate each new day. Tackle one day at a time. Look at yourself and find those negative things that you need to get rid of to be the most beautiful and happy you that you can possibly be. Take the opportunities each day brings before you- no need to wait for the New Year.

Happy Thursday :)

Dodging Bullets

Have you ever been in a situation where you didn't get what you wanted? Or maybe a little worse, who you wanted. Everything seemed right, but for some reason it didn't work out the way you wanted to.  As time passes, you eventually get over it. Sometimes, though, you realized what a bullet you dodged. That, my friends, is one of the greatest feelings.

For me, that just happened. I will spare the sob-story details because I don't feel like whining right now and it's quite obvious what took place. However, I now know how lucky am I. While it hurt like crazy when things didn't work out the way I wanted them to and the way I hoped and really thought they would. It's something I would think about all the time. It's something I just couldn't seem to get over. Very slowly, I seemed to be moving on. Every now and then, something would pull me back in. But eventually I was over it. Once I was out of the situation, I could see very clearly that I was the lucky one for not getting what I wanted. What I wanted was neither good for me, nor good enough for me. I deserve a lot more and a lot better than what I was getting. Every girl deserves better than what I was getting. Knowing and accepting made me feel so much better about myself. A recent discovery though, affirmed a hundred fold what I had come to grips with. I realized in anger, resentment, disbelief at my own naivety and stupidity, but also with satisfaction and thankfulness that I had been spared a headache and an even worse heartache. It was something I couldn't see at all when I was in the midst of it. But now, now I can't believe how true it was that I was the lucky one.

So my friends, when someone says "When one door closes, another one opens", "it all works out for the best", or whatever the cliche you are given as a sorry attempt to make you feel better- it's actually true. Yeah, it doesn't make you feel any better or make you see things any more clearly. But I promise, it's true. Be strong, remember what you DESERVE, respect yourself, and hold your head up high. I promise, you're probably dodging a very, very messy and painful bullet.