So, to go to another person and ask them, “what’s the meaning of life?” is an exercise in futility. You may go to a priest and say, “father, what’s the meaning of life?” and he would say “to serve the Lord”.  That same day, you could ask a terrorist, “terrorist, what’s the meaning of life?”  and he would offer some horrid, likely graphic response about death, destruction, and mayhem. Or he’d kill you.  Perhaps both.  You could ask a Buddhist the very same question, and he would likely tell you “to achieve enlightenment”.  To that person, that is the meaning of life. Their meaning.

To discover the meaning of life, life must have meaning.  It must be filled with moments that both excite and terrify you, that sweep you away, but that also bring you crashing back down to earth.  Painful moments remind us we are alive, and I believe are necessary for us to truly appreciate those times where we’re happy just to be breathing.

Do you ever stay up all night just to see the sunrise?  If you haven’t, do it. Do it tonight.  Tomorrow is never guaranteed.  Appreciate the way the silhouette of the mountains look like pieces torn from the sky like paper, the way the light creeps across the horizon.  Appreciate the vibrant colors nature produces that man could never hope to truly recreate. Think about what it means.  Think about the other hundreds, thousands, millions of people in the world seeing the same sunrise, or, perhaps, watching the sun set.

Fall deeply, madly in love.  Don’t keep one foot on the ground, don’t hold yourself back, don’t run away from it.  Put your whole heart into it.  If you haven’t loved, with everything you have, you haven’t lived.  To never wake up and breathe that first morning breath knowing someone is doing the same, just for you, is an empty, hollow thing.  Love fills you, lifts you, carries you, and it may drop you, but that doesn’t mean it won’t catch you.  I wake up everyday and believe this is the reason I’m here.  The moments in which you love with your whole heart are the moments in which you, and everything surrounding you, are infinite.

Stop, breathe, cry if you must.  Crying is not an indication of weakness. Since birth, it has always been a sign that we’re alive.  Treat each day as if you get to start over. Some things may follow you, but most of them are fixable, differences reconcilable. Either get a grip, or call it quits.

Do something that scares you everyday. Even if it’s something little. Take the time to appreciate the fear itself. Get up the nerve, because really, what’s the worst that could happen? Rejection, failure, and disappointment are a part of life designed to make us stronger, to blaze a trail and show us who we are on a deeper level. It thickens our skin and enlivens our hearts. Without it, we would be frail, unsustainable creatures. Without it, we would be porcelain. We would chip and break, and crumble away.

You have to find your own meaning of life.  Without it, you’ll be 80 years old, wondering where you went wrong, wondering why your life feels empty and unlived. Living is not the state of being alive. It’s how you put the entity of your being to use, what you do with your time here, and how you feel about it.

I find my meaning in love, and in appreciating everything. Every little thing the world has to offer, I seek out the beauty it holds. Sometimes, a lot of times, you have to look deeper than the surface. I find this to be especially true in people, whereas things in nature are beautiful because they are untainted. Beauty in people is often a facade, something twisted and careless, often lacking beyond what the naked eye sees.

Somehow, I will always believe there is a deeper meaning to everything, but yet a weightlessness to it as well, given by only by the profoundness it holds. A kind of symbiotic relationship exists between the fathomless wonders and simplicity one single thing can possess. Life is one of those things, and its wonders are endless.

But, I digress, I’m no one to talk about perfect relationships. I am the by-product of a huge mistake. My parents had no business ever speaking to each other, much less getting married and having a child. Thank God they only had one of me!

My dad hasn’t seen his dad in 34 years. My dad is 42, his parents are divorced, and his dad ran off, just like he did. I have been trying for years to convince my dad to make the trip to Kentucky to see his father. This is no easy feat. They’re both two of the most stubborn people you’re ever going to meet, but being the diplomat that I am, I expressed how important it is for one of them to take the high road and take the first step. Finally, logic won out and my dad has decided to make the trip.

I’m feeling rather optimistic about it, but that optimism is accompanied by caution. The visit will go one of two ways:

One, the reunion will go swimmingly. We’ll eat great Southern food, enjoy the country, and laugh and talk together like a normal family. This isn’t the typical way my dad’s side of the family acts around one another. It always starts out nicely, but then someone (usually my Grandma Lu, who won’t be there, as this is her ex-husband) says something either with or without malicious intent, but that someone always interprets to be malice, and the arguments start. I’m hoping, however, that Southern hospitality wins out over old grudges.

On the other hand, my dad and grandfather may decide it’s a good idea to talk out their problems (it isn’t. On my dad’s side of the family, it’s best to ignore them and move on), and one of them will say something that will upset the other, there will be a lot of yelling, Ruth-Ann and I will leave the room while the men fight out their problems, and either things will have calmed down by the next morning and we’ll all get on with our lives, or my dad and I will be coming home early.

However, there’s always a third possibility in which my dad is simply seeking revenge, plans to kill my grandfather, and has tricked me into coming along. This seems unlikely to you yes, but you don’t know my father. However, I admit it is the least likely of the three to happen.

I’m hoping we can all just get along and treat each other like family. I’m looking forward to meeting my new family members, and would rather it not be ruined by squabbling over the past.

Also, the city I’m going to is called Morehead. Yes, you did read that right. Go ahead and laugh. I do.

I already feel like I don’t belong in my own family. I feel like I’m a mistake because my mom and dad ever being together was definitely a mistake. I feel like leftover baggage from a part of my mom’s life that never should have happened in the first place. Everyone is so accepting of my step dad, and I feel isolated.

I went out of my way to call him on his birthday and on father’s day, and he didn’t even sign my birthday card. I wanted him at my birthday dinner, but of course he didn’t come, because he likes to pretend I don’t exist. And yet, no one seems to try and understand how that makes me feel. No one seems to care that I don’t feel like I’m a part of my own family.

I feel like my mom should have two or three younger kids with my step dad, and I shouldn’t even be here at all. I’m like the adopted kid that never quite fits in with the family. I haven’t felt like I belong anywhere since I was eight years old. And everyone seems to be okay with that.

My existence is a bad decision she made when she was 19, and only bad things have come of it. I don’t belong anywhere, I’m just.. here.

I hope he’s happy. I wish my family would speak up and take my side for once. It seems like they all know it’s not fair, but no one cares enough to say anything.

I don’t know why I felt the need to write this, and who knows, maybe no one will ever see it, maybe I’ll delete it all at the end. I don’t care if it sounds eloquent or well put together, because my eloquence in writing comes from my mind, and in order to accomplish this, I need to write from my heart. Which, if you haven’t noticed, is a jumbled array of thoughts and feelings, and words and ideas and even I struggle to decipher most of the time. So if this reflects a likeness of the aforementioned, don’t be surprised. However, if somehow, it still comes out eloquent, or at the very least, intelligent, well, cheers, that’s good too.

I can’t say I know where to start. I want you to understand the past two years. Because whenever I try and explain it out loud, it doesn’t come out right. My tongue gets tangled in the web of words my mind weaves. I’m not entirely sure who “you” is, either.

I’m looking out the window of the top floor right now, I can see the city lights twinkling. I have a perfect view of the skyline from this window. I’m thinking a lot about Texas, and I’m not sure why. I can’t explain my actions to anyone when I don’t fully understand them myself. Everything I do is interconnected in some way, whether I see it or not. I know it’s there, because I feel it.

Two years ago, I met a boy. Immediately when I see that sentence, I despise the fact that I started with it. I loathe that the past two years of my life have been determined by one person or another, and not by myself. I don’t know that I would go back and change it completely, but I would at least go back, take what I know now, and cram it into the brain of the ignorant teenager I used to be.

This boy is going to remain unnamed, because putting a name with it will personalize it too much. I want you to create your own image, and by naming him, I would feel as though I’m creating it for you.

A month to the day after Eric and I ended our relationship, I was at a party, and I’d heard his name before, but never met him. I was at a dark point in my life. I was doing a lot of drugs, drinking a lot, I didn’t have a job, I was going to have to break my lease on my apartment because it had become too expensive. When I think to all the hardships life has thrown at me, they pale in comparison to those I set up for myself.

The tail end of 2007, all the way up to now, right this minute, was my fault, and I take responsibility, because in all honesty, I’m lucky I’m not dead. I can think of more than a few times where that was looking like the only possible outcome.

This boy was kind and sweet, he knew what I was going through, and for some reason I’ll never understand, the more I pushed him away, the more he cared. The more he realized I needed him, and stayed. I can’t even say I would have done the same, looking from an outside perspective.

He pulled me back from the edge so many times, grabbing the collar of my shirt to yank me backwards at the last second. After, I was always reduced to tears, feeling broken and defeated for not being able to do it myself. He looked at me and said, “I’m never going to leave you like this. I’m never going to let you slip over the edge. I will always pull you back. Until you’re strong enough to do it on your own, I’ll be here every time.”

He was the light that illuminated the pressing darkness around me. You have to understand that that is why I loved him so much. He never once thought about giving up on me, when most everyone else did, myself included. He wouldn’t allow it. He brought God back into my life, he taught me how to believe again. He taught me how to trust myself, to fall with both arms out, knowing he would always be there to catch me, at least until I could learn to catch myself.

The second being that this is the start of my “adult life”.  Granted, I turned 18 more than two years ago, and was on my own shortly after, I haven’t shown much in the way of acting like an adult.  I’ve learned that just because the government says you’re an adult, doesn’t necessarily mean you are one.  This is the start of my new life, where I will support myself, work regularly and steadily, and become far more responsible than I think I have ever been.  I’m ecstatic, to be honest. I’m looking forward to really being on my own and self-sufficient.  I’m looking forward to being able to buy Christmas and birthday presents for my family, buying plane tickets to go to family events, especially in Pepin, and yes, even paying bills.  Odd, but it’s a new part of being an adult that makes you feel like you’ve accomplished something real, no matter how mundane the task actually is.

The final reason is this: The BEAST (Basic Expeditionary Airman Skills Training) and pugil stick fighting.  The BEAST is five days of simulated warfare, which makes up for my inability to be a sniper, due to the fact that I’m a woman.  A friend of mine who entered the Air Force last year didn’t have to do it, which shows you how new it is, but a few of his friends who participated said it was a lot of fun and they really enjoyed the experience.  BEAST has replaced Warrior Week at Air Force basic, and they have recently added pugil stick fighting, which I’m particularly excited for. Pugil stick fighting, from what I understand, is simply this: they put you in a ring with another person, put a football helmet on you, and let you wail on the other person with a stick. HOW COULD THAT BE ANY MORE FUN?? In school, I would have been suspended, possibly even expelled, for such an action. In the Air Force, I’m gettting paid to do it.  God bless the USA.

The closer the day gets when I arrive at Lackland Air Force base to Drill Sergeants screaming in my face, waking to to Reveille at 0430 everyday, and the challenges that await me, the more excited I get for the opportunity I have to brighten my future, make my family proud, and serve my country. I really can’t wait.

I have two rules when I ride the bus that I stick to almost religiously.  One of which is, head down, no eye contact.  If you make eye contact with someone, be prepared for them to sit next to you and talk to you about literally anything you can dream up.  Let your imagination run wild, I’ve probably been on the receiving end of some disturbing information regarding that subject at one point or another.

My other rule is this: always, always, have an ipod, book, cell phone, ect., in your hands so you can at least look busy.  You’re less likely to be bothered by drunkards and drug addicts if you look thoroughly distracted.  An ipod usually works best.

Unfortunately, none of those worked yesterday.  On my second bus, I had my headphones in, and was staring out the window, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone.  It’s not that I think I’m better than anyone else who rides the bus, it’s just I’m more sober than most of them.  About thirty minutes into my journey, I was tapped on the shoulder by a man looking to be about my age.  Being too polite to blatantly ignore him, I took my headphones out.  He complimented my bag, and told me he liked The Beatles as well, and I was hoping that would be the end of it.

“Where are you from?” He asked me.

“Louisiana.”

“I’m from Louisiana too!” He exclaimed excitedly. “Fort Polk.”

Oh sweet Jesus. I laughed. The guy was nice enough, and he appeared to be sober and have his wits about him, what harm could come of talking to him?

“I’m from Fort Polk too.” Immediately, he sat down in the seat next to me and we talked, he was funny, was asking a lot of questions. Did I do drugs? No. Did I have any kids? No. Did I have a boyfriend? Well, what was I going to say? No? Not a chance.

He went on to tell me that he believes in soulmates, that I’m his soulmate, and that if I was his girlfriend, we would already be having kids. Oh good, because that’s what I want right as I’m about to join the Air Force, be financially stable, and make a nice life for myself. Kids with a stranger. No, thank you. I’m also free of AIDS and would like to stay that way.

He also went on to say that he’s going to be rich in seventeen days, would like to buy me a Charger drop top on 22 inch rims with my name engraved in the seat, buy me a Gucci bag with a matching outfit, and dye my hair platinum blonde. Oh, so you would like to turn me into a Barbie doll? Again, I will have to respectfully decline.  Also, if he is capable of any of this, what in the world is he doing on the bus?  Usually, the bus is for people who either don’t want to own a car, or can’t afford to, and he seemed like he was rather interested in owning a car, so I’m going with the latter.

Once the bus arrived at Metro Center, he departed, and I was more than relieved. I put my headphones back in, and my journey on that particular bus continued without incident.

On my next bus, I encountered a 55 or 60 year old woman with a lip piercing like mine and a nose ring.  As much as a I appreciate someone that age expressing still being in touch with their youth, it was an odd sight to behold.

The visit with the recruiter went well, everything on my application looks good, and now the determining factor is my ASVAB score and physical.

The ride home was long and frustrating, and I was lucky to get on the bus when I did, because school was just getting out when my meeting was through, and I got a seat in the front. I always find myself feeling so awkward when I have to stand on the bus. Almost toppling over when the driver slams on the brakes and then eases up, causing the bus to lurch.

For about twenty minutes, a man reeking of drugs with missing teeth sat down next to me, talking openly about his experiences with crack.  I’ve never done crack, and for good reason.  Exhibit A was sitting right next to me.  When I got home, I was so ready for the day to be over.

Needless to say, I can’t wait to buy a car.

I lived a sheltered life until I was eighteen.  My parents knew where I was and who I was with, and if I lied, they usually found out about it.  Most of the time, I didn’t bother.  I wasn’t one of the “cool kids”,  I didn’t go to parties, I didn’t drink alcohol, smoke cigarettes, do drugs, or have sex.  I didn’t really have much of an interest.  I was just fine going to the movies or wandering around aimlessly at the mall.  I was the classic cliche of a teenage girl growing up in the Midwest.  Granted,  I had more fun neglecting my studies to do something else, and I had a few skeletons in my closet, but who doesn’t?

The big, bag city swallowed me up.  My first apartment was my chance to do what I pleased, make my own rules, have parties until 5am on Tuesday nights, drink, smoke, have my boyfriend spend the night.  At home, it was rare that I was allowed to have friends over on the weekends.  It got to a point where people stopped asking when I had my apartment.  They showed up because they knew they could.  My apartment, my life, my rules, when I clearly wasn’t responsible enough to have charge of any of them.

The careless lifestyle I was living would eventually leave me homeless and jobless, and I am still, to this day, coping with the repercussions of my actions.  After two years on my own, I am still recovering from the choices I made.  I’m still recovering from my walk with the monsters.  It nearly consumed me, ate me whole.

By no stretch of the imagination am I saying that if I’d been allowed to drink and smoke and go to parties that none of this would have happened.  I’m simply saying it was a lifestyle I’d never experienced, only heard about, and everything I’d heard had been glamorous, awe-inspiring, utterly fascinating.  I needed to dip my toes in the water, but somehow fell in in the act of doing so.  No part of that life is glamorous.  Not after the first month, when the monsters begin to sustain you, instead of the other way around.  They stop needing you to exist. No, rather, you need them to survive.  To achieve normalcy and sanity, you’re forced to walk with the monsters on a daily basis, whether you can afford it, physically, emotionally, financially, or not.  They do not discriminate.  Anyone they can get their poison-sodden claws on, they will drag under.

So when I look to the future and imagine drill sergeants screaming in my face, push ups, pull ups, sit ups, and getting up at 5am, it’s a welcome change. It’s a start of a new life for me, and for my family.  Part of escaping from the monsters is realizing they hold your family captive as well.  Part of breaking their grasp is realizing you aren’t only doing it for yourself.

A year has passed since I last walked with my demons, and their calling fades eventually to the back of your mind. It subsides, but it never really goes away.  Staying away from them takes a conscious effort each and everyday, a promise to yourself to never look over your shoulder, not for fear of temptation, but because of the optimism you have for the future, and realizing looking over your should will show you nothing you need to see.  Just dark corners and tangled faces I hope never to revisit.