The Languages of Love and Apology

A short couple of years ago, I took the famous 5 Languages of Love test. Well... today while going through my email, I happened upon a piece that said it had been a while and wondered if I might like to take the test again. Seeing how I have felt myself and personality shifting and changing especially over the last few months, I thought, why not?
The first time I took it, Physical Touch and Words of Affirmation tied for the highest score and seemed truly to reflect what I looked for in a person. Frankly, I didn't think it would change much. I was sure that aside from all the changes I have gone through, at least the way I interpret or feel love would stay the same.
Well, folks, apparently not. Though they still rank up there, both of my "love languages" have been ousted for something else... Quality Time. Sure--hugs are still wonderful, kisses just as much so, but TIME. Time wherein the person I am with is completely there. No distractions from the outside world. Taking the moment to actually plan out time to be spent (sometimes doing nothing but sitting and watching a movie together) takes the cake.
It's beautiful to hear that someone wants to spend time with you but so much more so when they actually do! I'm not a particularly busy person but at the very least I am aware that others have much more taking up their time (something I really should work on, I realize) and so when they give me time out of the busyness, when they allot time to me, I treat it as quite precious and priceless.
So there you have it. Love for me is spelled TIME.

The second test I took had to do with the way a person apologizes to me and it shocked me a little to discover that the Acceptance of Responsibility was far and beyond all the other options.
It's one thing to say, "I'm sorry" but when that apology is accompanied by admitting that you were either wrong or made a mistake--it resonates deeper in my mind and heart than asking for me to simply forgive you. Perhaps it is because I think so deeply about things and even deeper about those things that hurt me (maybe for the sake of self-discovery and really understanding myself so that I can help others to understand me) but I tend to go over a scenario in my mind and wonder if the person really gets that it was because I honestly believe they did something (or the lack of  doing something such as... spending TIME with me? Ah ha....)...
In short, I guess it gives me a sense of peace when they realize that they have done something that I saw as wrong and took the time to try and figure it out rather than just saying, "I don't know what I did... but sorry." When I feel something is awry, I always try to dig deeper so I can recognize what I have done wrong (and will ask if I can't come to some conclusion on my own thinking time) so that I can apologize in a full and complete way.

I'm sure bits of this aren't completely clear but I blame that entirely on the fact that I am super drained.

I Am Lying

Why do we tell people that we are fine?
It would seem as time goes by, the synonyms of fine (in good health, well, healthy, all right, fit, blooming, thriving, in good shape, etc) are being replaced with not-good-enough-but-I-don't-want-to-talk-about-it-unless-you're-the-right-person-I-would-want-to-discuss-my-life-with.
Seriously.
I do it all the time, speaking from personal experience. In fact, I even get downright agitated if the person I do NOT want to ask, "Just fine?" is the only one who asks. So often, I wish I had a sign to carry around to say, "It's you! Please talk to me! Please ask me why I'm not fantastic/wonderful/fit as a fiddle!"
I also have those moments where I am completely blunt--I say I am not well at all. Downright depressed/upset/lonely. But THEN (of course) I back it with, "but don't worry, it will pass!" What? Good golly, Miss Molly! What the heck are you doing? I ask myself.
And perhaps the answer is a bit selfish, even self-centered. But the only thing I can come up with is a desperate desire to find someone who will push and who will wonder/worry/care! enough to ask--or wait patiently until I finally pour my heart out to them.

Why do we feel the need to test people like that? Even those who, from the get go, we have already agreed either aloud or in our mutual silence that we will never expect them TO delve that deeply? To drop everything or give of their precious time to listen to us complain, moan, and cry about why life is so hard on us?
I have heard the saying quite often as of late that, "The heart wants what it wants." Stupid heart! Why will you not listen to your sensible brain? Or rather, do our hearts really "want" pain? Or are they just "asking for it" by searching for something that is just simply not to be found? "Looking for love in all the wrong places," is another popular one and one that definitely rings truer to my ear than the first.

I hurt myself often. By allowing hopes and false possibilities to spring up and fester (I say fester because oftener than not, it is more a wound than anything) I let my daydreaming heart run faster than by sensibilities can fly. And then, this heart of mine, tumbles off the cliff, plummeting to its doom before I even realize what the heck I am doing.
So. To all those who haven't, can't, or won't ever live up to the expectations that my childish, self-centered, dreamy heart decides to plant and water---I apologize and hope that you won't hold it against me forever.

I think I am done ranting now.

Love,
Me

24

It happened. 

I turned all of four and twenty this past Friday. 

I still love Disney. Junior Mints. Naps. Rereading all of my fantasy novels. 

I am continuing in my employment by Provo City... and thus, still live in Provo. 

I have put a few dreams to rest while reviving others. I have decided that in some instances it is better to take it one day at a time. Some days are harder than others. Some weeks fly more smoothly. 

At the end of the day, I am still thankful for the small things--the moments in my life when I am reminded that I am looked out for and loved. Rain still excites me. I still wish on dandelions, stars, and candles. 

I have become bolder yet kinder. More compassionate yet firm. I am finding that I care less and less about what others think about me and worry more about what makes me happy. It still hurts to see the pain in the faces of my friends and family. I still procrastinate things I shouldn't and quickly accomplish things that could be put off for a time. 

I still love to sing. Dance. Play the piano. I write when the mood strikes me rather than when my readers implore me to write. I feel bad about it. Promise I'll do better. And procrastinate again. 

I continue to prefer the forest to the city--a babbling brook happier than a busy highway. 

My heart yearns for the ocean and is called by mountains. 

I continue to love. Cry. Forgive. Complain. Shrug my shoulders. 

The struggle to keep up with laundry is real. So is going to the dentist regularly. I hate needles, blood, and hospitals. Though I have found a doctor that I really don't mind going to see when needed. 

I have discovered pita pizzas, cut down on my Pop-Tart consumption, and still eat chocolate frequently. 

For once, I am looking toward the end of winter for the sake of spring. 

But I still would rather cuddle up to watch a movie than go play football (soccer and volleyball are toss ups). I still cry when Matthew dies. I still swoon for Colonel Brandon (and Mr. Darcy, and Mr. Knightley...). 

I still need hugs like air. 

I have made new friends--lost others--kept in touch with the best. 

Life goes on. I have tacked another year onto my age. And I look forward to what is yet to come. 

Feeling Good About This....

Prompt
The top line of page 49 of the book closest to you.

"Do you love her?"




Begin.

The question took her aback. She did not think "loving" the dragon was part of the bargain that she had struck with the dying man. But the look in Mars' eyes spoke plainly that she was not to be granted custody of the beast unless her answer was satisfactory. She opened and closed her mouth a couple times probably looking very much like a fish out of water to the man who held the egg away from her outstretched hands.
The dying man had said that this dragon egg was the last on Earth and that if she were to possess it then all of her troubles would vanish. No longer would she be subject to her stepfather's whims. Neither would she be alone in this world... and with that thought came her answer.
"That dragon egg means the world to me, Mars."
The man's eyes softened, his lips still in a firm line as he lowered the egg gently into her desperate hands. It slipped easily into the circle of her arms and she could feel the leftover heat from its place in the coals of Mars' hearth. She also felt the vibration--there was a distinct pulse and her eyes lit in a way no one had ever had the privilege to see and it broke Mars' heart to know how lost this young woman could have been had she answered wrong.
She cocked her head to the side, black curls tumbling. "Are you sure it's a female?"
The gentleness disappeared from Mars' face to show his indignation. "Of course it is!"
She raised an eyebrow for a brief moment before shrugging her shoulder. "When will she hatch?" she inquired, the stress of the gender showing her doubt of the man's intuition.
Visibly irked, Mars gestured to the black and gold banded shell, "One week--but you MUST keep her warm at all times. If you don't, she will come out weak and sickly."
"How warm?" she asked, balking slightly as she looked nervously out the window to give a look of concern at the snow. At the moment, she was rather homeless and though she had been able to stave off cold with her thin cloak and hiding in obliging farmhouses, she wasn't so sure she would be able to keep an egg or for that matter a baby dragon as warm as the fire she'd just received her...he... it from.

Pretty is as pretty does...

I am no stranger to being complimented on my looks. I am thankful, too, when people bring it up in casual conversation. Not because it gives me a boost to vain pride but because it keeps my head from getting lost in the compliments of strangers. In all honesty, when I see an attractive face I will usually remark on it oftener than not straight to the person's face but in so doing I don't expect them to trip over themselves and give me all of their attention--just as when a stranger comes up to me and compliments me they had better not assume they have me in the palm of their hand from that moment forward.
So you may ask why I have brought up the subject of prettiness... well, I will tell you.

Most women (if not all, depending on circumstances) grow up being told how beautiful they are and how men won't be able to resist them. I myself on occasion have told young girls the same. Recently I have come to regard this as a rather dangerous thing to do unless it is also balanced with complimenting her on how smart she is, etc.
We have been taught to take, "She has a great personality!" as being an insult! Why does having a great personality have to negate any possibility of her being pretty?
Personally, I loop being intelligent together with having a great personality (at least in reference to myself because, let's face it, a lot of my personality comes from my intelligence--the other parts coming from my perception of life and my love and appreciation of the smaller things in life).

The sad thing is, however, that when people recommend you to others, we usually start with something along the lines of, "Oh, they're really attractive," and thus our interest is piqued and we ask for more information. (Don't get me wrong, if I don't find the person at least a little physically attractive I have a hard time pursuing them past a first date.) But why is it, that even after we're given the rest of the information (sometimes hearing something that doesn't even begin to sit well with us) we're willing to go with it because they're attractive?
Maybe it's too ambitious, but I am looking for the whole package. I'm looking for the intelligent personality with the attractive face--if they have musical/dancing talent that is a PLUS but it's not a MUST.

This leads us to my question: what makes a person not the right "fit" for you?
I have lost count of how many times men have said goodbye with the words, "You're beautiful! You're a wonderful girl and I'm mad to be saying this but.... you just don't fit."
Fit. Fit?  What does that even mean? What part of me is "too much"? What part of me is "too little"? What standard are you holding up to me and saying, "Nah, this one's no good. Toss her back with the other fish."
Why do we feel the need to qualify that the person is "beautiful", "pretty", "wonderful", "gorgeous", then follow it up with "but not for me"?
I will always be grateful for the honesty when I ask point blank, "Do you see us going anywhere?"

But, good gracious, won't it be a balm on my soul when someone says, "Well, you're beautiful...wonderful... and you're smart--and everything I've ever wanted and will want for the rest of our lives."

To the Dissenter and Sower of Contention on the Street Corner

Today is the day in which we observe the work of Martin Luther King Jr and the liberty of blacks nationwide. It is a big deal and one I fully support.
But of course, as on every other day of such import and sacred observance, there are those who will see it as their "time to shine". The day where they will sit on the street corner with their signs on which are usually written controversial topics regarding the topic of the day.
I went in to work this morning, which was rather rough after the day I had yesterday that followed a terrible nights sleep before. On my walk, I get to see the temple in construction and on this particular day wherein I walked to and from work, I got to see it twice.
However, the aforementioned type of person decided to perch on the corner directly across from the temple--the one I had to stand at to wait my turn to cross the street (there being construction on the corner of temple grounds). I was content to ignore him and wait most peacefully for my right of way but, seeing as he probably hasn't been contented by being able to stir up contention elsewhere promptly asks, "Are you LDS?" At which point, I actually glanced at his sign, back up to his leering face, and stated, "Yes."
I turned my face back to the other side of the street wishing for him to leave me be--my wish would not be granted. He proceeded to throw out the question, "Do you know why blacks didn't receive the Priesthood until after 1837?"
To which I answered, "It doesn't matter."
"It doesn't matter in general? It doesn't matter to you?" I could hear the combative tone in his voice and already having had a rough mood and not desiring to explain to him what I'd meant (because I know he would have taken whatever I had said and twist it anyway) I told him I really didn't feel keen on fighting him on the matter and proceeded to ignore him.
Two others joined me at the stop light, one answering that they were not LDS, the other, being LDS like I was answering him with the same words. "It doesn't matter."

Now, before anyone leaps into argument, I care enough about those who will read this to explain myself and my words to this man.

I said that it didn't matter that blacks were allowed the Priesthood after 1837 because I believe in God and His prophets.
They have the Priesthood now. Why didn't they have it from the beginning? That is not for me to say or even really have a huge opinion about because I believe in the Lord's timing. I might not always understand it, but His timing is perfect--His rule is perfect. I can rejoice with all that now every worthy man can obtain the Priesthood.
If you have a problem with the Lord's timing, take it up with Him. It doesn't matter how many you corrupt or sow doubt into because it doesn't change history--it doesn't change God.
My apologies, sir on the street corner, but it would take a great deal more than a question that you have about how the Lord works and restores His church and the dealings therein to shake my faith in His church, this Gospel, the Lord's timing and my love and hope in His name.

Happy Martin Luther King Jr. Day.

A Writer's Hurt

As of late, I have gotten into the whole online dating "scene" so to speak--haven't been too terribly active in it the past two weeks or so but in my profile, I made note that I loved music and was a writer. Apparently, this led to the assumption that I was a lyricist or perhaps a composer of some sort--at least among those who also shared a passion for music (those who, like myself, perceive themselves of some-day-novelists, simply asked what genre I wrote). 

However this question just gave me a small moment to marvel at the fact that you can have a handful of people who identify as "writers" but what does that mean? Apparently it varies from person to person. Honestly, I wish I had the talent to write lyrics but as it is, I don't feel that I can even write a proper poem, rhyming or no. 

On the other hand, I do feel that I express myself best and most thoroughly when I write--I feel quite at home with a pen in hand, a fresh pad of notepaper beneath my wrist and poised to draw up yet another scenario, another personality, another life! And within it, I find a certain amount of freedom-- a space in which I can say what I am dying to say even if it never reaches the person I truly would love to say it to at the end of the day. 

It keeps me from bursting at the seams some days. I know I have written and posted quite a bit for just about anyone who wanders along and stumbles upon this blog to read--but then again, there are bits and pieces that I write that spend months even years in my documents folder, only to be read over and pondered upon by me, myself, and I. 

However, I would like to invite you (whoever you are) to read this piece that I wrote. 

I warn you, however, not to read on if you don't want to know a dark snippet of my heart--I am not looking for you to read it and do the exact opposite of what I wrote in its conclusion. But maybe, just maybe, one of my lyricist friends would show me how to put it in a song--granted, as previously stated, this is only a snippet of what I have written to vent my anger and frustration and loneliness. 

I also encourage you to watch a short, happy video after the reading thereof. Or listen to a happy song. Because, honestly? That is what sometimes gets me through to the following day.

'I had never been so soundly rejected in all my life.

It hurt and there was absolutely no way I could do anything more without making an absolute fool of myself. After his admissions, the initial rejection hurt worse. But when I plead for just one, last night...the fact that he could not care less was so evident it felt like an actual dagger was thrust through my chest to the point of being exposed on the other side.

I was nothing more than a vice to him although he said that he cared about me and that's why he did it. Why is it? That whenever someone does something that hurts you, destroys you so thoroughly it's always because they “care” or because it's “for your own good”?

To top it all off, I simply felt embarrassed that he had offered me a place to rest...—completely taking my into his arms that... night and suddenly... he woke up and had shut me out again. As easily as one turns a page in a book, he had turned the page I was on and left me completely behind.

I'm dizzy with the anger and hurt that comes with each rejection. He's not the first and he definitely won't be the last. Why is the desire to hurt so entangled with the desire to comfort? Perhaps it's just me who feels this way. I would give anything to have the power to slap him across the face but on the other hand I would give anything for him to silently take me into his arms and never let me go again.

Funny... how I am so embarrassed by the moments when he completely accepts me and am infinitely more embarrassed when he completely rejects me...Why is he so much more capable of ignoring me, pushing me away, doing what's “best” for me while I am over here trying everything I can just for him to see me?

He told me he could see me the other night...but that I am, essentially, blind when it comes to him even when he lets his walls down. I hate being so open to people because I cannot count the number of times and ways in which someone has been able to hurt me. I feel raw from screaming so loudly to draw someone's, anyone's gaze long enough for them to see that I just might be worth loving.

The sensible side of me tells me to pull away. To stop laying myself so open to people. You only get hurt, it says. Why bother trying any longer?

But the child within cries out for me not to give up because maybe, just maybe, there is someone right around the corner who will be willing to adopt me, take me home, give me somewhere to stay, return to, and feel accepted no matter what ridiculousness I might come up with to make a fool out of myself once more.

I want to share these words with someone—I want someone else to say that they know exactly how I feel. That I'm not alone in this facing of rejection after rejection after rejection after rejection. And I don't want anyone to say it'll get better or that you'll work it out one day. Because those words? They usually come from someone who it has already worked out for and thus they have separated and distanced themselves from the hurt and despair that comes from yet another person saying that you “matter” to them but then saying, in essence, that you don't matter enough.'