It is good that I love my job.

I had a hellish day yesterday. It seems that every time I think that things are evening out and looking up, everything crashes down again. I do not want to post all the details, but essentially I got pulled out by two professors during lunch and told that I am unteachable, have anger and confrontation issues, and that I will not make it in the professional world. Needless to say, it was a lovely conversation full of fluffy bunnies and rainbows and butterflies. And lots of tears and stuttering, too, but that is usually a given with me. So it destroyed pretty much my entire day.

And then I had to go to work at five thirty.

I was not looking forward to it. After my lunchtime discussion I nearly called in and told them I was sick. But I went.

And, wonder of wonders, it made me feel better. Because I love my job. I love the store itself, I love being surrounded by books, I love the music, I love my coworkers and managers, I love (most of) our customers, I love that I get fifty percent off items in the cafe (hot cocoa for a dollar and thirty cents? yes, please!), I even love straightening up at the end of the night.

I realized again last night how grateful I am not not be at Albertson's anymore. It would have destroyed me to have had to go work in the deli last night. I probably would not have made it through. But being at Barnes and Noble gave me energy and some happiness where I had none.

Praise God for small reliefs such as that.

Blessings on your travels,
Emily.

The Waiting is the Hardest Part

Driving back to Spokane from Seattle is always difficult for me. Interstate Ninety goes across Washington (and all the way to Boston, for that matter), but to get to that freeway I have to drive on the Five South (which stretches from Canada to Mexico) for a few miles. This time was the hardest: a full tank of gas, a good eight hours before I would be missed, enough clothes to get by for a while.

In my head, I know that Seattle is not much closer to LA than Spokane is - only about a hundred and fifty mile difference, since from Spokane one cuts through the middle of Oregon. Pythagorean theorem at work, there. But being on that road, it seems so much closer, so much more possible. Yesterday I cried as, at the last second, I took the exit for I-Ninety. Twice I nearly turned around and went back, ran south.

But I know that I can not go back, not yet. I have school starting soon. I have a job. But two years is so long to wait to be back. So much can happen in that time, and I am so afraid that I will never be able to return. I constantly fear that I am losing my friendships, that I will end up alone.

I am still angry that I was forced to come here. I am still lonely and hurting. I do not know if I will heal from it, because it hurts, awfully. I do not know if I want the pain to lessen, if I want to be comfortable and happy here. I want to go back; I do not want to become complacent here, stuck here forever. I am so scared of that.

Blessings on your travels,
Emily

My Wretched Day

It started out not so badly, you see. Got up, showered, dressed, had breakfast, made tea. Realized that my interview was in twenty minutes and that it takes ten to drive there, and so did not get to drink my tea. The first bad thing of the day.

The interview was not horrid, but I was nervous. Also, the ladies interviewing me were very casual, which was a bit off-putting for me. That is, I was not entirely sure how to interact with them, because it was very different from the atmosphere one usually encounters in an interview. So that made me more nervous. They said they would be making the decision today, and that I would hear back by five.

I came back to the house, and called EWU to check on whether they had received my transcripts yet. I had faxed Biola with my transcript request ten days ago for EWU, WSU and CSUF, and none had received them yet. Eastern confirmed that they still did not have it. The lady I spoke with was so lovely and nice, she made me feel as though everything in the world would be all right.

So then I called the Biola Registrar. They did not answer their phones. I called again and again, finally left a message, and then continued to call about every ten minutes. Finally they answered. I asked whether my transcripts from my request on the twelfth had been sent. They are very far behind, so nothing on my account has been entered into the computer. She leaves me on a soundless hold for about ten minutes while she (supposedly) rummages through papers. I had to check my phone about once every two minutes to make sure that I was still connected. Could they not at least have had some horrid music or something? No, just dead silence. Anyway, she came back, finally. (I realize I am switching back and forth between past and present tense, but I really do not care at this point.)

"Emily? Your transcripts to San Diego State got sent on the seventh." I know that. Ye gods, did you not listen to me at all? "No, the request I sent on the twelfth." ... ... "We never received any other transcript requests from you. Are you sure you sent them?"

At this point I started crying. I am so frustrated with life and already emotionally unstable this week from having to come back to Washington, and from being worried about my interview from that morning. Yes, I sent them. Yes, they went through. So essentially, they lost them, but refuse to take responsibility for it. Now, my EWU and WSU applications are due on the first of February. I had my requests turned in in plenty of time, but now they make me re-fax my requests, and I have to rush-order them, which costs ten extra dollars per transcript. Forty extra dollars, just because the stupid Registrar people lost my paperwork. I know that I am not the only person to whom this has happened. My mom drives me, sobbing, to her work to re-fax.

I do not have the money for this. My credit card is nearly maxed out, my savings account is dwindling, I have loan payments due on the first, and a phone bill coming up, and other stupid expenses. Stupid Biola, I can not wait until I am no longer dependant upon you.

I finally manage to calm down. But then five o'clock comes and goes, and I still have not heard from the credit union about the job. So I stress until seven-oh-five when my phone rings. I am sure you have guessed by now that I did not get the job. And if so, then you guessed correctly. I really wanted it, too. So that sucks. Anyway, anything more I would say here would just be whining, and I do not like doing that. So I will close.

Blessings on your travels,
Emily.

Yesterday

I got horribly homesick yesterday, right after church. There was the annual parish meeting, and I stayed for about half of it. And during Fr. Michael's talk, he mentioned that this weekend, at the baptism in Wenatchee, he met a couple from St. Barnabas in Costa Mesa, and then proceeded to hold that church up as a good example for us, mentioning that they generally receive about thirty new members every year at Pascha. And I broke down (quietly). Because, for one thing, two of my dear friends, Sara and Jimmy, were fewer than two-hundred miles away from me and I could have been there and I missed the chance. (edit: as it turns out, this Sara and James were not the Sara and James that I know. odd.) And for the other thing, it just made me homesick. I know about half of the people who were baptized last year at St. Barnabas. I probably know about half of the group that will be baptized there this year. These are my friends - my dear friends - and I miss them. It was awfully hard for me. It is especially difficult at church, even though they have all become a wonderful family for me, because people can not seem to comprehend that I didn't want to leave California, that I want to go back. Comments like, "great job making it out alive!" make me want to cry. But I do not want to cry, not there, for that.

I also worry, because part of me is terrified of getting too attached. I do not like being torn between places. I am scared to make friends here, because I hate leaving friends. I know that that is not right, that it is not healthy, but that is my gut reaction. I miss my friends and my life so much, I just want to go back - even with all the horror that has been happening in the area with the fires as of late.

Then, last night, my best friend came over. I can not praise Glennda enough. She has truly been the best friend someone could ask for, especially in supporting me through all of my conflicts and confusion over the past year. She is being especially patient with me right now. I apologized profusely last night, through my tears. She is so glad to have me back here, and all I do when we are together is vent about how homesick I am. Poor dear. She is so good to me. I do not deserve her, but I am glad I have her. She just smiled, and reminded me how many times I sat and listened as she poured out her own heart in mourning.

Then after I pulled myself together I started trying to convince her to move to LA with me. As always. I will not understand how someone would move to Russia in a heartbeat, but would not even visit California when her best friend lived there. Not that I do not understand the wanting to move to Russia part, just the not even wanting to ever set foot in California part. But, as I explained to her, it would be much easier for me to move her down to LA than for me to move my whole life from down there to up here. She mentioned how then she would be in essentially the same position that I am in now, except worse, because no family there. Which is true, but I pressed on: "You'd get along great with my friends. I have excellent taste in friends." At which point we both collapsed laughing, and I wrote down what I had said in order to post it later. It is a conversation we have had many times, too many to count. She will not move to California, and I will continue to try to convince her to do so. I am so glad for the times that I have with her.

Then we kept talking as I sorted through some boxes of old things, from high school and before. I found my collection of her letters, from summers she spent in Oregon and I at camp, and read them aloud to her. Then I found some pages ripped out of an old journal, from my sophomore year, and read some of the entries to her. Highlights: "Glennda is my best friend in the whole world. I can tell her almost anything." Then, from a later one, "Confession - I am totally and completely in love with [name]. No one knows. Not even Glennda." We laughed so hard over that. Apparently that was where the 'almost anything' came up. She was confused: "Really? I didn't know?" I am pretty sure she did not, until after I was over it. Or if she did, she never said anything, because she is just an awesome friend like that. It was good to laugh with her, and remember.

My day ended much better than it began. But I am still sad. Sometimes I dislike the complicated emotions that come from being human. Why can't I just only be sad about being away, or only be happy to spend time with my best friend? Well, that is likely enough for now. I have survived three weeks.

Blessings on your travels,
Emily

Grief

Hello again. Thank you for your patience.

According to dictionary.com, my constant source of definitions, grief is keen mental suffering or distress over affliction or loss; sharp sorrow; painful regret. a cause or occasion of keen distress or sorrow. I wondered, because I have been thinking about grief a lot over the past week.

I wanted time away, to grieve, as I mentioned below. Last week was difficult in this, as my mom's boss was ill so she was home from work for the week. I did not really have any time alone. My parents want me to be happy, in the they are upset that I am not sort of way. And I want this situation to not be entirely miserable, so I do my best to not upset them. So I did my best through the week. I even went out one evening, by myself, which seemed to please them. After all, if I'm out at a ballet, I must be all right, right? (I saw the Moscow Ballet perform Sleeping Beauty, which was wonderful, despite the idiot behind me who seemed to think that one comes to a ballet for the plot and would not stop whispering about how there were too many dances. Idiot. And despite the music being recorded rather than live. And a few other annoyances. And my being alone.)

Anyway, I waited out the week, looking forward to this past Tuesday. I had decided that that would be the day where I could grieve, good and proper. I fully planned on lying on my bed in the dark, listening to angry music and crying a lot. I went out to the store Tuesday morning and got bread and cheese and ice-cream, because those are good and proper grieving foods. It did not last very long. As it turns out, you can not induce those sort of days, however much you think you need them. I have decided that my idea of grief is vastly Romanticized. I had this picture of what I ought to look like at this time, and wanted to fulfill that. Which, when you think about it, is rather silly. Of course, I am a rather silly person, so I suppose nothing different should have been expected.

I think that it is likely that that sort of thing will happen, eventually. The lying in bed all day, not wanting to move or do anything but cry. Just not yet. And I know that I need to allow that. I am grieving, still, although I am not staying in bed with my blinds shut and refusing all social interaction. I do cry, I do wish dearly to come back home, back to where my life is. I grieve that I have been torn away from the places and people I love. I grieve in the way that is natural for now, because foremost I need to survive, so that I can return.

Tuesday I ended up getting back up after about an hour, getting dressed, eating some bread and cheese, and then going for a drive. Driving is very therapeutic for me, especially on fairly empty, familiar roads. It was raining, which helped. I drove out to Camp Four Echoes, my Girl Scout camp, where I spent several weeks every summer for ten years, and many weekends in between. I love that place, and I love the drive. It has been driven so many times that it was all automatic. I needed that - the familiarity of something beloved, familiar enough that I did not even have to think about it, I could let my mind stay on my grief without having to worry about the road or traffic, just winding through the countryside.

So, for now, I am back online. I will be in touch, and write more frequently than I did when I was in California (since now I am not seeing my dear friends every day, so updates are more necessary). But do know that when the grief does hit harder, as I expect it will eventually, I may disappear again for a time.

I miss you all so very much.

Blessings on your travels,

Emily

Arise, Shine...

For your light has come,
And the glory of the Lord has risen upon you.

My final convocation was this evening. I am officially a senior. I am not entirely sure how to handle that, honestly. The ceremony was more emotional that I had expected. I knew that I would probably cry; I had not anticipated the extent to which that ended up being true. For this to be coming to an end...it is really unfathomable. I do not know what my life will be like without this community: this, my family of four years.

So I cried.

I cried as we, the seniors, lit our candles. I cried as I watched the Juniors (especially the johnson housers) light theirs. And I cried as I looked on at the new freshmen, aware of how little I will ever get to know them as I have everyone else. I think I was the only one there (at least, the only student there) who cried. And right in front, at that, with all of the new freshmen and parents looking on.

Certainly, this week has been overly emotional for me, and were it not for that, I may not have broken down as much. But that is mere petty excuse.

Now my roommates, and most of my classmates, are out celebrating, as is tradition. Denny's for Olympia; Bonfire with s'mores for Augustine; Bread and cheese for Gregory. Then all together (by now, I am sure) at a house where some of our men live. I am glad that I chose to not go out this evening. My decision to stay in was influenced by several factors. The one that everyone who asked got to hear was that I am weary, and need to rest. This much is true, though, as always, there are certainly more. But as they were not related to people, neither shall they be related here. Suffice it to say that it is better for me to remain.

I sit on my couch, eating mashed potatoes (my comfort food) and listening to Simon and Garfunkel (though only the quiet songs), in the darkness except for my computer screen and the small, white Christmas lights strung in our living room. So peaceful, so restful.

I tell the Newmanites and Homerites that they are not allowed to be juniors. Not all lies and jest, I assure you, in that. If they are juniors, then they are no longer my freshmen. I am a senior now, and it is a terrifying thing. They claim they are ready, that I can let them go. Alas, it is not all for their sakes that I cling on so.

I look back (crying) on my freshman convocation. It seems so long ago, and yet, paradoxically, like it was yesterday. I was confused (as I imagine most freshmen generally are at that ceremony) and desperate to be liked - all alone here without knowing anyone, one wants to make a good initial impression. This preoccupied me, as things such as this are wont to do, and I really remember very little of the entire thing. But I remember the candles. The 'ring' went perhaps halfway up each side. This year, we could all barely fit in the full circle around the auditorium. I wonder how they will fit next year, when my class, the smallest class, is replaced in the ring by the new freshmen class, the largest class. I wonder if I will make it down for that. How I long for it, already. I am clinging to the past when I have not even yet left it behind - why is that?

A senior I am, whether or not I like the fact...and I suppose that I do, essentially.

Blessings on your travels,
Emily.