Physical Touch - The Five Love Languages: Part 1

(Before we start, a big thank-you to my sister Snow for 'donating' the last photograph, and for seeking permission from those involved, so that I could use a 'real-life' picture for an example. <3)

This series of blog articles has been long in coming - I've been planning them out for months, as well as writing and rewriting, then deleting and starting all over again. I don't think I'll ever get them perfect, so what I have come up with shall just have to do.

The next six posts will be on the Five Love Languages. The first five will be in-depth opinions on each of the languages, and the sixth will be a sort of epilogue explaining them as a whole. I will add that I have no particular organization for the posts, so I may address different aspects or opinions for one love language than I do for another - there aren't any bullet-point subjects I'm going to address in every single article.

With that out of the way, let's get started.

~

I'm starting with physical touch because it's my own love language. And it is the most misunderstood among Christians (mainly very conservative ones and/or legalists), I've noticed. Words of affirmation also gets a lot of hate in such circles, but I won't be going into that one today.

The love language of physical touch is basically when you show someone you care about - family member, spouse, friend, acquaintance, a stranger who needs comfort, anyone at all - love and comfort by touching them in some way. This is the description for physical touch from the Five Love Languages website:

A person whose primary language is Physical Touch is, not surprisingly, very touchy. Hugs, pats on the back, and thoughtful touches on the arm—they can all be ways to show excitement, concern, care, and love. Physical presence and accessibility are crucial, while neglect or abuse can be unforgivable and destructive. Appropriate and timely touches communicate warmth, safety, and love to you.


I can hear the ones unaccustomed to such a love language exclaiming in wide-eyed horror, "Physical touch?!"

Physical touch doesn't have to be intimate in the way it is between a husband and wife, you know.

Here's a question for all of you. Ignoring the fact this is a drawing and not a real photograph - this depicts Jesus hugging a girl. Christians often talk about Christ 'holding us in His arms'. Does that mean they love each other romantically or are dating? Erm... no.  So why does physical touch = romantic thoughts/intimacy with our brothers and sisters in Christ?

Hugs, holding hands, a pat on the back or shoulder, a handshake that goes on for a few seconds longer than normal, dancing, playing with someone's hair (usually in the case of girls, but it doesn't have to be; close friends can too without a problem), high-fives... the possibilities are endless.

The 'love tank' is a concept talked about often when it comes to the Five Love Languages. In order to completely fill a person's love tank (i.e., make them feel completely loved), you need to at least try to figure out what their primary love languages are and attempt to love them in that way.

If their love language is Words of Affirmation, compliment and encourage them a lot. If their love language is Gifts, try to give them a special gift every so often, even if it's something small. If their love language is Physical Touch, give them more hugs and touch them on the shoulder or what-not more often. They will come away feeling totally and completely loved, whereas if you try to show them love in a different way... well, they'll still feel loved, but not as much as if you had shown them you love them (as a friend or otherwise) in the way their love language calls for.

Me, physical touch is my love language through and through. If you want me to feel safe or comforted or loved, hug me or play with my hair or put an arm around me - stuff like that.

There is one misconception about physical touch that I have heard so often it angers me. Yes, angers me.

And that is the lie that physical touch between anyone but a family member means you love someone romantically, or means you will end up loving them romantically, or means that you and whoever it is are a couple.

THAT IS JUST NOT TRUE. I'm sorry for the caps, but like I said, this infuriates me.



Hugging a friend or a person of the opposite gender frequently or even once doesn't mean you'll all of a sudden, one day, have a burst of fireworks explode over your head, hear an angelic chorus playing in the background, and think, "I am in love with this person, and I am going to date them because I will die without them".

Sorry, but no. That's not true. And by the way, dancing with a person of the opposite gender or holding hands with them won't have the same effect all the time either. Just so you know. Neither do kisses on the cheek or the forehead, believe it or not.

Oh, and treating friends of the same gender in that way does not make you gay. (Not that being gay is a horrible and bad thing either, by the way. It is in no way an insult. Go ahead and send the hate mail at me for saying that now. :P)

One aspect of physical touch beyond people who feel romantically to each other, and beyond friends and family who love each other, is comfort.

Do these two people look like they're in love? They might be, but what does it look like they're doing? To me, it looks like he's comforting her.

Just face the facts, people - physical touch is comforting to most people. Take, for example, this video of me:

(Don't laugh. I know I'm bad at dancing. At that point in my life, I had taken exactly two dancing lessons, and danced with another person exactly once.)

Oh my gosh! I'm dancing with a man who isn't a blood relative! And he's touching me! He has my hand in his, and he had an arm around me, and everything! I must be dating him, and we must love each other, and we must be planning to get married (until we break up in a few months' time and call the wedding off).

No, sorry. He's from Ireland, and I asked him to dance with me so I could get a video of it for my friends. (Not to mention he was a very gentlemanly adult and wouldn't feel romantically towards me in the first place). This was the second time after my camera had blinked out on me the first time and not gotten the video. So I danced with an adult man twice.

I am not in love with him. I didn't feel romantically towards him. I was having fun. 

Now, anyone who knows me well knows one thing - I am easily scared. When I got up in front of all those people to dance, I was surprised (I had thought we would dance in the back of the room) and scared out of my mind.

His touches - not inappropriate, just simply holding my hand and putting an arm around me when we twirled - calmed me down. They comforted me. His hug and the kiss on the cheek at the end helped me to stop shaking. And then when it was my turn to sing karaoke (something I was point-blank terrified about) came around, it was him who stood by my side and reassured me in the same way he did while we were dancing - putting a hand on my shoulder, giving me a hug or two, etc.

Yes, his dance moves got a bit goofy in the beginning. He was a pretty silly and loves-to-make-people-laugh guy. There was nothing inherently wrong with it.

He wasn't being inappropriate. Trust me, he wouldn't have been with dozens of adults, my brother, and my mom standing right in front of him filming. He was just being a friendly guy who was perceptive enough to notice that when he hugged me or patted my shoulder, I stopped shaking. Nothing more, nothing less. He is from Ireland, a place that - from all the Irish people I've met in person - is unafraid of physical touch among friends.

As for me, I never fell in love with him, I never thought he had any ulterior motives, I never wanted to date him - none of those things. I simply was comforted and having fun. All I was thinking was "I've never danced before and he's so friendly, maybe he'll dance with me; it would be a new experience and I'd like to try dancing at least once in my life" and "I told my sisters I'd get a video of me dancing on this trip".

Physical touch is comforting. There is a reason people hug each other and hold each other after a love one dies. There is a reason children cling to their mothers. There is a reason children in orphanages in impoverished areas who don't get touched or held by anyone grow up to have mental and emotional problems. There is a reason friends and family hug one another when they say goodbye.

Physical touch - being hugged, being held, an arm around your shoulder, and all those things - is one of the main ways of showing comfort. The feeling of someone hugging you lets you know that you are not alone and that there is someone who is going to support you - mentally, emotionally, and physically if need be - in your struggles.

We are all family in Christ. Biological brothers hug biological sisters all the time; fathers hug their daughters and mothers hug their sons. Romans 16:16 even states:

"Greet one another with a holy kiss. All the churches of Christ greet you." (NASB)

Now, that probably - judging by how kisses on the cheek are apparently a somewhat common greeting in Italy - means a kiss on the cheek. I'm not telling all of you to greet everyone with a kiss. That is a bit overboard.

What I am saying is that back in the times of Jesus, things like that were normal. Usually between people of the same gender, from what I can tell (but I am not extremely knowledgeable about the Bible yet, so feel free to correct me), but the principal stands, considering so many people can't even hug someone of the same gender without being called 'gay'.

Most Christians are big on the idea that 'we are all brothers and sisters/family in Christ!'. And you know what? I agree.

And it is because I agree that I say we should stop treating each other like strangers and potential wives or husbands, and start treating each other, first and foremost, as siblings. 

Give each other a hug without worrying about what people will think (unless, of course, the person you are thinking of hugging doesn't like hugs; then show respect, as you would to a sibling). Don't be afraid to hold hands with your best friend, whether they're of the opposite gender or not. Hold someone who is crying, whether they're the same gender or not. Comfort each other with hugs when you're sad or hurting or crying because you have to say goodbye to your friends.

Thank you to Sarah Millz for taking this photograph, and to those involved for allowing me to use it!

Just don't be afraid to hug someone because you 'might develop romantic feelings for them'. The world won't end if you do; unless you have no confidence in your ability to handle such things in a mature, kind, and gentlemanly/ladylike way. And if you're afraid of the fact that 'loving someone like that is dangerous and it hurts'... well... all relationships cause pain. Families cause pain, friends cause pain, significant others cause pain.

Love hurts. It wouldn't be true love - Biblical love - if it didn't hurt. If it was completely painless, where would the preciousness in it be? It would not be as special, because there would be no effort needed. No risk. It would show you only care about a person as long as it doesn't hurt you. You don't care enough about them to love them no matter what. Just a thought.

I think that's all for this post. Keep an eye out for the next post in this series - Words of Affirmation.

God bless,

Theodora Ashcraft

A Confession

I want to say something before I continue—certain readers, especially those of you who are younger, might do well to proceed with caution. I don’t go into explicit detail about anything, but the following subjects might not be something some people should be reading. If something said starts to make you uncomfortable, definitely stop reading if that is what you think you must do.

~~

It was a fairly ordinary day when it started. I think I had recently turned thirteen. I was browsing YouTube. It started out as an innocent search for something-or-other (I no longer remember what), but the videos in the sidebar, the ones I continued to click on, began to get considerably less innocent.

I kept going. Something was pulling at me; and while a part of me knew that my mom would be very upset if she saw me, another part of me… wanted to keep going. And I did.

At first, it was just YouTube clips and videos. But then it progressed to other websites.  I began actively searching things out, sneaking onto the computer late at night when I wasn’t supposed to, simply so I could proceed with my dealings in secret.

Well, there’s the premise. Here’s the main point of this blog post in one simple statement:

I was, and still am (though to a lesser extent), a porn addict. Another lust-based addiction developed some time after that addiction began.

Those of you who are squeamish probably want to stop reading here. As I said, I don’t go into explicit detail, but I do go into the very basics. 

I regret to inform you that this isn’t a blog article with a happy ending—not yet. I’m still struggling, and I’m still giving in. I haven’t found healing or redemption yet.

That’s not what the point of this blog article is. The point is to confess, because this has been festering inside my mind for nearly four long years. Judge me if you will; and I’m sure some people are going to drop contact with me. But this needs to be put out there, if only because a select few that I can think of deserve to know the truth.

I didn’t tell anyone for two and a half years. The WiFi I used (sneaking onto the neighbour’s) stopped working after about six months, and since the only other internet access was in sight of others during the day, my little secret stopped.

So I had two reasons for not telling anyone—one, I had ‘stopped’ and I wouldn’t ever do it again (or so my childish mind told me), and two… porn addiction was a guy thing. After all, society said so, right? If only guys had this problem, what might happen if I, a girl, were to admit I had the same problem? I thought I must be the only girl in the world like this; something was seriously wrong with me, it had to be!

Well… I did do it again. It started, I believe (I’m not totally certain), right after one of my favourite singers and a friend of mine, George Donaldson, passed away.

You all heard about that somehow, I’m sure (most of you probably heard of it from me). Call me stupid, but the death of that man broke me beyond imagining. My entire life twisted upside-down along with my shattered heart—I became furious with God, and basically defied Him, turned away from Him.

And, I suppose, my subconscious turned back to my poison for solace—porn.

A vicious circle was put into motion. I would spend a few days indulging in my particular poison, and then I would sink into guilt. I would go a short while without looking at any inappropriate images or videos… and then it would start up all over again.

Around this time, another lust-based addiction surfaced. I hate the word, so I won’t use it—but basically, this was an addiction to self-stimulation, because it felt good. Yes, I know. I think it’s disgusting too, but I still do it. It’s a fight to stop at this point.

About a month after George’s death, the guilt and pain got to the point I started to do something I never thought I’d do—cutting.

I never went and I have not gone too deep—my knives are too dull for that. But I have gone deep enough and drawn enough blood to leave scars. I now spend most days, even the hot ones, wearing hoodies or long-sleeved shirts to hide my arms.

Well, at some point—I don’t remember exactly when; the last few months are a bit of a blur—I joined what is essentially an online dating site.

Most, if not all, of you know what roleplaying is; those actions written within asterisks, *like so*. The things I roleplayed while on that dating site started off small, but ended up too hideous for me to put here. The one good thing that came from that is that the guilt and shame I felt after the last roleplay session was so strong, I—with my mentor and my adoptive mama urging me to—left that site.

The viewing of inappropriate content continued, though.

Anyway… I’ve stopped looking at online content. For now. The other addiction of self-gratification continues. Am I trying to stop? Well… I’m trying to avoid the online content altogether. The other addictions (the one I mentioned above, as well as self-harm) will come later. One step at a time.

In case anyone is wondering, no, I haven’t turned back to God yet. I’m confused, and still angry with Him, for various reasons. I’ve tried to go back to Him, I really have—I just can’t yet, I guess.

So… that’s the real me. Or, rather, one aspect of me I hide behind my daily mask. I’m an often-suicidal porn addict with various mental disorders, people. That’s the only way to put it. And I’m the last person most people would have expected to turn out this way. A lot of people call me things like ‘innocent’ or ‘sweet’, or tell me they see the light of Christ in me, or that they’re proud of me.

When I hear that, I want to scream or cry or hurt myself or something. Because nothing is further from the truth. Nothing. Then again, it’s what I wanted people to believe—the mask I wanted them to see as real.

Why did I write this? Because I needed to confess (I’m just now deciding to tell my mom, for goodness’ sake), and besides that, a few people I know who will read this—especially new friends, and old ones who have known me for a long time—deserve to know the truth. And now they do. I’m just… well, like I said above. Just an often-suicidal porn addict with various mental disorders.

I won’t fault anyone if they drop contact with me, so if you feel the need to, or your parents tell you to, then do so. I won’t get upset; I completely understand. And those of you who decide to stay in contact… I will never understand you people, but I can’t say that I’m disappointed that you did decide to stay.

Until next time,

Theodora Ashcraft

Goodbye To a Gentle Giant - Reminiscing (Part 1)

This is a series (probably just two parts, but it may end up as more) I'm writing solely to try to give myself a sense of closure over losing one of my favourite singers and a person I considered a friend.

George Donaldson - a gentle giant, Scottish singer, father, brother, and son - passed away March 12th. This post is me reminiscing about how I came to know of Celtic Thunder, and, through them, George. You don't have to read it, but I'm putting it up anyway for the few people I know would want to read it.

~*~*~*~*~

I first came across Celtic Thunder (and consequently, George Donaldson) in either late 2011 or early 2012. Up to date, 2012 was the hardest year of my life. I was looking for some Irish music in the CDs at the library, and I happened across a CD called, "Celtic Thunder: Act II". I looked at the front and saw several men on a stage, wearing kilts. I thought it looked interesting, so I took it home.

I was immediately hooked. The wide array of music captured my heart; all sorts of genres of music were meshed together. As I listened to more and more of the Celtic Thunder CDs, I found more and more genres - hymns were sang, original songs written by the singers, rock 'n' roll, pop, old ballads, country music, and, of course, traditional Irish music. And best of all, most - if not all - of the songs were clean.

In 2012, I had turned away from God. As a result, the only things keeping me from giving up on life were my friends... and Celtic Thunder.

Yes, I had other music, but it was full of depressing things, some of the songs had cursing in them... basically, most of what I listened to was horrid. But not Celtic Thunder. They sang songs that taught me determination ("Ireland's Call"), taught me about history ("Christmas 1915"), taught me about the love of fathers and children ("The Old Man" and "My Boy")... taught me a lot of things. And it kept me going.

Okay, skip ahead. In 2013, I met my mentor (though he wasn't my mentor right off, obviously) and new friends that were godly Christians, and I found my way back to God through them. But Celtic Thunder remained and remains a huge part of my life.

I love all of the members, past and present, for different reasons. When I first found the band, I probably talked more about the younger men of the group, obviously... I was a silly teenage girl with her priorities in a mess.

But George Donaldson always had a special place in my heart. He was the kindhearted one... the wise one... the fatherly one.

I don't have a good relationship with my own dad. So I tried to fill the dad-shaped space in my heart with other people; George was one of them. Listening to his interviews and watching him sing made me feel like he'd be a wonderful dad.

As I said, though, in 2013 I met several older, godly men, my mentor included. Now that I had father figures to look up to in my life, I no longer needed to cling to my daydreams of what it would be like to have George as my dad. But I still looked up to him; his generosity and kindness was inspiring.

In November of 2013, I was blessed enough to go on the Celtic Thunder Cruise. I never expected to get to know any of the band members... but to my joy, I met George not once, but three times. I talked to him a little more each time.

When I asked him for a photograph with me, he readily agreed. I was shaking; I had had a rough night before, and was homesick and anxious. George noticed. He has his arm around my shoulder in a side-hug, and when he felt me trembling, he tightened his hug reassuringly, smiling that smile of his - a warmhearted, sunshiney smile.

I thanked him, and left. I met him again later on, outside of a lounge. I said hello, and he started a conversation. We were headed the same way, and instead of trying to get away from me, a random fan, George walked with me and continued talking for a short while before we had to part ways.

Finding out about his death felt like a physical punch in the gut, and I'm still kind of in denial about it. The funeral services were held today, about a week after George passed away. I had gotten to know him through social networking and on the Cruise, and I felt like I had just had a friend taken away from me.

In a way, I have. He was one of the people who kept me going in 2012, and he was the one I looked up to as a father figure for so long. He was the one who helped me relax on the Cruise and feel less homesick.

I miss him so much more than words can say; I'm heartbroken, and I know that not many can understand why. You don't have to; just understand that I am.

This blog is actually sort of named after him - once, he was talking about something called 'Of Songs and Stories'. I loved the phrase, and used it as the name of my blog; 'of songs and stories' in Irish Gaelic.

George was a man with a huge heart, and that showed in everything he did and said. He is known among the Celtic Thunder fans as 'the gentle giant'; a big man who would have been intimidating, if not for his warm smile and gentle nature. He invested time in all of his fans, and when he was with his family, he spent every moment with them. His daughter Sarah was 'the light of his life'.

From my experiences, and from stories I've heard from others who have met and known George, he was a caring man. He was always smiling, and never passed up the chance to give people a hug and chat with them. And as he comforted me when he noticed I was shaking, there are several others who have had the same experience - they've been anxious or panicky about something, and George would comfort them until they were calmer, no matter what was going on or where he was. He was always gentle, humble, and considerate.

I hope someday to see him again. Until then, I won't ever forget him. And if you're reading this... remember to spend time with your loved ones and let them know you love them. You never know when God will take them Home... you never know whether you'll have the chance to say goodbye.

"He was with his family one night...
Times of love and laughter and light.
Heaven needed a new angel that day,
God called the gentle giant Home, and now he's gone away.

His heart was full of love
And no more could it hold
His heart took the wings of a dove
And flew Home to the streets of gold..."

God bless, all.

~ Theodora 

The 'Road To Reality' Challenge

I’m back again, doing another challenge put forth by God's Country Boy  This one is called ‘The Road To Reality’. You can find more information at that post I just linked you to; that’s your best bet, really, because I’m no good at explaining it.

(And in case anyone is wondering, yes, that is me behind the bandanna and the camo.)

…beginnings. Can’t live with them and can’t live without them… give me a few minutes to stare at this laptop screen o’ mine and figure out how to start this.

In retrospect, this post is kind of rambling, and probably a bit confusing. My apologies. I'll try and smooth it out as best I can.

~

The farthest back I can remember… I don’t quite know how old I was, but as long as I can remember, I loved animals. My favorite books and movies were the ones in which the animals could talk—The Lion King and Balto movie franchises were pretty much my life for years. The first things I read were Calvin and Hobbes comics from my library, because I loved the fact that Hobbes was a talking stuffed tiger. My everyday activities had to do with animals. I collected stuffed animals and named them things like Mufasa, Kovu, and Balto. My mom would put together animal puzzles and nail them onto my bedroom wall…

Behold, the two animated animals that were my life for years.

But looking back, there was one aspect of my animal obsession that continued to carry on throughout my life, and still does.

When I was young, I didn’t just obsess over animals (I admit, I was rather proud when, at the age of six, I knew what an okapi was at San Diego Zoo but no one else did…)—I also pretended to be animals.

Yes, yes, I know, most kids do that. But I did it excessively. For almost three years, I would randomly just throw back my head and howl like a wolf. For three years, my mom would be cooking or reading to my little brother, and then all of a sudden she’d hear a random howl coming from the other end of the house.

It drove her bonkers, needless to say. Not to mention it scared people.

But then, fortunately for all of them, I stopped randomly howling. Of course, this meant I took up hissing like a cat instead, but that was a little more bearable. Except when I’d hiss at my mom when she gave me an order I didn’t like (such as ‘stop watching TV’)—that didn’t go down so well.

I’d spend hours roaming the house on all fours, imitating the gait of the lions I saw in National Geographic videos. My favorite television show (if it could be called that) was Really Wild Animals—starring an animated Earth named Spin.

That spinning globe is my childhood incarnate, practically.

What I’m trying to get at with all of this, is—even back then, I wanted to be something I wasn’t.

It wasn’t just a silly child’s mentality. That may have been part of it, but not all of it—I was unhappy with myself, even then, even though it was subconsciously. I didn’t want to be Teddy. I wanted to be Simba, or Balto. I wanted to go on adventures and talk with animals. I wanted to wander vast forests and trek through frozen wastelands. I wasn’t happy with where I was, what I was doing, or who I was—it just seemed so much more exciting to be a wolf or a cat.

That’s not all. Remember in the last post, I said I am and was always scared? Well, besides crying in my mom’s arms, there was only one thing I could do back then to cope.

I would talk to my stuffed animals. And they talked back, at least for me. I spent hours, late into the night, conversing with my stuffed animals and telling them stories.

This wasn’t a childish fantasy, not entirely. I was borderline obsessive. If anyone told me my stuffed animals were fake, I would literally fly off the handle and start screaming at them that they were lying. If my brother went anywhere near my room, I had to watch to make sure he didn’t touch my animals. And if he did (and he often did; he liked to throw all of my stuffed animals down the stairs to upset me), I would tackle him. Literally. We’d wrestle and kick and generally just scuffle until Mom broke us apart (and there you see my irrational temper pop up).

I actually believed these animals were real. Mind you, this wasn’t just me at five. It was me at six, and seven, and eight, and nine, and ten—all the way until I was twelve. And I think you’ll all agree that twelve-year-olds know that stuffed animals don’t talk and they’re not real.

Well. I didn’t. I lived in a world of my own, a dreamworld where animals could talk, where they could understand me, and at night I could go across the railroad tracks and visit other worlds through a portal.

At around this time, I discovered something wonderful—writing.

I learned how to use a pen and paper, and suddenly, I had a way to let my wild imagination free—in the form of writing fiction stories.

This didn’t help me get out of my dreamworld. If anything, it made it worse. But it was fun, and it only became more of a part of me as time went on. By the time I was ten, I had written my first completed story—an Indiana Jones fanfiction for the 2008 NaNoWriMo.

I kept writing, and writing. By the time I was twelve, I knew for sure I wanted to be a writer.

However, though my writing could be considered a ‘good thing’, my bad thing—an unhappiness with who I was—only got worse as time progressed. When I was ten, my mom let me and my brother watch The Frisco Kid, a Western movie with Harrison Ford in it.

Ten year old Teddy was positively captivated and put up quite a fight when she had to go to bed, even though she got to finish the movie the next night.

But the shoot-outs and the horseback riding and the careless, sarcastic attitude of Tommy (Harrison Ford’s cowboy character) had me completely enthralled.

Out of curiosity, I asked my mom the name of the actor who had played the cowboy. She told me. When I told the neighbor boy (who had just moved in and loved cowboys and stuff) who the actor was, he exclaimed that that was the same actor who played in both Indiana Jones and Star Wars.

Well, that did it. He had been telling me I needed to see those movies for forever, and now I begged my mom to let me. She gave in to Star Wars quite easily.

After seeing those movies, I fell into another dreamworld of sorts. I was, as one might expect, obsessed with Han Solo. For a good year, I was Han Solo. I had an imaginary Wookiee who followed me around my house, and I would bound up and down the stairs shooting down imaginary Stormtroopers with my blaster.

Unfortunately, these movies were not teaching me how to respect my parents. As a result of wishing I was Han Solo, I also got cocky. I strutted around, being sarcastic and giving my parents a pretty bad attitude.

I didn’t mean to be a bad kid. I just thought, “Well, Han Solo is so cool, and he has all these fun adventures; I wanna be like him!” And I was like him, but that doesn’t make him or me a good person.

I also had lightsaber duels with my brother, but that was just because I liked to swordfight. I was a Han Solo kid; not a Jedi kid.

I think my life really turned upside down when I watched the Indiana Jones movies though.

(Bear with me here; I’m getting to the point, I promise.)

My mom, when the fourth movie was about to come out in theatres, relented and bought the three-movie set from the store so that I could watch it. She previewed it first, checked for ‘bad stuff’, and sat with me so she could fastforward the aforementioned bad stuff.

I was hooked.

From then until I was fourteen, I was obsessed with Indiana Jones. This was when I became completely unhappy with who I was (not that I was my own person to begin with, what with all the wishing I was Han Solo or a wolf).

At first, it was small. I bought things from the thrift store to make myself an Indiana Jones costume (complete with a fedora I bought off eBay), at first, and I’d go out in my backyard and pretend I was fighting Nazis for hours.

But then I started to refuse to wear anything feminine. I put up a huge fight whenever Mom tried to get me to wear a dress or a skirt. It progressed to the point where I refused to wear anything except jeans and boys’ shirts.

Then when I was about eleven, after much begging and whining, Mom agreed to let me cut my hair short. As in, crew cut short. Indiana Jones short.

Me and my brother; me as Indy and my brother as Neo from the Matrix movies.

By this time, it was clear to her (and later on to me) that I was very unhappy with being ‘me’. I wanted to be someone else. I wanted to be a boy for quite a long time, actually. Because I wanted adventure, and in the movies, the guys were the ones who got to go on all the adventures.

This thirst for adventure and excitement… it got me into trouble.

I would mouth off and taunt the older kids who walked alongside the railroad tracks during the summer. And you wanna know what they did when I taunted them? They threw rocks and shot BB guns.

Instead of being scared, I was completely oblivious to the fact I could get hurt (I was still scared, but about all of the wrong things—ghosts and goblins—not the fact I could get myself killed razzing teenagers).

I remember the first time it happened. These teenagers started throwing rocks in my direction when I was out playing with the neighbor kids and my brother. I was wearing—what else?—my Indiana Jones costume.

Instead of running for the house, I sensed a chance for ‘adventure’ (also known as, ‘stupidity’), and ran straight towards these teenagers. I hid behind a log where the rocks couldn’t get me. They bounced off the log right above my head but didn’t hit.

When the teenagers paused, I popped up and just gave them this cocky grin. They saw my fedora and khaki shirt, and one incredulously burst out, “Who do you think you are, Indiana Jones?”

This made me so insanely happy, it’s not even funny. I was absolutely thrilled; I thought I was finally getting somewhere (don’t ask why, I can’t remember why). My response? A very enthusiastic, “Yes!”

They kept throwing rocks. My friend from next door, Matt, came running down and hid with me behind the log, exclaiming, “What are you doing?!”

I didn’t even have any regard for his safety. I just sat there behind the log, grinning like an idiot.

Eventually, my dog went and saved the day. Nobody’s going to stick around for long with a German Shepherd running at them—even if the German Shepherd just wants to play.

It didn’t end here.

My obsession with adventure kept me getting into trouble long after I was ten and eleven. I got shot at several times by teenagers on the railroad tracks. Rocks thrown at me more times than I can count. One time, I ran down to the tracks to meet these teenagers who had been throwing stuff at me—me and my trusty wooden staff, which I actually had no idea how to use but was planning on fighting with anyway.

These teenage boys were extremely close to beating the tar out of me. I was saved by my brother, who came running down with a walkie-talkie, through which my mom was screaming bloody murder, horrified that I was in trouble. I was embarrassed, and arrogantly told the teenage boys, “This isn’t over!” before going into the house and getting a sound thrashing from my mom.

Oh, and there was the time I instigated a fight of sorts with a twenty-one-year-old guy at the park. That was a pretty stupid thing to do. He was throwing pinecones at my brother’s friend. So I started ‘threateningly’ towards this adult guy with my wooden katana (sword). The guy took my challenge. Me, my brother, and my brother’s friend all tried to overpower the guy who had hold of my arm and probably would have thrown me in the lake if my brother hadn’t been kicking him. My Tae Kwon Do classes were apparently doing nothing for my self-defense skills. (In the end, my mom had to save the day by shouting at us to knock it off, and that we were leaving the park.)

So yes—I wanted adventure, and I was willing to pull any manner of stupid stunts or get into any sort of trouble to get it.

And yes, there were Tae Kwon Do classes. We needed to do 'P.E' for school, so my mom enrolled us in a Tae Kwon Do class.

I had a lot of fun there; I may not have learned any good self-defense mechanisms, or if I did, they won't be helpful. I met a few people who I thought were friends and they weren't, long story short.

One thing I did learn though was the concept of respect. Our instructors (we had two; one taught on Monday, and the other on Wednesday), Master Kim and Instructor Morgan, required specific gestures of respect. We were to address them as 'sir' at all times, and we were to bow entering and exiting the building, as well as at the end of all sparring matches.

The whole 'sir' thing might not seem like a new concept to some of you, but to me and my brother it was. We were used to addressing everyone by their first names; my mom never really taught us to use 'sir' and 'ma'am'. After we left Tae Kwon Do, though, the addressing of adults as 'sir' and 'ma'am' stuck with me, and I attempt to remember to use those terms as required.

After I turned about thirteen, I mellowed out a bit. Part of this was because my mom stopped taking me places as often, because school made us busier. Part of it was also because the recklessness I felt started to fade away as I realized something—I loved life, and if I wasn’t careful, I could lose it very easily.

Right after I turned thirteen, something else happened. My mom found this swordfighting group called the Youth Rangers of Gondor, and took me there.

Me, my brother, and a few friends at a Youth Rangers of Gondor meeting.

I think it helped curb my obsession with dressing up in costume and imitating movie characters quite a bit. Once a week (or once every few weeks usually, depending on how often my mom was able to drive me there), I would get to dress up in costume, pick up a sword (made of rather tough foam though, so it wouldn't actually hurt anyone; same with all the other swords), and head off to a wooded area of the park near a lake and swordfight other people.

For several years, the meetings of the Youth Rangers of Gondor was one of the main things I looked forward to. I met several friends there, all of whom have mostly moved on, except for one.

The Youth Rangers of Gondor taught me a few things. The one thing that stood out the most was that, at those meetings... I wasn't afraid to be myself, or to be as silly and dramatic as I wanted to be. That's what the meetings were for. For children and teenagers to roleplay as knights or ninja. I didn't need to be afraid of being judged, because everyone else there was just as crazy as me. In fact, I made a lot of people laugh many times because I wasn't afraid to do crazy stuff.

Well, at this point I still had the trouble of trying to pretend I was someone I wasn't. It was mostly mannerisms now; there was one television show character who used to cross his arms and raise both eyebrows in a sort of careless way. I subconsciously imitated that, until my mom put a stop to it.

Anyway. This is where all of that stuff about me wishing I was someone I'm not ends. I mean, it was still there, but there's not much to say about it.

I became obsessed with pirates at around this time. So I changed from being Murtagh at the Youth Rangers meetings to being Captain Jack (a spin-off of both Jack Sparrow, and my own novel character Jack Renegade).

Me dressed up as Jack Renegade from my novella-thing, "Sangre: The Phantom's Lair"

As a result of this, I wrote a... I don't know if it was a novella or a novel, but it was something or other... about pirates. It was the first thing I had actually finished since 2009's Indiana Jones fanfiction. I was very happy with it, and took advantage of NaNoWriMo's CreateSpace offer to self-publish it.

I was very happy about that then. Now I look back and wonder how I could have inflicted a writing so horrible onto Amazon. And I mean that jokingly; kind of. It definitely could use a lot of work, I realize now, though.

Anyway, that, on the plus side, made me write more often. I participated in several NaNoWriMo competitions after that. The Camp NaNo in 2011 (in which I wrote the first book of a fantasy trilogy that ended up having to be completely redone), the NaNoWriMo in 2011, and the NaNoWriMo in 2012. I finished books for the first two; I didn't quite manage to finish anything in 2012.

After I turned fourteen, I became painfully aware that the world is a much darker place than I had originally thought.

I met some people on the YWP side of the NaNoWriMo site. I made some friends; good friends, I thought at the time. I was wrong, but we'll go into that later.

There was... in a very short summary... lots of drama last year. That's the short version. What really changed my view on things was the fact that one of my friends struggled with self-harm and thoughts of suicide.

Now, at the time, I thought two of my friends did. As it turns out, the other friend was lying to me.

Anyway, this was my first real knowledge of the concept of suicide. I had heard the word before, and I knew what it meant - I had never really thought seriously about it though. I thought it was a rare occurrence, like wars or natural disasters (which I know realize aren't exactly that rare anyway). I think my mom wanted it to stay that way, in an attempt to protect me.

I cried a lot last year. My anxiety became much worse, as a terrifying realization came to me - these friends of mine lived very far away, and if they were going to hurt themselves, or something happened to them... I wouldn't be able to help, and I might never even find out what had happened.

So that anxiety was always eating away at the back of my mind, like some sort of insect. I spent many nights lying awake worrying.

Something good happened last year though. It came about by typical teenage dramatic circumstances, but that didn't mean it wasn't good.

I finally stopped trying to pretend I was a boy. I finally allowed my mom to make me dress up in more feminine clothes and I started to let my hair grow out long. If my comment about teenage drama in the previous paragraph didn't clue you in, this sudden change was because of a crush. Which I'm not going into, because it's not important and it'd bore people to tears anyway.

Anyway, that was probably the one good thing that came of all the insanity last year.

I was changed last year. I became more pessimistic, more anxious... and I learned a hard lesson, one that taught me not to trust people so easily and freely.

One of my friends had been lying to me for several months last year about anything and everything. She wasn't really a friend at all; not a good one. Our relationship was nothing but harmful to me. But I refused to believe the people who told me to cut off the friendship.

I always have and probably always will stand up for my friends when others speak bad about them; in this case, I was simply standing up for the wrong person, and believing that she was telling the truth.

Anyway, I didn't get any sense knocked into me until about August of that year. I don't think I would have stopped talking to her even then, because I'm not strong enough for that - but I didn't seem to have a choice, as she stopped talking to me herself. I still don't know why, and it bothered me then, but now I'm just glad.

So, that left me with the other two friends, whom I was certain were actual friends. As it turns out, only one of them was willing to stick by my side. She and I still talk.

Anyway, by September, I'd lost yet another friend. He left because I apparently made his depression worse. I understand that, but what hurt the most was that he couldn't tell me himself. He told my other friend, and she told me. And then he cut off contact with her as well.

So we both helped each other (and are technically still helping each other) get over losing one of our best friends in that way.

But after that... I was afraid to trust. I still am. Whereas I used to trust so freely, I know have a hard time trusting. Sure, I love all of my friends; but sometimes, I can't help but fret and worry about whether they're being honest, or whether they're going to just up and leave.

That's the interesting thing about this lesson on trust I learned. I still trust very easily; I become friends with someone mere hours after meeting them. It's after I have known them for a few days that the trust issue begins to kick in, and I start to wonder and fret: what if I've made a mistake in becoming friends with this person? What if they're not who they say they are? What if they end up leaving too?

Sad to say, that worrying never completely goes away. Every friend I have... I still worry about the trust I've placed in them. For people like my brother, this wouldn't be a problem. But for me, it is. I came up with a reason that I think is valid for that.

Each person I become friends with... I entrust a little piece of my heart to them, and there's a special place in my heart for each of my friends and family members where I mentally and emotionally keep them.

So, the fear of being betrayed, or of losing them... part of it is because I don't want to lose them, yes. But another part of it is that I know all too well that if I do lose them, whether because they leave or because they were taken from me, it would hurt more than I can fathom.

Anyway... not much else has happened worth noting since then.

How have those things made me who I am now?

I'm not sure. I'm still the insecure kid who somehow manages to long for adventure and excitement, and yet, at the same time, is terrified of change. I'm the same. I'm still the five-year-old who wanted to be a wolf; I'm still the ten-year-old who obsessed over Indiana Jones; I'm still the reckless twelve-year-old who didn't know when to stop; and I'm still the fourteen-year-old who realized how dark the world was and spent hours a night crying.

I've changed, and yet, somehow, I haven't.

All of those things are still lurking somewhere inside me. I still feel that way sometimes. Sometimes I still wish I was a wolf. Sometimes I still do reckless things. And sometimes, I still spend hours a night crying, even though things aren't as crazy as they were when I was fourteen.

Things are still happening, and I'll continue changing, but the younger versions of me will always still be here.

And yet, I've learned a lot about myself and the world around me.

I've learned I can make a difference, even if it doesn't seem like it. Sometimes all it takes is a kind word to keep a friend from going over the edge.

I've learned that even though I can feel devastatingly lonely sometimes, I'm never truly alone.

I've learned that, somewhere inside, the little girl who wishes she was someone else and pretends to be something she's not is still there. She still comes out sometimes, as much as I try to keep her locked away. I still pretend to be someone I'm not.

I've learned that I'm stronger than I give myself credit for.

I've learned that the world is a dark place, and it's not going to change right away. But, to quote Samwise Gamgee, "There is still some good in this world... and it's worth fighting for."

And I've learned and am still learning that I have to surrender all to Jesus. I can't get through any of this on my own; only with His help. He can get me through it. Sometimes it's hard to believe that He's there with you every step of the way. But He is, and He always will be.

God bless.

~Theodora

The 'Real Me' Challenge

 Right, so... this post is part of a challenge that I learned of from my friend BushMaid. She learned of it in turn from God's Country Boy.

Let me tell you, I don't think the word 'challenge' has ever been more clear to me than it is at this present moment. I've written and rewritten this post dozens of times inside my head, afraid of the words and afraid of what might happen.

Well, I'm going to get this down in Microsoft Office Word and then hopefully put it up on my blog. And not delete it five minutes afterwards.

Goodness. How to start...

"What else is there to say? I’m devastated. All I want to do is crawl into a corner and sob my eyes out. I had to draw hearts and butterflies on my arms and wrists to keep from doing something magnificently stupid."
- an excerpt from a journal entry dated February 28th, 2012

"Besides that, I’m scared all the time. I flinch in the grocery store every time a man walks past me, because I have an automatic alarm bell go off in my brain that says, “WATCH OUT! HE MIGHT STAB YOU!” How stupid is that? I mean, honestly."
- an excerpt from a journal entry dated July 8th, 2012

"I don’t know how it would happen. My stupid imagination is coming up with scenarios now. They could get into an accident of some sort. I imagine I wouldn’t find out about it until several weeks afterwards, since all of my friends live so far away...
Oh, gosh… I don’t know what I’d feel or think. I’d probably blame myself, and the terrible thing is… it really would be my fault. I don’t… goodness. I would be an absolute mess if something like that happened, all because I was foolish enough to let myself put too much store in earthly things and people."
- an excerpt from a journal entry dated May 20th, 2013

Those three excerpts sum up who I am fairly accurately. I much rather wouldn't have shared them, because... I'm afraid. Clearly. I don't want people to know this stuff about me.

In a nutshell, what those three excerpts say is that I've wanted to harm myself before, to give up (drawing butterflies on your wrists and naming them after loved ones is a way of trying to stop yourself, for those who don't understand); I'm always scared; I'm always belittling myself, calling myself stupid among other things... the last excerpt can mean a myriad of things, really. I blame myself for pretty much everything, my imagination likes to come up with scenarios that send me into panic attacks...

I've wanted to give up before. 2012 was a painful year for a lot of people, myself included. I found myself at points where I couldn't find a meaning in life, and my brain was constantly coming up with ways to end it.

My poetry was and always has been the best indication of this. For instance, the titles of some of the poems I wrote in 2012 were as follows: Simply Suicide; I Want To Forget; The Blade; Kamikaze; These Shadows Inside... the list goes on and on.

Actually, there was one poem that scared countless people. I Just Wanted To Say That I'm Leaving Today. I wrote it... I think it was June of 2012.

That... was not a poem in the general sense of the word. It was a goodbye note to a forum I was on at the time. I posted it into the poetry thread. I wasn't thinking straight. I just wanted to give up, and I didn't want to leave them wondering what had happened, so I wrote that and posted it.

If it sounds twisted and messed-up, that's because it was. I know that now. Of course, at that time, I wasn't being logical.

Fortunately, something - or someone - stopped me. I didn't hurt myself or do anything of the sort. I spent the next few weeks feeling guilty, because I had had the entire forum I posted that poem on in a panic. I got on the next day and found a flooded inbox and people panicking in threads.

And that brings to mind another problem of mine. I don't believe people very easily, at least not when they say or do something good.

So when this happened, instead of realizing that their being scared meant they cared about me, I just felt guilty for the longest time. It took me forever to realize that they had been scared because they cared. It's like none of it registered.

The same thing happens over and over again when people compliment me. It never used to happen much, but now it happens a lot. And about 85% of the time, I don't believe the compliments. A little voice in the back of my mind tells me that they're just trying to be nice, or some other such thing like that. Then there's an annoying voice in my head that keeps going on a rampage, often sounding a bit like this:

                                

I put myself down so often, I sometimes only believe the bad things people say. Even when it's just my brother teasing me.

But yeah, I get depressed. It was worse in 2012. 2013 has been a slightly better year, and I've improved a whole lot, but it still sometimes gets to the point where I don't know what I'm even doing here, why I'm alive.

I haven't been at the point where I want to give up this year. I have planned out ideas of how I could die though, how I could just end the pain I was feeling. And once... I think in February or March... I took a pocketknife from my bookshelf, and I put the sharp edge to my wrist.

I didn't do it. And I thank God for it. If I had done that, I may not have been able to turn back. It would have become an addiction, and then... I don't know what might have happened.

I've hurt myself in other ways though. Fortunately they're not as addicting. I've often 'literally headdesked'; beating my head against a wall or some other such surface. Or I've punched hard surfaces. I've held cups of hot tea in my hands and consequently burned myself. I've grown my fingernails out long and dug them into my palms or the back of my neck.

I'm not proud of that fact. I don't see why anyone would be. And I honestly don't know what else to say on the matter.

I’m always afraid. Fear has been my constant companion since I was born. Just ask my mom.

By the time I was old enough to read, I would often—sometimes on purpose, other times on accident—pick up a book, read it, and then be terrified for weeks on end because it had happened to be a ghost story or a story with monsters in it. When I was about seven, I read a few books from the… I think it’s called the Goosebumps series.

And it freaked me out for a good year and a half. I had insisted my mom buy these books, I read them, and then locked them in the pantry afterwards because I was afraid the monsters would come out of the books and kill me. That wasn’t even good enough, and I insisted my mom take me back to the store so we could return the books. And to top it off, I stuffed the books in a basket at the store and put a box on top of it so the monsters couldn’t break out and somehow find their way back to my house to kill me; a good fifteen or more miles away.

And that didn’t make me learn either. I then soon after read a ghost book and spent several weeks refusing to go to bed; I’d be crying and clinging to my mom’s arm, begging her not to make me go to bed because I was afraid of ghosts. Don’t ask me why I was reading this kinds of stuff when I was seven; I was a curious kid, I guess, and the library was my second home.

See what I mean, though? And I’m still terrified of a lot of things just as silly as a few horror books. I can't stop worrying, I can't relax.

I’m afraid of random people killing me in the grocery store. I’m afraid of people I care about dying. I’m afraid of the dark. I’m still afraid of monsters and ghosts. I’m afraid of needles (and before you say everyone is, yeah, I know, but are you a teenager that sits in the doctor’s office crying, and then bolt out of the room as soon as the nurse finishes with the needle?). I’m afraid of my friends killing themselves, even if they’re the kind of person who would never, ever do such a thing. I’m afraid of friends betraying me or walking out on me. I’m afraid of what people think of me.

The list goes on. I could write an entire book on what I’m afraid of and still have yet more to write about.

I had someone ask me once: “Why do you think you’re so afraid all of the time?”

I haven’t the slightest idea. Why am I afraid? I just don’t know. I’d like to know, but for the moment, I’m in the dark about it.

All those are fears that keep me up at night. I lose sleep over them, from the greatest one to the most trivial one. My mom gives me herbal remedies that help for a while, but then I’m back to panicking at night when the shadows grow deeper or crying because I’m terrified of what the future might bring.

I deal with self-blame. I blame myself for things that could in no way be my fault. If a friend is upset, I blame myself. If someone is crying, I blame myself. If someone isn’t getting enough sleep, I blame myself. Even when they tell me it’s not my fault, I still think it is.

I blamed myself for my dog’s death. I blamed myself when one of our cats ate a lily and was poisoned by it. I blame myself for every little thing, because someone is to blame, but no one else deserves to be blamed, so let’s just pin all the blame on myself.

My mind likes to trick me into believing my friends are dead or will be soon. That kind of goes under fear. I go into panic attacks simply because my imagination is coming up with all of these horrific scenarios.

On top of those things, I’m lazy. I do a poor job of things because I don’t want to deal with hard work.

I have a temper. My mom is constantly telling me to ‘keep my Irish temper in check’. I can set off shouting at someone over what seems like nothing but is a huge deal to me at that present time. I say things to my family that I don’t mean, and regret it later. 

I cry a lot; usually when I'm alone and in my room, in the dark at night. When I do cry, it's because the hurt has just gotten to be too much, and I need to let it out somehow. Crying is the best alternative to anything else

                              

I curse sometimes, without thinking. I can be a complete jerk in real life. I’m sarcastic, and I have an attitude. I break the rules, a lot. Not by accident. I know what the rules are, and I break them anyway because I either don’t like them or don’t think they matter. I’m stubborn. And I’ve done a lot of really stupid and wrong things in my life. I don't like myself a lot of the time; this poem I wrote a while back slightly reflects that (don't read the poem if you don't want to, it's bad and I only put it here because it helps explain me better):

This Is Me

I felt it was time, now,

To finally let it be known to you

Who I really am.

So I wrote this poem

Now I brace for the storm

And allow the wind

To carry this message

To you.

I am the me

That is truthful in pictures and poetry

But deceitful in life.

Who is self-conscious

Who is always trying to be noticed.

Wanting to be pretty

Wanting to be thin

Stuck believing the lies of the world

And believing that they are truths.

I am the me

Who is frustrated and full of doubt.

Sometimes not knowing who to trust

Sometimes foolish enough to trust anyone

Who blames herself for everything

And believes everything is her fault

I am the me

Who hides her fears and tears

Behind a smile and a laugh

And says she's fine when she's not.

Sometimes full of hatred for the world

Sometimes full of so much sympathy it hurts

I am the me

Who can't bring herself to tell anyone to their face

How she's really feeling.

Who is afraid of everything

Afraid to care

Afraid to love.

I am the me

Who tries to hide

All of these scars.

Who is broken into a million pieces

And doesn't know whether

she will ever be able

To put herself

Back together

Again.

I often find myself wondering: would anyone love me if they really knew who I was? I ask the question, “How can God possibly forgive me?” more times than I can even try to count.

Though… then I found a blog post a few days ago on the subject of forgiveness. A very good point was made there – Paul was a murderer who went around killing innocent people. His whole life, heart, and soul was changed, and he became one of the greatest apostles.

If God could forgive someone like that, he can forgive and will forgive anyone. He has forgiven me, He has forgiven anyone who has ever done wrong. He always will. With Him, we can do anything. We can overcome any obstacle, any hardship, any temptation. We’ll stumble, we’ll fall, but we simply need to stand up again and strive to do right, even though we know we will fall again.

Heh… beginnings and ends. The hardest part of any writing I ever do. I didn’t know how to begin this, and I don’t know how to end it either. So I’ll leave this and post it, before I get scared yet again and delete the post:


Isaiah 1:18 KJV

King James Version

Come now , and let us reason together , saith the LORD: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.

God bless.

~ Theodora

Love Hurts

It's me again, sitting in my room late at night, unable to sleep. And so, I shall write up a blog post on the topic going through my head right now - love.

When I say 'love', I mean it in a general sense - love between mother and son, father and daughter, friends, siblings, spouses, whatever. I say this now because all too often, when people hear the word 'love', they think it only applies to husband and wife. That's not true.

What I'm primarily thinking at the moment, is how much love hurts. A lot of books and movies portray it as a beautiful feeling, all warm and glowing and pleasant. But that's really only one aspect. There is a more painful aspect of love - it's hard to put into words. We've all been at the point when we worried or were afraid for someone we love. Maybe you lost a loved one. Maybe someone you loved left you. Maybe someone you loved was in pain and you wanted to help but couldn't.

At those times, haven't we all wished with all our heart that there was no such thing as love? Wouldn't it be so much easier to be dead to the feeling, and not have to love someone who was hurting?

It would be easier. Lately, I've been wishing I did not feel love. When someone you care about wants to give up, throw the towel in, or hide in their room and cry, it hurts. You know the feeling - that moment when your heart seems to seize up, and it feels like some monster has your heart in its fist and is squeezing tighter. You feel like you want to cry, but you might not be able to, either because you are surrounded by people who might not understand, or you're just incapable of doing so. Even if you don't feel like that often, I'm sure you have at least once in your lifetime.

So, why does love hurt? And why do we put up with it? Why don't we just stop caring, and become an emotionless robot? It would hurt less.

We don't stop caring because we can't. It's physically impossible to be completely apathetic about everything and everyone.

God didn't create us to be emotionless. He gave us our emotions for a reason. We may not know what that reason is, but it is there, regardless of whether we understand it or not.

A very wise friend of mine once told me, "In some ways, I think it's a glimpse of what God feels towards us... a love that hurts and longs to help..."

Her words are very true. I never thought of it that way before, but once she said it, I started to realize that she was right. God continues to love us, no matter what we do, and He wants to help, but let's face it - a lot of the time, we just don't listen. It's hard for us to hear Him, and then follow through with his plans.

And He loves us anyway.

He hurts for us when we are hurting, in much the same way as we hurt for our friends and loved ones when they are hurting.

I think that my friend has the answer to that constant question: Why does love hurt? I believe that she has figured it out. Love hurts because it is a glimpse into how God feels about us. We might not know why God gave us that aspect, or what His purpose is for it. But we don't need to. We just need to learn to accept it.

Accepting it doesn't mean it will stop hurting. But it does mean that we will have a better understanding of why we feel this way.

I still wish it didn't hurt so much to love someone. And I still sometimes wish that I didn't have to love anyone. After all, not caring means you won't feel the pain and sorrow when your loved one leaves you.

But that's not the right way to think. Instead, think about this - how would your life have been different if you did not have that loved one in your life? Maybe you would have been in less pain... but your life would have been all the worse for it. Everyone you meet or speak to has some sort of gift or word of wisdom to give you, if you just open up and let them give it to you.

When all is said and done... when I think of my friends or family members who have left me, whether by death or by their own choice... when I begin to wish I had never met them, I remember the times I spent with them, talking and laughing and trusting... and I realize that even if they're gone now, I still have their memories. And I am a better person because of those memories.

So maybe the next time you begin to feel bitter that love is causing you pain, think about that. Instead of counting your woes because of the hard times your loved ones go through, count the blessings of the good times you have spent together. I think you'll find that the blessings outnumber the woes by far.