Being whole

“I have this dream of being whole. Of not going to sleep each night, wanting. But still sometimes, when the wind is warm or the crickets sing… I dream of a love that even time will lie down and be still for. I just want someone to love me. I want to be seen. I don’t know. Maybe I had my happiness.” – Practical Magic




The word doesn’t even begin to explain
The woman that she was,
The love that still remains.

She carried herself admirably so
With such pride and elegance
That her sparkle was sure to always show

Look at her and all you’d see
Was a beauty indescribable,
Her manner so natural and so free

We’ve lost one of our best
And no doubt we’re all better for knowing her
Now she can finally be at rest
An angel returning home, leaving a family completely blessed.

The beginning of the end

Flashback to the days before it got out of hand. Before complications, before responsibilities, before pressure, and before fitting in. Before love, before lust, before everything that got in that way of you, simply being you.

Can you even remember those days? Weren’t they quite . . . simple? Effortless? But doesn’t lack of effort too soon turn into lack of passion?

Which life would you really prefer? The simple worry-free life? Or the one that actually challenges the person you are today? The choice may be an easy one for some to make, but the choice is never actually handed to you, is it? We’ve all gotten ourselves into this mess we call life, so why not milk it for all its worth. I, for one, will turn all my mistakes into blessings one by one, slowly but surely, as painful as they may be.

Starting with one many years in the making, with most likely many years to come. It’s one every adolescent must face at one point or another, the one that usually leaves the most scars. The one that will, either for better or for worse, shape the habits of your social existence for the rest of your life.

And of course I’m talking about booze. Alcohol. The juice.

Aren’t the descriptions of alcohol and first loves too easily interchangeable? Shouldn’t that be a bad sign for our generation, of our society to come? Or perhaps it’s too late to worry about that.

For instance, aren’t we supposed to learn from our parent’s mistakes? Do as they say not as they do? Well I think I can quickly lay rest to that silly rumor.

My mother is a three-time champ of stomach pumps and two-time graduate of alcohol rehab. My father is an avid believer in all things in moderation who himself has survived ten years of heavy drinking (but isn’t that always how the story goes.) In fact, I’d be willing to bet money that my conception involved a three-way with booze. Two dysfunctional children and exactly no wedding bells later, the dynamic duo of drinking called it quits with each other, and soon after with the drink itself.

After all these blatantly irresponsible and life-ruining mistakes I should have learned my lesson right? Well if I did there wouldn’t be a story to tell! The most fun I have is when I drink, my best stories are practically written by booze. I like to call it social drinking, but in all reality I make the cardinal sin of drinking. I drink merely to get drunk. First step of alcoholism I know, but it’s not that bad really. (Wait, is that denial?)

Now you may be shaking your head in disappointment as you read this, but let me tell you that I am the most normal and level headed child out of the three of us. I like to brag about the fact that I’m the only one without a juvi record. Which may in fact make you shake your head even more. What can I say, my family thrives on dysfunction, as do many, many others today.

But in all seriousness, I truly am a fairly good kid. Good grades, God fearing, respect my parents, going to college, blah, blah, blah. I just enjoy letting loose every once in a while and being someone I’m usually not. Alcohol makes an anxiously quiet and worry-filled girl a mouthy and overly confident party animal. Maybe not the best trade, but I enjoy it.

This leads me to my first serious mistake. And this time I actually am talking about a boy. My first. . . “love” (as if  I actually know what that is.) It started in high school, as most horrible love stories do. …