There's An Angel Looking Out For Me

A girl I knew died today.

It's weird to write those words. I feel like I'm putting on a show. Those words belong at the beginning of a poem or a novel. A sad one with some good bits, or one that starts off at this low point and goes somewhere good. Bittersweet. But real life doesn't work that way. Those words are here. This isn't a novel or a poem. They're not on a Tumblr post. They're not fiction in any way. They're not even fact on someone else's blog. In someone else's journal. Someone else's life. They're here. In mine. And they're true.

She was in several of my classes from the very beginning of my freshman year. Until last semester, she and I were in the same major. She sat behind me in Life Science Lab. I saw her a week ago. Her name was Shelby. She was nice. She was cute. She was friendly, and kind, and I liked her. We weren't best friends, but she was closer than I would've liked. (Not that I didn't want to be friends with her. Just because of this.) It's hard to explain and not sound rude.

They didn't tell us how it happened, just that it was unexpected. I'm sure Facebook is talking about it. I don't want to look. I'm not sad, even though I know I should be. I just don't get sad. My dog died on Friday. I should be sad about that. I'm not. I knew Angel wasn't long for our world, so I was pretty well prepared, but Shelby is different. Yet the feeling is the same. It happened. I can move forward. Never back.

I'm sorry for her family. Her friends. The people who are the same as me, but who feel things differently. Or show feelings at all. I have this great control or detachment over my emotions. I don't cry. Ever. Even when someone dies. Even Angel, who I loved. I'm good at accepting reality at face value. Once something is, it is. Death in this life is final, and I can't change it. But it's still weird.

I don't like grief. I stay away from social media when I know it'll be full of sadness and mourning. I know that makes me sound like a terrible person, but it's the truth. I know it's sad, the thing that happened. I know the people posting are sad. I don't need to make myself feel guilty because I don't feel such sadness. I don't feel the need to tell the world how well or not I knew that person or how close I was to that thing.

Artists take pain and internalize it before letting it flow out into some for of beauty for the world to see. Van Gogh. Shakespeare. Eric Clapton. Painters. Writers. Musicians. People live. People die. People create. People destroy. Each is a different action and reaction to the others. It depends on what kind of person you are. You're born. You live. You get old. You die. Simple. And complex.

I internalize everything. I feel everything the same. Good experiences. Bad ones. Ones that should be good or bad, like news. Like this news about Shelby. And I use all of it for my art.

It is research.
Rule # 11: Everything is research.
Research for what? Writing.
How can it be research if it happened to you?
It can. It is. The books I keep inside my head come from research that happens to me.

For example:

My friend, Elisabeth, wants me to kill someone. In a book. She wants to cry because the book is sad.
Reasons to not: 1) I don't feel sad.
                          2) The world is sad enough without my help.
However, if Elisabeth wants the book to be sad, then a sad book will make her happy (because she got what she wanted.) The inverse of which is: a happy book will make her sad. So, in conclusion, if I want to write something that makes Elisabeth happy, I need to kill someone. I need to make people like that someone. And I need to make it sad. I'm not John Green. I'm not George R. R. Martin. I don't kill people, but I might to make it sad. For me, my life is all experiences and people God has given me to write books.

And yet, a lot of the things that end up in books are experiences and emotions I've never had. (Rule # 18: There's always a boy. The girls in my books always find someone. Now, ask my friends how many boys I've dated.)

I'm off topic. This is about Shelby. And I don't mean to make it sound like I'm demeaning what happened. I just mean, I don't feel sad. Shelby was fun and alive. She was a beautiful person, and God used her. He still is. It's terrible for us, who are still here, that this happened. It's not terrible for her. I can't make myself cry or be sad for myself that someone I knew isn't here anymore. I don't want to fake sadness either. I would hate to be that person. What I feel about this will only be expressed in a book, if I express it. Here is the other place. On this blog.

She's gone. She's with Jesus, wherever He is. She won't get to do things, but she wouldn't want to come back to do them. Jesus is the best place to be, and I'm happy she made it there.

Massachusetts, Can You Make Me Feel Okay?

So, my friend suggested that I make this blog about my wishes and dreams because that's the title. I can roll with that for a while, but I don't know if it'll stick. Also, I had originally planned for this to be about one thing, but it kind of became two things combined, and I'll explain that.

BOSTON

That is the dream, as far as my dreams go. I really only have three, but the dream place to live is Boston. If I ever live there in an apartment/flat, I will copy the YouTuber Alex Day and call it the Dream Flat. Until then, it is just the dream. I didn't know I liked Boston until after I loved it. I went there on a family vacation, and I was high on patriotism because I'd been away from America for a month, so that's part of it probably. Also, my favorite musician lives 20 minutes away from Boston, and that was another thing. However, I like to believe that I love Boston for what it is without those things. I want to live there because I do. I figured out how to get around in four days (which is partially due to Costa Rica and having to get around there for a month while speaking Spanish.) I like the accents. I like the history. I prefer their subway system over New York's. I prefer their baseball team. I prefer Massachusetts over Texas. It just sounds prettier and looks prettier and IS PRETTIER. And so I dream of Boston.

The other part of this post is my plans for the future. Until last week my plans were (and still are) to write books. That was my only plan. I didn't want to have a real job. I don't like being told what to do. By anyone. I like to get up late and stay up later. Read what I want. Write what I want. Eat what I want. And do all of it when I want. I'm a very selfish person and not a probably candidate to contribute to the world's work force. However, Tuesday, I was thinking through my plans, and I came to the conclusion that if I did get a real job, the only thing I can think of that I wouldn't totally hate would be social work. So Thursday night, I looked up requirements in general - Grad school. Not a thing I'd been planning on, but maybe God was planning on it for me. (I'm not clear on that yet, but I'll explain.)

The first grad school I came to was Boston University. (Now you see how these relate.) And immediately I was like, "I'm going there!" The requirements are pretty simple. BA from an accredited 4 year college/university and a GPA of 3.0 or higher. I will have those things when I graduate. I'll have a psych degree (which is good for social work) and a Spanish degree (which is even better for actually getting hired). On top of that, I'll have Costa Rica on my transcript, which should be useful since being travelled is good. 

The reason I think God might be setting this up is because of the honors thing. I was in OBU's honors program, but I got out when I added psych as a minor. Then, I changed psych and English, so I'm majoring in psych, and I'm done with English. Sometime last semester, I was reading a book for Abnormal Psychology about a man's experience with America's mental health system. Let me tell you that people need to rethink the way they see the mentally ill. I wanted to portray this in a book by making a high school girl a schizophrenic (which would be a rare case because usually it doesn't surface until later, like in your 20s). I want to tell the story from her point of view, her boyfriend's, her best friend's, and her brother's. I want to talk about religion and mental health, and the way people treat mentally ill people, and the way they see the world. It's a good idea. So, I told my supervisor at work, and she pushed me to talk to the head of the honor's program about getting back in and writing that for my thesis. I have done that. Right now I'm looking for a professor to do a directed study with on schizophrenia because I want to know everything I can to make it as realistic as possible. The honors program will be very useful for grad school. And having a finished book will be good for getting published. 

But that's another dream.

Extraño a todos, mis amigos.