My one year anniversary of independence is quickly approaching.

Last year, on July 1st, 2012, I loaded up my car (and a few others) and bounded down I-70 as quickly as I could. Speed limits were not holding me back and neither was the constant ringing of my phone from family members who didn’t get to say their final goodbyes. As much as I denied it to those who asked, I was leaving for many more reasons other than to start school. My friends, and especially my family, knew I wasn’t coming back.

(It sounds melodramatic, but for those of you who have kept up with the blog, you know this isn’t the case.)

Since July, I’ve been lonely and uncomfortable in my own skin more times than I’d like to admit, but that’s because I have been challenging my typical ways of thinking and trying new things, and sometimes found myself faced with situations I never thought I’d encounter. Whether these situations were full of joy and laughter, or left me weeping, they ultimately helped me discover myself.

Here are some of the  lessons I’ve learned this far:

1- I have a voice that deserves to be heard (and so do you). Anyone who makes me question my right to have an opinion, doesn’t have a place in my life. While I’m not confrontational or anywhere near the aggressive end of the personality spectrum, I’ve found more effective ways for me to express my emotions, voice my thoughts, and de-stress. This blog is the perfect example. Some can’t handle my honesty, and that’s okay. They’ll come around, or they won’t. But for the first time ever, I’m comfortable (not scared) to say what needs to be said, and that’s liberating.

2- It’s important to play up your strengths AND accept your weaknesses. And as a single girl, living alone in the city, it’s especially important.

For me, I can’t solve even the smallest of car issues. When I first started driving, I dated a mechanic who took care of all my car problems. He was nice enough that even after our breakup, he didn’t mind keeping up his role as Mr. Fix-It. However, moving over 60 minutes away and dating new people, he no longer offered any solutions.

When winter hit, I, legitimately, didn’t think I would survive. My dingy cavalier couldn’t handle the frigid temperatures and my freshly manicured nails weren’t about to pop the hood to diagnose any problems. Luckily, no matter the problem, my car was able to make the short trip to the neighboring mechanic service. It was in their lobby that I realized I COULD survive; it was all about working my strengths. I smiled kindly at the man behind the counter, explained what my issue was, and asked for help. I’ve been in their lobby three times since the icy days of January, and have yet to spend a dime. I may not be a pro at fixing cars, but I can be quite charming… And that gets my car fixed.

3- People mirror how you treat yourself. This is probably the hardest lesson I have had to learn, but as the oldest sibling and a bit of a workaholic, I often prioritize my needs (and wants) at the bottom of the list. When I notice that this is where I fall on someone else’s priority list, it’s heartbreaking, but when I devalue my needs and wants, how can I expect anyone to else to think they’re valuable? Like the old saying goes, “we accept the love we think we deserve.”

This lesson is a work-in-progress, but I’ve acknowledged it, and hey, that counts for something.

4- People also fail (sometimes on a daily basis), so it is important to trust yourself. When people don’t do their jobs, you are your only ally.  It doesn’t matter what regulations or codes of ethics are put into place, people still fail to do their jobs. For me, my life would’ve been (and be) a lot easier if one of my teachers did what they were supposed to do as mandated hotline reporters. All the signs they needed to see were clear, but for some reason (a reason I’ll never know), nobody ever acknowledged them. In fact, a large part of my family works as educators, and they failed to step in, also.  I’m not placing blame; I’m just noticing that people don’t do what they’re supposed to do. I’m over it now because I (me, myself, a singular noun) picked up the pieces and did what I had to do. But it still sucks knowing that people you thought highly of, aren’t as great as they could be. And I know from my education and social work courses that these statements are valid (see Lesson #1: I have a voice that deserves to be heard).

As a girl who never thought the word independent would be used to describe her, I’ve failed (yes, I recognize that I’m not perfect) to realize how many things I’ve done by myself before I only had myself to rely upon.

5- I don’t need people to understand my choices. I like it when people are supportive and accepting, but I know I can’t please everyone. I also know that NEED and WANT are two different words. So while I might want someone to understand why I did something, I don’t need them to. That being said, when someone doesn’t understand my choices, it shouldn’t steer my direction. People don’t understand what they don’t know. And, after all, it’s MY life; I’m going to be the one dealing with the consequences- good or bad- of the decision. And considering how other people have made decisions that have made my life suck,  I try not to do things that impact others in negative ways.

I’m still learning how to say no, how to not let stress tie my intestines into knots (literally), and how to embrace the moment. Even with these lessons to learn, I’m proud of what I HAVE learned.

This year, on July 1st, 2013, I will pack up my car again and move further into the city. But this time, I’ll follow the speed limit and answer my phone; I’m not running from anything anymore.

Happy one year anniversary to me! I did it.

I got asked out on a date. A real, take-me-out-to-dinner, tell-me-about-your-childhood, date.

My reply? “I’m free in two weeks for about five hours.”

I haven’t talked to him since.

Before now, when I would become overwhelmed with emotion, I would work myself to a point of exhaustion: pick up extra shifts at work, run for President of a club, volunteer. Men don’t have a place here because they only bring MORE emotion. Basically, I would do anything to lessen the number of minutes I had time to think to myself.

This coping mechanism is how I survived high school. I scribbled through the pages of a carefully, color-coordinated calendar. If my days were full, they’d pass more quickly, right? I was over eager for what the next chapter in my life had to offer, because I KNEW it had to offer more.

Problem: I was always counting down the days to the ‘next’ step.

As this year has morphed from a sad fall, to a depressing winter, to a confused spring it’s known that I’ve had a plethora of heartbreaking, unhappy days.

After a solid two weeks of calling my dad sobbing, I knew I had to change something.

Should I move to Arkansas? Being around my family would alleviate most of my sadness. Should I take a semester off? I’ve always wanted to go to cosmetology school. Should I transfer to Mizzou? That’s where I had always planned to go before I decided to move to St. Louis.

In my city apartment, I thought about all the directions my life could go. At school, I tried to picture myself striding through the halls of another University. At work, I’d wonder if I could find a job that paid similarly in another area of the Midwest.

Problem: Thoughts of what I COULD be doing were depriving me of experiencing what I actually was doing.

The change I needed was to START living. I live in St. Louis in a fabulous apartment- it is tiny, but the appliances are new and the walls are decorated with pictures and hangings I carefully chose. I’m earning an amazing education—I’m in a honors program and when I walk through the halls, professors know my name (They also know where I live, what my major is, and how much my family means to me). I also have a job that is meaningful AND allows me to eat off of a silver platter. The only negative light in this mix is me not enjoying all that my environment has to give me.

So, for the first time in my entire life (literally), I’m not counting down the days for the ‘next’ step. My planner is still overflowing with commitments, but I didn’t commit to these events because I’m running from my thoughts. I’m embracing where I am, and it’s turning out to be quite fun (even though I’m passing on free dinners).

I haven’t posted for a few weeks because I wanted my blog to be a happy place. Last semester it was full of sad stories: I hated living alone, I got a bad grade, I missed my family. But the thing is, my blog isn’t a ‘place’– it’s a reflection of where I am. And to be honest, I’m NOT in a happy place. Sure, my grades are great, my job is amazing, and I have a killer group of friends. It looks like everything is wonderful, but that is far from the truth.

You see, 2013 was supposed to be a fresh start. Everything that I was holding onto that rattled my brain during my sleeping hours was supposed to be flushed. I wanted to be DONE dealing with ugly memories from my childhood (and the past few months). I was over it impacting every second, every breath, every ounce of my being. But just like I wasn’t in control of my childhood, I’m not I’m control of how the past is impacting me (which royally sucks).

I’m sure you’re wondering, ‘What happened?’ I wish I could scream the truth from a rooftop for all to hear, but I can’t. My heart doesn’t allow me to hurt people in the ways that they hurt me. What matters is that some people and events have lead me to such a dark, heartbreaking place. And I have to deal with it.

I think it’s less hurtful if I explain where I am with someone else’s words (maybe I’m cowardly?). So, I stole some from my favorite blogger’s, Sarafina Bianco, post “5 Things an Abused Woman (this woman) Wants You to Know”:

“I won’t get over it…soon.

I can’t get over it because my life has been forever changed. Downplaying the severity isn’t helpful; it’s denial. Acknowledgment and acceptance are necessary.

Some days are easier than others; I know it’s getting better. Yet there are days that I’m crying before I get out of bed. I don’t want to leave my apartment. I’m angry and sad and scared. The world isn’t one that seems to hold opportunity on those days. It’s a place that swallows me whole. On those days I have to remind myself that I was in such a devastatingly bad place a year prior. I have to allow myself to cry in the shower, so that I can keep it together during the work day. I have to be angry on the way to work, and I have to remind myself that I wasn’t allowed to feel anything for two years of my life. I wasn’t allowed to be human, so how can I expect myself to act like I am human?

Every week I feel stronger, even though I’m digging into the issues further and further in therapy. I do feel better…but just because my recovery doesn’t fit your needs doesn’t make my small steps any less significant for me. I am moving forward. If you can’t handle the pace, then just don’t say anything at all. I will get there. Your doubt and criticism prolong the recovery process.”

That’s exactly where I am.

If you asked me what my type was, I’d tell you I typically like undateable men. Plain and simple. The more unavailable the better.

When I first moved to St. Louis, I chose to spend time with a friend who lived about 2 hours away. He had just gotten out of a serious relationship, so his physical and emotional distance made him undateable. I thought he was a “safe” option. He knew enough about my upbringing that he didn’t need explanations when I cried. It was comfortable. We had always been friends, so I knew no matter what happened, we would stay friends.

When that relationship fizzled, I met a man who lived just around the corner from me. He was independent in ways I had never seen, ridiculously goofy, and had a charming smile. The catch? He was only in St. Louis for 6 months. And he didn’t know where his next stop would be. For the first two years in his career, he would move to different parts of the country every 6 months. Even though I knew he was moving the day I met him, I didn’t care. Moving meant there wouldn’t ever be a break-up or a heartbreaking ending. He was moving–that was it. My family had just moved, so I needed someone. He was alone in St. Louis–it worked. But once again, he was undateable.

I chose these men in an effort to protect myself from heartbreak, but in the end, I was still left broken and bruised. While I’m still friends with the first guy mentioned, our friendship will never be the same and the career move that followed rocked my world. Obviously my strategies of keeping myself safe were failing.

At the end of December a nice new guy popped into the picture. He had traditional values, good grammar, and seemed different from the typical 21 year old, male, college student. He invited me to dinner, opened the doors, and talked about his future plans. His gentleman-like ways were overwhelming. Even though his niceness scared me, I lectured myself about how this is what I needed. Someone nice, normal, and completely datable. What seemed wrong with this? Nothing.

So, after a month of shared dinners and laughs, he invited me to a dance an organization he was an officer in was hosting. It was 2 hours away from my home, approximately 1500 people would be there, and Id only know about 20 of them. Against these odds, I agreed to go. No safety net, no escape plan, just trust to fall back on.

I can’t verbalize how badly I wanted him to be the guy he portrayed himself as, but after an hour at the dance, I knew he wasn’t. A few guys I went to high school with were at the event and when they said hello, New Guy immediately started questioning me. “Did you come here with me? Or are you here alone?” “How do you know him?” “Is there something I need to know?” As he guzzled beer, I avoided eye contact with the men around and stood silently by his side.

Mr. Nice and Normal was becoming a controlling drunk, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe I was too friendly? Maybe I smiled too much? Maybe I was giving him a reason to question me?

His behavior quickly escalated. As I talked to a girlfriend (since I was scared to be seen with another man), he maneuvered his way around the dance floor groping and kissing every other girl insight. I blamed it on the beer, but it was still unacceptable. He was a textbook manipulator: make someone feel like they are doing something wrong because you’re really the one who is.

Even though I promised to be sober driver for the night, I wasn’t sticking around to be controlled or embarrassed any longer. I got my keys and left.

Two nights later he proposed a concert and dinner as an apology. I wanted to hear him apologize, so I agreed to go.

My opening line to him was “I get that alcohol makes people do stupid stuff and that men are pigs, but you were SO different. I’m just shocked.”

He replied, “You obviously have a lot to learn if you believed everything I said to you. I’m a man, Brooke. We put on a show for a reason.”

I couldn’t believe what was happening. How could someone lie so consistently? I should’ve seen through his facade, but I didn’t. He completely fooled me.

I abandoned my ways of dating undateable men in an attempt to have some type of normal (potentially scary) relationship. While Mr. Nice and Normal turned out to be Mr. Perverted Control-Freak, I realized dating isn’t that scary. Sometimes people suck REALLY, really bad, but I shouldn’t shield myself from good emotions in an attempt to keep myself from experiencing anything hurtful. Life is brutal, but you get through it. And a drunken 21 year old with a 2.5 GPA doesn’t get to impact anything.

After all, he didn’t even have the brains to know not to mess with a girl with a blog.

I missed the first day of my freshman year of high school.

I missed my first half-time dance as a Varsity cheerleader.

In a two week time span, I missed what I thought were going to be the most monumental moments of my life. Luckily, I was wrong.

If I close my eyes and go back to my freshman year of high school, I remember my biggest worries were whether or not my jeans fit perfectly, if my off-the-rack Rue 21 shirt hugged my newfound curves the right way, and if my quarterback boyfriend was going to lead the Montgomery County Wildcats to victory at the upcoming Friday night game. These thoughts consumed most of my time and energy—I kept lists of my outfits because I was afraid that I might repeat an outfit too quickly; I made cookies before the games thinking it was just the extra encouragement the football team needed. My world started and ended under Friday Night Lights.

Those Friday Night Lights no longer illuminate my world. My world is now lit by something much more monumental than a 60 yard pass…

On February 19th, 2010, my little brother was born, and let me tell you, his brown eyes shine way brighter than any football field. And in those big, bright eyes, I saw there was more to life than Friday Night Football. In his eyes I saw a boy who could do anything in the world, and a burning desire to help him accomplish whatever he set his mind to. But how could I do that if my biggest worry had always been high school football? I HAD to experience more for him.

Now I’m in St. Louis—learning, exploring, and growing (and loving every minute of it). I didn’t realize how much growing I had done until I went home for Thanksgiving break. It was there I realized that my life was exponentially different than it was my freshman year of high school. During this realization, I impulse-posted on Facebook how thankful I was to be out of Montgomery County, and it offended a lot of people…

This is my explanation: I saw a boy I wanted to give the world to. I knew I couldn’t give him the world if I stayed in Montgomery County. After spending a few much needed hours with him on Thanksgiving, I was able to recognize how thankful I was for the opportunity to expand my horizons, so I can one day let him know the world doesn’t start and end at the 50 yard line. His options are unlimited.

“It felt like I’d been living underground, and for a moment, I’d been given this glimpse of the sky. Once you’ve seen that, how can you go back where you came from?”
― Jodi Picoult, Handle With Care

I’ve always been the girl who needed a rubric for an assignment. I like expectations to be clear. Black and white. A gray area makes me nervous. But lately, a few of the clear and cut lines in my life have become blurry.

Relationships are a tricky thing, you see. What happens when the person who comforts you becomes more comforting than normal, and you realize you enjoy it? Their hugs become warmer, and their insight more meaningful. You’re now more than friends, but there isn’t a word to describe the relationship. You might as well throw the rubric away; your expectations can not be defined. When you start coloring outside the lines of something definable, it can’t be erased. It is no longer black or white, but 50 shades of gray.

While black and white situations are safe, they are boring. Why would I want to choose between two plain colors when I could have 50 shades of gray?

This new developed area of gray no longer arouses any nerves. It brings excitement.

Gray, in all of its shades, has become something beautiful. Beautifully complicated.

I’m still getting used to the idea of being a blogger. The idea that people WANT to read my writing is overwhelming. And to be honest, it causes quite a bit of anxiety.

Over the past week, I’ve gained a few new followers on Twitter. All of them have one thing in common: they are authors. When the first author popped up, I swore it was a fluke. “He must have me confused with someone else” was all I could think, but then more authors started to trickle in. My only conclusion for this was that when my favorite blogger, Fina, retweeted Contentment (even though it contained a typo) it caught the attention of her followers.

Like usual, my inner critic was full of fire. Why are these writers even interested in me? Will they unfollow me once they realize I’m just a young girl who ATTEMPTS to write?

Then someone shared this lovely gem with me, and my worries were quieted.

watch?v=iHc3s-MtoUc

The third week of this semester (my FIRST semester in college), my safe, semi-stable world I spent the summer building quickly crumbled. My dad earned a promotion that required him to move to Bentonville, Arkansas, my roommate’s internship ended and she accepted a position in Columbia, Missouri, and my mom announced she was moving from my hometown to another small town even further away. While I was excited for all of their new beginnings, I couldn’t help but ask, ‘Where does this leave me?’ Alone in St. Louis, was the answer I found.

I called home for a solid week sobbing, but I soon realized I couldn’t spend every day miserable. I HAD to make a change. I started getting ready more, picked up extra shifts at work, and studied a little harder. Without my family close or a roommate around, I had more time to do things for myself. It soon became clear that I was NOT alone in St. Louis: this was a new beginning for me, too.

While I was really proud of myself for pushing through the loneliness, this weekend I relapsed. My dad’s family was in from Arkansas, I went to the Mizzou game with friends, and I spent Sunday with my mom. Being surrounded by all of my favorite people for three consecutive days made coming home to an empty apartment terrifying. All of those feelings from the beginning of the semester came rushing back.

The past few days have been rough, but I’m picking up the pieces to reach the content state I was in a few weeks ago. Right now I’m sad and lonely, but I know I’m going to come out just a little bit stronger than I was before.

I’ve found my niche on campus.

At the beginning of the semester, I dabbled with the idea of switching majors to Secondary English Education. It seemed logical: blogging is my favorite part of the week, honors composition is my favorite class, and a few of my favorite women teach English. However, my work-study position granted me a new perspective.

As Clinical Assistant in the Communication Disorders and Deaf Education department, my job description sounds like I partake in the typical hum-drum processes of office work: filing paperwork, answering phones, making copies, brewing coffee. But, it is so much more than that—I am immersed in the Speech Pathology culture.

Every morning the graduate students start to trickle in around 8 o’clock. Even with heavy coarse loads, they are dressed to impress and eager to begin their days. Shortly after their arrival, the hallways are filled with laughter, clomping feet, and exhausted moms trying to keep up their energetic kiddos. This excitement is only intensified when our graduate students greet their young clients. Everyone is eager for therapy to begin.

While I am witnessing everything from behind a desk, I can’t help but be reminded that this will be my life in 3 years.

I don’t know if it is the serenity of the sage green walls, or the dedicated graduate students, but something here is comforting. There is so much going on, but the peaceful aura is never lost.

I know this is where I am supposed to be.

The past week takes me all the way back to the first grade. We had just finished reading the heartwarming story of “The Polar Express” and had to write a brief summary. Even at six years old, I had a love for writing. But, when our summaries were returned, my teacher said I tended to be “a little wordy.” Even though these words were said over 10 years ago, I’m reminded of them every time my fingers start to skip across a keyboard…

My first college essay was due on Friday. After channeling my inner author, I poured raw emotion onto the blank pages of a Word document. With five pages filled of a story I held close to my heart, I was actually proud of my work. So when it was time to turn my story in, I confidently pranced to my professor’s desk with a warm smile spread across my face, and handed him the paper. I KNEW this was the best work I had ever produced. However, my confidence soon shriveled when he handed back the graded copy. In bold black print, the back of my paper read 89.5%. Bummer.

Brainstorming ways to improve my skills as a writer, I clicked my way over to my favorite blog. The more you read, the better you write, right? On the site, I found she had posted two blogs since I last checked. Immediately I was engulfed in her imagery. To say I was envious of her talent would be an understatement.

Between the disappointing grade, and reading the wonderful words of my favorite blogger, my inner critic refused to stay quiet, “Your work just isn’t measuring up, Brooke.”

I’m not fishing for compliments here; I’m simply being honest (like I promised to do). At the moment, my writing is a wreck, but practice makes perfect. So, here I am–letting my fingers skip across the keys as much as they please.