With Me Somehow

<span style="font-style:italic;">I've been having lots of dreams about my father lately, friends (more detail about the dreams later), and it got me thinking: Do we ever get comfortable not having someone in our lives? Whether the situation is a break-up where the other person is still alive, or someone we love has died, a part of us will always want them with us. What do you think, friends? xoxo</span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjjHVoOBVsmgURnCPKYpij0wVFkSkloYo6jM_8THqJcWrHsY-et3WQZDL4BK-D0zxydT4YWo55Xhyphenhyphenhiyo4zAJd-CjSyux6SQW7x_5J5o5st1lj9LiYETTgpUSi6M1OPuBKTP3_UjDMLpc/s1600/01.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5734676332262476082" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjjHVoOBVsmgURnCPKYpij0wVFkSkloYo6jM_8THqJcWrHsY-et3WQZDL4BK-D0zxydT4YWo55Xhyphenhyphenhiyo4zAJd-CjSyux6SQW7x_5J5o5st1lj9LiYETTgpUSi6M1OPuBKTP3_UjDMLpc/s400/01.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a><span style="font-style:italic;"><div align="center">Here I am again<br />Sitting with these old photographs<br />Am I looking at someone else's life?<br />It was the days of castles and hopscotch and lullabies<br />The time for a thousand hellos, not goodbyes<br />The time when I didn't know what it felt like to cry<br /><br />Do you miss me wherever you are?<br />Do you wish you were here?<br />Are you that shooting star watching over me when I'm dreaming?<br />'Cause these memories, they flood my mind<br />It's like I sleep with my eyes open hoping I can see through the rain<br />And that one day I'll turn around<br />And you'll be with me somehow<br /><br />I wonder what I would say if I saw you<br />I've done so much without you<br />Feeling like an island all alone<br />Would you be proud, would it be enough?<br />Would I still have your love?<br />And would you realize how much I've grown?<br /><br />Do you miss me wherever you are?<br />Do you wish you were here?<br />Are you that shooting star watching over me when I'm dreaming?<br />'Cause these memories, they flood my mind<br />It's like I sleep with my eyes open hoping I can see through the rain<br />And that one day I'll turn around<br />And you'll be with me somehow<br /><br />So I look in the mirror and I see your eyes staring back at me<br />Twinkling bright just like those shooting stars in the sky...<br /><br />Do you miss me wherever you are?<br />Do you wish you were here?<br />Are you that shooting star watching over me when I'm dreaming?<br />'Cause these memories, they flood my mind<br />It's like I sleep with my eyes open hoping I can see through the rain<br />And that one day I'll turn around<br />And you'll be with me somehow<br /><br />Do you miss me wherever you are?<br />Do you wish you were here?<br />Are you that shooting star watching over me when I'm dreaming?<br />'Cause these memories, they flood my mind<br />It's like I sleep with my eyes open hoping I can see through the rain<br />And that one day I'll turn around<br />And you'll be with me somehow</div></span><br /><br />[Photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/amandamabel/6285350885/">Amanda Mabel</a>, via <a href="http://www.leloveimage.blogspot.com/2012/04/forget-me.html">Le Love</a>]

With Me Somehow

I've been having lots of dreams about my father lately, friends (more detail about the dreams later), and it got me thinking: Do we ever...

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MEMO TO MEN: Double-edge compliments

MEMORANDUM<br />TO: Men all over the planet<br />FROM: Melissa<br />RE: Compliments! Yikes! <br />DATE: April 4, 2012<br /><div align="center"> </div><a href="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7246/7045059185_e05b0ba86f_z.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7246/7045059185_e05b0ba86f_z.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 573px;" /></a>It should be quite obvious, shouldn't it, boys? A compliment is just that -- a compliment. Neat and obvious. Like a pretty little present in a nice little box tied up with a pretty pink bow. It makes you smile. It gives you those fluttering butterflies in your stomach. It let's you know that someone thinks you're cool enough for a glowing -- and equally cool -- compliment. We all love compliments. They boost our ego. They make us feel like, yes, we're doing something right in this world. <br /><br />And yet..sometimes even the best of the best compliments can enter that murky, uncharted, confusing territory. Sometimes, instead of walking away smiling and feeling like you're on cloud nine, you walk away thinking, "<em>Wait, what was that? Was that a compliment</em>?" I know, I know, boys. I'm sure you don't mean to serve these compliments on a cutting-edged plate, but sometimes, they're just all too bittersweet. On the outside, it's sweet. But on the inside, once you peel away that sweet, delicious layer? You're left with a bitter after taste that you just can't seem to shake. Take these examples, for instance...<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkyM2en_Qo2cXJrn93Zz4zjuPUKPnfTaFddINqg2h9Cy_NriY2PgOO4UhMKgayydjeX-aCyhyt6s9lH-0y0GwkrKb2CB6DtKtBwxIjatb8jc6DNPZwKhreVehJoEi-ki49dclNtjbwDQA/s1600/03.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727553471017566306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkyM2en_Qo2cXJrn93Zz4zjuPUKPnfTaFddINqg2h9Cy_NriY2PgOO4UhMKgayydjeX-aCyhyt6s9lH-0y0GwkrKb2CB6DtKtBwxIjatb8jc6DNPZwKhreVehJoEi-ki49dclNtjbwDQA/s400/03.png" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 319px;" /></a><strong>You're my best friend</strong><br />This is fine if that's all you want to be -- best friends. But hearing those words when being best friends is the decidedly <em>last thing</em> you want to be can cut like a knife.<br /><br /><strong>You remind me so much of my sister/mother</strong><br />Remember how I was only a few credits shy of a psychology minor in college? Well, that background comes in handy for this back-handed compliment. Freud would have a field day with this one. Sure, maybe you love us like you do your mother or sister, but that leaves me, well, a bit creeped out.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4ckupqn043Zh2ERqr56pLAzzvYyuXvD1pxlw65j0KF6wrhKfxx0xj8hAX4lPW78HUzb1CmhNfXh8XvY-zhRVMwl7mfFAB85js_y8DTcYMbwSQy3llnMz3udANub-YTJImZm1_4GKIthQ/s1600/03.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5727553485379951042" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4ckupqn043Zh2ERqr56pLAzzvYyuXvD1pxlw65j0KF6wrhKfxx0xj8hAX4lPW78HUzb1CmhNfXh8XvY-zhRVMwl7mfFAB85js_y8DTcYMbwSQy3llnMz3udANub-YTJImZm1_4GKIthQ/s400/03.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" /></a>I know it's not just you, boys. Women are guilty of this too. Maybe we're just not aware of what comes out of our mouth and how it's being received. In our minds, it could sound perfectly nice and logical, but the second it leaves our lips, it gets twisted and tangled before falling on the ears of its receiver. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">So, what about when it's not so clear? What happens when the metaphorical compliment line has become so blurred that it's almost rendered invisible? What happens when a compliment just doesn't come off as sincere as the person intended it to be? Can you ever take an awkward situation like that and make it not-so-awkward? xoxo</span><br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://www.leloveimage.blogspot.com/">Le Love</a>]

MEMO TO MEN: Double-edge compliments

MEMORANDUM TO: Men all over the planet FROM: Melissa RE: Compliments! Yikes! DATE: April 4, 2012 It should be quite obvious, shouldn't ...

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Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #152.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNOmW7eOdZyPaThORiEooxYIyAEi_gNXV3XXk4M4Lb6G7MevZDl3BrsWnwku46axxnqOCamkxOqMZ9ACB3LeV8eC46F1s7_Kde9RJ7uZ5JbAXFL7oIG1qC83OsbXc9egcaSlpkFlLQn1E/s1600/03.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717575123857967426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNOmW7eOdZyPaThORiEooxYIyAEi_gNXV3XXk4M4Lb6G7MevZDl3BrsWnwku46axxnqOCamkxOqMZ9ACB3LeV8eC46F1s7_Kde9RJ7uZ5JbAXFL7oIG1qC83OsbXc9egcaSlpkFlLQn1E/s400/03.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 218px;" /></a>Last week, I had a dream about my father, Sweetpea. It was the first dream I'd had about him in a long time, and it was one of those vivid, feels-like-it's-real-life dreams. We all knew my father was going to die (<span style="font-style:italic;">still by suicide</span>), but there was nothing we could do to stop it. So we all -- family and friends -- were left to say goodbye to him, knowing we were absolutely helpless. Talk about dreams having <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2012/02/question-of-week-question-13.html">deeper meaning</a>, huh?<br /><br />How many years has it been since my father died? The questions sounds strange, I know, but I wonder how long he'll have been gone by the time we meet. Does it seem like a long time to me? Well, this Saturday marks nine year's since his death. <span style="font-style:italic;">Nine years</span>. When he died I was 21. Now I'm 30. When he died, I was a junior in college. Now I'm a newspaper adviser. Heck, when he died, the world had yet to be introduced to Snooki -- or her burgeoning baby bump. Am I still the same person I was back then? How much have I changed, if I've changed at all? <br /><br />Truth be told, I still have flashbacks to that day sometimes. Even now, nearly a decade later, it will all just come over me and overwhelm me like a whooshing waterfall running over me. My mom, not wanting me to see the paramedics take my father out of our house, made sure I stayed in the bedroom. But even now, as weird as it may sound, I'm still sharply and abruptly taken aback by everything now and then. Sometimes, everything that's happened just hits me, and I can't help but think to myself, "<span style="font-style:italic;">How did this ever happen? How did we ever get here?</span>"<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvXGruIyZM-1kpK6ZZ-Q1hVeJoOTRNG01xCAQUVY6r-vH5KnhpLI_BtP_qS5RFXWhjduM0HDvLXEx9O73BQbGDPQjMl0_ttJEc-bvy515YGbzX9N1X6BVtKkMXAsI0oNtZXe_FSUyhI4M/s1600/02.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717575130913063010" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvXGruIyZM-1kpK6ZZ-Q1hVeJoOTRNG01xCAQUVY6r-vH5KnhpLI_BtP_qS5RFXWhjduM0HDvLXEx9O73BQbGDPQjMl0_ttJEc-bvy515YGbzX9N1X6BVtKkMXAsI0oNtZXe_FSUyhI4M/s400/02.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 366px;" /></a>Because, really, it all just blows my mind. My father will always be 51, but we've all aged. We've lived and aged and had all these experiences, but it's like he'll be frozen in time forever. I can't wrap my head around it<br /><br />And you and him? I wonder about him meeting you and what that would have been like. In case you haven't figured it out yet, Sweetpea, I wore a pretty big Daddy's Girl sash, so watching you two shake hands for the first time would probably have been an equally big deal. And of course, after you left, we probably would have had a long father-daughter talk about you. I can just imagine my father and I talking about you, him giving me all sorts of advice and words of fatherly wisdom about love and marriage -- did I mention my father was never shy about expressing his feelings, Sweetpea?<br /><br />A girl in my office recently got engaged, and she said her fiance went to her father before the proposal to get his blessing. Would you have done that? What would my father have said? I can see you doing something like that, trying to work up the courage to approach my father; maybe you even had a speech prepared. And maybe my dad, in his classic over-protective nature, gave you a speech about the importance of marriage and how you have to treasure and take care of one another. Maybe you even walked away from the conversation a bit scared of him, but deep down, you knew he liked you.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPDahHNifU3Yb4yP0vuSfAaPQ-0AcC9OJdh143RYoIJjFlUuKrtkj0Gty_uT8VaBonLOg4mUU_aHiHKRHcOBQqfZFvOVgIhDsAkrssMPbQMhbxLoAZFn7fxNTXoVrWge6lbQ5aT6mii-0/s1600/01.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717575133404525154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPDahHNifU3Yb4yP0vuSfAaPQ-0AcC9OJdh143RYoIJjFlUuKrtkj0Gty_uT8VaBonLOg4mUU_aHiHKRHcOBQqfZFvOVgIhDsAkrssMPbQMhbxLoAZFn7fxNTXoVrWge6lbQ5aT6mii-0/s400/01.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 383px;" /></a>But what I'm really, really realizing this year: He's gone. There's so much I'd want to say to him if I got the chance and yet, I'm not even sure if I'd be able to. I'd want to scream and yell and tell him just how angry I am that he just chose to leave and how we didn't have a chance to say goodbye. But when it's all said and done, I'd probably just jump into his arms and tell him how much I love him. Something tells me my anger wouldn't seem so important in that moment. In that moment, I'd probably just tell him how much I've missed him. Until we meet... xoxo<br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://weheartit.com/">We Heart It</a>]

Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #152.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake: Last week, I had a dream about my father, Sweetpea. It was the first dream I'd had about him in a long time, and...

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Chasing Your Ghost

<em>I wrote this one right before I went to bed last night. It's strange, but sometimes I still expect my father to come home from work and walk through the front door, just like he did for so many years. We all find ourselves falling into that trap sometimes, don't we? Have you, friends? xoxo</em><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7VzctR02WXyuf4WkpeOrzRuaGDlBMlMCzTLMqe0JoaHj9NHnQAnBLlY79b2-_Eicnon4aFfmaNBmRoNvHmm8nC69_JZ6g6eaTuqujdvRbDrhwWQAW1zP3aFVB-FCozQ_jzrHCNeUHFno/s1600/aa.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716864764932381122" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7VzctR02WXyuf4WkpeOrzRuaGDlBMlMCzTLMqe0JoaHj9NHnQAnBLlY79b2-_Eicnon4aFfmaNBmRoNvHmm8nC69_JZ6g6eaTuqujdvRbDrhwWQAW1zP3aFVB-FCozQ_jzrHCNeUHFno/s400/aa.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a><em><div align="center">I've walked these halls a million times before<br />And almost felt like I've lived here in another life<br />Sometimes all I can do is trace my footsteps as I pace back and forth<br />Hoping you'll walk through the door<br /><br />These days, it's like you're still here<br />Or maybe I'm looking back just to look forward to something<br />Or maybe my heart just needs to hold on a little longer<br />The one thing my heart doesn't know<br />Is if I'll ever stop chasing your ghost<br /><br />Well, it's been so long since you've been gone<br />Just move on already<br />I can hear the whispers of hushed conversations<br />Don't they know this tightrope I'm walking on is so uneasy<br /><br />These days, it's like you're still here<br />Or maybe I'm looking back just to look forward to something<br />Or maybe my heart just needs to hold on a little longer<br />The one thing my heart doesn't know<br />Is if I'll ever stop chasing your ghost<br /><br />I'm looking back just to look forward to something<br />Anything to remind me of you<br /><br />These days, it's like you're still here<br />Or maybe I'm looking back just to look forward to something<br />Or maybe my heart just needs to hold on a little longer<br />The one thing my heart doesn't know<br />Is if I'll ever stop chasing your ghost<br /><br />These days, it's like you're still here<br />Or maybe I'm looking back just to look forward to something<br />Or maybe my heart just needs to hold on a little longer<br />The one thing my heart doesn't know<br />Is if I'll ever stop chasing your ghost</div></em><br /><br />[Photo via <a href="http://weheartit.com/entry/24394351">We Heart It</a>]

Chasing Your Ghost

I wrote this one right before I went to bed last night. It's strange, but sometimes I still expect my father to come home from work and ...

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MEMO TO MEN: The beauty of pain

MEMORANDUM<br />TO: Men all over the planet<br />FROM: Melissa<br />RE: Take off your beauty mask <br />DATE: March 5, 2012<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBuJvM_xcavHUH7RRaCwSzE7qBctBAy8SNST5FjhEW1DmBobqwVw_mY5bQiQ5dmnrTL93-Yi1rKuLF1PEEAGoU0PWUopNrOAS_VsCJk2uT81WXkLqAPdn2YnjrfY5rNjnK24V4xRhyfT8/s1600/01.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716459853377512530" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBuJvM_xcavHUH7RRaCwSzE7qBctBAy8SNST5FjhEW1DmBobqwVw_mY5bQiQ5dmnrTL93-Yi1rKuLF1PEEAGoU0PWUopNrOAS_VsCJk2uT81WXkLqAPdn2YnjrfY5rNjnK24V4xRhyfT8/s400/01.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a><span style="font-style:italic;">"Behind every beautiful thing, there's been some kind of pain."</span><br /><br />That's a quote from a Bob Dylan song, boys. Now, don't get me started on how much I can't stand that harmonica-swinging, folksy singer, but that quote? Well, I love it. It's pretty perfect, in fact. And it's something that's been on my mind lately. We can so easily become consumed with just looking <span style="font-style:italic;">at</span> that person that we stop taking the time to look -- really look -- at what's <span style="font-style:italic;">inside</span> of the person standing right in front of us. Not literally inside, of course -- more like taking a closer look beyond the surface. Because I can guarantee you one thing, boys: This is where the story is. The real story, anyway, and when you think about it, the only story that really matters.<br /><br />We're so quick to quiver at the mere mention of the word pain, as if its simple utterance alone has the power to hurt us. We run from it. We hide from it. We do everything in our power to escape from its mighty clutches. But we can't ever escape it -- at least not fully, anyway. And the more we rail against it and the more we shun the pain of others, the uglier we let it become. Take it from me, boys, we earn pain by living. No one who has ever lived has ever been able to go through life unscathed. It's just impossible. <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Fuli2kZketDx86mMD7aY3KcGBgaL0ztRZfbqNfnL6_jItBPMboJJbOGEXCQ_YTwRiisHqcNyyVtaNDh-PxwQL4t7NDKpFiWgp6_5Iv6USiE54EOIo9wgI3W07sOPZ5g9C4Hiw2sZKJ0/s1600/02.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716459856040631746" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Fuli2kZketDx86mMD7aY3KcGBgaL0ztRZfbqNfnL6_jItBPMboJJbOGEXCQ_YTwRiisHqcNyyVtaNDh-PxwQL4t7NDKpFiWgp6_5Iv6USiE54EOIo9wgI3W07sOPZ5g9C4Hiw2sZKJ0/s400/02.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 253px;" /></a>It's sort of like baring our soul to another person, I suppose, this whole pain thing. We're scared, sure, but we trust that the other person isn't as scared as we are. We hope that the other person will want to get to know the pain behind our beauty. Because, really, just like all those wonderful experiences we've had, the not-so-wonderful experiences have their place in our heart too. We'd never want to relive them, of course, but they're a part of us. They've shaped us into the person we've become. Denying that -- or worse, not even acknowledging it -- is the same as not accepting the other person for who they are.<br /><br />All too often, we let ourselves get scared by the littlest imperfections. At the end of the night, when the other person's beauty mask comes off, aren't we just the slightest bit curious to see what lies underneath? I've always thought it was our bruises, not our beauty marks, that made us beautiful. Something tells me I'll always see love that way. Life isn't perfect. But it can be beautiful. Are you in, boys? xoxo<br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://weheartit.com/">We Heart It</a>]

MEMO TO MEN: The beauty of pain

MEMORANDUM TO: Men all over the planet FROM: Melissa RE: Take off your beauty mask DATE: March 5, 2012 "Behind every beautiful thing, t...

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Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #151.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake: <br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOtkRM-D92rHT6LRJSjcU671Zr9U_w-sCXYkLBdsmKTqwdlsYwQJowrQjAZOWHUTEz7MVhUySFTOkXNXvhIsfi5yODmqXJTjEADV3kUh_FovXs8k0kceCnegrcoXKH3v0kiJKtQA9NrVc/s1600/01.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712420129066403234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOtkRM-D92rHT6LRJSjcU671Zr9U_w-sCXYkLBdsmKTqwdlsYwQJowrQjAZOWHUTEz7MVhUySFTOkXNXvhIsfi5yODmqXJTjEADV3kUh_FovXs8k0kceCnegrcoXKH3v0kiJKtQA9NrVc/s400/01.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a>Isn't it funny how things just click sometimes? It's like someone suddenly turns on the metaphorical light bulb above your head, and everything that was once dark and shrouded in mystery is now bright and clear. Take the first signs of post-traumatic stress disorder I experienced all the way back in 2010. I couldn't put the pieces together then, but looking back now, I can't help but see that time as a precursor to the <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/search/label/Tuesday%20Update">depression</a> that would eventually land me in the hospital by the end of the year. What, Sweetpea? I've never talked much about my PTSD? Well, allow me to explain...<br /><br />It can be something as little as the time I was standing in a hotel parking lot while on vacation one summer, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man walking toward me. He looked exactly like my father. The closer he got, the larger the lump in my throat became. Or, it can be something a little bigger, like the few dozen times I’ve walked past the building on the campus where my father worked and pictured him galloping up the stairs with a huge smile on his face. Or, even the time when I found the blue-knit cap he wore during the course of his chemotherapy and radiation to treat an aggressive form of sinus cancer and up until the day he committed suicide two weeks after finishing treatment. Or, the smell of his clothes and how they’d remind me of his big bear hugs.<br /><br />That’s Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder in a nutshell. It’s the body’s way of trying to process the massive stockpile of emotions left in the wake of a traumatic life event. For some, the sound of a car’s squealing tires may make them jump in fright following a car accident. And with the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, more and more soldiers are coming home both physically and emotionally scarred.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4H0M_9BqNbKvne_Lt8QWeuwZDt-ZR5U9fKM9oUKm8BJQ_CR9Lob7tsBJLWUmR4xMk8atNfUT5JK9hziOgsoFq2VtEVEVeeUX0Ku1bjoHImW-ZBXd-dDCIGq6-9faSQMhwuDzcmVo43Os/s1600/02.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712420125864558674" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4H0M_9BqNbKvne_Lt8QWeuwZDt-ZR5U9fKM9oUKm8BJQ_CR9Lob7tsBJLWUmR4xMk8atNfUT5JK9hziOgsoFq2VtEVEVeeUX0Ku1bjoHImW-ZBXd-dDCIGq6-9faSQMhwuDzcmVo43Os/s400/02.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" /></a>Having been born with a physical disability, I’m used to labels. But PTSD? That was a label that took a little more time to come to terms with. Before my father’s death, I’d always prided myself on being such a strong person. So to wrap my head around the idea that, “Yes, admitting I have PTSD does make me a strong person instead of a weak one” took some time. I’d been in counseling for much of the time since my father’s death. In fact, I returned again after a year off. I told my therapist I thought I needed a “tune-up.” There is nothing wrong with that, I keep telling myself.<br /><br />For me, in addition to the sights and sounds that remind me of my father, I’ve also grappled with spiraling thought patterns. Because of my physical disability and the fact that I was only 21 when my father killed himself, I worry constantly about losing my sister and mother. Being alone is my worst fear, and even though I know it’s irrational, I just keep thinking sometimes about the “what ifs.”<br /><br /><em>What if I lose my mother and sister too? What if I’m all alone?</em><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-2CulbF8P7rgkheFToa0lR2nYh3btorsUbdW2U4NLg1tHm0w-mwKLxw25R2KU_xPhdMbFGk69VaSGOlu2AHv-oACcQIc43esYntDMGBWbUtrigmfcG-QeANbc4FDfvojjVfcGaICdifM/s1600/04.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712420095795985282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-2CulbF8P7rgkheFToa0lR2nYh3btorsUbdW2U4NLg1tHm0w-mwKLxw25R2KU_xPhdMbFGk69VaSGOlu2AHv-oACcQIc43esYntDMGBWbUtrigmfcG-QeANbc4FDfvojjVfcGaICdifM/s400/04.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 399px;" /></a>That’s why I’ve always pictured PTSD as a sort of carousel. I’m sitting on one of those colorful ponies going around and around in circles. You eventually come back to the starting point. You see it, and sometimes, it hits you like a ton of bricks. Other times, you see it and can pass it without even registering it in your mind.<br /><br />It’s those latter times when I start to think I’m “over it,” which is sort of the insidious way PTSD operates. I know I’ll never be “cured,” but sometimes I can go for weeks or even months feeling just fine. And other times, like last year, for instance, every little thing sets me off. I’ll find myself crying over seemingly minor stuff. It’s times like these that remind me that I’m still trying to learn how to integrate my PTSD into my life rather than plan my life around it. It’s a constant struggle, but one I know I need to fight with all my strength. I know my father would want me to.<br /><br />One of the common misconceptions about PTSD is that you can just “snap yourself out of it.” Time has passed, so it’s time you move on too. Maybe I even tried to convince myself that at one time or another. Sometimes my mother, sister and I will drive past our old apartment. It’s the apartment I grew up in — where I recovered after all my surgeries, where my father taught me how to balance an equation in high school algebra. It’s also the place where he killed himself on a March morning in 2003 while I was sleeping in my room.<br /><br />Driving by it now, it’s easy to see that, on the outside, everything has changed. The parking lot is filled with different cars. The building looks like it’s been repainted. Even our windows look different. Life has gone on. As if nothing had ever happened.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVdv1JXPS32RMzt7gM_Z32kFe28VZ2dC13D8vgjvR6DQ46OjMlTksahbRKSuBhsRo8WITACb7WoRCi4ODFmyn5t8F-yW9xQCJUGcR6JR4NA5bFYQEdeATv-c-8HVj-d8NoT3ZfjCm45fk/s1600/03.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712420097091459954" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVdv1JXPS32RMzt7gM_Z32kFe28VZ2dC13D8vgjvR6DQ46OjMlTksahbRKSuBhsRo8WITACb7WoRCi4ODFmyn5t8F-yW9xQCJUGcR6JR4NA5bFYQEdeATv-c-8HVj-d8NoT3ZfjCm45fk/s400/03.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" /></a>But deep down, the memories are still there, memories of everything that happened inside, and that’s what makes the trauma still feel very raw and very real for me. It may be chronologically almost 9 years after my father’s death, but sometimes, especially when I think of that old apartment, it feels more like only a few months. In those moments, when I’m spinning on that carousel, all I can do is keep going. Maybe the next time I come around, I’ll see things from a different perspective.<br /><br />Does that make sense, Sweetpea? I often wonder if I'll be struggling with these issues when we meet, or if I'll be in a different place in my life. I suppose only time will tell. Until we meet... xoxo<br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://weheartit.com/">We Heart It</a>]

Letters To My Future Husband: Letter #151.

Dear Mr. Melissa Blake: Isn't it funny how things just click sometimes? It's like someone suddenly turns on the metaphorical light b...

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My 100-Word Love Story: On loving the one that got away

<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGWUB9cQy_7WrW7HV1ti4DEVe5IzqSeNlj0x-ecZeeTg3PzXjb6V0HkuuVBU0Y4hUqgozql3NuMK7LgKAyhQcBJMmivCNqAS8opFsSxZghbMjynYcSayJ5hvNXYeaJiXNX3RxJZ8IIJYY/s1600/DSCF6977.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5711747386667225474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGWUB9cQy_7WrW7HV1ti4DEVe5IzqSeNlj0x-ecZeeTg3PzXjb6V0HkuuVBU0Y4hUqgozql3NuMK7LgKAyhQcBJMmivCNqAS8opFsSxZghbMjynYcSayJ5hvNXYeaJiXNX3RxJZ8IIJYY/s400/DSCF6977.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" /></a>It was eleven years ago when I first felt my heart going whacko. Passing along the guidance counselor’s office. I skipped happily; my heart did the same thing. Every meeting with him was the reason why the birds sing<br /><br />A year ago, I came across this familiar face. The smile and the cheer had not left its place. We were awkward, but I have found warmth. Times had changed, yet he still took my breath away. But I played with fire and I got burned. Months have passed..<br />He is now finally free from me, and he will be married soon.<br /><br /><strong>--By Ica from <a href="http://benchwarmer.blogspot.com/">The Benchwarmer's Blog</a></strong>

My 100-Word Love Story: On loving the one that got away

It was eleven years ago when I first felt my heart going whacko. Passing along the guidance counselor’s office. I skipped happily; my heart ...

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Dark Side Of The Moon

<em>I wrote this one last night. I'd had the title in my head for a few days now; I love the imagery that comes with the phrase "dark side of the moon." We all have our own "dark side of the moon," don't we? We all go through dark times in our lives, and behind every dark time is that one person who helped us get to the other side. Who was that person for you, friends? xoxo</em><br /><div align="center"> </div><a href="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7004/6708673451_dd9c784787_o.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7004/6708673451_dd9c784787_o.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 457px;" /></a><em><div align="center">This feels like a dream<br />But every time I open my eyes, you're right here with me<br />I want to wake up like this for the rest of my life<br />Have you hold me in your arms<br />And sing me to sleep with your lullaby<br /><br />With you I can see the light in the dark side of the moon<br />It shines so bright like a blanket of stars<br />Do you, do you feel it in my heart, baby?<br />Everything's changing<br />I don't have to be afraid anymore<br />I can be sure of who I am<br />Baby, you helped me make it through the dark side of the moon<br /><br />Now there were times I'd pretend I was OK<br />But you, you took one look at my face and knew I was lying<br />You broke through my walls<br />And showed me I didn't always have to be strong<br /><br />With you I can see the light in the dark side of the moon<br />It shines so bright like a blanket of stars<br />Do you, do you feel it in my heart, baby?<br />Everything's changing<br />I don't have to be afraid anymore<br />I can be sure of who I am<br />Baby, you helped me make it through the dark side of the moon<br /><br />The stars are dancing for us tonight<br />And even if someday I'm not with you, just look up into the sky<br />And remember how you, you, you helped me make it through the dark side of the moon<br /><br />With you I can see the light in the dark side of the moon<br />It shines so bright like a blanket of stars<br />Do you, do you feel it in my heart, baby?<br />Everything's changing<br />I don't have to be afraid anymore<br />I can be sure of who I am<br />Baby, you helped me make it through the dark side of the moon<br /><br />With you I can see the light in the dark side of the moon<br />It shines so bright like a blanket of stars<br />Do you, do you feel it in my heart, baby?<br />Everything's changing<br />I don't have to be afraid anymore<br />I can be sure of who I am<br />Baby, you helped me make it through the dark side of the moon</div></em><br /><br />[Photo via <a href="http://www.leloveimage.blogspot.com/2012/01/lovesick.html">Le Love</a>]

Dark Side Of The Moon

I wrote this one last night. I'd had the title in my head for a few days now; I love the imagery that comes with the phrase "dark s...

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Oxygen

<span style="font-style:italic;">I just wrote this one this morning when I got to think of guys - and people in general -- who just bring us down in life. Sometimes, we let them bring us down in life when really, we should be walking away. And then we finally have that moment when we realize it's time to walk away. We can finally breathe again. Have you ever felt this way, friends? xoxo</span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBoSPNyZN4bGakaeYkgbiS9eLs5ruZ5OWbiLx7wsg9MKDJ-s7UxJVTbE2UAiD7W8ZgOgglgOxozor4oB3cvMT16PCQzqI-1QyGU5WtRTJMfe_DUymUNmcLOXfJI86QaDYB6KnhW7_VfuU/s1600/01.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5694208483633387970" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBoSPNyZN4bGakaeYkgbiS9eLs5ruZ5OWbiLx7wsg9MKDJ-s7UxJVTbE2UAiD7W8ZgOgglgOxozor4oB3cvMT16PCQzqI-1QyGU5WtRTJMfe_DUymUNmcLOXfJI86QaDYB6KnhW7_VfuU/s400/01.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 270px;" /></a><div align="center"><span style="font-style:italic;">The floors creak beneath my feet and remind me of when we used to dance<br />And how we'd dance through the night just to see the sun rise<br />Being with you was like a dream I could live forever<br />Now I can't tell the truth from the lies<br /><br />That girl's face in the mirror<br />I don't recognize her anymore<br />What has she let herself become?<br />She thought it would be so easy<br />When all she's left with is a painful memory<br />Doesn't know how to breathe in a room full of oxygen<br /><br />You made me believe that love was those stars I saw in your eyes and the way your hand felt in mine <br />But you dragged me down like an anchor<br />How could I not see those eyes fooling me? <br />Before I could catch my breath, your love pulled me under<br /><br />That girl's face in the mirror<br />I don't recognize her anymore<br />What has she let herself become?<br />She thought it would be so easy<br />When all she's left with is a painful memory<br />Doesn't know how to breathe in a room full of oxygen<br /><br />I'm not going down with your ship<br />So I'm saying goodbye, like two ghosts in the night<br />So I'm saying goodbye, like two ghosts in the night<br /><br />That girl's face in the mirror<br />I don't recognize her anymore<br />What has she let herself become?<br />She thought it would be so easy<br />When all she's left with is a painful memory<br />Doesn't know how to breathe in a room full of oxygen<br /><br />That girl's face in the mirror<br />I don't recognize her anymore<br />What has she let herself become?<br />She thought it would be so easy<br />When all she's left with is a painful memory<br />Doesn't know how to breathe in a room full of oxygen</span></div><br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://weheartit.com/entry/20594911">We Heart It</a>]

Oxygen

I just wrote this one this morning when I got to think of guys - and people in general -- who just bring us down in life. Sometimes, we let ...

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Love Lounge: When was the last time you cried?

<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn0-cOlbLmiS_-NkHF_m2A3itDBFQEuoChL5YDrzbhhFGqATRRliW43j36Vk_J_rMEcJmsNYrmz3ezkEIy18eN14JqGJWbMY1_qqFMpw6pvkkw6fB_T2gjNGM7lC0T5XDD0RUvysFnYjM/s1600/aa.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5693500469729414882" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn0-cOlbLmiS_-NkHF_m2A3itDBFQEuoChL5YDrzbhhFGqATRRliW43j36Vk_J_rMEcJmsNYrmz3ezkEIy18eN14JqGJWbMY1_qqFMpw6pvkkw6fB_T2gjNGM7lC0T5XDD0RUvysFnYjM/s400/aa.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" /></a>Crying. That taboo "C" word that people usually say quietly under their breath or hang their head just a bit lower so people won't see them uttering such a socially unacceptable word. The act itself is best done alone, or at least in the privacy of one's home, say most people. Take it to the streets and a national -- if not global -- epidemic is sure to develop.<br /><br />Now, I'm obviously exaggerating here, friends, but I've been thinking about crying a lot these last few days. Maybe the <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/search/label/Holidays%202011">holidays</a> have tugged at my heartstrings one too many times this year. Maybe it's because it's hitting me that <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2011/12/do-you-make-new-years-resolutions.html">another year is dawning</a> without my father. Who knows the reason, but I do know one thing: I'm not the sort of person who is ashamed to cry. At all, which is funny because my sister is the opposite. Growing up, I made my peace with crying at an early age. It was simply one way of expressing emotion for me. Sure, I suppose those trips to the hospital had something to do with it too, but I can't help but feel like crying quickly became my security blanket -- something to help me make sense of all that confusion.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3eCQ48ZFC2hWoUikTkZIiA-W5Sc6ZNm7cgddYCKAh53Sz8c9GA2vhVc_gWmoPp6ya570ZnS4XOUgq81sP9v3yYBo1sa9wJKSM-dBdGTF-lf_qpTbb6-jjkZ9aripxMXabK5JVSPwpug4/s1600/aa2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5693500472100558290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3eCQ48ZFC2hWoUikTkZIiA-W5Sc6ZNm7cgddYCKAh53Sz8c9GA2vhVc_gWmoPp6ya570ZnS4XOUgq81sP9v3yYBo1sa9wJKSM-dBdGTF-lf_qpTbb6-jjkZ9aripxMXabK5JVSPwpug4/s400/aa2.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 258px;" /></a>Crying and I met again after my <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2009/01/living-in-wake-of-suicide.html">father died</a>. I cried the most on the day he died; I suppose part of me didn't know what else to do. There were people surrounding me the whole day, family and friends streaming in and out of our tiny apartment, but I didn't care one bit if they saw tears rolling down my cheeks. In fact, it never even occurred to me to "put on a stoic face" for them. In the tug-of-war between modesty and emotional release, the latter won out.<br /><br />And then when I <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/search/label/Tuesday%20Update">struggled with depression</a>, crying became almost like a reflex. It seemed like I cried over everything, and the littlest thing (<em>like not being able to concentrate for very long</em>) would just set me off. I felt utterly lost.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid1BR546zNLFeVYJuU_N6rRV85BcCNhBNE72FvY4Ambej1YM8PRLqBR8X-TgaSoK5c1QtqdnI881Zwj1yT6KF41t4dkNKOX9F5eJHrzc8q1JWWDtQzFxC9lGcQB7j8NpV2FOm1uhyphenhyphen6FGc/s1600/aa3.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5693500468948598866" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid1BR546zNLFeVYJuU_N6rRV85BcCNhBNE72FvY4Ambej1YM8PRLqBR8X-TgaSoK5c1QtqdnI881Zwj1yT6KF41t4dkNKOX9F5eJHrzc8q1JWWDtQzFxC9lGcQB7j8NpV2FOm1uhyphenhyphen6FGc/s400/aa3.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" /></a>But crying, I soon found, had a hand in helping me find my way. A pretty big hand, actually. Because we all need to know that it's OK to cry, don't we? We need that reassurance that crying is not a sign of weakness, but a sign of strength. Because sometimes, really, we just need to cry. No judgment. No questions. Just some time to cry...and a box of tissues and a spare shoulder. <br /><br />How cool would it be if there was an advertising campaign encouraging you to cry? I imagine a giant Kleenex box with a tissue peeking out of it and the words, "Go ahead...cry" written on the tissue. Would that be awesome?<br /><br /><strong>So, friends, I'd love to know: When was the last time you cried? Do you remember what it was about? What makes you cry? Do you find yourself crying a lot? Do you cry more or less as you get older? xoxo</strong><br /><br />P.S. <a href="http://melissabxoxo.blogspot.com/2011/07/memo-to-men-crying-game.html">Men and crying</a>.<br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://www.leloveimage.blogspot.com">Le Love</a>]

Love Lounge: When was the last time you cried?

Crying. That taboo "C" word that people usually say quietly under their breath or hang their head just a bit lower so people won...

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Maybe Someday

<em>I got to thinking about my father this weekend, about how everything is so different, about how my life would be if he were still here and I wondered: What would I say to him if he <strong>were</strong> here? xoxo</em><br /><div align="center"> </div><a href="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6158/6258811044_47680927c8_o.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6158/6258811044_47680927c8_o.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 560px;" /></a><em><div align="center">Sometimes I'm scared I'll forget you<br />You feel so far away now<br />And sometimes I just want to believe<br />That things will get better somehow<br /><br />Maybe someday I won't feel this way<br />And my smile will try my tears just like you used to do<br />I'd hold your hand and say to myself, "everything's going to be okay" <br />Maybe someday will become a thousand yesterdays tomorrow<br /><br />Well, time has a way of changing you, and I won't pretend I'm the same person I used to be<br />But of the woman I've become, would you be proud?<br />Sometimes I pick up the phone hoping to hear your old familiar voice<br />But the sound of my heart breaking is too loud<br /><br />Maybe someday I won't feel this way<br />And my smile will try my tears just like you used to do<br />I'd hold your hand and say to myself, "everything's going to be okay" <br />Maybe someday will become a thousand yesterdays tomorrow<br /><br />If I could go back just for one day<br />And tell you everything, would that have made you stay?<br /><br />Maybe someday I won't feel this way<br />And my smile will try my tears just like you used to do<br />I'd hold your hand and say to myself, "everything's going to be okay" <br />Maybe someday will become a thousand yesterdays tomorrow<br /><br />Maybe someday I won't feel this way<br />And my smile will try my tears just like you used to do<br />I'd hold your hand and say to myself, "everything's going to be okay" <br />Maybe someday will become a thousand yesterdays tomorrow</div></em><br /><br />[Photo via <a href="http://weheartit.com/entry/14516947">We Heart It</a>]

Maybe Someday

I got to thinking about my father this weekend, about how everything is so different, about how my life would be if he were still here and I...

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MEMO TO MEN: The deserve dilemma

TO: Men all over the planet <br />FROM: Melissa <br />RE: She's not worthy.<br />DATE: October 6, 2011<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-jonaupJkoXZ66MUJfwOidK0KOKvxgSu77Ydwl4ITKENq8vM0sfg8aucSh6BZ6asvYHY4ZCMXRgUBNgp1zzqJSuvYlFjjjpumu1tXnjEzgNnytx2MEbc_berdEYOULV53zk9P09XtAH_G/s1600/01.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660464984javascript:void(0)285275602" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-jonaupJkoXZ66MUJfwOidK0KOKvxgSu77Ydwl4ITKENq8vM0sfg8aucSh6BZ6asvYHY4ZCMXRgUBNgp1zzqJSuvYlFjjjpumu1tXnjEzgNnytx2MEbc_berdEYOULV53zk9P09XtAH_G/s400/01.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 265px;" /></a>An eye-opener today, boys: It's really sad seeing a guy with a girl who completely doesn't deserve him. And what's worse? Not being able to say anything...<br /><br />And why can't you say anything? Because you know the words you say will change things, and it's the kind of change there's no going back from. It would be that sort of irreversible, teeth-clenching, anxiety-producing change that, in the end, you might not have wanted as much as you once thought you did.<br /><br />I've known a few of these boys in my time, and maybe it was my own fault for not saying anything. They didn't look happy. They didn't even look content. In fact, they looked downright miserable...the sort of miserable that paradoxically makes you feel as if you have everything yet nothing all at the same time. You should be happy, right? I mean, think about it: You're in a relationship with, supposedly, a girl who makes your heart go all flippity floppity and who you want to spend all your time with. So why is it that when you're with her, you, well, sort of wish you were anywhere else...in the universe?<br /><div align="center"> </div><a href="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6099/6217764423_938a766e58_o.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm7.static.flickr.com/6099/6217764423_938a766e58_o.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 0px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 570px;" /></a>Trust me, boys, I've wanted to say something. There's been many a time that I've wanted to shout it from the highest mountain hoping my message would somehow get through to you. But honestly? I've never really known how. Well, not tactfully, anyway. Sure, I could have just blurted it out, but that probably would have only added more problems than solved. And besides, I'm not at all too sure if it's even my place to say anything.<br /><br />So what does all this mean? If it's not the kind of relationship that makes you want to break out in song and wave your jazz hands and shout it from a hilltop a la the opening scene in the sound of Music, then you know what, boys? That girl just doesn't deserve you. It's as simple as that.<br /><br />I often wonder why you sometimes constantly choose girls who are completely wrong for you. Is it because you really and truly don't see how wrong said girl is for you? Is it that she's put some sort of spell on you with her beauty? Or maybe you're just as confused as I am?<br /><br />Take it from me, then: There are millions of other, more-deserving fish out there. Fish that are going to blow those undeserving fish out of the water. So tell me, boys, are you game?<br /><br />[Photos via <a href="http://www.leloveimage.blogspot.com">Le Love</a>]

MEMO TO MEN: The deserve dilemma

TO: Men all over the planet FROM: Melissa RE: She's not worthy. DATE: October 6, 2011 An eye-opener today, boys: It's really sad see...

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