When I tell my testimony, it becomes a tragedy known as my "6 - month story".

Unique in its weight, age, and mental destruction.

And I'm a broken person, you know that.

But hear me now, I'm trying to say what's important.

I don't write much about God these days, but I find myself in a position where I need to say... something.

I don't blame God for what happened to me. If anything, I blame myself. And I know blaming God gets me nowhere.

But being on this camp ground for the fifth year in a row seemed different, knowing I may be older, but wisdom and experience has fallen beneath me.

The friends I knew, younger than I am, and yet they surpass me.

And I fell into sadness again.

An easy crier, I am.

But then, suddenly there was something here.

A curious voice, wondering how I came up with all these song titles, and claiming how awesome I am.

And me... being absolutely floored at how much you wanted to talk to me. Let alone... learn my songs?

Nobody has ever done that before.

Suddenly I don't feel so alone. I feel like I can sing again, like I can smile again, and this two hour session with you learning my song is the longest surge of happiness I've had in months.

And I don't want it to stop.

I feel... at home.

This old campground, and having someone to talk to.

Or hold my hand and tell me it's going to be okay...

Instantaneous connection.

I've had it before. With many other people who have left me what feels like a lifetime ago.

I fear I may get too attached, or scare you away.
That I might find a peace here in your friendship that may pull itself away before I can say "thank you"...

So..

Thank you.

If God has helped me through anything in life, He didn't never had to give me riches, or fame, or reputation.

He gave me people.

So many people.

It's been so long since anyone has been a new friend to me.

And I'm so glad that you found me. Even if it was ten years later.

Time has a way of being like that.

God being bigger than time, knowing something like this would happen.

Of all the people who could've found me at that time in my life...

I'm glad He picked you.

I know, I'm sappy and cliché, and write sentimental things too early because I'm afraid of losing good people. Mostly because I have lost so many already.

But I hope you'll stay.

I'll have that sad song written soon enough.

And you gotta be around to hear it.

Here it is in a nutshell:

I want to know that it isn't all for you.

That you knew we were part of this too.
That you knew we went through the same kind of pain.

That you missed me.

That you wanted to make it better.

But if this is all there is.

I'm still going to take it.

Because it's better than nothing.

But hey,

I was there.

I was there.

I suffered.

It isn't all about you.

You can't tell me that you missed anything about our friendship?

Then I guess there wasn't one to begin with.

I almost went to the same dark and empty spaces.

I tried so suppress everything.

I suffered.
And I suffered just as much as you.

You don't get to "win" at having the worst outcome.

Nobody won.

Just because you weren't there to see the pain, doesn't mean it wasn't there.

Just because you never saw me do anything, doesn't mean it never happened.

I was here.

And I've been here the whole time.

Okay.

I'm done being mad.

I'm done.

Being mad.

I want someone to love me as much as I want to love God.

And yet all I want is a day where I don't feel so alone here.

~September 2014~

They came to me with hair filled with colour.

We met.
We talked.

Friends.

Right...

I miss them a lot.
And the only thing I seem to remember is the shape of their hair and all the rainbow it contained, from blue, to pink, to red, to green, to blonde, to finally going back to the normal root colour.

You could say the hair had personality of its own.

~August 2015~

Summer camp.

She was a stranger and a musician, and I had to know her.
She was a strong soul, and even holding her hand felt like a superpower I couldn't control.

Short cut hair.
Clean.
Swept over her eyes, over her ears.
Framing her smile.

~December 2016~

Techie girl.

She is the most complicated thing to come from all of this.
The semester didn't treat either of us well.

Slight curl to dark short hair. Shaven around the back, kept remarkably short.

Leaving her face untouched.

~July 2017~

Me.

I've shaved my head twice.
No shame in it.
My dignity not what it used to be.

My hair hangs down past my shoulders.
4:40pm comes around and I've lost inches upon inches of my hair.
6:30pm.

Slightly bobbed at the ends, framing my chin and shoulders.
Changing my hair part again.
Moving from side to center.

Straight hair, dark colour, lighter.

Short.

I like the aesthetic.

And I like these people.

I miss them most days.

But even though I'm now a short haired person myself.

I still forget about it...

Only to find my reflection later.

I have done nothing today.

Woke up at 2pm, ate food, took a 30 second bike ride and then ate some more.

And here I am, 2 hours and 4 1/2 bowls of soup later.

I thought I might as well eat well before I panic.

Here we go.

Listen to me old friend.

I'm going to go crazy, or have a panic attack very soon.

It's going to be violent.

And uncomfortable.

And I'm going to cry.

So please.

I am a coward who can only look back once and then break.

I don't expect you to talk to me ever again.

And I don't plan on this poem reaching you by any means.

But I would appreciate it if you thought about calling.

But you know what?

Maybe you won't, honestly, I'm never sure I'm worth your time because you never seem to show it.

You're a busy person, with a life and job.

I'm broke as all hell, unemployed, and the single worst person to break after a text message.

But I will be panicking or going crazy soon.

So yeah...

Just thought I'd let you know.

After a great catastrophe hits home, like a fire or a tornado, you search through the wreckage to find pieces that can still be saved.

If anything is salvageable, you might as well take it. This was your home after all.

Finding old pictures, supplies, things of sentimental value, anything that reminds you of home before it was destroyed.

So what if your home is built upon people?

When catastrophe strikes, people might run away, give up, and sometimes they die. Not always, but sometimes they will.

I was part of the wreckage of my home made of people.
But I was also the disaster that tore it down.

Leaving people in pain, with traumatic break downs, panic attacks, and a lesson in language only known as ******.

Nobody died.

People were saved. I know of three in particular who found each other and survived.

But it left two others broken apart, one confused, and one completely homeless.

And as for me...

I survived like the rest. But unlike most of them, I didn't recover.
They didn't bother to search through the damaged home to find me.
There was no monetary value to my life, no point, no sentimental value to them.

And I just lay there to this day.

And to the person I hurt most...

You know who you are...

You left me in that home, the one you invited me into and cared for me as if I was family and now...

I'm here.

Buried under the catastrophe.

And I'm sorry I tore the house down.

I'm sorry I wasn't worth going back to the house to find and salvage.

I'm sorry I wasn't worth saving.