Permission Denied

I'm tired of waiting. Being trampled upon. Sacrificing everything for nothing. Getting tripped and shoved by malicious smiles, only to be flattered and reassured by their deceiving eyes. I'm sick of seeing myself as insignificant, the extra, the spare. I'm tired. I'm restless. I'm ready for a fresh start. I'm ready to fly freely with no limitations (because not being good enough has sure limited this flight.) I'm nothing that I'm not. It's as simple as inhale, exhale.

"I will refuse to dance to the pressure to be or to do or to prove something in order to win someone's love or acceptance. I am not a slave to the opinions of others."

"it sounds like someone else's summer."

The bun, the barre, the ballerina.

It feels the same, yet everything is different.
My body is definitely different (much to my chagrin).
It seeps back into my joints, almost like riding a bicycle. But more graceful. It's that muscle memory they once told me about.

A single drop of sweat expresses more than any words, thoughts, or actions could:
I love this life. This IS my life.

Untitled.

Words. Words need to spill out. The feeling of forcing words upon paper is indescribable. No purpose, no inspiration, just the craving of letters to be spelled and thought and written. The things I want to write won't formulate into effective phrases; they merely mush together and refuse to be.

So how does one "overcome" such an unpleasant state? Should I type nonsense until something creative an useful comes of it? Or should I wait until the dullness passes? Will it ever pass? I guess I'll try the first, and if that doesn't work, I'll go with the second option. Here goes nothing.

What does that even mean? Obviously when people use the phrase, the thing they are going to attempt is not nothing. In fact, often it should be said, "here goes everything." but, I guess, it could be viewed as sarcastic.

I don't know what to feel. To not know what to feel is to watch neighborhoods and trees and nearby buildings combust spontaneously through blurred eyes. It is to hear screaming and sobs of terror, but not know what is going on. To watch outlines of figures running for their lives, while these feet remain in one place. It is to realize the one sobbing is me, and through the teary eyes I can't see anything clearly. I'm unable to communicate and soon become invisible to the people I care most deeply about. That is how it is to not know how to feel.

It frightens me. It intrigues me. It disturbs me.

"what's the difference if it all could have been true?"

Life Lessons with Lize: Part IV

The family.

These people. These are the people I have unconditionally loved for just over eighteen years. These are the ones who know almost every single thing there is to know about Eliza Summerhays. They have seen me cross my entire spectrum of emotions. They laugh at my witty comments. They laugh when I laugh at their laughs (Josh.) They love my facial expressions and my animation when I tell stories. They tease me because I'm the youngest. They hug me when I need one. They look after me no matter what. They are always assuring me that my health concerns are not a burden, even when I know they are disappointed we can't eat what they want a lot of times. Sorry. They love me for a lot more reasons, but the better part is why I love them.

I love that each personality is completely defined in this photograph.

Eight siblings. Two parents. Count 'em. I actually love having nine kids in the family. Even though there are soooo many people, there's variety. Each person is completely different. (and I realize I'm not the shortest girl. or the second or the third shortest, for that matter. Don't say a word. It's a touchy subject.)

I love that this is real life. We are a mob. A clan. We tried to go to the aquarium all together, and.... we took up the majority of the glass in front of the otter cage.

"Who run the world?"

I love how this is constantly occurring. But within the closed walls of our home, it's a lot louder.

I love each of these tender-hearted children sitting with my parents. {Two more baby girls are coming in October!} As a whole, they may get a bit overwhelming, but individually they have all found a way to capture my heart.

The whole bunch. This is pretty much the ONLY picture that is good of every single human. And trust me. I mean every human. You'd be surprised at how hard family pictures were for this family. So much talking and screaming kids and yelling and laughing.

This is my family. I love everything about them. They complete my life. They are my biggest fan club. It never gets old with these people. Sure we're dramatic and sure we have our feuds {aka we're human}, but have you ever seen such a good looking bunch?


The kids: Josh, Marianne, Patrick, Alyson, Meghan, Caleb, Shannon, Robert, me.

The in-laws: Lisa, Austin, Tawna, Jonathon.

The grandkids: Mallory & William, Jenna & baby girl, Christian & Channing & Anna & Skyler, Claire & Abby & baby girl.

"The only time we waste is the time we spend thinking we're alone."

The letter with no address

I write unsendable letters. They help contain the deepest thoughts that are screaming to spill through my soft, gentle lips. They provide force enough to swallow any urge of sharing my secret emotions. These letters don't have to be perfectly articulated or even make one sip of sense, for that matter, because those letters aren't for you or you or anyone else to read or reflect upon. They are for me. It's therapeutic, you see. And in the case that perhaps I would consider sending the letter, it saves me from the embarrassment of feeling like an idiot when you don't respond. 

ouch.

Yes, chances are there is at least one written about you. And readers who may think, "she doesn't even know me," or "she wouldn't have anything to say to or about me." You are wrong.

If you find yourself interested, intrigued, or curious, good luck finding any of them. They happen to be inconspicuously placed throughout many of my belongings: notebooks, journals, binders, jean pockets, trashcans, books, landfills, sticky notes, clothing drawers, etc.

They keep me from getting too close to the edge of my sanity.

What keeps you from going absolutely insane when it comes to dealing with other people?

Participation time, people. And... action.

"I'm just trying to be honest with myself, with you, with the world."

 

And I always will.

Blog purge... GO!

This week has been THAT kind. You know, the surreal, numb, go-with-the-flow, "time for change" type? So many funs and awkwards and emotions and confusions.

So many thousands of thoughts. And to think less than one fourth of my thoughts ever end up being successfully communicated with the world around me.

To channel my brainwaves as of late, please turn your attention to the Jonai playlist. If you do not have one, then who even are you?

Here's one of the faves (it's not the entire song, but please enjoy. And try to determine the deeper meaning of each lyric because it all applies directly to this week of mine.)



I am so pleased about the rain on Thursday. Favorite precipitation, if I do say so myself. Always has been. I just love the gray clouds and how refreshing the smell is. The air is so thin and clear. (Awkward side note: Only a person with allergies would feel a sense of  relation to the latter comment. Can't you just tell when the air is super thick with allergens? end side note.)

This post is so forced. My brain is mush.

"I wish you would just do as I say."
As you wish.