I should have. But I didn't.

Mallory,

Thank you for your blog post. Not only was it beautiful, and brave, and unique, but it got me thinking. That is what good writing does. It causes the reader to think. 

 (Read Mallory's post here!)

 I, too, am not proud of everything I have ever done in my life. I, too, have failed. This part of my life, is a part I don't share with most people. Mallory's post inspired me to share it. You see, my little brother Alex is Autistic. I know, I know. "Awh, he is so cute!", "You are so blessed to have him in your life!", "I wrote about Alex in my gratitude journal today Rachael!"

I know, guys. I know he is cute, I know he makes your day, I know he knows your name and gives you a high five in the hallways. I am proud of him for that too.  He is my little brother, I grew up watching cartoons with him on Saturday mornings in my parents bed, I am the one that gets to watch his face light up every Christmas eve as he waits for Santa even though he is sixteen years old. I love him. More than anything.

But, it's hard. You know?

I pulled my hair out of the tight knot it had dutifully carried all day and let it fall to my shoulders, the wind form the night dancing through the inevitable tangles. I allowed my voice to fill my lungs and join in the chorus with my friends; the familiar lyrics ran as liquid into my bloodstream, clearing out every ounce of stress and worry. It felt good to finally feel young. As we pulled up to my house, the laughter and booming music died, leaving behind an awkward silence as the red and blue of sirens filled the dark night, illuminating before my home. The car filled with a chorus of hushed whispers, of arms held tightly around my own. But I was numb. I stumbled out of the car door, and vaguely remember telling the girls everything was all right, I would call them later. I wouldn't, though. The worst part of it was; it would be all right. The worst part of it was; I knew that nobody in my family had died in a freak car accident; I knew exactly why the policeman were here. I knew I would walk into that door and find my Mom crying, I would watch the man kneel down next to him and try to explain why he needs to "keep his hands to himself, otherwise he would be "in trouble." I knew tomorrow it would all be the same, tomorrow my Mom would bundle up in a winter coat just to escape the bruises that would line her arms from him, from his anxiety. In that moment, with the ghost of the music ringing through my ears and the glow of the lights blinding my eyes; I hated him. No, I hated his handicap, but most of all I hated the way it had altered my life.
I often look back on nights like this with feelings of guilt, wishing I had said more, been more, done more to support my family rather than quietly slipping to my room, shutting the world out. I should have been strong. But I didn't feel strong. I should have been in the kitchen, acted as the oldest girl, rinsed out bowels of fruity pebbles, scrubbed the kitchen floor. But I was too tired. I should of told her it way okay she forgot to pick me up from school, again. But my pride defined me. I should have let her hug me. But she never remembered I have never felt comfort from touch. I should have let that hug comfort her.

I should have.

I should have.

I should have.

I should have.

I should have. 

I should have. 

I should have. 

But I didn't.

"I am proud of me" too, Mallory.

"Because I have done some difficult things."

And sometimes, you really should have. And you really didn't.

And sometimes, it's really okay. 

You know? 

--Rachael Cherish

p.s. I still love you

 

I Am.

I am the pressure of a backpack sliding against my arm in the hallways of American Fork high school. I am the fulfillment of creating something, a group of fifty, a spontaneous, choreographed dance number in the midst of lunch trays’ and cliques: our first Flash Mob ever. I am a Certified Nursing Assistant. I am a name badge in scrubs at an old folk’s home, the wrinkles of her hand and the warmth of her smile making even the most impossible day possible. I am the rhythmic impact of my tennis shoes as they hit the pavement, the weight of my aunt’s seven month old baby cradled into my arms. I am the red of the A on a spirit t-shirt during the finale against Lone Peak.I am the empty space above the rim filled with, "I BELIEVE IN A.F! I BELIEVE IN A.F!" I am the tart of mom’s homemade ice cream cooling my tongue, the way the light blankets my lawn right before sunset. I am a student body officer, and more than just a sweater. I am miracles. I am 5,555.32 dollars raised in two weeks, and the way those 12 homes lit up that cold, Christmas night. I am a head nurse at Primary Children’s Oncology department … someday. I am "believe in the beauty of your dreams." I am "Why do you want to go to Dixie State Rachael?" and, "It just feels right Dad".

But you see, I am not going to remember any of that. 

I am your laughter ringing through the air, these past four years etching the sound into every inch of my throat. I am that very first day, forever burned into my memory. Crooked teeth, warm eyes, the reflection of the snow casting light onto every freckle, every detail of your face.  I am the space between us for those first three months. We didn't touch.  Not at all. We took the time to know. You found your way into my brain, and I yours. Your voice, your gentleness, your patience, your intuition, counteracted with my passion, my energy, my light, perfectly. Together, we balanced. Together, we created something. I don't really care what people say about love in high school. High school is almost over anyway. I am that three word sentence written all over every aspect of my life last night, right this very second, and every moment of tomorrow.

I am you.

And I am so, happy.

"It's funny how the times that seem unbearable, are the ones that you don't ever want to end." -Drowning

Road Trip to Saint George 

 My throat feels as though someone has taken a salt shaker to it. Other than my voice sounding like an advertisement for a smoking commercial, it really was a lovely weekend. 

I am changing. The world around me is changing.

Funny, isn't it. I couldn't wait to get out of this place, to pack up and leave it all behind. And suddenly,it seems as though these next eight months have already begun to slip through my fingers. I don't want these memories to be over. Not quite yet. I find myself trying to capture every moment, every facial expression, every laugh, every receipt into the back of my eyelids, in through my ears, and down towards my heart. It is all happening so fast, and I never knew I could feel more for you than I already did, and I am out of breath, and I am happy. The right before you fall asleep and those few moments before I wake up in the morning kind of happy. Thank you for making me happy. 

I work as a C.N.A at an old folks home now. In memory support.

She has Alzheimers, and often cannot form complete ideas, complete thoughts.

But tonight, she prayed like there was no disease attacking her mind. 

She placed her withered hand over mine, and I cried as I listened to her whisper to the sky.

"My gracious Heavenly Father.I never thought it would be this hard to grow old. It hurts to walk, to move, to dress, to eat. Thank you for this young lady, thank you that she could help me get dressed, and use the bathroom. I love her. Thank you for sending her to me. Please bless her as she goes to college, as she finds a husband. I love thee Heavenly Father and I am so grateful to be alive. In the name of thy son, Jesus Christ, Amen."

This lady is  ninety two years old, and her walls are filled with elegant pictures of her life. Filled with memories that she can't remember.

People always say: 'You're a CNA? So you change peoples diapers ?" 

Well, yes.

But it is a little more than that.

"You will make more friends in two weeks being interested in others, than you would in two years trying to get others interested in you."-Corporate Alliance. 

Watch this Video. 

It will make you feel better.

Love, love love love love

-Rachael Cherish 

1dream noun, often attributive \ˈdrēm\

a : a visionary creation of the imagination: daydream

b : a state of mind marked by abstraction or release from reality : reverie

: something notable for its beauty, excellence, or enjoyable quality

Thursday night I went with my D.L. friends (" The nerd herd", "the loud ones in the library", "the uvu kids") to go see Pirates of the Caribbean four at midnight. Do not go see it. Waste of money.
The following day I raced home after school to catch up on some sleep before I proceeded to my night shift at Orange Leaf. Orange Leaf, on the other hand, I would highly recommend.


While sleeping on my bed in the late afternoon, I had a dream.
I rarely dream, and if I do, it is some sort of hazy, slipping, dim, and confusing memory that dances in front of my eyelids for only a few seconds before I wake up.

This dream was different.

I can close my eyes and remember every raw detail. The vivid green of the grass, the black of the trampoline beneath us, the patterns in his eyes, the blue of the sky, and the laziness of the clouds drifting overhead.
It was all so real.
We laid there on my tramp and listened to the beautiful silence that had never once caused me discomfort, but pure peace. We quietly talked and felt the sunshine warm our faces, he told me of what had been going on in his life, I told him of mine. 
He leaned over and he kissed me. I was only dreaming, but I felt it. You know? It was him. He was right there.
I wrapped my arms around his neck and began whimpering into his ear begging him to never leave again, begging him to stay, to be my friend, to listen to the rest of my day, to tell me more about how his family is doing. 
He laughed his laugh, pried me off of him and set me into his lap.
He told me I was being silly, that it was all a bad dream, that he promised he would always be my best friend, that he wasn't going anywhere at all, that he loved me.
I buried my head into his chest, wonderfully relieved, and let all my fears drift away with the white clouds above us.

And then I woke up.

You know, after a dream like that, it would have been perfectly normal for me to wake up with tears streaming down my cheeks.

I didn't wake up with tears in my eyes though, in fact I didn't cry at all.

I smiled the rest of the night.

It didn't make me love him again, or want him back.

I feel as though it was my subconscious brain's way of allowing me to be with him one last time.

It was a goodbye, a happy goodbye we never got.

b : something that fully satisfies a wish : ideal.

c : an object seen in a dreamlike state

At our student council party this weekend Mister Gregory Rellaford passed on the spirit horn to me.

The spirit horn has been around since the golden days, the days when my older brother was an SBO. I am honored. 

Summer is around the corner, I can almost taste it. 

There is so much to look forward to, and so many memories to smile back on.

I can't believe my junior year is coming to an end, it has truly been an unforgettable year.

I wouldn't go back and change one thing.

Good luck to the seniors. Change the world. Be yourself. Represent well. ;)

oh,

Read Hannah's blog post. I look up to her very much, and this post is absolutely beautiful. It was just what I needed to hear. Thank you.

Only two more weeks of school left. Make them good.

Don't be afraid.

Don't stress.

Stress is fear.

Just believe, have faith.

It will all work out in the end.

Disclaimer: This may or may not have happened. I will not confirm nor deny the contents of the following post.

We sat on the woodchips.
Haven't talked in ages.
Funny how quickly the feelings came back.
He said:
I should have done this a very long time ago.
and if i don't do it now, I will regret it for forever.
I looked at him.
and then before I knew what was happening,
it happened.
I think he was boy number five.
It felt like boy number one. 

It's getting better.

I am beginning to feel again.

What perfect timing, for I feel as though I am changing right along with the weather. The ice has melted away, leaving behind the sunshine, and the the occasional blanket of dark clouds and rainy days. Spring rain is perfect, is it not? I didn't mind the cold and the rain so much today, for I knew in a matter of hours, or a few short days, that the sun would come out again to open my mom's tulips in the front yard, to warm my sunburnt cheeks another day as I pedal my way to school in the mornings.

I had decided I would feel absolutely nothing.

And it worked, for about a month. I was not happy, nor sad, or angry, hurt, or excited, I was just ...  existing. My days emptily slipped by, smiling because I had to, finishing my homework because it was due, studying for my finals because it was scheduled into my planner, waking up because my alarm clock filtered into my ears.

I filled my life with distractions, carefully picking through my thoughts, avoiding any song, any place, any memory that might bring me back to the shadowed place I would never allow my mind to wander to. Every little thing I did was a distraction from one thing. It was truly a genius and to be quite honest, relieving plan.

Only one problem.

Somewhere along the way, my so called "distractions" began to hold weight in my heart. 

I laid on the tramp as the sun was setting one particular warm friday night, and watched the two boys mess around with the basketball, occasionally throwing it my way. And my heart suddenley ached as the realization hit me and fear washed over me. I love those boys.  I love the way that they play chess in the library for hours,  the way they kick the doors of the school open, the way that they do not consider the scored of minituare golf to be a joke: for it is a very serious matter. I love how I am treated the same whether I am wearing a pair of ratty sweats and a t-shirt, or a classy black dress and heels: it doesn't matter to them, I am Rachael.

 I had begun to feel again.  I cried last night. It's been a while. Happy tears though, knowing tears, growing up tears,  wise tears, the "I know change has come and it is time to accept it" kind of cry. 

I find myself smiling, not because I have to, but because I want to; laughing even. I can feel the pressure of somebody's backpack sliding across my arm in the hall, the cold wind whipping my hair across my cheeks, a still small voice somewhere inside me as Brother Casper teaches the gospel telling me "it is true rachael, I am here.", I can feel the rhythmic impact through my tennis shoes as I run on the pavement, the weight of my Aunt's seven month old baby in my arms as I held him and watched his contagious smile light up the room. 

I don't know. I don't know anymore. I don't know what I want, what is going to happen, where I am going. I don't have any plans at the moment.

But that is okay.

Someday, the walls will come down. I know they will. I refuse to rush anything, it may take me days, months, years, seconds, whatever. to heal, but that's fine, I have all the time in the world.

Afterall, I am only seventeen and a half years old. (I missed my half birthday again, can you believe it!?) That is a requirement for my man someday, he must remember my half birthday, because I never do...

I will fall in love someday. The real kind. The run and jump into your welcoming arms, kiss right in the middle of a crowd, through thick and thin, forever kind.   
And this time, it's gonna last.

For heaven's sakes, If I have learned anything, allow yourself to feel. Life hurts. It really does. We were never promised everything would be perfect, only that it would all be worth it in the end. Go somewhere very quiet and very abandoned, or heck, somewhere very public and very crowded and scream. yell. sing. something. Get it out. You will feel better, I promise.

Live your life. There is only one. And it is all yours.

Here's to you.

We were sitting on your porch one day. Remember? You told me if I ever had a blog, you would read it. I laughed quietly and swore to myself I never would. 

Well.

Someday, if you ever read this blog, 

This one is for you. 

Here's to you.

Here is to thick, creamy, raspberry milkshakes. Here is to the first letter I ever received; five pages of left slanted handwriting.  Here is to cuts on fingers, the warmth of your eyes, that night in the rain, a first beautiful, crooked smile on a yellow school bus. Here is to the boy in red vans, a mouth full of snickers, finding the courage to say hello. Here is to not feeling the rain as it fell onto us that night, to our first slow dance. Here is to every post of every American Fork High School girl that has written about you.  Here is to the metallic smell of two empty swings, the pressure of your fingers pressing gently into my hand as you processed information, to full moons, and 11:11. Here is to "what do you want?", "can i ask you a question?", "tell me a secret", "you feel like home"and "I will always come back, I promise." Here is to the missionaries, the two brothers that left their legacy for us. Here is to braces, and and growing up together; learning from each other. Here is to the twenty eighth, the twenty first, and March the fourteenth.  Here is to knowing every detail of ones soul one day,  and pretending you have never met them the next. Here is to the white house with the wrap around porch that will never be sold,  to the freckle right underneath your eye, the one on your arm, and my desperate attempts to count the ones on your fingers. Here is to nine crimes. Here is to the first time you ever hugged me, it took three months, remember? Here is to Abby, Jeremy, and Ema. Here is to your testimony of the Gospel of Jesus Christ through your example.  Here is to sunrises, sunsets, and talking until five in the morning. Here is to Oakland's silly face he made, to Madison running to greet me in the front yard.  Here is to kisses that mean something, taking a nap in a field, and a river in the canyon on a hot summer day. Here is to a library, with oak floors, thick rugs, warm reading lamps, and a window seat facing the sunset. Here is to people being worth more than what they wear. Here is to otter pops, hot fudge sunday poptars, blue gatorade, cowtails, lemon yogurt, and scraping barbeque for 7:25 an hour. Here is to the boy that taught me to slow down, to appreciate every little thing along the path,who taught me how to love.

Here is to not forgetting, but letting go, and moving on.
Here is to saving that small part of your heart. 

Here is to acting like it never happened.

Here is so saying hello in the hall.

Here is to falling in love when you are young, fearing absolutely nothing, diving in head first, and following your heart.
Here is to being willing to do anything for one person.
Here is to him not deserving you at your best, when he can't handle you at your worst.
Here is to building your foundation on what matters most.

Here is to the boy that deserves somebody, someday to match his socks, to wake up with him in the mornings before he leaves to work, to give him an attacking hug when he walks in the door, to make sure he wears thick wool socks and drinks lots of orange juice when he is sick. 

Here is to her, I am happy for her, and happy for him.

I really am.

I am happy for me, and feel blessed and grateful to be me.

Here is to Saint George with the girls this weekend, taking time to heal, allowing yourself to feel things, escaping another world through the pages of a familiar book, Young Women's modest fashion show projects, summertime, incredible friends, long trips, and my family.

Good Luck boy in the red vans,
thank you for being a part of my story.