Things.

Today I had to call a former place of employment.
Things didn't necessarily end well--it's the only place I've ever been let go from--but I was going to leave anyway, they just beat me to the punch. Gave me this whole story on how terrible they felt to let me go and blah blah, so I washed my hands of them and carried on with life. Things are great now and I'm really in a great place.
I got this letter in the mail from them and had to call them about it after I couldn't resolve things through a website, and it took me a while to psych myself up for it. I wondered if they'd give me the whole air that they did me a favor in letting me go, or what they'd do.
They didn't. They were cold, strictly business. Which is fine, except that I've known them since I was four. Before working there, that's not how it was. Then they pursued me to work for them for months until I agreed. I gave them two years of my life. But now they've made their bed and are lying in it, happy as can be with the new lady they hired.

I was so upset after the call. Frustrated beyond all reason. I don't even know what I expected, but they made me feel like an idiot somehow, and I remembered how this used to be my daily life.

Then I thought about the type of people I've realized they are, and the type of people they hang around with. And if that's what I have to be to get their approval, I don't want it.
This isn't a lone opinion, it's confirmed through many people who have encountered them, even still as I meet people who have crossed their path and now cross mine.

I can't tell you how good it is to work for people with character. People who aren't selfish. People who are understanding, yet know what they want from an employee. People who guide you in how to be that without shutting you down. People who are great at running a business in a way to keep employees rather than what is oh too common.

I like who I am. I'm glad to be who I am. And regardless of how the terrible people of the world try to use me or make me feel, screw them. I'd rather be me.

?

I've been in a funk

and I didn't realize how often these funks come this time of year until I logged in to Time Hop and saw tweets that echoed what I struggle to say.

What is it about the end of April/beginning of May that gets me?

Remember ©

When you think of me,

     Think of the way the spring air blows through your hair
     And the sun warms your face.

When you think of me,

     Think of the unrestrained laughter of children
     Smiling up at you in admiration.

When you think of me,
   
     Think of the words spoken
     Helping ease the sting life brings

When you think of me,

     Think of those songs that make your soul sing
     Seeping through your skin into the depths of who you are.

When you think of me,

     Think of a kind embrace
     Perfectly timed.

When you think of me,

     Think of the first time you notice
     One of the simple beauties life brings.

When you think of me,

     Think of the way your soul is satisfied
     When you succeed at something you love.

You may not think of me,
At times you may forget me.
But that's okay.

     Think of me in the little things,
     Held in quiet moments,
         
          And remember.

I'm still here.

Four years have passed.
Nine years have passed.
Fourteen years have passed.
Twenty-Nine years have passed.

All these different "anniversaries"; remembering people I used to touch, used to see, used to hear them laugh and speak. Now they're six feet under, kept alive only by memories.

I constantly find myself fighting off that tinge of fear, wondering who among me might be next. Who do I have here today that could be gone tomorrow?

And really, I'm one of the lucky ones.
I haven't had everyone and everything I know and love taken from me with a quake of the earth or a wave of the ocean.
I haven't been stolen from my home and sold to fill some sick propaganda.
I haven't had my race attacked in attempt to wipe them from the face of the earth.
No one has come into my home or school and opened fire.
My house hasn't been burned to the ground for my beliefs.
No, I have more friends above the ground than below it.

I've never even seen a dead body,
Save for the open caskets at funerals.
Swollen faces of friends dressed in their Sunday best.
Bruises on their neck.
Bruises on their face.
Bruises on their arms.
Depending on their fate.

Who knew that their stories would end at
Seventeen Years,
Nineteen Years,
Twenty-Four Years,
Sixty-One Years?
Who knew that their story would finish that day?
Whatever legacy they've built with the time they were given being all that's left to carry on now that they're gone.
And whose responsibility is it to make sure it doesn't die with them?
What does it really matter if it does?

Please know,
Even though the names are countless,
I still pause to remember you.
I still feel the sting of the loss.
It may fade, but it never goes away.

Please know your life is worth it.