Scatterbrained

It's that time of year again. That time when things pile up until you can barely breath, and then finals are over. It's a very stressful time for me and countless other students, and I swear it takes a few years off my life. This year, however, has been the most difficult since my freshman year here at Gettysburg. No matter how many times I sit down and make a to-do list, I always forget to look at it, check it off, and when I do, I find that one out of a gazillion things able to be scratched off. Talk about frustrating.

Why the title of this blog is Scatterbrain is because that's what I am. It's been something I have struggled with since I was little, and that one day it became apparent to me that I was, indeed, a little disorganized.

It was the day I failed my first math test in 3rd grade. I had been such a spectacular students (or I felt like one, at the time) and I understood everything that was given to me. Then, the wall. The wall of mathematics that suddenly went WAY over my head. I tried as hard as I could to get things right, to work on it, but it wasn't connecting. I was horribly embarrassed and frightened, and I remember seeing commercials for the new movie Radio. I connected with it, for some reason, and I always told my mother that I felt like I was Radio. I felt like something was wrong with me.

When I was in 5th grade, I was finally tested for a learning disability. I remember sitting in a small colorful room with Dr. Kym as he asked me questions and quizzed me on certain things and talked to me about how I manage school. I told him honestly, I struggled to focus, as if I was fighting against an invisible brick wall. Numbers might as well be a different language. I was diagnosed with ADD, without the H. Attention Deficit (Hyperactivity) Disorder. I was able to sit still, but still faced some sluggish tendencies of the battle to pay attention. This disorder has been the butts of many jokes and sometimes has been misdiagnosed, but when is anything in science and study perfect? In all honesty, it's not funny. When people laugh about "Oh man, you're so ADD. Oops! Had an ADD moment, sorry", it isn't funny. It's something that people struggle with every day of their lives. And I'm one of them.

I was put on Adderall, but I felt as though it took away a huge part of who I am-- my creativity. I loved to paint, to draw and to creatively write, and this medication took all desire to do so away. I was regimented and structured. I felt like I put myself inside the lines, but I wasn't happy. I could focus but I felt a piece of myself missing. Feeling like I needed to make an 'adult' call, I talked to my doctor and told him I didn't want to be on it anymore. He listened to me talk, which to this day I appreciate. I was 11 or 12, and he treated me like my opinion mattered.

Freshman year of high school was another hard year for me. Math, my God. It shouldn't even be in a curriculum for students who aren't going into that field. I used to joke "When am I going to have to know Trig out of a battlefield tour?" and my favorite math teacher would say, "Em, lemme tell ya' something... the North won." and we'd both laugh. I skimmed through high school with enough focus to get by with decent grades, even with major surgery. When I found Gettysburg College, I busted my butt to get in here because I knew I belonged there. A world of Civil War scholars on a battlefield? Count me in!

What I didn't know was how hard Gettysburg truly is. Granted, they warn you. They really, really do. "A highly selective" liberal arts school means the best of the best come here, and I have always known that I am not one of them. Freshman year was hard, and I helplessly watched as my grades slowly began to fall one point after the other. After coming back from a Spanish class with my professor saying, "Emma, I don't know why you're not understanding this. There is no other way for me to explain it to you. Why isn't it sticking?" I knew I needed some help to get myself back on track and produce the work I knew I was capable of.

Now, two years later and a new medication, I still battle every day with what I call "the fuzz". It's a constant film over my thought process that medication helps me take away. I am able to get up and do work, but sometimes it fades. I still battle with distractions and other things I would rather be doing. I get bored with classes I don't like, which is another battle in itself the higher the education level goes.

The saying "Just do it" is hard for me to hear because sometimes, people can't. They can't do it through the fuzz. They can't just sit down and not have their thoughts fly in a million directions. And that's OKAY. There is nothing wrong with that. I am scatterbrained. I forget things, I take forever to read a book. Papers freak me out and projects always seem too big but I know that if I keep pushing, this will not define me. I do not want to be scatterbrained, even though I am. I strive to learn around my flaw that many people don't even know I have. I taught myself a new system of organization that I've even shared with some of my professors to help myself organize. I freeze when things pile up or when I'm faced with thoughts of my future. But I am still going. Sure, I may fall asleep after my medication wears off. Usually people don't notice unless they know. After 12 hours, I'm exhausted. I'm not lazy. I don't like sleeping so much. But I'd rather take the exhaustion and the fuzz-free day than be able to stay up late, do half the work I could have, and fight through the fuzz.

In the end, this semester has taught me that even though it may seem hard right now with countless pages, research, and finals ahead of me, I have overcome before. I got here, didn't I? So I can get to other places, even being scatterbrained.

My ADD doesn't define me. It makes the wonderful little person we call "Emma".

Twenty-One

On Wednesday, November 13th, I will be turning twenty-one.

I know this blog is usually things I reflect on or ponder, and for the past week I have had a million things to ponder. How will I write this paper? How am I going to do this presentation? How will I spend time with my house? How will I spend time with my boyfriend? Family?  Friends? Where am I going this summer? What do I want to do with my life? When will I get my room organized? Why does it always take forever for me to do laundry? Why does purple make-up always make my eyes burn?


Despite the randomness of my thoughts, some of these points stick out more than others. For example, my upcoming summer. I want to intern at one park, but one park might not want me. From my gathered knowledge, many OTHER parks want me to intern for them. While grappling with what I want to do verses what I should do, it all boils down to now being an adult. I'll be of legal age to drink after the 13th... so now I'm an adult? How is that right?

What I've come to realize is that birthday's do not mean you'll change overnight. The only thing that changes is the number and for me, the fact that I can drink. Change doesn't come with the stroke of midnight, and it takes time to happen. On every birthday since I was 18, I have learned that it takes time. Takes time to what? That's what life is to decide.

On the night before my 18th birthday, my sister and I sat up to watch the clock hit midnight. We would finally be a legal adult and no longer a minor, and for me, that was a big deal. I had a guy I was head over heels in love with constantly telling me I needed to turn 18 for us to date. He was a few years older than me, which made that requirement understandable. But for me, it was something more. I thought once I turned 18, I would have a revelation in my life and would change into this beautiful, attractive, sexy and desired woman once the clock stroked twelve. I literally held my breath as my computer clock hit midnight.

At 12:01, I didn't feel any different. Nothing had changed, and no message of saying, "Oh yes, Emma, I want to be with you!" came to me. I was stunned, but now looking back, I laugh. I wanted change so badly that  I thought it would be easy. Nothing in life is easy, 18-year-old self. Things are hard, and you have to fight through them. That night I could barely talk because of spacers in my teeth for my 3rd set of braces. Now, years later, I have the joy of a retainer and lovely straight teeth. YEARS LATER. Just like braces, it takes time to change into the straight perfection we all crave, and sometimes perfection isn't achieved. I have some space still between my teeth, but they look wonderful, so what's the problem? What's the problem with not being ready? I wasn't ready for a serious relationship at 18. I wasn't ready for the change of adulthood yet, either. And even at 21, I'm not so sure I'm ready for adulthood.

But that's the beauty of change. It doesn't come when you're not ready. Doesn't even come when you're ready! It comes when you're not even looking. This upcoming decision for my summer won't come when I'm sitting at the computer biting my nails wondering and hoping and PRAYING that an answer will fall out of the sky. It'll come when I've had a rough day and I'm overwhelmed or when it's been a wonderful day and I've been productive. In both scenarios, I'm just taking my life one day at a time. I'm successful in the sense that I got up and faced the day. Some days it's hard, and others I'm bounding for the door. But with every day that I go and live my life, I'm changing. Not drastically and not over night, but I'm maturing into the adult I want to be. I'm learning lessons, both academically and socially. I am learning about myself and my limitations that I can take into the workforce or future education opportunities. I am learning that I care deeply for my friends and that's okay; they care about me too. I am learning that a relationship isn't easy, but the purest, deepest love helps work things out, even if it takes a month. If you really love someone, you'll work through it all. Fight and yell at each other, but then say "I'm sorry" to each other and admit to your faults.

B and I had been struggling for the past few weeks on quality time and communication. I couldn't understand why he wanted to be in the library all the time on the weekends instead of spending the day with me. The work wouldn't be due for days, even weeks! But he couldn't understand why I wouldn't let him work. A vicious cycle of trying to fit together with our passion for knowledge but our want of quality time didn't work for almost a month. Change didn't come until we weren't looking. A casual conversation on the upcoming week turned into a life changing heart to heart that struck both of us to the core. Since that day, we have been working together beautifully, and have returned to the working machine of a relationship.


But that wasn't at the stroke of midnight. It wasn't even a birthday. It was just a day after we grew and learned the hard way.

To my many birthday buddies, have a wonderful birthday. I'll be toasting you with my first legal glass of wine... or Jameson, or something.


~E

May the Civil War Force Be With You

It's been an interesting month of September for me. I'm a junior in college now, which is kind of a limbo stage between being a college student and being an adult. I still am in school, but I'm getting closer and closer to that time of making a choice.

Do I go off to graduate school, or do I get a job and wait a year?

As I walked back home from my class this morning, the song "Breakaway" by Kelly Clarkson came on my iPod. For the first time, really, I listened to the words, and it struck me hard. When I came to Gettysburg College, it was a huge change. I wanted to break away and go find who I was. Who am I? What do I want to do in my life?

I was scared. I was afraid of taking a risk and following my dreams. All these thoughts of "I want to do this! I want to do that!" flooded my head in the first few weeks of my freshman year. But a life changing paper in my First Year Seminar brought me to a man who's been in my thoughts and prayers for the past few weeks. A man who took this overly excited, jumpy, skiddish, obsessed kid and turned her into a calm, collected, upcoming historian.

For privacy sake, I'm going to call him "Obi-Wan". Yes, this is from Obi-Wan Kenobi in Star Wars, but his mentoring advice has been like a Jedi to a  young padawan.

I chose Obi-Wan as the person to interview for this paper because I had seen him on TV. A documentary on the battle of Gettysburg featured him and many other historians talking about the battle, and I noticed under his name it said "Gettysburg College". I literally started shaking my friend next to me, screaming "HE COULD BE ONE OF MY PROFESSORS! I AM GOING TO HAVE HIM AS A PROFESSOR OH MY GOOOODD!" From that moment, I knew I wanted to meet him. His passion for the subject he was talking about was so obvious. It literally dripped off every word he said in the documentary, and I wanted to learn how to do that. I wanted to learn how to convey this passion in such a powerful way.

From that interview on, he has pushed me to succeed. I had only been on campus for a few weeks, and he was already telling me to apply for an internship program, become a Civil War Fellow and to get involved with the Civil War community.  I was so scared, but the faith he put in me was so encouraging, I did exactly what he said. When I walked into the internship interview, a table full of supervisory historians from many different National Park  battlefields looked up at me and smiled.

"So, I hear you are a twin?"

I froze, shakily answering that I was, in fact, and identical twin. I must have had a very confused look on my face, because they all laughed.

"(Obi-Wan) was just talking about you, and how you're an identical twin. That must be really cool!"
I remember blushing, looking over at Obi-Wan with a huge smile on my face. He nodded to me, and started the interview off on a cheerful note. Coming out of that interview, and now knowing what happened behind the scenes, I was not the first choice for many of the parks. I was only an 18 year old freshman with no real work experience, and I had never lived on my own. They seemed leery of me, but Obi-Wan stuck his neck out for me. A supervisory historian from the park I ended up going to told me months later that had it not been for Obi-Wan's advice, he wouldn't have chosen me, but he was so thankful he did. "I was so glad I listened to (Obi-Wan), because he was right. You were the right choice."

Obi-Wan has impacted my life so much in the limited time I've been here at Gettysburg College. He has always told me I have potential, that I will be a wonderful historian if I just put some faith in myself. When I told him I was thinking about switching majors because so many students around me were telling me I wasn't a good historian, a good writer, or a good researcher, he told me to knock it off.

"Emma, that's crazy. Who ever told you that? You just have the confidence in yourself to keep going. You'll get there."

Now, I reverse this back to him. My Obi-Wan discovered a brain tumor earlier this month, which has been removed successfully. Now diagnosed with cancer, he has a whole new battle to fight. But like my scared little freshman self, I use his words on him.

Have confidence in yourself, Obi-Wan. Keep going, because you'll get there. You'll be back before you know it, scarves and all. The Civil War Force flows strongly through you, and you are supported by an army of Civil Warriors. Students, friends, and faculty are all behind you.

I also want to thank him, for everything he has done for me. I'm not afraid to start a historical conversation. I enjoy discussing history with people around me, and I don't doubt myself. I am a young padawan, learning to use the Civil War Force as my Jedi Master has taught me. I continue to pray, as I ask the people who read this blog to as well, for the Force to be with him, and that he may have a successful recovery.

May the Force be with you.

~E

Fears of My Face

Has anyone ever had a traumatic experience? Maybe a bad break up that makes you afraid of love, a car accident that makes you afraid to drive or a fall that makes you afraid of heights?

We all have something that we are afraid of, whether it be logical or not. It usually stems from something that has happened to us in the past which makes us afraid of the future. Recently, I have had one suddenly bubble up in my chest, making my heart race and bring tears to my eyes at just the thought of it.

My face.

Since I was 12, I have suffered from TMJ. That is short for temporal mandibular joint disorder, which is the joints that make up your jaw. Those beautiful hinges that get a lot of exercise during the day, from drinking a glass of water to chewing a piece of gum to giving someone a kiss, use the muscles and joints in your face. To save everyone from the long story, I'll sum it up quick: the left joint wouldn't stop growing, the right did stop growing, and my face shifted. True, many people today don't believe me that my face is off center, which I appreciate, but I can guarantee you, it is. Which is a-okay! I have finally reached that point in my life where I love my face, my crooked little chin and lopsided bones. It makes me, well, me. I've had two facial surgeries in my lifetime, the last being rather traumatic. I had my mouth wired shut, with times to open and close my mouth for a specific time for 9 months.  Limited liquid, non-chew diet to a soft chew diet until the 9 months was up. It was hard, and with this struggle emerged a deep seeded fear of reversal.

I am deathly afraid my face will go back to how it was before my surgery.

That ripping, tearing agony that shred through every fiber in my face, the sharp, quick shots of pain that sliced through the joints and into my eyes, my head and neck could return. I know it won't, but I have this fear that it could.

During one of my times out of my mouth piece, my splint had accidentally been knocked off the bathroom counter and into the garbage can. Returning to put my equipment back on, I couldn't find it. I searched through every nook and cranny of the bathroom, through the kitchen where I had something to eat, and I dumped out my jaw back all the way down to the last rubber band. Panic set in, and I started to cry. I was frantic, having only one thing go through my head.

I don't want to go back.

Finally digging through the garbage, I found my splint at the bottom of the can. It was perfectly fine, just happened to get buried. I sobbed that particular cry of fright, one where you're trying to gasp for air while feeling like you can't breathe. Rocking back and forth with that little piece of plastic in my hands, I thanked God for the ability to find it. That little piece with those little rubber bands guaranteed me a life that was pain free. As long as I had that, I was safe. My face was still safe.


It's been almost 4 years since my surgery, and I am still pain free. It has been a long road, with many sets of braces, multiple retainers and diet restrictions. But one little thing can burst that safety balloon, and I have done just that. My current retainer has been damaged, and I have no idea how. I've worn it for the past two years, and it suddenly wouldn't fit. One of the side wired was accidentally bent, and I couldn't figure out how. How do I fix it? How do I sleep without it? What will happen if I don't have it? What's going to happen?!

I've finally have an appointment set up to get myself a new one, a couple months after my last one was damaged, but the fear still boils up once in a while, especially in moments like this. My palms sweat and my heart races as  I remember those long nights laying in bed with every muscle relaxed from my medication while my face throbbed, untouched from the pill.

God doesn't give you fear for nothing. Even with this fear, I have this deep thanks for His blessing of a pain free life. Every day, I get up and go to class no problem, which is the polar opposite as it was years ago when I struggled to go to school through the pain. What a blessing it is. The loss of such a blessing is a scary, and I pray to God every day to keep my face safe.

It is my crooked little face, after all, and I wouldn't be Emma without talkin' a lot.

~E

One Year

I have been quiet on here for a while, for which I apologize. I have started my internship with the National Park Service, working at Richmond National Battlefields. It has been an incredible first two weeks, with the staff and work being so much fun. Having this much fun makes getting up for work in the morning ten-times easier. I am truly grateful for this opportunity for the second summer in a  row. and also grateful that Bobby is working so close to my park, especially since we're just about to make it to our one year anniversary.

The technically day that we have pinned is June 12th, despite us being together since today, the 9th. We were so nervous to be around each other when he came to visit Fredericksburg for the first time, which was weird compared to the countless hours we spent together just as friends during the school year. We were always close, sharing our love for history and the Civil War, but it was never like this. It was never this comfortable than that moment as I slipped my hand into his. A completing calm filled my heart, and I knew that I had found the one. I still feel like that today, though it is much stronger a year later.

I know I talk about him a lot, and bring him up frequently, but he is half of who I am. We encourage each other, support each other, even make fun of each other. Our life together is full of love and laughter, with more joy than I ever could have dreamed of. My life isn't anything like I thought it would be years ago--- it is 100x better.

As I go into my next week of work and my tour is coming together, I feel so grateful for how my life has turned out. In one year, I have made new friends, fallen in love, found my dream job, moved to a different state, and worked harder than ever, and it's paying off. I'm smiling more, I find myself laughing more and enjoying where I am today. Hell, I'm even sleeping better and deeper than before. No more nightmares of my past, just dreams of my future and my life. In one year, my life has changed for the better, and I cannot wait to see what this next year will bring.

To my love, my darling Robert--
Thank you for riding the front row of my roller coaster life, holding my hand in all the twists and turns. Even in a year, you still want to keep your seat at the front despite the unknown track. I couldn't be more blessed to have you in my life, for many years to come. I love you with all of my heart and more. Forever and for always.

~E

Write It Out

One week. One week more, and I will be half way through my college career. I know many of my friends are getting ready to graduate, many who I will miss very much, even if they are here at Gettysburg or at other universities. But as they are beginning to feel the fear of graduation, I am beginning to feel a similar (though not equal, by any means) fear at the fact that I am going to be a junior in college-- half way done, and half way to real life. What will am I going to bring to real life? What has Gettysburg given me to take into my future?

I am a history major, which means I write a lot of papers, reactions, discussions and blogs. These are only a few things that come with the major, but also my minor. I am a Civil War Era Studies minor, studying the American Civil War on the ground of the most famous battle of the war---Gettysburg.

With the level of my education, I almost have my entire major/minor requirements filled. Do I want to leave my label as a History kid and Civil War junkie, or do I add to myself? As I contemplate, I remember something that I've always wanted to do since I was little.

Write.

My mother has always told me that I have been a story teller from the time I could talk. My first recorded story, one I wrote in a tiny green notepad, was when I was 6 years old. I wrote about a mermaid who got stuck in a ravine, having her father call upon a soldier to save her. He cuts her out of the snarled reef, falls in love with her and marries her, which turns into an ocean holiday. When the Young Authors contest came around in grade school, I always went to the finals, but never heard where it went after that. Moving through high school, I worked on many story ideas, but one I constantly worked on stops today at over 125 pages. Once this story stalled, I stopped writing.

A small critic on any writing produces massive doubt. Since I've been in college, my writing has been slammed from every direction; both positive and negative. I had gotten to the point of staring at the blank screen crying because I didn't know what to do. What do my professors want?!

A blessing in disguise was my last-minute choice to take a Creative Writing class last fall. It filled one of my requirements, and I assumed I would enjoy it, even with my fear of writing. The first day of class, my professor came in and sat before us, a softened wise eye glanced over his class. He smiled, making the atmosphere immediately comfortable. He asked us to close our eyes and imagine our most painful memory. We all took a sharp breath, letting the pain return. I envisioned my jaw, the ravishing pain ripping through every muscle, every fiber in my face, and how much agony I had endured when my jaw locked open.

"Now write it."

I froze, feeling an embarrassed heat flush my face a deep red. Everyone around me began to write, but I sat with my pencil in my hand, staring at my notebook. A knot in my stomach tightened as I forced some words down, frequently erasing and rewriting my experience.

When we finished, we read ours outloud, giving the class a taste of our writing style. When I read mine, I was shaking, terrified of it being torn apart. As I read the last sentence, a stunned silence filled the room. My professor slowly nodded, a small, proud smile was on his face.
"Good. Very good. You can really feel the pain. Dive into that."

I smiled, feeling some of my confidence return. It continued that way as my professor challenged me, encouraging me to dig deeper into the pit of my soul and find my true self through writing. I wrote about dreams, a fraternity party rape scene, a break up, an interrogation of a serial killer who believed he was saving his victims from Hell, poetry of my jealousy of others and Robert E. Lee's guilt of Pickett's Charge. All of these were poured over as I felt myself enjoying it. Enjoying the writing process, something I had forgotten how to do. I ended up with an A+ in the class from a very proud and impressed professor who I look up to and admire today. He helped me break out of my paralyzing fright and move on to hear my voice.

My last week, I have two papers due; one of which I have been working on for months. Massive research at the Library of Congress and digging through the Georgia State Archives and the UGA archives to find information about the changing of the Georgia state flag from 1956-2004. Anyone who has talked to me in the last few weeks knows how excited I am to write this paper. It's going to be great! But this excitement leads me to wonder if maybe, just maybe, a Civil War Era Studies minor isn't enough on my minor plate. I'm thinking about writing it out, and making it official.

For my last two years at school, I will be a History major, Civil War Era Studies and Writing Minors. I will be published soon.

~E

Sometimes You Just Know

When do you know you have found the love of your life? Does God send you a letter of confirmation? Is there a receipt you get, like a purchase? How long do you have to wait until you know? Or is it immediate?

I know I am not as wise as the old woman in the shoe, but I have had relationships in the past, crushes, first loves and first kisses. But when I came to college, I wanted to take a break. I didn’t want any relationship getting in my way of my career, or distracting me from my work. I shut that part of myself off, thinking that if I were to meet someone I wanted to date, I would. I was wrong.

In shutting down this part of myself, I forced my feelings away. I made sure I didn’t feel anything for anyone. No flushed faces or trembling hands or stomach flips. I wanted nothing, thus I tried to force myself to feel nothing. But it didn’t work.


I was talking to my friend Joshua about my hobby of Civil War reenacting, and he had mentioned he had a reenactor on his floor named Bobby, who was in my Greek Civ class. For the life of me, I couldn’t place this boy’s face. I tried and tried, but I told him honestly that if he wasn’t in the reenacting group on campus, then I didn’t know him. I kept that name in mind, and remembered it as I went into class a few days later. Pin pointing this boy in my class, I knew I wanted to someday bring it up that we were both reenactors. More friends who do this, the better!

A few weeks later, I was in a group that had prepared a piece from the play Agamemnon, which of course made me Cassandra. Cassandra was a crazy wench that was possessed by Apollo, who screamed at the top of her lungs and ripped pieces of her clothes to shreds. I had gotten a robe to put over my normal clothes to rip and a wreath to throw off my head, but my partner that I was going to scream at had skipped class. With less than 15 seconds to perform for the class, a tall, broad shouldered young man in a baseball cap and a sweatshirt runs in late, immediately making us grab him not only for the ease of signing him up, but because he was a phenomenal speaker of ancient text.

“Bobby, you have to do this!” Our group leader threw him a wreath for his head, and I immediately turned to look at him more closely. This was the boy that reenacts too!

None of us knew that Bobby hadn’t read the play. Not a single word, so as he read down the lines to find a screaming girl, little did he know how much screaming I was going to do. When my part came up, and I ripped and screamed and cried less than a foot away from him, his face slowly turned red with embarrassment.

Aw, poor thing. I remember thinking as I continued my act. I wanted to immediately stop and apologize for screaming at him. Some first impression, right? After class was over, I packed up my things, heading over to Bobby putting his books away.

“Hey, sorry I had to scream in your face. Thought I should actually officially meet you. I’m Emma.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Bobby.” He said as we shook hands.

It was a normal handshake, nothing new or exciting. I didn’t have a flash of my future nor did I feel faint. I felt a warmth of meeting someone new, and I felt as though I wanted to get to know him more.

Facebook is a beautiful things when you want to find out more about someone. When I found Bobby on Facebook, his profile picture was a Civil War one, immediately making me smile. I distinctly remember thinking that I felt funny. A warm, comfort lingered as I looked through some of his pictures and reading his information. That all stopped when I found Bobby listed in a relationship with someone. My heart fell, especially at the date. Almost two years of dating? And she’s older? Ah, well glad he’s happy.

I felt a moment of loss, but I shook it out, officially shutting the door on any thoughts on any relationship with him. He looked happy, and I was happy. So I settled on a friendship, always having his girlfriend in mind. We became closer friends, always going to meals with our group of friends. Before long, he became my best friend.  I turned to him for everything, whether it be a guy flirting with me or my sister’s emergency surgery or a friend back home’s break up, I always turned to Bobby. I needed him in my life, and I remember a specific conversation with my father after he met Bobby for the first time. He knew he was in a relationship, and my father also knew that I was causing problems. I totally understand, because what type of girlfriend wouldn’t be jealous of another girl hanging out with her man? It’s scary and unnerving. But my dad gave me an ultimatum. I either drop my friendship with Bobby to save his relationship, or I back down my friendship to a minimal level for his relationship.

I suddenly had a tightening in my chest, like I couldn’t breathe.
“Dad, I can’t.”
“Why not, Em? He’s just a friend.”
“I know that, I know, but---I just can’t stand my life without him. I can’t imagine my life without Bobby there. He’s a big part of it now, and he’s my best friend. I can’t… I can’t do that.”

Our friendship suddenly became very close at the end of the school year as I began to fear my upcoming internship with the National Park Service. I turned to Bobby for comfort, since I didn’t feel good enough to be going. How would I give these tours?! How will I live?? But Bobby also turned to me, his relationship beginning to become strained. There was a night he called me, asking to go for a walk. He needed to talk it out with someone, and he knew we’d go to our spot and lay it all out for analyses, like we did with everything. The porch of an original building on campus, one that lived through the battle and housed wounded soldiers, has rocking chairs that we always would sit in. This time, I took a rocking chair, and he took a normal seat, immediately putting his head in his hands. He was lost, wondering if he was making the right choices. “What if there’s someone better out there for me? What if I can’t find her? What if I’m missing her right now? I just have  a feeling that there’s someone better…” He said as he turned and looked at me. I felt my heart racing, and my face was red. Red? I pushed it aside, knowing that it was just because of the warmth of the coming summer making me hot and red. And even with that small pitch to say, “Yeah, there is. She’s right here. I’d never treat you or any other boyfriend like that! I don’t treat people like that…” I didn’t. I couldn’t make myself say something like that. I wanted to take his pain away, yet I knew I couldn’t. There was nothing I could do. I kept pushing him to work it out with his girlfriend. It was just because they were far away. He truly cared about her, and not me. Right? Right? Yes.

I had convinced myself that there was no way he had feelings for me because he was with someone else. I thought she was better than me in every aspect of life, like I felt many girls were at the time, so he belonged with her. I knew he completed me, but didn’t belong with me. I was perfectly fine alone.

On the last day of school, while I was still packing, Bobby’s father and little brother had come to pick him up. I made sure he said goodbye to me, because I was going to be cut off from the world in a week at my internship, and I felt a building fear of the idea that I wasn’t going to see him again until August. I leaned up and gave him a hug, feeling his warm, strong arms around me. Even for that brief moment, I wanted to hold on tight. Why? My heart rumbled with an emotion I didn’t recognize as he suddenly let go quickly, pushing me away to state he needed to turn in his last paper. I watched him go, feeling hurt at his quick goodbye as I made awkward small talk with his father and meeting his adorable little brother. 

Before Bobby was able to come back, I excused myself for more packing, and proceeded to go back to my empty room. As soon as I did, I felt antsy. I felt sick to my stomach, like I was panicking. I paced back and forth, looking out the window to see Bobby’s family packing up their car. I wanted to reach through the window; I wanted to keep him here. But as they shut the back door, I froze as they got into the car and drove off. A moment of silence filled my room.

“My God, what have I done?”

It all hit me at once. I fell onto my bed, stringing my hair through my hands at my sudden realization. I couldn’t put the word “like” on it. That seemed too vague. That unknown emotion rumbled to the center of my core, and I couldn’t catch my breath. Every single fun time, memory, battlefield walk, discussion, hug or word of encouragement rushed into my mind as I realized that this whole time, as I encouraged him to work through it all, and keep trying, I was slowly falling for him. Every moment he told me of his dreams, his fears, his doubts, I encouraged him with my whole heart. I didn’t hold back from him, yet I held back from myself. I didn’t want to admit to myself that I had feelings for him because I couldn’t bear to think that I could destroy something beautiful. But was it truly beautiful? Or did I convince myself that his relationship was beautiful so I could be happy being alone? What had I done to myself? What had I done by not telling him the truth?

On top of those questions, I visited Gettysburg once more before my arrival to Virginia. A tough trip to return to your home without the people who make it home. I sat on Little Round Top, Bobby's favorite spot on the battlefield and the spot where he knew everything. I sat, wanted him there next to me. I couldn't get this ache out to stop hurting in the center of my chest. But how could I? It was in that moment where I realized that I might, in fact, need to tell him someday. He needed to know. But no-- not then. I sat in agony, knowing the amount of pain I would put on him with the truth. I vowed that day that I would ignore it, let myself suffer for his relationship to work. A sadness washed over me as my selfless decision felt final on that rock where I took one more step towards admitting it to myself. But why admit to something that wasn't true? I was happy alone, right? Right...?

All of these questions hounded me all the way until I arrived in my small house in the middle of the woods in Virginia. Surrounded by the Civil War, my ache to share all of these things with Bobby grew. I wanted him to see this amazing place, I wanted to see him again. I yearned to hear his voice. But I couldn’t tell him this. I didn’t want to make his struggle to make a decision any worse, so I wrote it down. 4 pages of pure emotion, I scribbled onto notebook paper every single colliding thought that kept nagging at me. I even asked him to visit me, because I knew I wasn’t going to send the letter. It was going to sit in my desk, a comfort to know that I at least admitted to myself that I had some unknown emotion, an unknown feeling pulsing from my chest.

But I broke. He had been 100% honest with me, about his struggles and his wonderings, and all I did was feed it back to him. I didn’t give him my true opinion or anything I was truly thinking. I told him what I thought he wanted. Until that one day, I finally sent him a text of the truth.

“I miss you. I miss you a lot.”

5 days later, after confessing to everything, I sat twiddling my thumbs in the Jackson Shrine. He said he was going to be there around 3:30, and it took every ounce of my self-control not to stare at the clock for every second.

I didn’t know what was going on with me. I was scared that it wasn’t real, that I had made this whole thing up. This comfortable, soothing feeling I got when Bobby was around, or this jolted excitement when we talked about our feelings for each other. I didn’t know if it was real or not. I hadn’t seen him in almost a month, and I just needed to see him.  Of course, right before 3:30, I get visitors that want the full story of Stonewall Jackson, which I graciously gave. I needed something to distract me. But as I talked to them in the room closest to the parking lot, I glanced out the window to see these two burly feet come marching up the walkway. I froze, knowing it was him. I had to finish this tour! So I blubbered on about the two birds on top of the bookshelf, getting their names wrong of course. But as I heard the door open, I immediately turned around to find a blast of white light from the summer sun flashing in around a freckled-face young man in a white button down.

Time stopped. I couldn’t even breathe. His piercing blue eyes softened as a silent message passed through us in that moment. This is okay. This feeling is okay to have.

He smiled at me, as I did the same. However, in that minute of looking at him, I knew it was over. My search, my need to be alone; it was all over. I fought back the words that suddenly appeared on my tongue, but were blatantly said in my mind.

“I love him. I love him, and I have always loved him.”

As my visitors left a few minutes later, I waited until they were far enough away from the door that the risk of them coming back didn’t exist. I immediately bolted to the room Bobby was standing in, and I jumped into his arms. I wrapped my arm around his neck, putting my face into his shoulder. Everything was alright. I was safe, and he was here. I felt our souls click together, and I knew then.

I had found the love of my life.

This post isn’t to brag or anything like that, but it is to show that sometimes you hide your feelings away too much. I know I hid everything away, for good reason too. It helped not only myself grow, but helped Bobby grow as well.  But in that one moment where my eyes met his—that’s when you know. Sometimes, you just know, and it’s a beautiful thing.