Well.

I just filed for my name change.
$161 .
I was searched and stuff at the door.

At six o’clock I head over to the county jail and drop another $30 to get my fingerprints taken.

Then I mail them, along with my notarized application to the state and they run my prints for any criminal activity.

Then either I or the court will receive the kickback and at that point we set a date for the hearing. At which point, I put a legal notice in the paper, and then prepare to tell His Honor why my name should be changed.

I’ve paid extra so that when all is said and done the court sends out a notice to North Carolina and they seal my old birth certificate, and a new one is created with my new name only. No trace of the old one. The old Sara, and all her ugly past baggage, will be dead.

When I was filling out the application, I stopped at “reason for name change”: I thought about putting, “Rebirth”, but instead I just meekly asked what would be appropriate, “I no longer desire my father’s name.”

And she said, “Honey, just put that. We get that all the time. You won’t even have to say anything more.”

Today is July 2nd, my half birthday, and I feel like I’ve been newly conceived.
I’ve been waiting for this for years. Since I was sixteen.
I was a little nervous earlier because I just want to be sure I’m ready. And I guess it’s hard to put into words but I know this is what I want, I have no doubts about that, but I want to be able to let things from before go. I want to be ready to be my new person.

And I thought I was, but recently I’ve been re-evaluating, and now I doubt that. But seeing as how it can take up to eight weeks just to get my criminal report back, hopefully I’ll be squared away by then.

I know this is going to go through.
And my old life will be over and done with.
And I won’t have to cringe every time I have to use my last name.

I wish Mallory was here. I want to go out and have a drink or something. Just a small mini celebration. And then I want to have a bigger one once it goes through.
Holy crap, will that be a great day.

Holy crap.

1.
I’ve been trying to record my dreams lately and this morning I picked up my laptop and opened the notepad document that I left open and saw only this:

isnt there more to life than this

I’m not sure what I was dreaming about (a turkey comes to mind?!). And I only vaguely remember reaching over to grab the computer. Odd.

2.
So when the furry body hopped up on the bed and plopped down next to my face I just sort of automatically started petting, still half asleep, like you do when you own cats.

Usually it’s Pumpkin or Loki, never Morn. Since he’s gotten older he likes a lot more room and he’d prefer my computer chair or “the boat”.

So a few hours later when I heard the cute wheeze I opened my eyes and saw that indeed it was Morn who had been with me the whole time with his nose against my nose. And honest to blog, in my stupor, my thought was: “I must be dying.”

And then I calmly fell back asleep.
Strangest thing.

I’d like to thank every single person who commented or emailed me about the last post. All your thoughts and advice have really helped me in how I’ll approach the situation. I’ll be sure to let you guys know how it goes (next week sometime?) if it goes at all.

Also, I didn’t know I had so many male readers?! You guys sure shocked me. =)

So I just woke up from this:

Nicole’s nameless/faceless friend from Canada moves back to the United States and on his first night back his neighbor’s little boy breaks in to his house covered in blood and beat to shit screaming, “They are trying to kill me!! Please help!”

So this friend whom I still don’t know the name of who looks a lot like my friend Tom from Canada and the lead from Pushing Daises grabs this kid and scoops him up and runs out of his house, the parents following shortly behind. He runs into this school and there’s a very short intense chase scene that’s too much to write out, but eventually the parents call the police, “This man kidnapped our son!”

The police arrive and when the parents hear the sirens, before the nameless friend from Canada can carry the boy outside, hit him over the head with something. Like a brick. And he’s knocked out. And arrested. But not dead. And pretty much to sum things up, we’re in the hospital. Pretty much anyone who even THINKS about suspecting that this kid did not, in fact, kidnap this little boy is injected with some stuff that makes white pus come out of their mouths and awful things happen.

So it’s really intense as we go from person to person trying to figure everything out but get stopped every time, right when we think we’ve actually made it. Then I pull a cop aside and I’m like, look, aren’t any of you suspecting what these people are saying might be true?

And he tells me no because they’re all friends of the kid and whatever bullshit.
And I said, “Why not ask the little boy?”
Only to find out he’s in trauma and probably not ready to talk.
And so I pressed, “Not even if he collaborates this wild theory and gives you enough reason to arrest them as SUSPECTS?”

And so I spend this huge time talking this guy into it in the privacy of this hospital room and right as he’s coming around this nurse comes in to check on Cole’s friend and STABS THE COP WITH THE INJECTOR STUFF.

And so I stab the nurse with a scalpel, killing her, and start to run out of the room, at which point I see the killer parents. The dad tries to stab me but I stab him (very poorly I might add) and then the wife suddenly morphs into my grandmother who talks too much and screams, pretending that I’ve gone mad and stabbed her husband out of the blue.

So this wonderful cop lady comes rushing to the rescue and then my grandmother lady person pulls out a syringe and stabs at the new cop, but I stab her first (my grandmother, not the wonderful lady cop) and she falls to the floor. I then run down the hall to the detective and he shoots me in the head for figuring it out.

And actually, writing it all out and talking to a good friend for a few minutes has allowed my heart rate to decrease to a reasonable amount (just like Jei said it would) so I think I’ll go back to bed. Thanks for reading this whole thing if you did.

I dreamed about the power of words. How they can hurt and heal. When I woke from this reverie I had no problems deciphering the warning I was trying to give myself.
For some reason that I have yet to wrap my mind around, my opinion of other people is taken very seriously by everyone around me. I feel that I am a very understanding, accepting individual, but somehow this makes my opinion something actively sought after. I do have expectations of how people, no, decent human beings should act. I think the expectations are reasonable, when sometimes, I guess they aren’t. It seems to me like common sense you don’t sleep with your best friend’s lover, unless of course your best friend is involved. But somehow, without fail, I seem to hurt people with these expectations. This is something I have come to accept, but not understand. I’m sure this makes me sound cocky, but I assure you, it’s not something I want. Or something I like. And again, I don’t understand it at all. But there it is.

“Tell me what you really think of me.”
And I say, “I love you, so what does it matter?”
People aren’t perfect, and I don’t expect perfection, but I wouldn’t be around you if I didn’t love you. It doesn’t matter if I think you are hot headed, or somewhat irrational. Or ______. Those are just words. Words that will hurt you. The point is I love you to death, so why do you want so desperately for me to point out what I feel are your faults?

I dreamed of the power of words. How they can hurt and heal. When I woke from this dream I had no problems deciphering the warning I was trying to give myself. Yet, that same day I hurt a wonderfully good friend with my words, unintentionally. I have seen him cry once. I’ve seen him choke up once. And I have felt terribly guilty for the last two days knowing I caused the second time. I guess I should start by saying he doesn’t have a very high self esteem. There are only a few things he will admit he’s good at or proud of. There are only a few things he admits he cares about.

“I know you think I’m close-minded about this.” he said.
There are those ugly adjectives again.

“I never said that,” I said.

“But I know that’s what you think.”

And I know you’re asking me and not telling me. You’re not certain. You’re asking me to confirm your fears. To hurt you with those stupid words. But I can’t lie to you. This is what I think of you and I am sorry.

But nothing comes out. Instead I just look away and let you choke on those words. And I can’t look at you because of this empty feeling in my stomach. Because if I look at you will cry and I’m suddenly painfully aware of how much you value my opinion of you. But why is it always the negative they value? The negative they want? Someone please explain this to me. I’m sitting here choking on these words between us and if I reach out and touch you then I will break you and you will spend the next hour crying in my arms when all the feelings in the world I have are love for you. I love you. Do you hear those words? No. All you hear is close minded and ______.

I could not sleep that night knowing you were a room away and broken. We are better today. We’ve hugged and touched and smiled. But I wish you would hear me when I say the good words. When we giggle and I say, “I love your sense of humor.” If I knew you heard the good words then maybe I wouldn’t be so hesitant to say what I’m thinking all the time.

Do you know how stunning you are sitting in the dark with just the light from the monitor pooling against your cheekbones?

I would like to voice those good words because I know those cheeks would turn red and you’d feel warm inside your tummy instead of empty. And so would I. We could feel good together if you would just listen.

I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched. I’m afraid that every move I make is being monitored, studied, copied. I was feeling all right for a while there, but I’m afraid that she’s hounding me again. I’m afraid to comment in Ash’s journal because I know she reads the things I say. But I love commenting because I feel it’s supportive. But I am afraid. I don’t want her watching me. I have dreams that she shows up at my door wearing the same clothes, with the same hair, and laughs in this really sick twisted way. I don’t even remember what she looks like. So I’m sorry I haven’t been posting. I’ll try harder.