Chipped Polish & Wornout Jeans

So yesterday was the day of first year oral arguments at the Hall of Justice, and I put on my suit and heels and argued my case. It was like getting back in the saddle again, really. It's been months since I was in the courtroom, and I missed it more than I thought. I felt awesome to put on my pearls, be certain that my hair and make-up looked good, put on a nice suit, and slip into my killer shoes. To stand in front of a judge and start off with "May it please the court...", to address the court and argue with conviction, even though the case was weak, it was thrilling. This may seem lame to my readers, but I live for those moments. All went well, except for the lost car situation (not discussed here because I don't feel like talking about my stupidity beyond saying I completely forgot where I parked because I don't belong in L-ville and don't belong in the big city). So lets us do a recap of being back in the saddle again, or oral arguments.

I arrived with plenty of time to swap my flats (which I drove in because my heels are high) for the killer heels pictured above, adjust my suit and take a deep breath to collect myself. Entering the Hall of Justice brought back memories of mock trial. I did my first regional as witness in those courtrooms, and I also did my first regional as both a captain and attorney there. I felt this surge of power and faith as I watched my things go through the metal detector and stepped through myself. Then I walked into the courtroom, placed my portfolio on the table, and I was alive. Yes, dear reader, I love the courtroom. I love being able to stand there and stand for something. Even if right now, the cases I argue, the people I represent, the job I perform isn't real yet. I love the idea that I can use my passion, my fire, my strength, my brains, to solve problems, to be able to, in some small way, affect the world, make it better. That is why I want to be an attorney so badly.

The argument went well. I wasn't nervous, but I was, as usual, concerned about my accent. It's gotten much stronger, and while I love it, the glorious, lyrical, and attractive Southern drawl can be a hindrance up here in the Northern city. When I worry about my accent it causes me to get tongue tied, but other than that issue I think I did just fine. I hope the judges' written comments were as good as the verbal comments I received. I got compliments on how passionate my argument was, how I argued with conviction even though I had the most difficult side of the case and probably didn't believe in it. Apparently was the only one who answered the question "Without the eyewitness testimony, were you a jury in this case, would you convict?" with a yes. I also got compliments on how well I handled difficult questions, answering them and deflecting them to make them seem much less damaging, and how I was able to use bad facts to my advantage, even though they were potentially extremely damaging to my side. Apparently, several people think that I will make an excellent advocate and a great attorney. So, dear readers, I was back in the saddle yesterday, and it was incredible.

I know that I will be too busy to blog tomorrow since I'm having a girl's day out with Mama during the day and then I'm going to be at MTSU judging mock trial tomorrow night. However, I really wanted to do this post because it is really important to me and I'm trying to make this blog worth what visits it gets. Tomorrow is To Write Love on Her Arms day, and if you don't know what that is click this link right here: TWLOHA. It's a movement about self love and the prevention of self injury and suicide; it's about fighting addiction and depression and  And it's personal for me for a reason I will get to in a moment. So tomorrow on the inside of my left wrist in small black letters you will find the word love; I'd do it a little bigger but there is a need for me to look at least semi-professional and presentable at the tournament.

I said that for me TWLOHA is personal. That's because when I was a sophomore in college, which seems so long ago, I lost a good friend to suicide; it's something that I will never really forget. That phone call from a friend who was like a brother, hearing his voice shake as he tried to tell me the news, the tears I could hear over the phone, they are as clear to me as that night I got the midnight message. I can still feel the shock, the pain, the confusion, and the loss like it happened yesterday. The scream in my head was that this was some sick joke, that it could never happen to one of us. We were invincible, all powerful, untouchable, blessed. Our diverse group had seen enough damage, emotional baggage, and hurt. But in the end that stuff just seemed so petty and minor. Who gave a damn about break ups, hang ups, and stupid fights? He was dead, and we couldn't bring him back. We'd broken the one thing we'd promised as people began graduating and moving. To always be there; to never let anything happen to us. I can still remember the funeral, the tears running down my cheeks, the sudden realization of my own mortality, the way the wind cut through my sweater as I stood beside my friends watching the casket lower into the ground, and the way we all tried not to fall to pieces. It was not the first time that I knew someone who had committed suicide, but it was the first time it was so close to me. I remember thinking: "God, why did You let this happen? Why take him from us? Why didn't You stop him? Why didn't You give us some kind of sign that he needed us?" And I remember blaming myself for not noticing, for letting our little group of friends fall apart just because we were no longer having lunch all together and meeting up as often, for being too wrapped up in the drama and insanity of my own life. I remember wondering most of all: Why he felt there was no other answer, why he thought that it was the only way, why he hadn't come to me or to any one of our group? Did he think we didn't care, that we wouldn't drop everything to save him, that we wouldn't listen, that we could not do anything? He was supposed to be the sane one, and he had been our rock when we needed him. He'd talked us through so many hard times. He'd kept us together. I remember feeling as though we'd failed him, though I knew that we hadn't really. We'd loved him, and we hadn't known he was in trouble. I still wonder what life would be like had we known something and been able to save him. Would our little group have stayed together instead of scattering to the winds? I don't know, but I do know that I will always miss him and always wish that something had saved him. I remember him because he was my friend, because he was my brother, and because I loved him like a brother.

So I write love on my arm for Nathan, who saw no other option, for the friends we've all lost, and the one's we will try to save. I write love on my arm and whisper a prayer for those who need help. I ask God to send an angel to those people who are lost and searching for an answer. I write love on my arm because my life matters and so does everyone else's. I write love on my arm because we are all in this together and because you never know when you will turn the corner and find someone in need. I write love on my arm in memory of those who have gone and those who are saved. I write love on my arm for everyone out there.