"Things get all twisted up in knots, and if you try to untangle them, you've got yourself an even bigger mess…life gets complicated all on its own; you don't have to help it. You can just sit back…because it'll unravel all by itself."
My Physics teacher was a man who said many things. Some were worth writing down, some were completely irrelevant stories, some didn't make sense, and some were not for the faint of heart (which is probably why he was fired). Anyway, that quote was one that didn't stick with me as he said it, but now, as time passes, I realize how true it is.
I was very ready to give up on Floyd. I didn't quite know how, but I was ready.
Hesitantly, I plucked at my guitar strings, unsure if I still remembered the melody. And as I began strumming the chords, I found reassurance. How could I forget this?
I stopped abruptly and decided to try the solo, the solo I remembered playing over and over trying to perfect it. And I did it with ease, like my fingers had a mind of their own. Like they could remember things that my mind wished not to. I began humming along, then started singing.
If I go crazy, then will you still call me Superman?
And I could someone's voice singing it, a voice belonging to a person named Jimmy, as he ambled down the hallway, chunky headphones positioned atop his mussed hair so one headphone lies over his ear and the other does not. And I saw that same someone again, appearing before me in a crowded, sweaty room of loud music and swaying bodies. We moved together, never touching, but holding each other's gazes in a way that made me cringe upon remembering, cringe at the charged atmosphere between us. It seemed almost like some sort of dream, the kind I would wake up from in utter confusion before it faded away from me. But this one didn't fade away. And I couldn't decide whether I liked that or not.
And then he trotted up to the empty space beside me in the hall as we walked to Physics and started talking to me. Not the girl with the swaying hips in the tight black dress and dark red lipstick on prom night. Just me.
And he was not the wildly grinning guy dressed in black and orange. Just Jimmy. Just some guy that part of me likes dancing with (maybe occasionally likes thinking about) and another part looks at him and sees an overgrown third grader.
And every time I catch him watching me, I can almost see those knots forming, those ones my Physics teacher mentioned.
I don't like him. I mean, sure, I like him. But I don't like like him.
He's Floyd's stepbrother.
Which is why I don't like like him. I'm not really sure if I'm capable of like liking Jimmy. Because no matter what, there would be bad intentions. Make Floyd jealous. Make Floyd miserable. Break Floyd's heart. Get revenge on Floyd.
I mean, I've thought about like liking Jimmy. I've considered it. I've played along with his casual, slightly confusing advances and backed away every time, always unsure of whether I was dealing with coincidence, friendliness, or actual flirtation. And I wasn't sure if I wanted to know.
But as Jimmy and I danced at prom, and I met Symphony's gaze with a wicked grin, I knew exactly what I was doing.
Playing the game.
I wasn't thinking about the knots I was tying. I was just thinking about playing the game. You know the one. The one that stops this whole "romance" bullshit from being perfect too easily. And as the sugar rush and excitement wore off, my logical brain collapsed into chaos. What kind of mess had I just made?
All for the sake of the game? Was I willing to lead Jimmy on for the sake of the game? Why does this even have to be a game?
But as Floyd and I's banter seemed to begin where it left off almost a year ago in school the next week, I couldn't help but wonder if I've won that round.
Perhaps watching from the sidelines was never really a good idea. Why did I think that in the first place?
He sits down in the desk beside me, green eyes finding their place once more. On me. Does that feel as right to him as it does to me? I sit atop the desk beside him, swinging my leg unconsciously, kicking his boot gently. And we talk.
I watch him with eyes that feel unreadable, but I know my face is an open book. It always is. Can he see through me? Does he like what he sees? The affectionate, relieved bliss of a girl stubbornly pining away for him?
Well, it doesn't seem to scare him away.
I don't have to worry anymore. Right now, I have him where I want him. I'm not worried about next week. I'm not worried about the summer. Or if we'll be strangers again next year. Why plague myself with those thoughts right now?
Right now, all I'm thinking about is those knots that are unraveling. What more could I want?
I can't help but feel as if the random conversation isn't really that random, that it simply serves as a subtle facade for us to nonchalantly hide our intentions behind. But we both know we're not fooling anyone.
Which one of us will unveil our intentions first?
Floyd already threw up his white flag. Is it my turn now?
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Till Death Do Us Part
I lay on a block of concrete and close my eyes. How can the sky burn my eyes when the sun is buried beneath a veil of white clouds? I feel that piercing brightness like gravity pressing on my eyelids, and it is a pleasant feeling. I smell the railroad tracks from where they rest, collecting dust in their current slumber, which could be interrupted at any given moment by the deafening rumble of the train. They smell like the beach. I feel the cool breeze breaking the tension of humidity and pushing against my bare legs, and I imagine I'm lying in warm sand by the ocean. All that is missing is the cry of the seagulls.
I lower the volume of my music, eerie music about questioning God, and I find myself disturbed by the silence. There are no seagulls. I am completely alone. Here in the middle of nowhere, stretched on a seemingly useless concrete bed, laid at one end of the trail I cycle on every day. I turn up the music again, and listen to the way the music itself somehow sounds troubled. I turn my head to the side, and watch a silver car traveling up a hill in the distance. I think about sitting in the back of my mother's car, outside of a post office, crying quietly as she attempted to make me feel guilty for having pinkeye. (What kind of parent tries to make their child feel guilty for being sick?) The tears seemed to fall even harder than usual, probably urged forward by my bacterial conjunctivitis. I watched cars traveling then to, with my head turned the same way and lying against the window, picturing throwing myself in front of them.
I pictured myself wearing a white dress, a white dress made of lace, with a halo of daisies in my hair and heeled shoes on my feet. I held a handful of flowers like a bride. I threw them in the air as if a hopeful bridesmaid waited for that moment of perfect coordination and that collective jaw drop when it landed in her palms. And I threw envelopes with the flowers, letting them fall like confetti. Envelopes holding letters full of words I never got around to saying, or didn't say enough. And with long, slow strides, I stepped out into the street at just the perfect moment and let the rest of the world stop holding their breath and puff out that sigh of relief. Their bouquets had been caught. Reassured of good things to come, now that their one burden had slid reluctantly off of their shoulders, and tiptoed away to that makeshift aisle of sidewalk and macadam.
The bride began her walk. Her escort was Doubt, the one who had convinced her to make herself this way. And at the end, the one that Doubt had told her would be the only groom she'd ever know: Misery.
She prayed that that unlucky wedding crasher behind the wheel would take them both. Till death do us part.
I shuddered at the clarity of the thought, a clarity that came form repetition. But why? Dying couldn't be the only way to escape from Misery. Could it? And I didn't want to die. I wanted to live forever. Death scared me more than anything. What if I simply stopped existing? What if I was caught in an empty void of blackness, but I didn't even know it, because I wouldn't be capable of knowing anything? What if there is no afterlife? What if death is just death?
It's a terrifying thought to get stuck on. Sometimes, late at night, I try to keep myself awake, because I am afraid of what will happen if I fall into a dreamless slumber. I am petrified of the idea of not being aware of my own existence. I am not sure why, but I need my racing thoughts to remind me that I am alive. Because on every other level, I am left unsure.
I lower the volume of my music, eerie music about questioning God, and I find myself disturbed by the silence. There are no seagulls. I am completely alone. Here in the middle of nowhere, stretched on a seemingly useless concrete bed, laid at one end of the trail I cycle on every day. I turn up the music again, and listen to the way the music itself somehow sounds troubled. I turn my head to the side, and watch a silver car traveling up a hill in the distance. I think about sitting in the back of my mother's car, outside of a post office, crying quietly as she attempted to make me feel guilty for having pinkeye. (What kind of parent tries to make their child feel guilty for being sick?) The tears seemed to fall even harder than usual, probably urged forward by my bacterial conjunctivitis. I watched cars traveling then to, with my head turned the same way and lying against the window, picturing throwing myself in front of them.
I pictured myself wearing a white dress, a white dress made of lace, with a halo of daisies in my hair and heeled shoes on my feet. I held a handful of flowers like a bride. I threw them in the air as if a hopeful bridesmaid waited for that moment of perfect coordination and that collective jaw drop when it landed in her palms. And I threw envelopes with the flowers, letting them fall like confetti. Envelopes holding letters full of words I never got around to saying, or didn't say enough. And with long, slow strides, I stepped out into the street at just the perfect moment and let the rest of the world stop holding their breath and puff out that sigh of relief. Their bouquets had been caught. Reassured of good things to come, now that their one burden had slid reluctantly off of their shoulders, and tiptoed away to that makeshift aisle of sidewalk and macadam.
The bride began her walk. Her escort was Doubt, the one who had convinced her to make herself this way. And at the end, the one that Doubt had told her would be the only groom she'd ever know: Misery.
She prayed that that unlucky wedding crasher behind the wheel would take them both. Till death do us part.
I shuddered at the clarity of the thought, a clarity that came form repetition. But why? Dying couldn't be the only way to escape from Misery. Could it? And I didn't want to die. I wanted to live forever. Death scared me more than anything. What if I simply stopped existing? What if I was caught in an empty void of blackness, but I didn't even know it, because I wouldn't be capable of knowing anything? What if there is no afterlife? What if death is just death?
It's a terrifying thought to get stuck on. Sometimes, late at night, I try to keep myself awake, because I am afraid of what will happen if I fall into a dreamless slumber. I am petrified of the idea of not being aware of my own existence. I am not sure why, but I need my racing thoughts to remind me that I am alive. Because on every other level, I am left unsure.
Monday, April 8, 2013
Sometimes
Sometimes I sit at the kitchen table, working on my homework or browsing webpages of overpriced clothing I had previously saved to my laptop, and I see something out of the corner of my eye. Some sort of movement outside of the back door's large window. And I turn my head quickly, because there's this small, stupid part of me that expects to see Floyd on the doorstep, ready to make things right again. But then I see that I had only been seeing my overgrown bangs hanging in my eyes, and when I toss them back, there is no one there.
This happens fairly often, so you'd think I'd have broken that habit by now. But the dreamer in me is convinced she must glance up, toss her bangs back, and make sure, just in case.
And sometimes, I look at him and I wonder why I think he is beautiful. I watch him during Physics class as he stares at his computer, face in his hand, absentmindedly scrolling through meme sites. One sidelong glance and I would be caught, guilty of something I shouldn't care about being convicted of, because as far as I know, the object of this warped affection learned of the affection long ago, before it was even warped.
Furrowed brow. Bitter half-scowl. The pale, lifeless face of someone who hasn't had a good night's sleep in days. Possibly weeks. Small but prominent belly hanging over his jeans. Nestled in his brown leather jacket like a turtle shell. He looks angry. He looks shiftless. He looks weary. He looks apathetic. There's something about him that is different. There is something missing. The sound of his voice, the sound of his cocky laugh, the sound of a sarcastic comment dropped in every now and then. It's almost like he's been slipping away from me, sense by sense. I can no longer breathe in his scent. I can no longer feel the warmth of his body next to me. And now, I can't bask in the comfort of his voice, his humor. Even when he isn't speaking to me, that sound is still placating to me. Classes he and I have together hold an eerie silence, a quiet that I never knew existed when I was still hanging on every word he said. When there were still words to hang on.
When was the last time I had seen his wicked smile?
He seems jaded. I feel jaded. Are we wearing each other down with this mutual agreement of turning a blind eye to each other? Or is it something else altogether, something that has absolutely nothing to do with me? Because perhaps it is time to face the fact that maybe I don't mean anything to him anymore. But maybe I do.
And then sometimes I look at him and I remember why I think he is beautiful. I see this perfect person, this unconventionally handsome paradox of a person, and his eyes are sparkling and burning through me, and his lips are curved into a half smile, and I feel foolish for ever considering the fact that I could be falling out of love (?) with him.
Floyd has been plaguing my thoughts for a very long time now. So long that I feel that he is physically living inside of my head. Sometimes I wonder if I only keep him inside of my head because he is my comfort zone. I have discovered that I am a person who is terrified of anything outside of her comfort zones. And this lost cause of a relationship has become my comfort zone. Actually, any train-wreck of a romantic interest is a comfort zone for me, as sad as that is. Unrequited love has become home to me.
And sometimes, when I become convinced that this is true, that I am not in love (?) with Floyd, and that the only reason I think I am is because I am afraid to fall for anyone else, he seems to grip tighter to my unraveling mind, refusing to let go. Maybe a simple smile. Maybe a gaze that is held long enough that it should feel uncomfortable, but somehow, it doesn't. Maybe a casual conversation. He finds a way to stick around longer. He always finds a way.
Maybe Floyd wants to be inside of my head. Maybe I've been the one refusing to let him in. Maybe I don't even want him there.
But maybe I do.
This happens fairly often, so you'd think I'd have broken that habit by now. But the dreamer in me is convinced she must glance up, toss her bangs back, and make sure, just in case.
And sometimes, I look at him and I wonder why I think he is beautiful. I watch him during Physics class as he stares at his computer, face in his hand, absentmindedly scrolling through meme sites. One sidelong glance and I would be caught, guilty of something I shouldn't care about being convicted of, because as far as I know, the object of this warped affection learned of the affection long ago, before it was even warped.
Furrowed brow. Bitter half-scowl. The pale, lifeless face of someone who hasn't had a good night's sleep in days. Possibly weeks. Small but prominent belly hanging over his jeans. Nestled in his brown leather jacket like a turtle shell. He looks angry. He looks shiftless. He looks weary. He looks apathetic. There's something about him that is different. There is something missing. The sound of his voice, the sound of his cocky laugh, the sound of a sarcastic comment dropped in every now and then. It's almost like he's been slipping away from me, sense by sense. I can no longer breathe in his scent. I can no longer feel the warmth of his body next to me. And now, I can't bask in the comfort of his voice, his humor. Even when he isn't speaking to me, that sound is still placating to me. Classes he and I have together hold an eerie silence, a quiet that I never knew existed when I was still hanging on every word he said. When there were still words to hang on.
When was the last time I had seen his wicked smile?
He seems jaded. I feel jaded. Are we wearing each other down with this mutual agreement of turning a blind eye to each other? Or is it something else altogether, something that has absolutely nothing to do with me? Because perhaps it is time to face the fact that maybe I don't mean anything to him anymore. But maybe I do.
And then sometimes I look at him and I remember why I think he is beautiful. I see this perfect person, this unconventionally handsome paradox of a person, and his eyes are sparkling and burning through me, and his lips are curved into a half smile, and I feel foolish for ever considering the fact that I could be falling out of love (?) with him.
Floyd has been plaguing my thoughts for a very long time now. So long that I feel that he is physically living inside of my head. Sometimes I wonder if I only keep him inside of my head because he is my comfort zone. I have discovered that I am a person who is terrified of anything outside of her comfort zones. And this lost cause of a relationship has become my comfort zone. Actually, any train-wreck of a romantic interest is a comfort zone for me, as sad as that is. Unrequited love has become home to me.
And sometimes, when I become convinced that this is true, that I am not in love (?) with Floyd, and that the only reason I think I am is because I am afraid to fall for anyone else, he seems to grip tighter to my unraveling mind, refusing to let go. Maybe a simple smile. Maybe a gaze that is held long enough that it should feel uncomfortable, but somehow, it doesn't. Maybe a casual conversation. He finds a way to stick around longer. He always finds a way.
Maybe Floyd wants to be inside of my head. Maybe I've been the one refusing to let him in. Maybe I don't even want him there.
But maybe I do.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Because YOLO
Maybe it isn't my awkward demeanor. Maybe it isn't my low maintenance hair or my laziness with makeup. Maybe it isn't my bigger build. Maybe it isn't the way I dress. Maybe it isn't because I don't say much.
Maybe it's because I think too much. Maybe people aren't attracted to me because I think too much.
I was miserably putting up with a sex-based discussion going on around me over a lunch I was barely touching, seething over the fact that there must be something pathetic or undesirable about me if I don't have the littlest, most innocent thing to contribute in any conversations that take a turn toward romantic and sexual relationships.
And it got me thinking.
If so many different types of people end up in that whirlwind or temporary bliss us teenagers label as "in a relationship" due to Facebook teaching us such terminology, then maybe I haven't stumbled upon romance for a reason other than being undesirable.
To put it bluntly,
maybe I'm a pussy.
I have a tendency to do this thing called "overanalyzing" where I take a situation, and I make a nice, long list of all the possible things that could go wrong. I convince myself that every decision I make, especially dealing with love, should be done in a manner that gracefully avoids pain. I am devoted to my comfort zones. So what if that comfort zone is the warm, welcoming seat of the rocking chair that we call worry, that gives me something to do but never takes me anywhere? At least I'm comfortable, right?
But life shouldn't be about avoiding anything outside of your comfort zone, should it? What exactly does that accomplish? And a better question: why the hell do I do it so much?
Pining away for Floyd is a comfort zone. That whole scenario. The unrequited love thing. It's become home to me. It's the reason why I sometimes avert my eyes when I see him looking at me, the reason why he isn't the only one avoiding conversation.
Maybe Floyd didn't drift away. Maybe I pushed him.
But why? Why would I do that? Because I'm scared? Scared that he'll want me?
That really doesn't make much sense to me either. But there is something about a romantic/sexual relationship that terrifies me. Imagine that! Me, the girl whose mouth is practically a broken record entitled "I Will Die Alone", is afraid to have a boyfriend.
I guess that could be understandable. Maybe. I mean, everyone is afraid of the unknown, and I am no different. I am afraid to go to college, to live on my own. I am afraid to take my SATs next month. I am afraid to speak my mind. I am afraid of getting my license. I am afraid of having children when I'm older. I am afraid to die. And at the root of it all, I am afraid of change. I am the very embodiment of fear, which I'd say stems from that whole "overanalyzing" thing.
And from that also stems my fear of having a boyfriend.
Sure, those fairytale-esque daydreams that often plague my common sense seem pretty appealing. But real relationships aren't something ripped straight out of a rom-com, and perhaps that is what scares me. The possibility of my first relationship falling short of perfect.
But no one's relationships are perfect. The things in our lives that aren't perfect are the things that become mistakes that shape us, and stories to tell, and memories to look back on and laugh or cry. If a person lives their life gracefully avoiding any situation that could cause them discomfort, can that person honestly say that they are living?
I don't think so.
Maybe living with my guard up is what has made me so impervious to love, so reluctant to give it and receive it. And not just love, I have become impervious to everything that my self-inflicted misery cannot feed off of.
Why do I choose to live this way? Forcing myself into the captivity of comfortable and wondering why I have become so cynical, so miserable, so sour, so torn apart by this constant tug-of-war between being happy and being comfortable?
It's like I'm a butterfly who has voluntarily flew into the net of an evil child named Doubt and let them plunk me in a jar, let them forget to poke some air holes in the top. It's like Doubt holds me in his grimy little hands, watching me and waiting for me to die just to feel the thrill of sucking the life out of yet another person. And from the inside of the jar, I watch everyone else hatching from their cocoons and fluttering about with beautiful wings, landing on flowers and sucking out the sweetness until there is none left, then careless flitting to another.
And I am completely capable of sucking the sweetness out of my life.
I've been so convinced that I'm still trapped in my cocoon, bitterly watching as everyone else and everyone else's lives evolve around me and waiting for my own chrysalis to burst open and release me with a one-way ticket to that contentment I envy so greatly.
But perhaps I've already shed my cocoon. Perhaps the only thing holding me back is the tauntingly clear walls of Doubt's jar, the walls I put up around myself.
Maybe I should take the hint from the inanity of pop culture and follow the mantra we've all learned to disdain: the acronym "YOLO."
Because you really do only live once.
Why waste that life letting Doubt hold you back?
Maybe it's because I think too much. Maybe people aren't attracted to me because I think too much.
I was miserably putting up with a sex-based discussion going on around me over a lunch I was barely touching, seething over the fact that there must be something pathetic or undesirable about me if I don't have the littlest, most innocent thing to contribute in any conversations that take a turn toward romantic and sexual relationships.
And it got me thinking.
If so many different types of people end up in that whirlwind or temporary bliss us teenagers label as "in a relationship" due to Facebook teaching us such terminology, then maybe I haven't stumbled upon romance for a reason other than being undesirable.
To put it bluntly,
maybe I'm a pussy.
I have a tendency to do this thing called "overanalyzing" where I take a situation, and I make a nice, long list of all the possible things that could go wrong. I convince myself that every decision I make, especially dealing with love, should be done in a manner that gracefully avoids pain. I am devoted to my comfort zones. So what if that comfort zone is the warm, welcoming seat of the rocking chair that we call worry, that gives me something to do but never takes me anywhere? At least I'm comfortable, right?
But life shouldn't be about avoiding anything outside of your comfort zone, should it? What exactly does that accomplish? And a better question: why the hell do I do it so much?
Pining away for Floyd is a comfort zone. That whole scenario. The unrequited love thing. It's become home to me. It's the reason why I sometimes avert my eyes when I see him looking at me, the reason why he isn't the only one avoiding conversation.
Maybe Floyd didn't drift away. Maybe I pushed him.
But why? Why would I do that? Because I'm scared? Scared that he'll want me?
That really doesn't make much sense to me either. But there is something about a romantic/sexual relationship that terrifies me. Imagine that! Me, the girl whose mouth is practically a broken record entitled "I Will Die Alone", is afraid to have a boyfriend.
I guess that could be understandable. Maybe. I mean, everyone is afraid of the unknown, and I am no different. I am afraid to go to college, to live on my own. I am afraid to take my SATs next month. I am afraid to speak my mind. I am afraid of getting my license. I am afraid of having children when I'm older. I am afraid to die. And at the root of it all, I am afraid of change. I am the very embodiment of fear, which I'd say stems from that whole "overanalyzing" thing.
And from that also stems my fear of having a boyfriend.
Sure, those fairytale-esque daydreams that often plague my common sense seem pretty appealing. But real relationships aren't something ripped straight out of a rom-com, and perhaps that is what scares me. The possibility of my first relationship falling short of perfect.
But no one's relationships are perfect. The things in our lives that aren't perfect are the things that become mistakes that shape us, and stories to tell, and memories to look back on and laugh or cry. If a person lives their life gracefully avoiding any situation that could cause them discomfort, can that person honestly say that they are living?
I don't think so.
Maybe living with my guard up is what has made me so impervious to love, so reluctant to give it and receive it. And not just love, I have become impervious to everything that my self-inflicted misery cannot feed off of.
Why do I choose to live this way? Forcing myself into the captivity of comfortable and wondering why I have become so cynical, so miserable, so sour, so torn apart by this constant tug-of-war between being happy and being comfortable?
It's like I'm a butterfly who has voluntarily flew into the net of an evil child named Doubt and let them plunk me in a jar, let them forget to poke some air holes in the top. It's like Doubt holds me in his grimy little hands, watching me and waiting for me to die just to feel the thrill of sucking the life out of yet another person. And from the inside of the jar, I watch everyone else hatching from their cocoons and fluttering about with beautiful wings, landing on flowers and sucking out the sweetness until there is none left, then careless flitting to another.
And I am completely capable of sucking the sweetness out of my life.
I've been so convinced that I'm still trapped in my cocoon, bitterly watching as everyone else and everyone else's lives evolve around me and waiting for my own chrysalis to burst open and release me with a one-way ticket to that contentment I envy so greatly.
But perhaps I've already shed my cocoon. Perhaps the only thing holding me back is the tauntingly clear walls of Doubt's jar, the walls I put up around myself.
Maybe I should take the hint from the inanity of pop culture and follow the mantra we've all learned to disdain: the acronym "YOLO."
Because you really do only live once.
Why waste that life letting Doubt hold you back?
Saturday, April 6, 2013
Split Personality
"You seem like a really sad person," a guy said to me, walking beside me down the hallway.
"That's…comforting?" I replied, a laugh lingering somewhere around my voice.
He was an acquaintance. He didn't know me. Was I really that transparent?
But am I really a sad person? When I look at myself, I don't see another cliché case of teen depression. But is that what other people see?
Well, I'll tell you what I see.
Split personality.
Those two words have a very "crazy" tone lurking behind them. Like having more than one personality is some sort of illness. Some sort of glitch.
But is it really?
I have recently realized that I have two personalities. It was a disturbing epiphany.
A class of mine had just gotten into a somewhat-heated debate about bullying, and the ways to stop it. (In my personal opinion, I think that children should be taught that diversity is not a bad thing while they are still young and able to have things drilled into their fickle little minds, which I feel would be worth a try) The class treated bullying like an incurable disease, and I can see exactly where the mindset comes from as well. There's a bully hiding in every one of us. A side of us that would make the world hate us if we only had the balls to let it loose. And keeping that side of us hidden is as simple as holding your tongue. But in all actuality, that isn't very simple. It's kind of torturous.
A victimizer's goal is, obviously, to make you feel victimized. To test how easy it is to break someone.
And I broke. A long time ago.
Middle school was a four-year-long test. It tested my confidence, and I let it win the battle. They called me weird. They called me annoying. They called me fat. They called me ugly.
Stuck in the awkward stage between child and adolescent, my hair turned into a tangled mess of frizzy blonde curls, like Taylor Swift minus expensive styling and products. My metabolism took a nosedive, and the piles of food I consumed started to cling to my stomach, hips, and thighs. Every inch of my skin broke out with a terrible rash that dermatologists labeled as an unclassifiable cross between eczema and psoriasis. Basically, I went from happy child to awkward mess in hardly any time at all.
And the boys noticed. No, not in a good way. I can still hear a boy yelling in my face on the school bus about how "Halloween was over and I could take off my ugly mask." I can still see another guy ambling over to me in the cafeteria and asking if I would go out with him, while simultaneously explaining to his minions his plan to ask out the ugliest girls in the whole school to see what they would say.
That was over four years ago. And I can literally remember it like yesterday. What's that phrase about sticks and stones again?
After a few years of tormenting, I snapped. I accepted that they were right. I withered in their scrutiny, took their insults in silence. Kind of like a sick sort of concurrence, where I would willingly soak up every word because I felt like I deserved it. I figured it was the price I paid for being different.
And as I shrunk away from my victimizers, willing myself to disappear behind hunched shoulders and downcast eyes, they lost interest. I faded into the woodwork, and that is where I remain. A scared, silent wallflower. That word, "wallflower," it seems like such a cliché term. But what does it even mean?
As Patrick says in The Perks Of Being A Wallflower, "You see things. You keep quiet about them. And you understand."
And that's what I'm always doing, especially during the hours of eight in the morning and three in the afternoon. Seeing. Listening. Understanding. Watching. Wondering. Thinking. Assuming.
But never speaking.
When I am with my close friends, or when I am at home, I am me. I am hilarious. I am sardonic. I am open. I am talkative. I am opinionated. I think out loud. I am honest.
But when I am shoved in the midst of mixed company, I become the wallflower that cowered away from her tormenters, ravenous rodents with full intent to rip up the garden of just-blossoming personalities, never hesitant to ruin me in the process. I went from a unique, somewhat eccentric blossom to a withered wallflower, and the entire process was driven by fear.
Fear that still resides inside of me. Fear of rejection. Fear of judgment. Fear of humiliation.
That coward, that "sad person", she is my other personality.
During that debate on bullying (ironically enough), I didn't speak up. I didn't voice my opinions. I just nervously glanced at the people around me and wondered what they would think if I opened my mouth. Would I sound stupid? It wasn't worth the risk.
Hiding behind silence is so much easier. Easier than being judged. Easier than being rejected.
But how is it possible that I can simultaneously settle for what is easy and long for what isn't?
Which personality is really me?
"That's…comforting?" I replied, a laugh lingering somewhere around my voice.
He was an acquaintance. He didn't know me. Was I really that transparent?
But am I really a sad person? When I look at myself, I don't see another cliché case of teen depression. But is that what other people see?
Well, I'll tell you what I see.
Split personality.
Those two words have a very "crazy" tone lurking behind them. Like having more than one personality is some sort of illness. Some sort of glitch.
But is it really?
I have recently realized that I have two personalities. It was a disturbing epiphany.
A class of mine had just gotten into a somewhat-heated debate about bullying, and the ways to stop it. (In my personal opinion, I think that children should be taught that diversity is not a bad thing while they are still young and able to have things drilled into their fickle little minds, which I feel would be worth a try) The class treated bullying like an incurable disease, and I can see exactly where the mindset comes from as well. There's a bully hiding in every one of us. A side of us that would make the world hate us if we only had the balls to let it loose. And keeping that side of us hidden is as simple as holding your tongue. But in all actuality, that isn't very simple. It's kind of torturous.
A victimizer's goal is, obviously, to make you feel victimized. To test how easy it is to break someone.
And I broke. A long time ago.
Middle school was a four-year-long test. It tested my confidence, and I let it win the battle. They called me weird. They called me annoying. They called me fat. They called me ugly.
Stuck in the awkward stage between child and adolescent, my hair turned into a tangled mess of frizzy blonde curls, like Taylor Swift minus expensive styling and products. My metabolism took a nosedive, and the piles of food I consumed started to cling to my stomach, hips, and thighs. Every inch of my skin broke out with a terrible rash that dermatologists labeled as an unclassifiable cross between eczema and psoriasis. Basically, I went from happy child to awkward mess in hardly any time at all.
And the boys noticed. No, not in a good way. I can still hear a boy yelling in my face on the school bus about how "Halloween was over and I could take off my ugly mask." I can still see another guy ambling over to me in the cafeteria and asking if I would go out with him, while simultaneously explaining to his minions his plan to ask out the ugliest girls in the whole school to see what they would say.
That was over four years ago. And I can literally remember it like yesterday. What's that phrase about sticks and stones again?
After a few years of tormenting, I snapped. I accepted that they were right. I withered in their scrutiny, took their insults in silence. Kind of like a sick sort of concurrence, where I would willingly soak up every word because I felt like I deserved it. I figured it was the price I paid for being different.
And as I shrunk away from my victimizers, willing myself to disappear behind hunched shoulders and downcast eyes, they lost interest. I faded into the woodwork, and that is where I remain. A scared, silent wallflower. That word, "wallflower," it seems like such a cliché term. But what does it even mean?
As Patrick says in The Perks Of Being A Wallflower, "You see things. You keep quiet about them. And you understand."
And that's what I'm always doing, especially during the hours of eight in the morning and three in the afternoon. Seeing. Listening. Understanding. Watching. Wondering. Thinking. Assuming.
But never speaking.
When I am with my close friends, or when I am at home, I am me. I am hilarious. I am sardonic. I am open. I am talkative. I am opinionated. I think out loud. I am honest.
But when I am shoved in the midst of mixed company, I become the wallflower that cowered away from her tormenters, ravenous rodents with full intent to rip up the garden of just-blossoming personalities, never hesitant to ruin me in the process. I went from a unique, somewhat eccentric blossom to a withered wallflower, and the entire process was driven by fear.
Fear that still resides inside of me. Fear of rejection. Fear of judgment. Fear of humiliation.
That coward, that "sad person", she is my other personality.
During that debate on bullying (ironically enough), I didn't speak up. I didn't voice my opinions. I just nervously glanced at the people around me and wondered what they would think if I opened my mouth. Would I sound stupid? It wasn't worth the risk.
Hiding behind silence is so much easier. Easier than being judged. Easier than being rejected.
But how is it possible that I can simultaneously settle for what is easy and long for what isn't?
Which personality is really me?
Monday, March 11, 2013
Perhaps
I stand in front of a smudged full length mirror, silently scrutinizing every part of my body that is accentuated in the Marilyn Monroe gown that I wear.
"I really like that one. It looks so good, girl! And black…it like…it slims you down. Do you know what I mean?"
January babbles on somewhere behind me while I make a mental note to drop a few pounds before prom.
After trying on a few dresses in her bedroom, trying not to mind the zippers not closing all the way on some of them, I curl up on her cushiony bed in sweatpants, scroll through my Facebook on my iPod, and listen to her talk about her latest boyfriend. I feel comfortable. Every negative thought that had crossed my mind about her recently was temporarily forgotten.
"I feel like I'm kinda like, stringing him along, and I guess after I move, I'll just break it off with him. And he keeps asking' me, "Jan, my friend is tellin' me you been cheatin'. I want you to be honest with me, babe. If you wanna break up with me than tell me. If we're gonna break up, I want you to break up with me because I don't wanna hurt you, da-da-da-da-da.' (January's version of "blah blah blah") And I don't know why he keeps accusin' me of somethin' I didn't do."
I take a silver Nikon camera down from where it hangs on the wall, and absentmindedly play with it. A Nikon N55. A 35 mm. A nice one, too.
"If he keeps saying that, it's like he's pushing you to break up with him. And since he keeps claiming that you're 'cheating,' that probably means that he's just trying to switch the blame around because he's probably the one doing something wrong."
I let the words hang between us, half-expecting a disagreement.
"I know, right? That's what I said! But I think I'm just not gonna tell him that I don't have feelings for him until I move. Because he's already said that if I hurt him, he'll go back to his old ways. Like, the drugs and stuff."
"How do you know he ever stopped?" I meet her gaze, and her blue eyes light up at my suggestion, and I know it's never even occurred to her.
"That's so true! I never thought of that!" she raves, and I know that she knows that I'm probably right. But she won't break it off any sooner because of it.
We sit in silence for a few moments, and I listen to our moms talking out on the back porch. I sip on my cherry-pomegranate V8 juice and scratch the top of her dog's head. It feels like summer.
And summer feels like contentment.
Feeling content with January comes as a surprise, and I know it shouldn't.
After going home, I find this incredible sadness nestled inside of me that had stayed out of sight until I had had time to let my brain start going into overdrive again. Let myself wonder how it can be both so easy and so difficult to feel happy. And it's a weird sadness, this feeling of longing. But not longing for another person. Longing for myself.
I've become something hollow, a shell. Perhaps a glass. A vulnerable glass on the countertop, knowing it has no other choice but to feel the chill of other people purring themselves inside. Letting everything inside of them fill up everything inside of me, until they tilt their head back and drink it all back inside. Including pieces of me.
Or perhaps I am the liquid, taking the shape of whatever container I am put inside of. The cynic. The bitch. The good friend. The funny girl. The miserable girl. The life of the party. The wallflower. And underneath those facades that I am poured into at the hands of other people, I am as transparent and tasteless as water. But in all actuality, I haven't always been that way.
I guess some people would tell me I do it to myself. And perhaps I do. But maybe after having so many people take tiny bits of your optimism, of your sanity, of your common sense--simply because they believe that they need it more than you do--maybe that is when you become this way.
When you become empty.
Sometimes, I feel like I should have this Hollywood moment where I meet someone who makes me feel less empty. Like a friend. Or a mentor. Or a lover. Anyone who makes me feel like they and I are two different people, not one person and their involuntary yet obedient little attachment. Their shadow, a ghost of someone who may or may not have existed once, a transparent shape that they find it so easy to pour their own reflection into.
Why must they think that the meaning of a friend is to take the feet of another person and shove them into their own shoes, not even considering that they had interrupted that person's own journey in the process?
Is that what has happened to me?
It seems that the only friend I've come across who was willing to attempt understanding me and fixing up all the broken parts of my mindset is Symphony. And as much as I love her, it seems that instead of making me feel less empty, she just makes me feel like I am empty for a reason. If that makes sense.
Honestly, my friends are good people. They are lost teenagers, and when they look at me, they may not see that empty ghost. Maybe they see the wisdom stored in my brain, the secrets behind surviving adolescence that I somehow can simultaneously know and not apply to my life, and they know that I can help them. And who can blame them? If someone could help me too, I'd want the answers.
So where do I find my own answers?
Perhaps I already know them.
"I really like that one. It looks so good, girl! And black…it like…it slims you down. Do you know what I mean?"
January babbles on somewhere behind me while I make a mental note to drop a few pounds before prom.
After trying on a few dresses in her bedroom, trying not to mind the zippers not closing all the way on some of them, I curl up on her cushiony bed in sweatpants, scroll through my Facebook on my iPod, and listen to her talk about her latest boyfriend. I feel comfortable. Every negative thought that had crossed my mind about her recently was temporarily forgotten.
"I feel like I'm kinda like, stringing him along, and I guess after I move, I'll just break it off with him. And he keeps asking' me, "Jan, my friend is tellin' me you been cheatin'. I want you to be honest with me, babe. If you wanna break up with me than tell me. If we're gonna break up, I want you to break up with me because I don't wanna hurt you, da-da-da-da-da.' (January's version of "blah blah blah") And I don't know why he keeps accusin' me of somethin' I didn't do."
I take a silver Nikon camera down from where it hangs on the wall, and absentmindedly play with it. A Nikon N55. A 35 mm. A nice one, too.
"If he keeps saying that, it's like he's pushing you to break up with him. And since he keeps claiming that you're 'cheating,' that probably means that he's just trying to switch the blame around because he's probably the one doing something wrong."
I let the words hang between us, half-expecting a disagreement.
"I know, right? That's what I said! But I think I'm just not gonna tell him that I don't have feelings for him until I move. Because he's already said that if I hurt him, he'll go back to his old ways. Like, the drugs and stuff."
"How do you know he ever stopped?" I meet her gaze, and her blue eyes light up at my suggestion, and I know it's never even occurred to her.
"That's so true! I never thought of that!" she raves, and I know that she knows that I'm probably right. But she won't break it off any sooner because of it.
We sit in silence for a few moments, and I listen to our moms talking out on the back porch. I sip on my cherry-pomegranate V8 juice and scratch the top of her dog's head. It feels like summer.
And summer feels like contentment.
Feeling content with January comes as a surprise, and I know it shouldn't.
After going home, I find this incredible sadness nestled inside of me that had stayed out of sight until I had had time to let my brain start going into overdrive again. Let myself wonder how it can be both so easy and so difficult to feel happy. And it's a weird sadness, this feeling of longing. But not longing for another person. Longing for myself.
I've become something hollow, a shell. Perhaps a glass. A vulnerable glass on the countertop, knowing it has no other choice but to feel the chill of other people purring themselves inside. Letting everything inside of them fill up everything inside of me, until they tilt their head back and drink it all back inside. Including pieces of me.
Or perhaps I am the liquid, taking the shape of whatever container I am put inside of. The cynic. The bitch. The good friend. The funny girl. The miserable girl. The life of the party. The wallflower. And underneath those facades that I am poured into at the hands of other people, I am as transparent and tasteless as water. But in all actuality, I haven't always been that way.
I guess some people would tell me I do it to myself. And perhaps I do. But maybe after having so many people take tiny bits of your optimism, of your sanity, of your common sense--simply because they believe that they need it more than you do--maybe that is when you become this way.
When you become empty.
Sometimes, I feel like I should have this Hollywood moment where I meet someone who makes me feel less empty. Like a friend. Or a mentor. Or a lover. Anyone who makes me feel like they and I are two different people, not one person and their involuntary yet obedient little attachment. Their shadow, a ghost of someone who may or may not have existed once, a transparent shape that they find it so easy to pour their own reflection into.
Why must they think that the meaning of a friend is to take the feet of another person and shove them into their own shoes, not even considering that they had interrupted that person's own journey in the process?
Is that what has happened to me?
It seems that the only friend I've come across who was willing to attempt understanding me and fixing up all the broken parts of my mindset is Symphony. And as much as I love her, it seems that instead of making me feel less empty, she just makes me feel like I am empty for a reason. If that makes sense.
Honestly, my friends are good people. They are lost teenagers, and when they look at me, they may not see that empty ghost. Maybe they see the wisdom stored in my brain, the secrets behind surviving adolescence that I somehow can simultaneously know and not apply to my life, and they know that I can help them. And who can blame them? If someone could help me too, I'd want the answers.
So where do I find my own answers?
Perhaps I already know them.
Friday, March 1, 2013
Can't Be Held Responsible
My ears are filled with the sound of his rejection, and it is sweeter than the sound of his silence.
It is strange how we associate people, events with music. This song, "The Freshmen" by The Verve Pipe, takes me back to being curled up near the pillow of my bed on the night of my confession and his rejection (will these two words always be synonymous, parallel to one another?), laptop propped against my knees, listening to the song on repeat and crying the sort of disturbing tears that never seem to stop, the ones that leave you in utter disbelief, because they won't stop falling, like a broken faucet. So you ask yourself, am I broken?
And I ask myself now, is broken better than empty?
I have to keep reminding myself to blame him for it. I can't blame myself. Who in their right mind would put themself through this?
I'll never understand how it is possible to become so attached to another human being. Lately, love has become something of a fantasy to me, something that hopeless romantics made up to define something terrible and time-consuming, trying to make it sound more appealing to the other hopeless romantics who read or listen to their words. Desperately trying to thin the line between the definition of happiness and the definition of love. But I am starting to see the line. It is outside of the world that someone has trapped me in. I want happiness. Instead, I have love. Lucky me.
Why should I have to love anyone? Why don't I have control over my emotions? If it was my choice, I would detach myself from this feeling forever. Who needs it? If my life has been so void of romance thus far, maybe that's the way it should be. Why must I still love when my obvious fate is not knowing what mutual love feels like? Isn't mutual love the point of loving? Wasn't love invented to be something that is shared?
And it's a feeling I wish that he knew as well. Not just because I want him to care about me, but because I want to see him try to squirm out of the deathly grip of this torturous feeling, the same way I do every day of my life.
Because I hate him. I hate his guts. I hate the way he thinks he's funny. I hate the way he thinks that everyone wants to know what he thinks. I hate the way he talks to everyone else in a room before considering gracing me with his presence. I hate the way I can't enjoy listening to some songs just because they remind me of him. I hate the sound of his voice, because I never hear my name there anymore. I hate the way I can hear him walking when he wears his cowboy boots, so my mind still follows him when I have trained my lingering gaze not to. I hate the way he throws his hands around like an angry Italian whenever he's talking. I hate the way he feels the need to be brutally honest with everyone in the world, but made up some pathetic excuse for not going out with me, when we both knew that he just didn't want to go out with a girl so unconventional for his stereotype that it would be embarrassing, good personality or not. I hate the way he acts so standoffish when I try to talk to him. I hate the way he makes me hate everything. I hate the way he makes me hate myself.
Why do I love him?
It is strange how we associate people, events with music. This song, "The Freshmen" by The Verve Pipe, takes me back to being curled up near the pillow of my bed on the night of my confession and his rejection (will these two words always be synonymous, parallel to one another?), laptop propped against my knees, listening to the song on repeat and crying the sort of disturbing tears that never seem to stop, the ones that leave you in utter disbelief, because they won't stop falling, like a broken faucet. So you ask yourself, am I broken?
And I ask myself now, is broken better than empty?
I have to keep reminding myself to blame him for it. I can't blame myself. Who in their right mind would put themself through this?
I'll never understand how it is possible to become so attached to another human being. Lately, love has become something of a fantasy to me, something that hopeless romantics made up to define something terrible and time-consuming, trying to make it sound more appealing to the other hopeless romantics who read or listen to their words. Desperately trying to thin the line between the definition of happiness and the definition of love. But I am starting to see the line. It is outside of the world that someone has trapped me in. I want happiness. Instead, I have love. Lucky me.
Why should I have to love anyone? Why don't I have control over my emotions? If it was my choice, I would detach myself from this feeling forever. Who needs it? If my life has been so void of romance thus far, maybe that's the way it should be. Why must I still love when my obvious fate is not knowing what mutual love feels like? Isn't mutual love the point of loving? Wasn't love invented to be something that is shared?
And it's a feeling I wish that he knew as well. Not just because I want him to care about me, but because I want to see him try to squirm out of the deathly grip of this torturous feeling, the same way I do every day of my life.
Because I hate him. I hate his guts. I hate the way he thinks he's funny. I hate the way he thinks that everyone wants to know what he thinks. I hate the way he talks to everyone else in a room before considering gracing me with his presence. I hate the way I can't enjoy listening to some songs just because they remind me of him. I hate the sound of his voice, because I never hear my name there anymore. I hate the way I can hear him walking when he wears his cowboy boots, so my mind still follows him when I have trained my lingering gaze not to. I hate the way he throws his hands around like an angry Italian whenever he's talking. I hate the way he feels the need to be brutally honest with everyone in the world, but made up some pathetic excuse for not going out with me, when we both knew that he just didn't want to go out with a girl so unconventional for his stereotype that it would be embarrassing, good personality or not. I hate the way he acts so standoffish when I try to talk to him. I hate the way he makes me hate everything. I hate the way he makes me hate myself.
Why do I love him?
Friday, February 1, 2013
(500) Days Of Summer
When I popped this DVD in my laptop, I expected a Nick & Norah-esque quirky romance movie. David had lent it to me (shortly after I returned his Mean Girls DVD that I had been holding captive for months), and Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist is his favorite movie of all time. Don't get me wrong, I liked that movie, but I don't see how it could be your favorite. It's completely unrealistic! How often do two teenagers meet by chance and fall for each other while chasing an underground indie band all over New York City? Yeah, never.
Anyway, (500) Days Of Summer was nothing like I expected. It was the story of a young man named Tom who wrote greeting cards, an unconventionally beautiful girl named Summer that worked at the office with him, and the 500 days between the day Tom meets Summer for the first time (convinced it's love at first sight), and the day he lets her go. Tom loves love, but Summer doesn't believe in it. So, their relationship is caught somewhere between friends-with-benefits and boyfriend-and-girlfriend, with each one standing firmly on either side, not backing down from the endless tug-of-war. And one day, Summer becomes distant, dumps Tom in the middle of a pancake house, and simply disappears. This leaves Tom stuck in a void of depression, doubting the existence of love, something he'd pined away for for his entire life. As soon as it seems that there is still hope for Tom, he runs into Summer once more, and they reconnect, dancing (literally) on the line between friendship and flirtation. Shortly after this reconnection, Tom discovers that Summer is engaged to be married, and their points of view on love have been reversed. And after another long phase of depression on Tom's part, which included quitting his job in a fit of rage and deciding to pursue his dream of becoming an architect, another encounter with Summer gives him the closure he needs. The film ends with a possible new beginning, a girl interviewing for the same architect position as Tom is, that he asks out on a whim. Maybe there is such thing as fate after all. And guess what her name is? Autumn.
I'm guessing that was kind of a crappy summary, but I decided to talk about this movie because of the impact it made on me.
I looked at Tom and I saw myself. And when I looked at Summer, I saw Floyd. It was like that moment when you're listening to a song, and every word relates to your latest predicament. (Ahem, The Story Of Us by Taylor Swift) Floyd and me's relationship is (was) nothing like the relationship that Tom and Summer share. But I saw us there. I saw me, pining away for true love, hoping that it exists, and convinced that I've found the one person I was meant to be with. I saw Floyd, who doesn't know what he wants. And at the end, Tom let Summer go and stumbled upon another person who might be his soulmate. I stopped and I asked myself, "Self, are you wasting your time?"
And the next day, I'm sitting in my Creative Writing class, knees pulled up to my chest and feet crossed on my chair, and I'm talking to him across a noisy row of desks. And it's easy. There's no anxiety hatching cocoons in my stomach, filling it with newborn butterflies. Because he's just a person. I talk to people. I'm a talkative person. Why not talk to Floyd? What's been stopping me?
Am I supposed to feel giddy? Nervous? Happy? Because I don't. I just feel like I'm me, and he's him, and we're having a conversation. And he's the same person he always was. Green fire eyes, words dripping with sarcasm, believing the world cares about his opinions (I may be the only one), gray and white t-shirt with uneven stripes that would drive an OCD person insane (probably intentional), Catholic pendants hanging from his neck, reddish brown stubble decorating his chin. He's him. But am I still me?
Am I a different person than I was a year ago? Am I still the same girl who would do anything to please Floyd? Am I still the same girl who perched him in the spotlight, where I could see him in just the right lighting, and he appeared to be the perfect muse, the perfect boyfriend, perfect for me, a person whose flaws were even perfect? After a while, I got sick of setting the stage. I wanted to share that spotlight with him. But if I was down on the stage, who would be controlling the spotlight? Holding him tight in my grasp, would I then find myself in the dark, wondering "What do I do now?" I don't know anything about what comes after the chase. It's all I've ever known.
I'd write him scripts, beautifully written happy endings, and watch him toss them aside, demanding another. In a fit of rage, I'd produced one more, and no more have followed. I had shoved it in his face, then simply turned on my heel and walked away, not bothering to wait for a reaction, spotlight in hand. I had decided that chasing love was a useless, destructive hobby that I had essentially become addicted to, and I was growing quite tired. He's the one who runs track. (He's damn fast, too) Why make me do all the chasing? Did he like to see me suffer?
I figured that if he wanted me, he'd come and get me. It was the type of guy that he was. I'd seen him in action. Flirtatious, bold. He knew what he wanted, and he went and got it. One second, this cocky redheaded dude is hitting on you and you don't know what to think, and suddenly, you're falling for him. He was irresistible, if you gave him a chance.
After observing this behavior, I stopped beating around the bush and decided to find out: Did he like me? Or did he like the spotlight?
So, I turned off the spotlight.
And consequently, we fell apart.
Why do I spend so much time trying to figure out how to fix this, when I'm the one who broke it in the first place?
Do I turn the spotlight back on? Or do I tear the idealized memories from the walls of my brain, erase the expectations my inner dreamer set up subconsciously, and become the architect for my own life instead?
After a bit of counting on my fingers and deep thought (on my calculator's part), the very rough estimation I've come up with is (450) Days Of Floyd.
Floyd is my Summer. He is my narcotic. Addictive and destructive, but I'm far too captivated by him to care. I love everything about him. I hate everything about him. I'm convinced there is no one else in the world who could be as perfect for me. I'm foolish. I'm ridiculous. And I'm right until proven wrong.
But before doing something as simple as watching some film, lent to me by a friend, I never believed that it was possible: being proven wrong. Especially about this. But, hey.
I did say Autumn was my favorite season, didn't I?
Anyway, (500) Days Of Summer was nothing like I expected. It was the story of a young man named Tom who wrote greeting cards, an unconventionally beautiful girl named Summer that worked at the office with him, and the 500 days between the day Tom meets Summer for the first time (convinced it's love at first sight), and the day he lets her go. Tom loves love, but Summer doesn't believe in it. So, their relationship is caught somewhere between friends-with-benefits and boyfriend-and-girlfriend, with each one standing firmly on either side, not backing down from the endless tug-of-war. And one day, Summer becomes distant, dumps Tom in the middle of a pancake house, and simply disappears. This leaves Tom stuck in a void of depression, doubting the existence of love, something he'd pined away for for his entire life. As soon as it seems that there is still hope for Tom, he runs into Summer once more, and they reconnect, dancing (literally) on the line between friendship and flirtation. Shortly after this reconnection, Tom discovers that Summer is engaged to be married, and their points of view on love have been reversed. And after another long phase of depression on Tom's part, which included quitting his job in a fit of rage and deciding to pursue his dream of becoming an architect, another encounter with Summer gives him the closure he needs. The film ends with a possible new beginning, a girl interviewing for the same architect position as Tom is, that he asks out on a whim. Maybe there is such thing as fate after all. And guess what her name is? Autumn.
I'm guessing that was kind of a crappy summary, but I decided to talk about this movie because of the impact it made on me.
I looked at Tom and I saw myself. And when I looked at Summer, I saw Floyd. It was like that moment when you're listening to a song, and every word relates to your latest predicament. (Ahem, The Story Of Us by Taylor Swift) Floyd and me's relationship is (was) nothing like the relationship that Tom and Summer share. But I saw us there. I saw me, pining away for true love, hoping that it exists, and convinced that I've found the one person I was meant to be with. I saw Floyd, who doesn't know what he wants. And at the end, Tom let Summer go and stumbled upon another person who might be his soulmate. I stopped and I asked myself, "Self, are you wasting your time?"
And the next day, I'm sitting in my Creative Writing class, knees pulled up to my chest and feet crossed on my chair, and I'm talking to him across a noisy row of desks. And it's easy. There's no anxiety hatching cocoons in my stomach, filling it with newborn butterflies. Because he's just a person. I talk to people. I'm a talkative person. Why not talk to Floyd? What's been stopping me?
Am I supposed to feel giddy? Nervous? Happy? Because I don't. I just feel like I'm me, and he's him, and we're having a conversation. And he's the same person he always was. Green fire eyes, words dripping with sarcasm, believing the world cares about his opinions (I may be the only one), gray and white t-shirt with uneven stripes that would drive an OCD person insane (probably intentional), Catholic pendants hanging from his neck, reddish brown stubble decorating his chin. He's him. But am I still me?
Am I a different person than I was a year ago? Am I still the same girl who would do anything to please Floyd? Am I still the same girl who perched him in the spotlight, where I could see him in just the right lighting, and he appeared to be the perfect muse, the perfect boyfriend, perfect for me, a person whose flaws were even perfect? After a while, I got sick of setting the stage. I wanted to share that spotlight with him. But if I was down on the stage, who would be controlling the spotlight? Holding him tight in my grasp, would I then find myself in the dark, wondering "What do I do now?" I don't know anything about what comes after the chase. It's all I've ever known.
I'd write him scripts, beautifully written happy endings, and watch him toss them aside, demanding another. In a fit of rage, I'd produced one more, and no more have followed. I had shoved it in his face, then simply turned on my heel and walked away, not bothering to wait for a reaction, spotlight in hand. I had decided that chasing love was a useless, destructive hobby that I had essentially become addicted to, and I was growing quite tired. He's the one who runs track. (He's damn fast, too) Why make me do all the chasing? Did he like to see me suffer?
I figured that if he wanted me, he'd come and get me. It was the type of guy that he was. I'd seen him in action. Flirtatious, bold. He knew what he wanted, and he went and got it. One second, this cocky redheaded dude is hitting on you and you don't know what to think, and suddenly, you're falling for him. He was irresistible, if you gave him a chance.
After observing this behavior, I stopped beating around the bush and decided to find out: Did he like me? Or did he like the spotlight?
So, I turned off the spotlight.
And consequently, we fell apart.
Why do I spend so much time trying to figure out how to fix this, when I'm the one who broke it in the first place?
Do I turn the spotlight back on? Or do I tear the idealized memories from the walls of my brain, erase the expectations my inner dreamer set up subconsciously, and become the architect for my own life instead?
After a bit of counting on my fingers and deep thought (on my calculator's part), the very rough estimation I've come up with is (450) Days Of Floyd.
Floyd is my Summer. He is my narcotic. Addictive and destructive, but I'm far too captivated by him to care. I love everything about him. I hate everything about him. I'm convinced there is no one else in the world who could be as perfect for me. I'm foolish. I'm ridiculous. And I'm right until proven wrong.
But before doing something as simple as watching some film, lent to me by a friend, I never believed that it was possible: being proven wrong. Especially about this. But, hey.
I did say Autumn was my favorite season, didn't I?
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Resolutions
Broken promises waiting to happen. Here goes.
1.) Get my body into better shape (number one on every female's New Year's resolution list)
2.) Write every day
3.) Take more pictures, to improve my photography and capture more memories
4.) Take risks
5.) Step out of my comfort zones
6.) Get a job and don't blow every paycheck on clothes
7.) Learn how to cook more foods (This will matter one day!)
8.) Spend more time with my friends
9.) Be more outgoing
10.) Be more honest with people
11.) Learn how to do something new
12.) Try to improve my self-confidence (Worth a try, right?)
13.) Get more sleep. (Says the girl writing a blog post at 1:47 AM)
Thirteen resolutions for 2013.
Happy New Year!
1.) Get my body into better shape (number one on every female's New Year's resolution list)
2.) Write every day
3.) Take more pictures, to improve my photography and capture more memories
4.) Take risks
5.) Step out of my comfort zones
6.) Get a job and don't blow every paycheck on clothes
7.) Learn how to cook more foods (This will matter one day!)
8.) Spend more time with my friends
9.) Be more outgoing
10.) Be more honest with people
11.) Learn how to do something new
12.) Try to improve my self-confidence (Worth a try, right?)
13.) Get more sleep. (Says the girl writing a blog post at 1:47 AM)
Thirteen resolutions for 2013.
Happy New Year!
Misery
Just like the curse, just like the stray
You feed it once, and now it stays
-Metallica, "Until It Sleeps"
….
I lay in my bed, wrapped up in the dark cocoon of sheets and blankets. I let the warmth of my own breath thaw my body out, curl up like a sleepy cat. I listen to my music, changing the volume depending on the song. Angry ones louder, screaming with me in agreement. Gentle ones quiet, comforting me, sometimes coaxing tears from my eyes. And deliriously, I dissect every song. Listen to specific parts. Violins. Bass parts. Strumming patterns. The rise and fall of the singers' voices. And I wallow.
How do other people feel sadness?
Do they cry? Do they eat? Do they write? Do they scream? Do they disguise it as anger and blame the world for everything? Do they get quiet? Do they simply hide it and pretend nothing is wrong?
How often do other people feel sad?
Every day? Or just every once in a while? When bad things happen? When they hear bad news? When they see other people being happier than they are? When it rains? When their plans are ruined? When they watch a sad movie or hear a sad song? When they remember something that they wish was more than a memory?
All that I know is that there is something not quite right about my sadness.
For me, sadness is an ocean that I sail on, swim in, drink from, drown in.
It's not really an emotion. It's constant, like a heartbeat. It flows through my veins. It is the backdrop of my thoughts. It is the electricity that fuels my brainwaves. I breathe in oxygen, breathe out sorrow.
Sometimes it sleeps, curls up in the back of my mind and drifts away. It dulls in comparison to the here and now, when my thoughts are needed elsewhere. It unwraps its cold fingers from my throat, and patiently waits, all the while watching how long I can forget about it.
But then it attacks. Jumps from the shadows and strangles me from behind, pulling me to the floor. Then, it holds me like a child, comforting me as it feeds off of me, sucking the life from me like a vampire. And I succumb. Misery loves company. And I open the door and welcome it across the threshold. Why would I leave it there on my doorstep? Why would I leave it to its loneliness when I know how it feels to be lonely?
And who else could I run to?
The phone rings. January. She wants to complain. I'm not in the mood to be the open ears and the shoulder to cry on. But it seems to be my fate, doesn't it? Mom answers. I shake my head. Yuuki takes the call. Her patience astounds me. Not shortly after answering, I hear Yuuki's voice trailing down the steps as she ascends them. "What happened?"
And I'm suddenly so grateful that it isn't me this time, being the director for the production of someone else's life. Designing sets, writing scripts, fixing problems, setting the stage. It's something I can be very talented at, when I'm in the mood for playing Miss Fix-It. But I'm not. I usually don't mind helping them. How would I be able to sleep at night knowing that someone could feel the things that I feel? No one deserves to feel that way. Except maybe for me, it seems.
How was your day? How was your weekend? How is your relationship? Want to know what I think? Do you want me to tell you what to say? What to do? Want me to cheer you up?
All questions I never ask, but get answers for anyway. No one ever asked me if I cared. I don't anymore. The tables never turn.
But let's face the question: what would I do if they actually did? Someone else shedding some light on my problems for a change? I'd wither. I'd scramble to clean up the mess my mind has become, and claim that nothing was wrong. And they'd believe me.
And the Facebook messages, popping up like unwanted visitors. Alexandria's boyfriend, gushing over how happy he is that she's spending a few days at his house. Whoop-dee-do. January, with her bad grammar and predicaments that her brain can't handle, so she dumps them off on me. I give her advice that she doesn't even take. Symphony, the only friend I wholeheartedly trust, and I'm reluctant to open up to her about anything because I know that her ignoring my problems will be just another problem I have no one to bitch to about.
Maybe I'll stop using Facebook. Maybe I'll never answer the phone. (I already refuse to) Maybe I'll keep to myself in school and watch my friends drift away like dandelion seeds in the wind. And smile because every seed detached itself from the stem without that much effort. A puff of air. A simple sigh of exasperation. And there it is, my wish coming true.
I am more than just ears. Why doesn't anyone see that?
After keeping your honesty and your problems inside for so long, the place where you store them becomes congested. So they have no choice but to spill out and eat away at your brain, your feelings, your life, your soul.
And there is my sadness, holding me when no one else does.
You feed it once, and now it stays
-Metallica, "Until It Sleeps"
….
I lay in my bed, wrapped up in the dark cocoon of sheets and blankets. I let the warmth of my own breath thaw my body out, curl up like a sleepy cat. I listen to my music, changing the volume depending on the song. Angry ones louder, screaming with me in agreement. Gentle ones quiet, comforting me, sometimes coaxing tears from my eyes. And deliriously, I dissect every song. Listen to specific parts. Violins. Bass parts. Strumming patterns. The rise and fall of the singers' voices. And I wallow.
How do other people feel sadness?
Do they cry? Do they eat? Do they write? Do they scream? Do they disguise it as anger and blame the world for everything? Do they get quiet? Do they simply hide it and pretend nothing is wrong?
How often do other people feel sad?
Every day? Or just every once in a while? When bad things happen? When they hear bad news? When they see other people being happier than they are? When it rains? When their plans are ruined? When they watch a sad movie or hear a sad song? When they remember something that they wish was more than a memory?
All that I know is that there is something not quite right about my sadness.
For me, sadness is an ocean that I sail on, swim in, drink from, drown in.
It's not really an emotion. It's constant, like a heartbeat. It flows through my veins. It is the backdrop of my thoughts. It is the electricity that fuels my brainwaves. I breathe in oxygen, breathe out sorrow.
Sometimes it sleeps, curls up in the back of my mind and drifts away. It dulls in comparison to the here and now, when my thoughts are needed elsewhere. It unwraps its cold fingers from my throat, and patiently waits, all the while watching how long I can forget about it.
But then it attacks. Jumps from the shadows and strangles me from behind, pulling me to the floor. Then, it holds me like a child, comforting me as it feeds off of me, sucking the life from me like a vampire. And I succumb. Misery loves company. And I open the door and welcome it across the threshold. Why would I leave it there on my doorstep? Why would I leave it to its loneliness when I know how it feels to be lonely?
And who else could I run to?
The phone rings. January. She wants to complain. I'm not in the mood to be the open ears and the shoulder to cry on. But it seems to be my fate, doesn't it? Mom answers. I shake my head. Yuuki takes the call. Her patience astounds me. Not shortly after answering, I hear Yuuki's voice trailing down the steps as she ascends them. "What happened?"
And I'm suddenly so grateful that it isn't me this time, being the director for the production of someone else's life. Designing sets, writing scripts, fixing problems, setting the stage. It's something I can be very talented at, when I'm in the mood for playing Miss Fix-It. But I'm not. I usually don't mind helping them. How would I be able to sleep at night knowing that someone could feel the things that I feel? No one deserves to feel that way. Except maybe for me, it seems.
How was your day? How was your weekend? How is your relationship? Want to know what I think? Do you want me to tell you what to say? What to do? Want me to cheer you up?
All questions I never ask, but get answers for anyway. No one ever asked me if I cared. I don't anymore. The tables never turn.
But let's face the question: what would I do if they actually did? Someone else shedding some light on my problems for a change? I'd wither. I'd scramble to clean up the mess my mind has become, and claim that nothing was wrong. And they'd believe me.
And the Facebook messages, popping up like unwanted visitors. Alexandria's boyfriend, gushing over how happy he is that she's spending a few days at his house. Whoop-dee-do. January, with her bad grammar and predicaments that her brain can't handle, so she dumps them off on me. I give her advice that she doesn't even take. Symphony, the only friend I wholeheartedly trust, and I'm reluctant to open up to her about anything because I know that her ignoring my problems will be just another problem I have no one to bitch to about.
Maybe I'll stop using Facebook. Maybe I'll never answer the phone. (I already refuse to) Maybe I'll keep to myself in school and watch my friends drift away like dandelion seeds in the wind. And smile because every seed detached itself from the stem without that much effort. A puff of air. A simple sigh of exasperation. And there it is, my wish coming true.
I am more than just ears. Why doesn't anyone see that?
After keeping your honesty and your problems inside for so long, the place where you store them becomes congested. So they have no choice but to spill out and eat away at your brain, your feelings, your life, your soul.
And there is my sadness, holding me when no one else does.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
More On Words...
They're powerful.
But are they powerful enough
to hold two people together?
Do people need
physical closeness
to feel connected?
Or will a
dial-up connection do?
Yuuki is in love.
Or at least
I think she is.
She thinks she is.
Mom and Dad
disagree
but what do they know?
His name is Ronnie.
And he lives
over one thousand miles away.
They met on the internet
of all places,
a place teeming with
middle-aged predators
psychotic people
with online personas
because who they are
in real life
isn't enough for them.
But he came along
as authentic
as a real person,
so he had to be one.
And after all the
questions asked
and the
"Really? Me too!"
responses
and all the things they
discussed
debated
pondered
shared
confessed
she realized she had
found somebody
worth finding.
She liked
how he unfolded
before her
like a story
that she couldn't see
the end of yet.
I guess it was
almost suspenseful.
He fascinated her
she fascinated him
They kind of
fell in love
with each other's
brains.
There were too many
similarities
for it to be random
Too many details
for it to be a lie
Too many
smiles
for it to be mere luck
Too many
reasons for him not to
feel the same way
(according to her),
but she told him
how she felt anyway.
And it was
quite a risk to take
because the only thing
that held them together
was
words.
But somehow,
in some way
that I'll never understand
because I'm much
too cynical,
their
relationship
survived
the confession.
And it's weird,
because whenever
I see a couple,
in a photo on Facebook
holding hands in the hall
dressed up for a formal
I turn the ugliest
shade of green.
But when I think about
Ronnie and Yuuki
and the nice things
he says to her
and the way he says
he'll come up to see her
in April
and the long-ass
messages they send
each other,
that waste time
I could be spending
blogging
messaging
scrolling
thinking
responding
observing the
more interesting lives
of Facebook friends
I don't even know,
and the mix CD
she made for him
for Christmas
full of love songs
yet somehow
not awkward
that she sent in the mail
yesterday
It all makes me
happy.
Their words
make me
happy.
But are they powerful enough
to hold two people together?
Do people need
physical closeness
to feel connected?
Or will a
dial-up connection do?
Yuuki is in love.
Or at least
I think she is.
She thinks she is.
Mom and Dad
disagree
but what do they know?
His name is Ronnie.
And he lives
over one thousand miles away.
They met on the internet
of all places,
a place teeming with
middle-aged predators
psychotic people
with online personas
because who they are
in real life
isn't enough for them.
But he came along
as authentic
as a real person,
so he had to be one.
And after all the
questions asked
and the
"Really? Me too!"
responses
and all the things they
discussed
debated
pondered
shared
confessed
she realized she had
found somebody
worth finding.
She liked
how he unfolded
before her
like a story
that she couldn't see
the end of yet.
I guess it was
almost suspenseful.
He fascinated her
she fascinated him
They kind of
fell in love
with each other's
brains.
There were too many
similarities
for it to be random
Too many details
for it to be a lie
Too many
smiles
for it to be mere luck
Too many
reasons for him not to
feel the same way
(according to her),
but she told him
how she felt anyway.
And it was
quite a risk to take
because the only thing
that held them together
was
words.
But somehow,
in some way
that I'll never understand
because I'm much
too cynical,
their
relationship
survived
the confession.
And it's weird,
because whenever
I see a couple,
in a photo on Facebook
holding hands in the hall
dressed up for a formal
I turn the ugliest
shade of green.
But when I think about
Ronnie and Yuuki
and the nice things
he says to her
and the way he says
he'll come up to see her
in April
and the long-ass
messages they send
each other,
that waste time
I could be spending
blogging
messaging
scrolling
thinking
responding
observing the
more interesting lives
of Facebook friends
I don't even know,
and the mix CD
she made for him
for Christmas
full of love songs
yet somehow
not awkward
that she sent in the mail
yesterday
It all makes me
happy.
Their words
make me
happy.
The Damnedest Things
We all say things we don't mean.
Vicious words, crawling out of your mouth with the intention to hurt someone. And all you can do is watch them escape in astonishment. How did you let them slip by your common sense, who usually guards your mouth so closely that you end up never saying what's on your mind?
Sometimes, common sense takes a coffee break. No one wants sleepy, sluggish common sense. People in their right minds want their common sense to be wired, wide-eyed, vigilant.
So while common sense runs down to Starbucks for overpriced coffee and possibly a cookie if it isn't in the mood to diet, it leaves you unattended.
That can be dangerous.
I've never understood the phrase, "Sticks and stones can break your bones, but words will never hurt you." Who even made up something so futile, and why do people choose to believe that?
Words can be painful. I consider my sharp tongue one of my deadliest weapons, a dormant creature that rested behind my teeth, sometimes trying to rear its ugly head but being suppressed by that common sense. And every once in a while, when my feelings are in danger of becoming wounded, I sharpen that tongue and take it for a spin, always a little stunned by the results.
A slap to the skull, shock, confusion, oblivion, a look of astonished hurt, a sharp-edged insult fired back to hit me right where it hurts.
I call my sister self-centered. I say I hate my grandmother. I drop snide comments to my parents on a regular basis, until I unintentionally hit a nerve, then I recoil. I pointedly disagree with things David says just so he realizes that my goal in life is not to please him. I start spur-of-the-moment arguments with Symphony out of boredom and irritation with her tendency to be a thousand miles away when all I want to do is talk. I say that I wish Floyd would get hit by a train. I say that God doesn't care about me.
I say the damnedest things sometimes.
Common sense had best grab me a mocha cappuccino or something while it's at it, because this has been one long coffee break.
Vicious words, crawling out of your mouth with the intention to hurt someone. And all you can do is watch them escape in astonishment. How did you let them slip by your common sense, who usually guards your mouth so closely that you end up never saying what's on your mind?
Sometimes, common sense takes a coffee break. No one wants sleepy, sluggish common sense. People in their right minds want their common sense to be wired, wide-eyed, vigilant.
So while common sense runs down to Starbucks for overpriced coffee and possibly a cookie if it isn't in the mood to diet, it leaves you unattended.
That can be dangerous.
I've never understood the phrase, "Sticks and stones can break your bones, but words will never hurt you." Who even made up something so futile, and why do people choose to believe that?
Words can be painful. I consider my sharp tongue one of my deadliest weapons, a dormant creature that rested behind my teeth, sometimes trying to rear its ugly head but being suppressed by that common sense. And every once in a while, when my feelings are in danger of becoming wounded, I sharpen that tongue and take it for a spin, always a little stunned by the results.
A slap to the skull, shock, confusion, oblivion, a look of astonished hurt, a sharp-edged insult fired back to hit me right where it hurts.
I call my sister self-centered. I say I hate my grandmother. I drop snide comments to my parents on a regular basis, until I unintentionally hit a nerve, then I recoil. I pointedly disagree with things David says just so he realizes that my goal in life is not to please him. I start spur-of-the-moment arguments with Symphony out of boredom and irritation with her tendency to be a thousand miles away when all I want to do is talk. I say that I wish Floyd would get hit by a train. I say that God doesn't care about me.
I say the damnedest things sometimes.
Common sense had best grab me a mocha cappuccino or something while it's at it, because this has been one long coffee break.
The Christmas Spirit
What comes to mind when you hear the words "traditional family"?
Parents still married. Dad is some rugged Ken doll in an army uniform. Mom is his Barbie doll equivalent, with curled blonde hair, a billowing circle skirt. She vacuums the living room, a majestic dance of spinning skirts and graceful cleansing. The kids are playing in the spacious front yard, never growing past the age of eight or so, jumping in the spray of the sprinkler, screaming with delight. A golden retriever named Ralph barks, loud and jovial, and circles the playing children, and no one cares what life is like outside of the white picket fence.
Much to the dismay of Hollywood filmmakers and the like, this family never existed.
Americans have odd standards set up in their minds when it comes to their idea of perfection. They believe in intangible things, making them their goals subconsciously. Absentmindedly searching for conventional solutions to things that usually aren't problems in the first place.
People always talk about "getting in the Christmas spirit."
This year, I just couldn't seem to get into that spirit. I couldn't remember where it came from. I couldn't remember if I'd ever actually found it in the first place. But what if "the Christmas spirit" is just another overrated figment of America's imagination?
I mean, what is it, anyway? Blasting Christmas music in the car? Drinking hot chocolate? Baking? Decorating your house? Picking out a tree for the living room? Going to holiday parties? Going shopping? Getting gifts? Giving gifts?
After giving this whole "Christmas spirit" thing a bit of thought, I settled on an answer that just seemed so easy. Too easy, but what else could it be?
"It's true, wherever you find love, it feels like Christmas."
I think that the Christmas spirit is love. Love, fueled by Christmas. It's loving the world around you when you look outside and see snow falling peacefully. It's loving Jesus for loving us back. It's loving the Christmas movies you watch every year. It's loving being alive on December 21, and every other day too. It's loving your best friend when she gives you a makeshift photo album of memories after she drew your name for Secret Santa. It's loving that moment as you leave school on the last day before break, like a colder version of the last day of school. It's loving Floyd even though I hate him and I don't exist anymore. It's loving your family when you find yourself surrounded by them and their mouths that flap like ducks' asses and their love for you. It's so weird, knowing that people love me. I don't know why. It's like, I didn't do anything to deserve it, and yet, it's there. I guess that's really what family is. Loving people for no real reason. Just knowing you do.
If you look for love, you'll find the Christmas spirit everywhere. "It's true, wherever you find love, it feels like Christmas." That quote is from "A Muppets Christmas Carol," which I've been watching every year on Christmas Eve for as long as I can remember.
Sometimes we learn the most important things from places we'd never think to look.
Merry Christmas, everyone. :)
Parents still married. Dad is some rugged Ken doll in an army uniform. Mom is his Barbie doll equivalent, with curled blonde hair, a billowing circle skirt. She vacuums the living room, a majestic dance of spinning skirts and graceful cleansing. The kids are playing in the spacious front yard, never growing past the age of eight or so, jumping in the spray of the sprinkler, screaming with delight. A golden retriever named Ralph barks, loud and jovial, and circles the playing children, and no one cares what life is like outside of the white picket fence.
Much to the dismay of Hollywood filmmakers and the like, this family never existed.
Americans have odd standards set up in their minds when it comes to their idea of perfection. They believe in intangible things, making them their goals subconsciously. Absentmindedly searching for conventional solutions to things that usually aren't problems in the first place.
People always talk about "getting in the Christmas spirit."
This year, I just couldn't seem to get into that spirit. I couldn't remember where it came from. I couldn't remember if I'd ever actually found it in the first place. But what if "the Christmas spirit" is just another overrated figment of America's imagination?
I mean, what is it, anyway? Blasting Christmas music in the car? Drinking hot chocolate? Baking? Decorating your house? Picking out a tree for the living room? Going to holiday parties? Going shopping? Getting gifts? Giving gifts?
After giving this whole "Christmas spirit" thing a bit of thought, I settled on an answer that just seemed so easy. Too easy, but what else could it be?
"It's true, wherever you find love, it feels like Christmas."
I think that the Christmas spirit is love. Love, fueled by Christmas. It's loving the world around you when you look outside and see snow falling peacefully. It's loving Jesus for loving us back. It's loving the Christmas movies you watch every year. It's loving being alive on December 21, and every other day too. It's loving your best friend when she gives you a makeshift photo album of memories after she drew your name for Secret Santa. It's loving that moment as you leave school on the last day before break, like a colder version of the last day of school. It's loving Floyd even though I hate him and I don't exist anymore. It's loving your family when you find yourself surrounded by them and their mouths that flap like ducks' asses and their love for you. It's so weird, knowing that people love me. I don't know why. It's like, I didn't do anything to deserve it, and yet, it's there. I guess that's really what family is. Loving people for no real reason. Just knowing you do.
If you look for love, you'll find the Christmas spirit everywhere. "It's true, wherever you find love, it feels like Christmas." That quote is from "A Muppets Christmas Carol," which I've been watching every year on Christmas Eve for as long as I can remember.
Sometimes we learn the most important things from places we'd never think to look.
Merry Christmas, everyone. :)
Sunday, December 23, 2012
Strangers
Have you ever been in love with someone?
I think that I have. I think that I am.
But when you’re only sixteen, saying you’re in love feels stupid. It’s like the words don’t fit in your mouth correctly. They feel awkward, even in your brain.
Is it possible to become addicted to another human being?
He’s like a pack of cigarettes tucked into my back pocket. Absentmindedly, I pull him out, take out a little piece of him. Like the sound of my name in his mouth. Like the smell that hung on his clothes. Like the way his eyes smiled when he said something wicked. Like the way his breath felt against my ear. Like the countless knowing glances that were exchanged. Like the sound of him singing under his breath. Like the song "Kristy, Are You Doing OK?" by The Offspring.
And I light it up and let it burn in my mind. It calms me down. It brings a small, bittersweet grin to my face. It takes me away.
And it eats away at the inside of me.
Sometimes I wonder if I ever even knew him, because I certainly don’t anymore.
I remember what it was like to have a crush on him.
Mouthing the words of "Kristy, Are You Doing OK?" as it blasted from his computer, meeting my gaze as I did the same. Nowadays, those chords make my throat tingle, the same sort of lump that forms when you're frantically searching for something that you have lost.
Telling me he hated my "I ♥ NY" t-shirt, because it was so cliché, and I told him that's why I liked it.
Smiling to myself when he told me his girlfriend had dumped him, but replying with, "Oh, really? Why?" like I was actually concerned.
Watching him walk into shop class, fresh from an extended period of Chemistry class, which he despised, and asking smugly, "How was Chem?" Him letting out a scoff and replying with, "Long," he paused, gave me one of his wicked, admittedly roguish grins, "…and hard." I rolled my eyes and laughed in spite of myself.
Scrolling through the unorganized list of songs on his Blackberry, familiar titles catching my eye on the cracked screen. One headphone each, hushed conversation, there was only two people in the world.
Something like jealousy burning just behind his green eyes when he saw me laughing at something Jordan said, comfortable by his side, sharing food with him, listening to Protest The Hero. His obvious attempts at making me jealous too, and the way they always worked. Oh, how we pissed each other off.
Him falling into step beside me as we left class, talking and laughing until we found ourselves on the other side of the school, where I was supposed to be, but far from where his next class was. He laughed incredulously, and asked "What am I doing?" And I didn't know what he was doing, but I liked it.
Brushing sawdust off my shoes and peeling Elmer's glue from my fingers during Geometry class, a thousand miles away. Or more accurately, merely a class period earlier.
My voice saying his name fearlessly, watching him turn and watch me as I confessed my feelings for him. The way he turned me down, quick and painless. My hands shaking in my lap. My eyes wet from subconsciously refusing to blink. And the way that moment disappeared from his mind afterwords, like it never even happened.
I remember what it was like to wake up every morning and think to myself, "Maybe today is the day that I’ll win his heart." I remember what it was like to smile only because I was with him. I remember feeling so full, so content by his side, and all of the bad things in my life suddenly didn’t exist anymore.
And then, out of nowhere, he became one of those bad things.
Summer was an eternity. The days moved by sluggishly. Boredom reigned on all levels. Summer was the beginning of the end, and I spent every day hoping that it wouldn’t be. When it came to a close, I breezed through the doors of the school and back into a life I think I came to love before those three slow months brought everything to a screeching halt. And there I was again. Waiting for it all to start again, right where it left off.
How foolish.
"Hey, Floyd," I said breezily, as I slid into the seat behind him in my first period math class.
"Hey," he replied.
The amount of times we have spoken since that day could probably be counted on my fingers. It’s been months. And the last time I checked, I had only ten fingers.
The air outside is now brisk and empty, the kind of cold air that it hurts to breathe in. The leaves have long fallen from the trees and plastered themselves to the ground, leaving the branches to shiver in the wind. Every house shines with Christmas decorations, some artfully placed, some tacky as hell.
What happened? When did we forget how to dance on the line between friendship and more-than-friendship? Silence fills the once charged atmosphere between us. When did we become different? Did I change? Did he? He didn't seem to be different. Same flannel and jeans uniform, same witty sarcasm and talking just to hear his own voice, same curly hair and fiery eyes, doodling in notebooks, head in his hand. There was a tension in the air between us, unanswered questions.
Why isn't he talking to me?
Does she still like me?
Is he playing hard to get?
Is she ignoring me?
Or does he just not care anymore?
But after a while, even the tension went away.
And we have become nothing.
I wish I knew why.
I wish I knew the reasons why every day in study hall, he will sit less than ten feet away from me, but he will not say a word to me. He won’t even look at me anymore. I’ve become translucent. Am I even alive anymore? Or do I just go through the motions? Why do I need him like this?
I miss sitting on my Nana’s porch swing until dark, listening to the All-American Rejects and just dreaming about all of the things that couldawouldashoulda happened, and the things that I had my fingers crossed on to happen when I saw him again. A quirky fairytale, the result of mashing together a dreamer and a cynic who switched roles so much it was like they were playing musical chairs. Who played which part? I wanted it so badly. And sitting there on that porch swing, it seemed possible.
But this isn’t a good feeling anymore. This is hell. This is a loss of inspiration. This is crying my eyes out with only Metallica to comfort me. This is wanting to move on, but for some reason, it’s impossible. This is hating his guts. This is wanting to beat his brains in just as much as I want to hold him.
Is this love?
If it is, I want no part in it.
I think that I have. I think that I am.
But when you’re only sixteen, saying you’re in love feels stupid. It’s like the words don’t fit in your mouth correctly. They feel awkward, even in your brain.
Is it possible to become addicted to another human being?
He’s like a pack of cigarettes tucked into my back pocket. Absentmindedly, I pull him out, take out a little piece of him. Like the sound of my name in his mouth. Like the smell that hung on his clothes. Like the way his eyes smiled when he said something wicked. Like the way his breath felt against my ear. Like the countless knowing glances that were exchanged. Like the sound of him singing under his breath. Like the song "Kristy, Are You Doing OK?" by The Offspring.
And I light it up and let it burn in my mind. It calms me down. It brings a small, bittersweet grin to my face. It takes me away.
And it eats away at the inside of me.
Sometimes I wonder if I ever even knew him, because I certainly don’t anymore.
I remember what it was like to have a crush on him.
Mouthing the words of "Kristy, Are You Doing OK?" as it blasted from his computer, meeting my gaze as I did the same. Nowadays, those chords make my throat tingle, the same sort of lump that forms when you're frantically searching for something that you have lost.
Telling me he hated my "I ♥ NY" t-shirt, because it was so cliché, and I told him that's why I liked it.
Smiling to myself when he told me his girlfriend had dumped him, but replying with, "Oh, really? Why?" like I was actually concerned.
Watching him walk into shop class, fresh from an extended period of Chemistry class, which he despised, and asking smugly, "How was Chem?" Him letting out a scoff and replying with, "Long," he paused, gave me one of his wicked, admittedly roguish grins, "…and hard." I rolled my eyes and laughed in spite of myself.
Scrolling through the unorganized list of songs on his Blackberry, familiar titles catching my eye on the cracked screen. One headphone each, hushed conversation, there was only two people in the world.
Something like jealousy burning just behind his green eyes when he saw me laughing at something Jordan said, comfortable by his side, sharing food with him, listening to Protest The Hero. His obvious attempts at making me jealous too, and the way they always worked. Oh, how we pissed each other off.
Him falling into step beside me as we left class, talking and laughing until we found ourselves on the other side of the school, where I was supposed to be, but far from where his next class was. He laughed incredulously, and asked "What am I doing?" And I didn't know what he was doing, but I liked it.
Brushing sawdust off my shoes and peeling Elmer's glue from my fingers during Geometry class, a thousand miles away. Or more accurately, merely a class period earlier.
My voice saying his name fearlessly, watching him turn and watch me as I confessed my feelings for him. The way he turned me down, quick and painless. My hands shaking in my lap. My eyes wet from subconsciously refusing to blink. And the way that moment disappeared from his mind afterwords, like it never even happened.
I remember what it was like to wake up every morning and think to myself, "Maybe today is the day that I’ll win his heart." I remember what it was like to smile only because I was with him. I remember feeling so full, so content by his side, and all of the bad things in my life suddenly didn’t exist anymore.
And then, out of nowhere, he became one of those bad things.
Summer was an eternity. The days moved by sluggishly. Boredom reigned on all levels. Summer was the beginning of the end, and I spent every day hoping that it wouldn’t be. When it came to a close, I breezed through the doors of the school and back into a life I think I came to love before those three slow months brought everything to a screeching halt. And there I was again. Waiting for it all to start again, right where it left off.
How foolish.
"Hey, Floyd," I said breezily, as I slid into the seat behind him in my first period math class.
"Hey," he replied.
The amount of times we have spoken since that day could probably be counted on my fingers. It’s been months. And the last time I checked, I had only ten fingers.
The air outside is now brisk and empty, the kind of cold air that it hurts to breathe in. The leaves have long fallen from the trees and plastered themselves to the ground, leaving the branches to shiver in the wind. Every house shines with Christmas decorations, some artfully placed, some tacky as hell.
What happened? When did we forget how to dance on the line between friendship and more-than-friendship? Silence fills the once charged atmosphere between us. When did we become different? Did I change? Did he? He didn't seem to be different. Same flannel and jeans uniform, same witty sarcasm and talking just to hear his own voice, same curly hair and fiery eyes, doodling in notebooks, head in his hand. There was a tension in the air between us, unanswered questions.
Why isn't he talking to me?
Does she still like me?
Is he playing hard to get?
Is she ignoring me?
Or does he just not care anymore?
But after a while, even the tension went away.
And we have become nothing.
I wish I knew why.
I wish I knew the reasons why every day in study hall, he will sit less than ten feet away from me, but he will not say a word to me. He won’t even look at me anymore. I’ve become translucent. Am I even alive anymore? Or do I just go through the motions? Why do I need him like this?
I miss sitting on my Nana’s porch swing until dark, listening to the All-American Rejects and just dreaming about all of the things that couldawouldashoulda happened, and the things that I had my fingers crossed on to happen when I saw him again. A quirky fairytale, the result of mashing together a dreamer and a cynic who switched roles so much it was like they were playing musical chairs. Who played which part? I wanted it so badly. And sitting there on that porch swing, it seemed possible.
But this isn’t a good feeling anymore. This is hell. This is a loss of inspiration. This is crying my eyes out with only Metallica to comfort me. This is wanting to move on, but for some reason, it’s impossible. This is hating his guts. This is wanting to beat his brains in just as much as I want to hold him.
Is this love?
If it is, I want no part in it.
Numbers At My Feet
I lost twenty-five pounds.
I can’t remember when I decided to lose weight.
It feels like only yesterday that I had broken a promise I had once made to myself, and hesitantly stood on the old scale in my Nana’s bathroom.
The needle jumped from the zero and past the "160" mark. I stepped off quickly, then left. I shook the number from my head before it could settle there. Was that the deciding moment?
I couldn't tell you.
But nonetheless, I made a decision. A big decision.
I let the amount of food I was eating every day slowly dwindle down to somewhere around one thousand calories at one point. My evening walks turned into my evening runs. I remember how it felt, taking a rest on a cool rock at the end of the walking trail, gulping water, being slick with sweat. It was excruciating, but I pushed myself to do it every day. And then it didn’t feel hard anymore. I simply pushed myself along, looking at the dull brown river as I ran alongside it, my mind completely blank. Then, when August began and marching band practices made it hard to spend time at home, I started going for bike rides. By the end of the summer, I was only consuming around 1200 calories at the most and going for two bike rides per day. It was excessive. I didn't care.
And at one point, my clothing stopped fitting me. I poked new holes into my white stud belt, all the way up to where the studs started. My friends would look at me, envy shining dully just behind their eyes, asking me how I had done it.
It was a strange feeling. It was foreign. People were never jealous of me. People probably hung out with me because they wanted friends that they didn’t have to be jealous of.
There was a time when my weight loss went from an experiment to an obsession. The amount of calories in all of the snacks in my house became common knowledge. There are 140 calories in 26 cheese curls. I still know that. Maybe I'll always know that. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about the last ten pounds I still want to lose. Every time I eat something outside of the strict confines of my diet, I immediately begin planning what foods I will eat (and not eat) the next day.
I may look a little better in my clothes, and the numbers at my feet have slipped neatly back into a "normal" BMI, but along with the weight, I lost something else.
It’s something I can’t really find a word to describe. Is there a word that means "the ability to go through one day without any worries"?
Happiness?
But did I even have that in the first place?
I can’t remember when I decided to lose weight.
It feels like only yesterday that I had broken a promise I had once made to myself, and hesitantly stood on the old scale in my Nana’s bathroom.
The needle jumped from the zero and past the "160" mark. I stepped off quickly, then left. I shook the number from my head before it could settle there. Was that the deciding moment?
I couldn't tell you.
But nonetheless, I made a decision. A big decision.
I let the amount of food I was eating every day slowly dwindle down to somewhere around one thousand calories at one point. My evening walks turned into my evening runs. I remember how it felt, taking a rest on a cool rock at the end of the walking trail, gulping water, being slick with sweat. It was excruciating, but I pushed myself to do it every day. And then it didn’t feel hard anymore. I simply pushed myself along, looking at the dull brown river as I ran alongside it, my mind completely blank. Then, when August began and marching band practices made it hard to spend time at home, I started going for bike rides. By the end of the summer, I was only consuming around 1200 calories at the most and going for two bike rides per day. It was excessive. I didn't care.
And at one point, my clothing stopped fitting me. I poked new holes into my white stud belt, all the way up to where the studs started. My friends would look at me, envy shining dully just behind their eyes, asking me how I had done it.
It was a strange feeling. It was foreign. People were never jealous of me. People probably hung out with me because they wanted friends that they didn’t have to be jealous of.
There was a time when my weight loss went from an experiment to an obsession. The amount of calories in all of the snacks in my house became common knowledge. There are 140 calories in 26 cheese curls. I still know that. Maybe I'll always know that. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about the last ten pounds I still want to lose. Every time I eat something outside of the strict confines of my diet, I immediately begin planning what foods I will eat (and not eat) the next day.
I may look a little better in my clothes, and the numbers at my feet have slipped neatly back into a "normal" BMI, but along with the weight, I lost something else.
It’s something I can’t really find a word to describe. Is there a word that means "the ability to go through one day without any worries"?
Happiness?
But did I even have that in the first place?
Winter
Vacant tree branches
save for the cedars and pines
First snow long gone
Fresh baked cookies
raw dough in my stomach
My Nana's house has
become the North Pole
in appearance
My own house has
become the North Pole
in temperature
Plump tree in the living room
Might be the last real one
in the world
Unwrapped presents
waiting in Boscov's bags
For Santa to wrap them up
And the days of clarinet playing
lips chapped and destroyed
from reeds and cold air
long gone now
No more concerts
no more shows
or practices
Don't know whether I
should be smiling
or reminiscing
Maybe both
Decorations are put up
shopping is done
Free time
is precious
And now,
we write.
save for the cedars and pines
First snow long gone
Fresh baked cookies
raw dough in my stomach
My Nana's house has
become the North Pole
in appearance
My own house has
become the North Pole
in temperature
Plump tree in the living room
Might be the last real one
in the world
Unwrapped presents
waiting in Boscov's bags
For Santa to wrap them up
And the days of clarinet playing
lips chapped and destroyed
from reeds and cold air
long gone now
No more concerts
no more shows
or practices
Don't know whether I
should be smiling
or reminiscing
Maybe both
Decorations are put up
shopping is done
Free time
is precious
And now,
we write.
Autumn
It was always my favorite season.
I love everything about it. The way it looks. The way it smells. The way it feels. Autumn is a season that is considerate to your senses. It's the only season that seems to adore me, appealing to my tastes flawlessly. Suiting my fancies.
Perfect weather. Football season. Marching band season, the good parts and the bad. Changing leaves, falling leaves, naked tree branches--perfect excuses to take photographs of anything and everything. Halloween. Candy corn and mini Twix bars. Thanksgiving. Pumpkin pie.
Autumn is one of those occurrences that teaches you to love the simple things in life. Watching leaves fall around you. The feeling of warm air pushing against your face as your bicycle races through the clear air. Sitting around your kitchen table with your family on Thanksgiving. The sheer happiness you can't contain when your school's team wins at a football game. The little burst of pride when you take the perfect photograph of yellow leaves scattered on the front lawn or bare trees reflected in the still river. Autumn humbles you. The world stops revolving around you. You start revolving around the world.
And then all the leaves dry up, everything turns brown, the air becomes shallow and cold, and so do you.
Autumn was long this year, and it never quite screeched to a halt. It just disintegrated, so slowly that I barely even noticed. The occasional balmy day would come along after a few days of cold or rain. It was an unpredictable visitor that seemed to live for the surprised smiles on our faces as we walked outside and found ourselves bathed in warm sunlight, stripping off our warm weather hats and knitted scarves and exchanging our layers for a single sweatshirt. Even that was too much sometimes, but we had to keep that little bit of warmth, because we were uncertain of how long our good luck would last.
Is it possible to simply enjoy your good luck? Is it possible not to question it?
I love everything about it. The way it looks. The way it smells. The way it feels. Autumn is a season that is considerate to your senses. It's the only season that seems to adore me, appealing to my tastes flawlessly. Suiting my fancies.
Perfect weather. Football season. Marching band season, the good parts and the bad. Changing leaves, falling leaves, naked tree branches--perfect excuses to take photographs of anything and everything. Halloween. Candy corn and mini Twix bars. Thanksgiving. Pumpkin pie.
Autumn is one of those occurrences that teaches you to love the simple things in life. Watching leaves fall around you. The feeling of warm air pushing against your face as your bicycle races through the clear air. Sitting around your kitchen table with your family on Thanksgiving. The sheer happiness you can't contain when your school's team wins at a football game. The little burst of pride when you take the perfect photograph of yellow leaves scattered on the front lawn or bare trees reflected in the still river. Autumn humbles you. The world stops revolving around you. You start revolving around the world.
And then all the leaves dry up, everything turns brown, the air becomes shallow and cold, and so do you.
Autumn was long this year, and it never quite screeched to a halt. It just disintegrated, so slowly that I barely even noticed. The occasional balmy day would come along after a few days of cold or rain. It was an unpredictable visitor that seemed to live for the surprised smiles on our faces as we walked outside and found ourselves bathed in warm sunlight, stripping off our warm weather hats and knitted scarves and exchanging our layers for a single sweatshirt. Even that was too much sometimes, but we had to keep that little bit of warmth, because we were uncertain of how long our good luck would last.
Is it possible to simply enjoy your good luck? Is it possible not to question it?
Summer
A New England summer is as unpredictable as my life is not.
One day, it's ninety-eight degrees, and the sun beats down on you so hard that you think God has turned up the pressure of gravity just to watch you squirm. The next day, it's barely seventy and pouring rain.
But the unpredictability of my summer stopped there. Every day was the same. They all blended together, daylight hanging on for dear life, showing up sometime around five in the morning, and finally letting go sometime around eight thirty. The nights were short, warm and breezy.
And it came to the point where I forgot what the world was like beyond the edges of my vast property. I became so accustomed to being miserable and bored that I forgot what it was like to feel otherwise. The simplest things slipped my mind, things I used to know how to do. How to be social. How to put on a disguise of false kindness. How to make an attempt to look and act presentable for the sake of having a social life.
My previous life froze in its tracks, and even the most sweltering of those summer days couldn't melt it back into place. My new life was repetition. Obediently watering flowers that weren't even mine for no reward. Eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and TV dinners. Waking up after eleven and going to bed at two in the morning. Going to grocery store with my mom, which was something that changed my day from boring to eventful. Watching movie after movie on my living room floor. Going for the same walk on the same trail every day. Listening to Nirvana and The All-American Rejects on my Nana's porch swing until dark. Flipping through old Seventeen magazines. Playing the same old songs over and over on my guitar, "Kristy, Are You Doing OK?" becoming a daily routine. Dieting. Reading. Going for the occasional swim at my grandmother's house. Surfing the Internet at the same time every night, marveling at how dull my life was compared to the lives of the smiling faces on my Facebook News Feed. Thinking so much that I put myself into a bad mood.
I missed the things I had to replace with memories.
But my "summer life" wasn't all bad. Nowadays, I'd do anything to get that simple existence back. It was complete paradise compared to putting up with the rest of the world, and all of its superficial, idiotic occupants.
But that last statement makes me feel a little troubled, even when I write it, because I hate hypocrites.
One day, it's ninety-eight degrees, and the sun beats down on you so hard that you think God has turned up the pressure of gravity just to watch you squirm. The next day, it's barely seventy and pouring rain.
But the unpredictability of my summer stopped there. Every day was the same. They all blended together, daylight hanging on for dear life, showing up sometime around five in the morning, and finally letting go sometime around eight thirty. The nights were short, warm and breezy.
And it came to the point where I forgot what the world was like beyond the edges of my vast property. I became so accustomed to being miserable and bored that I forgot what it was like to feel otherwise. The simplest things slipped my mind, things I used to know how to do. How to be social. How to put on a disguise of false kindness. How to make an attempt to look and act presentable for the sake of having a social life.
My previous life froze in its tracks, and even the most sweltering of those summer days couldn't melt it back into place. My new life was repetition. Obediently watering flowers that weren't even mine for no reward. Eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and TV dinners. Waking up after eleven and going to bed at two in the morning. Going to grocery store with my mom, which was something that changed my day from boring to eventful. Watching movie after movie on my living room floor. Going for the same walk on the same trail every day. Listening to Nirvana and The All-American Rejects on my Nana's porch swing until dark. Flipping through old Seventeen magazines. Playing the same old songs over and over on my guitar, "Kristy, Are You Doing OK?" becoming a daily routine. Dieting. Reading. Going for the occasional swim at my grandmother's house. Surfing the Internet at the same time every night, marveling at how dull my life was compared to the lives of the smiling faces on my Facebook News Feed. Thinking so much that I put myself into a bad mood.
I missed the things I had to replace with memories.
But my "summer life" wasn't all bad. Nowadays, I'd do anything to get that simple existence back. It was complete paradise compared to putting up with the rest of the world, and all of its superficial, idiotic occupants.
But that last statement makes me feel a little troubled, even when I write it, because I hate hypocrites.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
In Your Eyes, I Lost My Place.
"Just look at David and laugh. He'll think you're talking about him," Floyd says to me quietly, smiling mischievously. He sits in front of me, turned in his chair, his elbow resting on my desk. David sits beside me, working diligently on his French assignment.
I smile back and nod. Floyd gestures for me to lean closer, so I do, and his lips are right beside my ear. He pauses for a moment, then cracks up a little before whispering, "Just laugh." And we both burst into perfectly staged laughter, staring at David. After a few more minutes of this, David is obviously annoyed with us.
"What?" he snaps, rolling his eyes.
"Nothing," we reply in unison. I want to tell him that it's a joke, and I'm only playing along because I like when Floyd whispers in my ear. But I don't. His annoyance wears off and he simply ignores us. The moment passes, but I still feel Floyd's breath on my ear, giving me chills.
Now, I can still feel it.
I can still feel myself bringing my hands up to my face on the bus home one day and smelling his scent there, and the way I smiled and breathed it in. I can still feel his eyes burning through mine, the way it made me buzz with electricity, the sparks that I hadn't even realized were flying. I can still hear him singing "Away From The Sun" with me in Shop class, and I can still feel our hands brushing together as we built our bridge. I can still remember the way we exchanged a glance after our bridge collapsed, a small smile on both of our faces. Oh well. The teacher had asked us if we worked well together, and he had replied with, "Of course. She did everything I told her to," but flashed me a smile to let me know he was joking. I can still hear the beginning of a song by The Offspring he had played for me in French class. "My friend's got a girlfriend and he hates that bitch, he tells me every day…" I had laughed out loud, then went through more songs he had saved on his Blackberry, pleased to find that many of them matched my own taste in music. I can still hear him rapping his fingers on his laptop to the beat of whatever song he was listening to, the sound sharp and loud like a snare drum. I can still feel his body beside mine, how I would think that only one touch would break an invisible wall between us, the last wall that still stood. One touch. If only it could be intentional.
He sits beside me, talking to Elaine at lunch. Bored while I wait for our row of tables to be called up, I pull out my computer. He watches, a smirk on his face, as I open my Super Mario Bros. game to pass the time. He meets my gaze silently, and he waits. After I begin playing, he hums the Mario theme song dramatically, and presses his fingers on top of mine, making it hard to control what I'm doing in the game. I laugh until there are tears in my eyes, but then he makes me fall into a hole, and with fake anger I growl, "Floyd! I hate you!" He sits back and laughs, and I'm sad to feel the warmth of his hands leave mine.
But now, all of those moments feel far away. I feel like I'm losing them. I feel like they're slipping away from me. I feel like he's slipping away from me, one little piece at a time. His fiery eyes, his breath against my ear, his hands brushing against mine, his brutal honesty always working in my favor. It isn't disappearing. It's just as if the intensity is fading. Now, I feel like we're just friends. Weren't we just friends before I told him how I felt? Nothing had seemed to change. But did it?
Is he drifting away, or am I pushing him away myself, out of the sadness his rejection left ringing in my head? That sadness that made me shake with sobs, as I listened to the same depressing songs on repeat until I had them memorized. The sadness is like a voice in my head, whispering, "You were right. It's over now. He doesn't love you. He never will. No one will." It stings me when I see him treating other girls the way he had once treated me, and that voice whispers in my head, making it hard to smile back at him when he meets my gaze, making it hard to take his side. Making it hard to want to please him. I don't owe him anything.
I always thought that was all we were the entire time, just friends.
I never even noticed the sparks until they started to burn out.
Is this my fault?
I smile back and nod. Floyd gestures for me to lean closer, so I do, and his lips are right beside my ear. He pauses for a moment, then cracks up a little before whispering, "Just laugh." And we both burst into perfectly staged laughter, staring at David. After a few more minutes of this, David is obviously annoyed with us.
"What?" he snaps, rolling his eyes.
"Nothing," we reply in unison. I want to tell him that it's a joke, and I'm only playing along because I like when Floyd whispers in my ear. But I don't. His annoyance wears off and he simply ignores us. The moment passes, but I still feel Floyd's breath on my ear, giving me chills.
Now, I can still feel it.
I can still feel myself bringing my hands up to my face on the bus home one day and smelling his scent there, and the way I smiled and breathed it in. I can still feel his eyes burning through mine, the way it made me buzz with electricity, the sparks that I hadn't even realized were flying. I can still hear him singing "Away From The Sun" with me in Shop class, and I can still feel our hands brushing together as we built our bridge. I can still remember the way we exchanged a glance after our bridge collapsed, a small smile on both of our faces. Oh well. The teacher had asked us if we worked well together, and he had replied with, "Of course. She did everything I told her to," but flashed me a smile to let me know he was joking. I can still hear the beginning of a song by The Offspring he had played for me in French class. "My friend's got a girlfriend and he hates that bitch, he tells me every day…" I had laughed out loud, then went through more songs he had saved on his Blackberry, pleased to find that many of them matched my own taste in music. I can still hear him rapping his fingers on his laptop to the beat of whatever song he was listening to, the sound sharp and loud like a snare drum. I can still feel his body beside mine, how I would think that only one touch would break an invisible wall between us, the last wall that still stood. One touch. If only it could be intentional.
He sits beside me, talking to Elaine at lunch. Bored while I wait for our row of tables to be called up, I pull out my computer. He watches, a smirk on his face, as I open my Super Mario Bros. game to pass the time. He meets my gaze silently, and he waits. After I begin playing, he hums the Mario theme song dramatically, and presses his fingers on top of mine, making it hard to control what I'm doing in the game. I laugh until there are tears in my eyes, but then he makes me fall into a hole, and with fake anger I growl, "Floyd! I hate you!" He sits back and laughs, and I'm sad to feel the warmth of his hands leave mine.
But now, all of those moments feel far away. I feel like I'm losing them. I feel like they're slipping away from me. I feel like he's slipping away from me, one little piece at a time. His fiery eyes, his breath against my ear, his hands brushing against mine, his brutal honesty always working in my favor. It isn't disappearing. It's just as if the intensity is fading. Now, I feel like we're just friends. Weren't we just friends before I told him how I felt? Nothing had seemed to change. But did it?
Is he drifting away, or am I pushing him away myself, out of the sadness his rejection left ringing in my head? That sadness that made me shake with sobs, as I listened to the same depressing songs on repeat until I had them memorized. The sadness is like a voice in my head, whispering, "You were right. It's over now. He doesn't love you. He never will. No one will." It stings me when I see him treating other girls the way he had once treated me, and that voice whispers in my head, making it hard to smile back at him when he meets my gaze, making it hard to take his side. Making it hard to want to please him. I don't owe him anything.
I always thought that was all we were the entire time, just friends.
I never even noticed the sparks until they started to burn out.
Is this my fault?
Monday, April 30, 2012
How Would You React
I close my eyes and say to myself, "I hope that when I open my eyes, I wake up and realize this is all just a dream, and I’m not here, and you guys aren’t doing this to me." I laugh to make it seem like I’m not anxious and angry, and they laugh too.
David. Lucy. Symphony. Brooke. Elaine. I’ve never dreaded eating lunch with them this much. Floyd acts oblivious, but I don’t think he is as clueless as he seems.
"You’re really starting to annoy me," David snaps, rolling his eyes.
"Just do it!" Symphony exclaims, and Brooke nods.
"Now or never," she says, still nodding.
"You know what guys?" I say, and they all look at me intently. Floyd is talking to Elaine, and I’m glad he isn’t paying attention to me. "Fuck you," I mumble. They laugh again. How is this amusing? I close my eyes again. I open them. I’m still there, in the cafeteria. It is approximately twenty minutes after noon on the last day of April. I take a deep breath and turn to him.
"Floyd," I say, and he turns to face me. I don’t play with or mutilate my plastic silverware. I don’t look to my friends for support. I look straight into his icy green eyes. "How would you react…" I start, and pause for a moment. I feel six pairs of eyes burning through me. "…if I told you I wanted to go out with you?"
His eyes don’t leave mine, and I don’t look away. I can’t this time. I can’t.
My mind races incoherently while he says something about how it would be weird because he knows me too well, and our dads know each other, blah blah blah. And then my thoughts stop abruptly, as if someone had pushed a Pause button, and I hear him say two words.
"I’m sorry."
And it hits me. I just told Floyd how I felt about him. And he just turned me down.
"Okay. Well, then I won’t ask," I say with a small smile and a shrug, and he smiles back.
I’m sorry.
The words echo in my brain as Floyd says something to the rest of the table about how they shouldn’t have been pressuring me to do something I didn’t want to do. Since when did he care about my feelings?
Since when did he know how I felt?
His answer was so smooth, so fast. Almost painless. Almost as if he had been planning it. He had known I was planning, and he had planning also. I had been planning my fairytale, and he had been planning the sweetest way to destroy it. Trying to figure out how to break a heart as gently as possible.
Does he see the hope shining behind my eyes shatter? Does he see a part of me collapse? Does he feel the heart he had had in his hands for so long fall to pieces?
And then it is over. David grins. Brooke and Elaine smile proudly. Symphony leaves because the show is over. Why are they proud of me? Why are they so happy that I made an ass out of myself?
I look down at my hands and notice that they are shaking. I fold them and place them in my lap, hoping Floyd doesn’t see them. But he is too busy talking casually to Elaine, leaving me alone while his rejection sinks in.
I close my eyes again, hoping to see my bedroom. The giant ceiling leak above my head. The dull yellow color of my walls. But when I open them, I see five pairs of eyes, and a few sympathetic smiles, which I do not return. I pick up my tray and take it to the window at the front of the cafeteria. The entire room is out of focus, and I want to disappear. I wonder if they talk about me when I leave. I wonder if Floyd talks about how happy he is that it’s over, and it didn’t seem to bother me. But it does.
The last few minutes of lunch pass slowly, and for the rest of the day, I walk around in a daze. My angry music blasts against my eardrums, and I find myself on the brink of tears a few times, buried in the safe haven of the back stall of the first floor bathroom. I dig my fingernails into my skin, pinching myself, willing myself to wake up from the nightmare, but I never do.
Does he regret it?
I doubt it.
David. Lucy. Symphony. Brooke. Elaine. I’ve never dreaded eating lunch with them this much. Floyd acts oblivious, but I don’t think he is as clueless as he seems.
"You’re really starting to annoy me," David snaps, rolling his eyes.
"Just do it!" Symphony exclaims, and Brooke nods.
"Now or never," she says, still nodding.
"You know what guys?" I say, and they all look at me intently. Floyd is talking to Elaine, and I’m glad he isn’t paying attention to me. "Fuck you," I mumble. They laugh again. How is this amusing? I close my eyes again. I open them. I’m still there, in the cafeteria. It is approximately twenty minutes after noon on the last day of April. I take a deep breath and turn to him.
"Floyd," I say, and he turns to face me. I don’t play with or mutilate my plastic silverware. I don’t look to my friends for support. I look straight into his icy green eyes. "How would you react…" I start, and pause for a moment. I feel six pairs of eyes burning through me. "…if I told you I wanted to go out with you?"
His eyes don’t leave mine, and I don’t look away. I can’t this time. I can’t.
My mind races incoherently while he says something about how it would be weird because he knows me too well, and our dads know each other, blah blah blah. And then my thoughts stop abruptly, as if someone had pushed a Pause button, and I hear him say two words.
"I’m sorry."
And it hits me. I just told Floyd how I felt about him. And he just turned me down.
"Okay. Well, then I won’t ask," I say with a small smile and a shrug, and he smiles back.
I’m sorry.
The words echo in my brain as Floyd says something to the rest of the table about how they shouldn’t have been pressuring me to do something I didn’t want to do. Since when did he care about my feelings?
Since when did he know how I felt?
His answer was so smooth, so fast. Almost painless. Almost as if he had been planning it. He had known I was planning, and he had planning also. I had been planning my fairytale, and he had been planning the sweetest way to destroy it. Trying to figure out how to break a heart as gently as possible.
Does he see the hope shining behind my eyes shatter? Does he see a part of me collapse? Does he feel the heart he had had in his hands for so long fall to pieces?
And then it is over. David grins. Brooke and Elaine smile proudly. Symphony leaves because the show is over. Why are they proud of me? Why are they so happy that I made an ass out of myself?
I look down at my hands and notice that they are shaking. I fold them and place them in my lap, hoping Floyd doesn’t see them. But he is too busy talking casually to Elaine, leaving me alone while his rejection sinks in.
I close my eyes again, hoping to see my bedroom. The giant ceiling leak above my head. The dull yellow color of my walls. But when I open them, I see five pairs of eyes, and a few sympathetic smiles, which I do not return. I pick up my tray and take it to the window at the front of the cafeteria. The entire room is out of focus, and I want to disappear. I wonder if they talk about me when I leave. I wonder if Floyd talks about how happy he is that it’s over, and it didn’t seem to bother me. But it does.
The last few minutes of lunch pass slowly, and for the rest of the day, I walk around in a daze. My angry music blasts against my eardrums, and I find myself on the brink of tears a few times, buried in the safe haven of the back stall of the first floor bathroom. I dig my fingernails into my skin, pinching myself, willing myself to wake up from the nightmare, but I never do.
Does he regret it?
I doubt it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)