Trees fall unheard in the forest,
and yet we still do not make a sound.
It is the punishment of our people,
no words, no voices to be heard, no forgiveness,
sound cannot make up for years of inaction.
An eternal punishment for mistakes from long ago,
and from the more recent past.
Words slash through skin and bone,
silence stays stagnent on our lips.
Two little words nearly impossible to muster.
I’ll say them for us all.
Nobis hodie.
Paenitet.
At any given moment I have at least seventeen diseases or disorders of unknown origin and this list is only growing. Each week it feels like I diagnose myself with something new. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Anxiety. Chronic Migraines. Marcus Gunn phenomenon. Hypothyroidism. Rosacea. Just to name a few.
Yesterday I awoke with stomach pains and within five minutes, I convinced myself that I either had a stomach ulcer or appendicitis. Turns out it was just indigestion, or so they tell me. But, I still don’t really know for sure. I’ll be monitoring the pain from here on out.
Last Christmas I experienced similar pain and after a mere four hours of clutching my stomach and doubling over in pain, I coaxed myself into believing I either had kidney stones or was the next Virgin Mary.
That’s right, I actually started to believe that my stomach pains were contractions and that I was going to be the next star on “I Didn’t Know I was Pregnant,” Messiah edition. Days passed and after the pain resided and a young Son of God did not come out of me, I decided I might have been mistaken. It turned out it was just a stomach bug that was going around. But you never know, I could have a Jesus lithopedion trapped inside me at this very moment.
Now I know what you’re thinking, “hypochondriac.” Well, according to my favorite little website, “Hypochondria, also called hypochondriasis, is a type of mental illness — current thinking classifies it as an anxiety disorder — in which a person has symptoms of a medical illness, but the symptoms cannot be fully explained by an actual physical disorder.”
Weird. That sounds familiar. Hey, I think I have that!
If there is ever a day when my plans for the future come to a standstill, and I become lost in a sea of uncertainty, I’d like to think that there is something else out in the world for me to do; another path I could take in life.
Though I don’t like to think of the possibility that my dreams could, one day, never actually become reality, I understand that life is not made up of happily ever afters like fairy tales try to teach us. Sometimes the good guys don’t win. Sometimes evil prevails and dreams don’t come true. Life isn’t Disneyland after all. And when you wish upon a star doesn’t always work.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not some cynical, before her time, twenty-year-old; I’m simply practical. A hopeless romantic at heart, I still realize that sometimes life doesn’t work out the way you plan it to. Sometimes life gives you a swift kick in the ass and as soon as you rub away the pain it kicks you again, this time twice as hard.
So, to guard myself from the throws of the unpredictable future, I have been wracking my brain trying to come up with a plan for the future if my current expectations don’t work out. Based on my credentials, there is a list of things I could do, the only problem is, similar to my college application process, I don’t really have a safety. Every potential thing I could see myself doing is not easy and is not simple. Nope, my backup plan is equally, if not harder, to achieve than my main plan. Whoops.
Even though this fact is terrifying on some levels, evaluating my future plans, combined with a little help tonight from my roommate, has helped me learn something about myself. I’d rather keep my goals high then settle for anything less than my dreams.
Oh the teenage angst that some of those of us who like to call ourselves creative went through. The horror of it all is unbearable and unbelievable at this late hour. And just to throw it out there, I’m utterly embarrassed for my younger self.
As I scroll through documents of my past, the unimaginative and cynical lines make me cringe. What could I have possibly had going on in my life at that age that made me write what I did? I really have no answer to this question so maybe you can answer it for me. All I can think of is maybe one of my friends didn’t text or IM me back quick enough. Maybe it was something else, something equally as heartbreaking. Either way, I know I felt some sort of passion about the matter. How that passion was expressed is another story.
A creative writing professor of mine once told me that no matter how strong your writing is, there will always come a time when you look back at a piece and you will want to burn it. You will want to crinkle it into a ball, pour on the lighter fluid, strike the match, and watch it burn until the little flakes of charcoaled flakes scatter into the wind. In that moment your heart will steady and you will be able to rest assured that no one will ever have to read it again.
For her this was easy. A short trip under her bed, followed by by a visit to the bedroom closet of her childhood home, was all she needed to do to destroy the evidence. I, on the other hand, will face the tragic conclusion that what I wrote will literally never go away unless the internet ceases to exist.
Smart teen that I was, I thought it would be a “brilliant” idea to start a blog at age 13. Though I’m happy that I have it now, there are just certain things from my teenage years that never need to see the light of day. Some of my posts don’t even need a flashlight shined upon them in the dark of night.
But they’re there! And they always will be. And I guess in a way that’s pretty awesome. Though I groan at the unoriginality or ignorance of some of the things I wrote about in my early teens, it’s exciting at the same time to know that they will always be there for me in moments of need. If I’m ever alone, I know that my former self will always be available. Online, 24/7 I will be able to find that young teen and look to her for some sort of insight. She’s my own little time capsule. She grounds me to the events of my past, and helps me think of ways I can continue moving forward.
In the end, I’m grateful that former me had the foresight to record her thoughts and dreams in such a public way. For when it comes down to it, she is my blog and my blog keeps me connected to all parts of myself; the good, the bad, and even the teenage angst.
Orgasm. Love. Fuck. BDSM. Penis. Vagina. Gay. Straight. Bisexual.
“What’s the first word that comes to your mind when you hear the word sex?”
Sounds like a pretty easy statement to answer, doesn’t it? Well that’s what I thought when I first came up with it. I wondered, if I can come up with seven words off the top of my head (in about nine seconds mind you) that relate to sex, then how many words could my entire university come up with if we tried. But, much to my surprise, this question seems to hold a lot more weight to it than I originally thought. Some people, twenty year olds mind you, simply can’t discuss sex, or even say the word to begin with.
I’ve been sitting in the common area at my college for the past three or four hours and over that time period I have come to truly understand just how much a Sex Week: “The Other O-Week” is actually needed on campus. I mean, that was the purpose of this experiment to begin with; attempt to see how outdated the sex mentality here is. I guess I just didn’t think it would be as bad as I thought.
Some students simply giggled when I asked them the question. Some just wrote down sex, because they couldn’t think of another word, which was equally as interesting to me as the giggling. Others actually got inquisitive looks on their faces as they tried to think of words to say; these moments were exciting for me especially when their answers were quite creative. But what really got me concerned, was when I asked certain students the question, they actually looked scared. It was as if the idea of sex was traumatizing to them. One person even wrote “agony” as his response and when I heard that I wanted to cry for him, or at least send him the health center for an STD exam. But even worse that Mr. It Hurts When I Cum, were the runners. I am not kidding you when I say that some of these people actually ran away form our table.
Now, though I am perfectly comfortable talking about sex, as that was how I was raised (I mean my mom asked me if I wanted her to buy me a vibrator or dildo at age 14, in Chili’s, in front of other people), I know that some people are not as open about their sexuality as I am. Over my lifetime I have come to appreciate a diverse range of viewpoints on sex, including those who don’t feel comfortable talking about it, but fear is something I can’t support. Anyone who is scared or frightened by the idea of sex is justified in their thoughts, but I want to ask them why? I know that pain can be involved, especially for first timers.I also know that rape is a prevalent and terrifying thing that occurs around the world. But, what I don’t know is why some people can fear conversation that simply encroaches the subject of sex.
I see sex as one of the most natural parts of human and animal existence. It is how most people communicate their love for one another. It is also supposed to be an experience of extreme pleasure. And finally, sex is literally how we continue on the human species. Sorry to break it to you, but you (most likely) are here because some number of years ago your parents totally did it! Weird, I know, but they did. And eventually one day, if you haven’t already and you aren’t a nun/priest/asexual individual, you will do it too. People have literally been having sex for thousands of years, so why is it not okay to talk about it?
So, though I know asking someone, in broad daylight, about sex may seem shocking, when you really think about it, isn’t it the most normal to ask a person? I think it is. So get ready W&L, Sex Week here we come!
I have a confession. Not a dark and twisted tale of how I’m responsible for someone’s death, or an embarrassing story of unrequited love. I’m pretty much an open book, so nothing to really see here. My confession isn’t even shameful, it’s simply something I do that not too many people know about. So, just so I can get this off my chest, you should know that: sometimes I sit in class and blog instead of paying attention.
I like to think of it as the better alternative to pinning away an hour or stalking ex-lusts on Facebook. At least it seems like a better distraction and not just a waste of my time.
Over my life, I’ve perfected the intermittent “I’m listening” smile that I flash every so often to avoid being called out by the professor. It’s a learned skill. Not everyone can do it, but some can master it after enough practice.
It’s like going to a cocktail party and talking to people you loathe. First there’s the attempt to avoid phase, followed by the awkward run in. Then the difficult part begins. The witty banter, the plastered on smiles, and the questions you don’t want to ask or hear the answers to. You schmooze. Share a secret look of disgust with a close friend. Schmooze some more. Fake a smile or two, or ten, or maybe even twenty. Haphazardly gulp down entire glasses of champagne to make the night a little more eventful. And then repeat.
It’s a balancing act of sorts. Too much schmoozing and not only do you end up looking fake and overzealous, but you end up wanting to shoot yourself in the foot by the end of the night. Not enough schmoozing and too many glasses of champagne and you find yourself dancing on top of a table in front of all your coworkers, including your boss, who will then fire you come Monday morning.
So see, balance is key when blogging, or for that matter doing anything else you shouldn’t be doing, in class. If you look like you’re paying too much attention to what the professor is saying, he or she might think that you actually want to participate. This results in the awkward moment when they, in no doubt, make eye contact and call on you. Look like you’re not paying enough attention and you’re royally screwed as well. Depending on the audacity of the professor they may call you out in any number of ways. My personal favorite is the classic name mention that makes the student not paying attention jump in their seat a little. It’s startling to be the victim, but amusing when you’re watching it from afar.
When it comes down to it, I’ve learned that there are two valuable skill sets that help in this endeavor: selective hearing and proper typing skills. I learned the irreplaceable skill of selective hearing at a young age. I learned how to pay just enough attention to hear when my mom asked me to do something, but not so much that her ranting distracted me from whatever I was reading. The ability to type while not looking at your hands is also quite valuable. I’ve mastered staring directly at someone while continuing what I’m writing. It’s efficient, but just beware that it may startle the person you’re looking at. Some people simply don’t know how to handle it and may become uncomfortable under your gaze.
What they don’t realize, however, is that you are merely staring through them as the creative energy flows through your body and out your fingertips. When I blog, my mind is somewhere else, almost, entirely. Whatever power remains unused by my brain is used to keep my hands moving and my eyes glancing up every so often. It may not be the best learning technique, but it’s efficient for my purposes. I mean it’s been working the entire time I’ve been writing this blog hasn’t it? I even think I answered a few questions in class while writing this post.
I guess I’m just a multitasked at heart. And that’s my confession.
Sometimes in the delirious state of being both awake and unconscious, I feel a swell of creativity wash over me like a tsunami obliterating the shoreline. I can’t explain it, but there is some force that compels me to write. Something takes over my body like a spirit possessing a fragile soul. When the force hits, I have no options but to get everything down on paper, in this case on the screen, or let the words blow by me like pollen in the wind.
Though probably not the most coherent, I’ve found that some of my delirious writing often turns out to be my best. It’s funny how the mind works isn’t it? When we become so tired that our eyes glaze over and our bodies begin to weaken, we are often left open and vulnerable. Being exposed like this then which allows us to write of the horror or embarrassment that we cannot face in the daylight. Our deepest darkest secrets or fears be ken fair game all of a sudden. Our minds don’t begin questioning every decision, they simply struggle to keep us awake and typing.
In the witching hours of the night our bodies and minds and souls fuse together in a sort of harmonic tango. They ride a tandem bike of disregard as they blast through the whole in the walls we build up to protect ourselves. In the witching hours, we are freed from the restraints of our over critical minds. And that, my friends, is why I hold this time of night so close to my heart.
My mind can wander as my fingers furiously type away word after word, line after line, paragraph after paragraph. Pages go by in the flutter of an eyelash. The occasional nod off results in numerous spaces or repeated letters that take up lines of writing, but these mistakes are easy fixes.
Ernest Hemingway said he wrote by a certain motto, “Write drunk, edit sober.” And while the occasional nightcap might be helpful from time to time, I don’t have the luxury of drinking every night. I don’t think my professors would appreciate a hung over student waltzing into class everyday hung over or still half drunk. So instead, I pick the next best thing. I write before I dream and I edit when I awake.
Sometimes what I read in the morning makes sense and other times it’s random garbage that I’m ashamed to call my own, but do begrudgingly. But, in the end, there is a percentage of this writing that makes the partially sleepless nights worth it. For in that delirious state of half awake and half asleep, my writing begins to resemble the real me. Not the young woman running from meeting to meeting, or the type-A personality, or the English and journalism double major. In that delirious state, I am simply me, quirks and all, written down for the world to see.
Sometimes I postpone watching television by listening to music beforehand. I know that once the show has ended, the real work will begin; and an hour simply isn’t enough time for me to prolong the inevitable. In other words, I procrastinate my procrastination.
Twiddling thumbs, twirling hair, and twisting thoughts all fill my time as placeholders for things I choose to ignore. Papers. Exams. Fights. Feelings. They all take a backseat to the the things that I can face, the things that make me safe. But along with the things that I use to postpone the hard things in life, there are also things I do to postpone the postponement. But in the end, these deflectors just make me realize all I have to do.
For me, everyday is like a Saturday night. For most people, Saturday night is a time to let loose. Sunday, on the other hand, means working and dreading Monday morning. I’ve never been one who thinks the same way as most people though.
For me, Saturday night is ghastly. Saturday night’s simply make me uneasy. They mean my weekends are nearly over and the tortures of the workweek are soon to come. Just like listening to music gives me a little extra time before watching television and then eventually doing work, Saturday nights put off the Sundays of my weekends.
Saturday’s are like the last chapter of a phenomenal book; exciting to experience, but tragic at the same time because you know you are close to the end. Sometimes I put off reading the last chapter of a book, just to let the experience a little longer. Other times I even reread the same novel multiple times to relive the wonder.
But time is not a book. Books can be paused or restarted, but time cannot unless you are a character in a novel to begin with. And alas, I am not Hermione and I have no Time-Turner to go back to relive specific moments in my life. Much to my dismay, I don’t even have the power to slow it down.
So instead of twisting the sections of my golden necklace, I am forced to make a choice when Saturday night rolls around. Either I sit at home in horror of how fast my weekend has gone by, or I can go out and enjoy it. And I think you know that whatever I chose obviously involves a little procrastination.
Sometimes a wrap myself up into a ball and hold myself together with the strings and fibers of comfort. Burrowing under the covers, I hide from what is to come, what I think is coming, and that wish I hope will never arrive. Questioning my existence, I pray that I will not come to the realization one day that my entire life is actually the figment of someone else’s imagination. That I am fake. That I am fictional.
And how ironic that would be. The girl who keeps her face crammed in a book learns that her life has actually been the plot line of some random novel. That my life is actually taking place on paper or in some random author’s imagination. He’s pretty imaginative isn’t he. I say he because for some reason that’s who I picture writing out the pages of my life. A man. Look at that irony again! Anyway, he just sits there scribbling away moments of my life. Birth. First word. First step. First bike ride. First pet. First dead pet. First kiss. Middle school angst. First hook up. Prom. College. Career? Marriage? Kids? … … … Death? Those last few chapters have yet to be written yet.
This is the craziness that runs through my mind on any given day. What if I’m not real and my whole life can be taken out by the whim of some ambitious young novelist, or even worse, a disgruntled, alcoholic, short story, writer. Short stories never really end well for the characters involved and I, for one, don’t feel like being another dismembered protagonist. I might be able to live with, and in, a novel. But, I’d like it to be a happy one. Maybe a romance novel or a new adult. I’d even take an epic.
I can just picture it now; me as a hero protected by God or the gods, for some unknown reason; a voyage through space or time and maybe a trip into the underworld or somewhere out of the ordinary. Yeah. I think I could deal with the fact that my life is a complete work of fiction if I learned it was part of an epic novel. I still think I’d prefer the romance novel though. So, ahem, hint, hint writer. That leading man can make an appearance now. That whole extended rising action thing is so overdone, don’t you think?
So as I sit here, waiting for my leading man to make an appearance, I’m stunned by how inventive my author would have to be to create such a long and involved plot line. Though living through the plot twists of my life has been difficult, I can still appreciate the complexity of it all. So thumbs up writer, you’ve done a spectacular job there.
In the end, I’m unsure which I prefer. Is it easier to think my life is a manuscript or as simply life itself. I’m unsure which option is better, but I do know one thing. Either way, it’s easier to think their is some puppeteer (an author or God) pulling all the strings of my life, than it is to think I’m out here all alone with no real plot line or purpose. So, I guess, when it comes down to it, living a fictional life isn’t all that bad.
Perpetually confused about who I am, what I am, how I got this way, I’m lost in a state of never knowing. From place to place my atoms shift like sand in an hour glass. Location, location, location. They always say it’s all about location. And I’d have to say I agree. For when my feet touch down on that solid ground of my home I am but the person I’ve always remembered being. But when they shift south for the winter I emerge as someone completely different, someone unrecognizable. I am not myself, but yet I am at the same time.
I stop and realize that the person I think I am may not be the person I truly consider myself to be. It may not be the person I truly want to be. And that scares the fuck out of me. Like here, for instance. Am I the type of person who swears? In my past this would have been an easy to answer question. I grew up hearing swears and I think I swore for the first time at the tender age of four. At my preschool teacher, mind you. Calling her a bitch to her face probably wasn’t a smart move. But now, as I mold myself into the adult I wish to call myself, I’m not sure these words are longer valuable in my vocabulary.
I once heard my English professor swear. And I swear, in that moment, my world shifted and I realized how some women can fall in love with men twice their age. It wasn’t the word itself, but the emphasis of the point he was trying to make. I believe the exact words were, “Fuck it’s brilliant.” And his target, either a work by Faulkner, Fitzgerald, or Hemingway. Though my heart and my legs fell open with his words, does that mean that the words are right coming out of my mouth? I’m not sure, but I do know that the line between classy and trashy is a tightrope of sorts. Lose your balance and your face will become a permanent fixture in the ground. I don’t wish to face that fate, so I walk with caution.
In the end, I’m stuck in a wasteland of in-betweens. While I wish my layers could shed and I could morph into epitome of class there are still tiny specks in me that stubbornly remain. The dresses and the pearls are not enough to hide the fire and dirt stained patches of my past. On the other side of this free-falling coin, there are other moments where I could fall apart and not require a Humpty Dumpty’s men to make me whole again. Simple abandon. That’s all I want sometimes. A life where I’m not afraid to make mistakes and my psyche doesn’t fall apart when I make them. But alas, this is something that my type-a personality will not allow.
So the in-between is my domain and my levels fluctuate depending on location. Staring into the future, I am one person; yet looking into the past, I’m another. And as my body shifts back and forth between these two places, my mind races to keep up. And as time passes I come to the realization that a decision will have to be made eventually. My life will shift to a realm so distant from where I have ever been before and who I am will have to coincide with this new location. I will be forced to circumnavigate who I am to become the person I am meant to be. And that is all the more terrifying.
“This above all- to thine own self be true…” ~William Shakespeare, Hamlet
Bittersweet Symphony 