It had the taste of summer, the feel of summer, the very essence of the season in every pore of its existence. I awoke to a sky so blue it set my heart on fire and set my soul free. The clouds were the kind of puffy, fluffy white clouds that summer can give birth to. They were innocent and beautiful. The weather was the kind of warm that cradles you in its motherly arms rather than the kind of warm that makes skin stick to skin and people dislike each other for no reason at all. I woke up late and was lazy in a carefree summer day sort of way. I went to lunch with friends and had greasy burgers and crispy fries and icy, bubbly soda, things you can get all year round but that somehow taste better in an air conditioned restaurant on a hot summer day. I went to the beach, rolled in the waves, blistered the soles of my feet on the fiery sand. I went to dollar stores and discount stores and dug through shelves of plastic heaven in search of blow-up floating chairs and water guns and slingshots and my lost childhood, and I found them all. At dusk, I ventured back across the night-chilled sand, out of breath from inflating a baby blue, six dollar lounge chair. I slipped into the warmth of the lake water and felt the cooling wind caressing my sunburned skin as I climbed into my lounge chair and floated into blissful oblivion, bathing in the pale moonlight under the stars of a northern Michigan night. Yes. Yesterday was summer.
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Saturday, June 27, 2009
Friday, June 19, 2009
Liberation
is washing your dishes for the first time in over a year, as you listen to favorite songs and tears of joy stream from your eyes.
Liberation is sorting through piles of papers and clothes and garbage and just things that have been piling up for months and months until it feels as though they might suffocate you, and throwing garbage bag after garbage bag outside until there is room to breathe again.
Liberation is spending the night alone in your house, with no sounds and no lights to keep you from sleep, having space to dream again.
Liberation is sorting things into categories until it feels like you have a handle on life again, creating empty flat surfaces so that your eye has something to land on that is neat and orderly.
Liberation is being the world's least organized person who just happens to crave a little order now and again, and being able to achieve that goal.
Liberation is independence, the ability to feel like a grown up again, on the eve of your 31st birthday.
Liberation is me, liberation is time, liberation is today.
Liberation.
Liberation is sorting through piles of papers and clothes and garbage and just things that have been piling up for months and months until it feels as though they might suffocate you, and throwing garbage bag after garbage bag outside until there is room to breathe again.
Liberation is spending the night alone in your house, with no sounds and no lights to keep you from sleep, having space to dream again.
Liberation is sorting things into categories until it feels like you have a handle on life again, creating empty flat surfaces so that your eye has something to land on that is neat and orderly.
Liberation is being the world's least organized person who just happens to crave a little order now and again, and being able to achieve that goal.
Liberation is independence, the ability to feel like a grown up again, on the eve of your 31st birthday.
Liberation is me, liberation is time, liberation is today.
Liberation.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Last Weekend
was exactly what I needed.
Before I left, I could barely wake up by noon. The wet and murky fog of general sadness that had settled around my soul for no real reason kept me from enjoying all but the best of moments. I could smile and I could pretend, but there was no feeling of freedom within me to lift me through the hard days. Every day, I cried.
Things are different now. I know it won't last. Eventually, the things I want and cannot find my way to will begin to weigh me down again. But for now, I am enjoying the light-hearted breeze that is dancing around my shoulders.
I know exactly what changed me. It wasn't the 7 hour drive all by myself, which made me feel like an adult again, although the time away from my father, who tries to control all aspects of my life, did remind me that no matter what my father thinks, I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions, and good ones, at that. It is a good thing to remember, because without the ability to make life's decisions, I cannot feel as though I have any control at all over my life.
It wasn't the nights away from the confines of my home, humid and warm and olfactorily offensive. This definitely helped bring about the change, since I got to spend almost three full days surrounded by clean air and fresh air (You wouldn't think I'd find that by going from the U.P. to Chicago, would you?), but it wasn't a primary cause of my new-found sense of self.
The change wasn't caused by the time I spent Saturday dodging raindrops as I dashed from the car into a slew of thrift shops, searching through another man's junk to find my treasure. It wasn't sliding into the cool water of the hotel's swimming pool and drifting away into my own mind. It wasn't curling into the warm and thrusting water of the tiniest hot tub I have ever seen. It wasn't settling into a couch at 1 a.m. with a couple of mudslides to watch really bad movies from the very early 1980s.
And it wasn't spending Sunday in the sun of the Maxwell Street flea market, with my skin turning pink and my mind turning over and over and over again to take in the people, the culture, the glorious tables buried in old jewelry, cheap shampoo, four-for-ten-dolares bras and panties, every odd and end you could think of and a million others you can't. It wasn't the Mexican tacos with pico de gallo or the fruity sugar waters in summery flavors like watermelon and pineapple or the tortillas hecho por mano. It wasn't listening to the four-year-old boy who urgently explained to his mother that, "She wouldn't like it- she's a tomboy and she doesn't like girly things!" or the elderly woman who told her granddaughter that she would buy her everything Maxwell Street had if it would make her happy, but felicidad comes from friendship and not from ownership.
Those things all helped. Each and every one of them pulled my thoughts up and out of the rut they've been resting in and helped me build a new path to send my thoughts traveling along. But it wasn't any of them that really made the difference.
It was a man who made the difference. Not a man who is in love with me, or a man who ever will be in love with me, but a man who is a very good friend. A man who was waiting for me when I finished my 7 hour trip, who trusts that the decisions I make are the right ones for me. A man who directed me to every thrift store we could find when our flea market plans fell through because of rain, who sat by the side of the pool and waited for me while I slipped into the coolness and then the violent swirling hot tub. A man who let me curl into his arms while we settled into the couch to watch half a night's worth of wonderfully terrible old movies, who stroked my hair as I sipped on the chocolaty smoothness of a few mudslides. A man who took me to the Maxwell Street flea market and ordered my lunch for me because I was afraid to speak Spanish to a native speaker, even though I know a little of the language and love it almost as much as I do English. A man who discovered my love of the written word and bought me book after book after book because the discovery pleased him so much.
A man who held me as I slept, who didn't shy away from the rolling swells of flesh that cover my body and steal away the beauty that others could see if only I was thin. A man who laced his fingers through mine as we drifted off to sleep, who kissed me tenderly, urgently, sweetly, violently, all in turn.
A man who is willing to accept me as I am, but a man who will never be any more than a once-in-a-while lover and a long distance friend. It was his choice to play this role in my life, but it was a choice that works for me, because I don't think any other kind of relationship would work for us. We were not meant to fall in love, only to satisfy each other from time to time, and to let each of us believe that maybe life can be a little different than it is.
It is in his arms that I can pretend that love exists for me, somewhere in the world. It is in his arms that I believe I can find it. He does not hold my heart any more than I hold his, but his loving caresses rub a soothing salve on the tattered and torn edges of my battered soul. In his arms, I dream of a time when the arms around me will belong to another man, one who loves me, one who I love with everything I have. I can live with that, though, I think, as long as I have Chicago arms to hold me, Chicago hands to touch me, Chicago lips to kiss me and make me feel beautiful.
That's what caused the change. For forty-eight hours, I could pretend that I was beautiful, charming, attractive, vivacious, strong, deserving of affection. For forty-eight hours, I could be anyone. I could be the person I dream of being rather than the person who I am.
I have a window of opportunity, now. There is a series of days ahead, maybe even weeks, in which I will feel a little stronger than I did. In that time, I will believe that I can achieve the things I dream of. I must work quickly, now, deliberately, selfishly, untiringly. If I can make just one dream come true before this wash of confidence slips away, there is a chance that I can pull myself from the depths of sadness that envelope me and make a better life for myself. This is the journey I am embarking upon.
A journey that started with a simple weekend trip to the heart of Chicago. A journey that I fear, but a journey that will once again refresh my soul. Un viaje de esperanza.
Before I left, I could barely wake up by noon. The wet and murky fog of general sadness that had settled around my soul for no real reason kept me from enjoying all but the best of moments. I could smile and I could pretend, but there was no feeling of freedom within me to lift me through the hard days. Every day, I cried.
Things are different now. I know it won't last. Eventually, the things I want and cannot find my way to will begin to weigh me down again. But for now, I am enjoying the light-hearted breeze that is dancing around my shoulders.
I know exactly what changed me. It wasn't the 7 hour drive all by myself, which made me feel like an adult again, although the time away from my father, who tries to control all aspects of my life, did remind me that no matter what my father thinks, I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions, and good ones, at that. It is a good thing to remember, because without the ability to make life's decisions, I cannot feel as though I have any control at all over my life.
It wasn't the nights away from the confines of my home, humid and warm and olfactorily offensive. This definitely helped bring about the change, since I got to spend almost three full days surrounded by clean air and fresh air (You wouldn't think I'd find that by going from the U.P. to Chicago, would you?), but it wasn't a primary cause of my new-found sense of self.
The change wasn't caused by the time I spent Saturday dodging raindrops as I dashed from the car into a slew of thrift shops, searching through another man's junk to find my treasure. It wasn't sliding into the cool water of the hotel's swimming pool and drifting away into my own mind. It wasn't curling into the warm and thrusting water of the tiniest hot tub I have ever seen. It wasn't settling into a couch at 1 a.m. with a couple of mudslides to watch really bad movies from the very early 1980s.
And it wasn't spending Sunday in the sun of the Maxwell Street flea market, with my skin turning pink and my mind turning over and over and over again to take in the people, the culture, the glorious tables buried in old jewelry, cheap shampoo, four-for-ten-dolares bras and panties, every odd and end you could think of and a million others you can't. It wasn't the Mexican tacos with pico de gallo or the fruity sugar waters in summery flavors like watermelon and pineapple or the tortillas hecho por mano. It wasn't listening to the four-year-old boy who urgently explained to his mother that, "She wouldn't like it- she's a tomboy and she doesn't like girly things!" or the elderly woman who told her granddaughter that she would buy her everything Maxwell Street had if it would make her happy, but felicidad comes from friendship and not from ownership.
Those things all helped. Each and every one of them pulled my thoughts up and out of the rut they've been resting in and helped me build a new path to send my thoughts traveling along. But it wasn't any of them that really made the difference.
It was a man who made the difference. Not a man who is in love with me, or a man who ever will be in love with me, but a man who is a very good friend. A man who was waiting for me when I finished my 7 hour trip, who trusts that the decisions I make are the right ones for me. A man who directed me to every thrift store we could find when our flea market plans fell through because of rain, who sat by the side of the pool and waited for me while I slipped into the coolness and then the violent swirling hot tub. A man who let me curl into his arms while we settled into the couch to watch half a night's worth of wonderfully terrible old movies, who stroked my hair as I sipped on the chocolaty smoothness of a few mudslides. A man who took me to the Maxwell Street flea market and ordered my lunch for me because I was afraid to speak Spanish to a native speaker, even though I know a little of the language and love it almost as much as I do English. A man who discovered my love of the written word and bought me book after book after book because the discovery pleased him so much.
A man who held me as I slept, who didn't shy away from the rolling swells of flesh that cover my body and steal away the beauty that others could see if only I was thin. A man who laced his fingers through mine as we drifted off to sleep, who kissed me tenderly, urgently, sweetly, violently, all in turn.
A man who is willing to accept me as I am, but a man who will never be any more than a once-in-a-while lover and a long distance friend. It was his choice to play this role in my life, but it was a choice that works for me, because I don't think any other kind of relationship would work for us. We were not meant to fall in love, only to satisfy each other from time to time, and to let each of us believe that maybe life can be a little different than it is.
It is in his arms that I can pretend that love exists for me, somewhere in the world. It is in his arms that I believe I can find it. He does not hold my heart any more than I hold his, but his loving caresses rub a soothing salve on the tattered and torn edges of my battered soul. In his arms, I dream of a time when the arms around me will belong to another man, one who loves me, one who I love with everything I have. I can live with that, though, I think, as long as I have Chicago arms to hold me, Chicago hands to touch me, Chicago lips to kiss me and make me feel beautiful.
That's what caused the change. For forty-eight hours, I could pretend that I was beautiful, charming, attractive, vivacious, strong, deserving of affection. For forty-eight hours, I could be anyone. I could be the person I dream of being rather than the person who I am.
I have a window of opportunity, now. There is a series of days ahead, maybe even weeks, in which I will feel a little stronger than I did. In that time, I will believe that I can achieve the things I dream of. I must work quickly, now, deliberately, selfishly, untiringly. If I can make just one dream come true before this wash of confidence slips away, there is a chance that I can pull myself from the depths of sadness that envelope me and make a better life for myself. This is the journey I am embarking upon.
A journey that started with a simple weekend trip to the heart of Chicago. A journey that I fear, but a journey that will once again refresh my soul. Un viaje de esperanza.
Monday, June 8, 2009
It's Raining Out Today
and gray. I was hoping for sunshine. I have so many things to do and so little motivation. I don't know what's happened to me. I used to be the most motivated person you could ever hope to meet. I was a straight A student, involved in everything, always on the go. Not anymore.
I barely manage to drag myself out of bed. I barely look forward to writing. The only thing that gets me out of my house is the way that it smells. I don't spend any time at home doing the things I should do because I simply can't stand to be there.
I need to clean my room so that I have a place to relax again, a place to find myself. But it just isn't that easy. As soon as I am awake, I want to leave my house. The smell, the disorganization, the piles and piles and piles of stuff all feel like they are suffocating me, and the fact that I don't have any place to be 100% alone and at ease doesn't help either. Most of the time, when I'm out and about, with friends, I'm okay. I have my ups and downs, my days filled with tears that I try desperately to hide, but for the most part I am stable. But when I am at home, the only thing I want is to die, to just be done with everything and not have to know how much it hurts to be alive.
I can fight it. I know I can. I am stronger than that. Someday, there will be someone who will put his or her arms around me and I will feel like I can let go and relax and come back into myself. Someday, there will be a way for me to feel solid. Until then, I will keep on keeping on because I'm afraid not to. I can't end it all because I am afraid to hurt, And as much as it hurts to live, I'm afraid the process of stopping would be even more painful.
Other than the rain, today has been a good day so far. I did not cry until I wrote what I've written. I spent time with good friends. I went to Culver's on their first day open in Escanaba and I had a wonderful lunch. And in a little while, I get to go tutor my favorite student. I should go work out later. That will work all the aches and kinks out of my muscles and let me feel strong. I can do this. Maybe tomorrow I will have some time to get my life in order. That's what keeps me going:
Maybe tomorrow...
I barely manage to drag myself out of bed. I barely look forward to writing. The only thing that gets me out of my house is the way that it smells. I don't spend any time at home doing the things I should do because I simply can't stand to be there.
I need to clean my room so that I have a place to relax again, a place to find myself. But it just isn't that easy. As soon as I am awake, I want to leave my house. The smell, the disorganization, the piles and piles and piles of stuff all feel like they are suffocating me, and the fact that I don't have any place to be 100% alone and at ease doesn't help either. Most of the time, when I'm out and about, with friends, I'm okay. I have my ups and downs, my days filled with tears that I try desperately to hide, but for the most part I am stable. But when I am at home, the only thing I want is to die, to just be done with everything and not have to know how much it hurts to be alive.
I can fight it. I know I can. I am stronger than that. Someday, there will be someone who will put his or her arms around me and I will feel like I can let go and relax and come back into myself. Someday, there will be a way for me to feel solid. Until then, I will keep on keeping on because I'm afraid not to. I can't end it all because I am afraid to hurt, And as much as it hurts to live, I'm afraid the process of stopping would be even more painful.
Other than the rain, today has been a good day so far. I did not cry until I wrote what I've written. I spent time with good friends. I went to Culver's on their first day open in Escanaba and I had a wonderful lunch. And in a little while, I get to go tutor my favorite student. I should go work out later. That will work all the aches and kinks out of my muscles and let me feel strong. I can do this. Maybe tomorrow I will have some time to get my life in order. That's what keeps me going:
Maybe tomorrow...
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Yay!
It does work. But I see that I need to delete my contact info before I hit send, because that just looks stupid. I don't think I can do anything about the stupid ad.
Windows Live™: Keep your life in sync. Check it out.
Windows Live™: Keep your life in sync. Check it out.
I Have A Gazillion Things To Do Today
But I'm not doing any of them. I have a little extra energy, for the first time in a very long time, and I should use it to:
- clean my bedroom
- clean my bathroom, quickly, before my father wakes up
- clean out my car
- clean up my yard
- do laundry
I am not doing any of these things. Why? My father would say it's because I'm lazy. My grandmother would probably say that it's because my mother was not a very good mother and didn't teach me to do these things. My friends would say it's just me being me. Only I know the real reason.
It's because I'm dreamy today. My thoughts are soaring among the clouds and for once, they are not sad thoughts, depressing thoughts. They are wistful, but they are hopeful. That's what the energy has done for me. And I don't want to do anything to chase those thoughts away, because if I do, then the ones that replace them might be the old, black, depressing, painful thoughts. And so I lie here dreaming.
I think, though, that as difficult as it is, I have to rejoin the real world. I can't spend all day lying on my bed with the window open and my eyes closed and my nose buried in a pillow so I can pretend that my house is clean and my life is together and that I deserve to have time for wistful, hopeful thoughts.
I must go.
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