Words Without Meaning

No. I do not want to talk to you. I will not respond to your message that you miss me again because it has become too routine. Of course I miss you too. And I have said it every day since you left. You. Left. We decided it would be best. But you were the one that moved on. And have continued to move on every day since I watched the truck pull you and our relationship away. You have interviews and a new house and opportunities. Why couldn't you have done that with me? Why weren't you able to pull your shit together and be a grown up with me? Why now? Why not then? I would have gone anywhere with you, supported you, stood behind, beside, and in front. You say you need to figure your stuff out. It is just so odd how quickly you were able to do that without me. So, no. I do not want to talk to you right now. I wanted you and to talk to you when you were here. But it has been made so clear so quickly just how little you needed me. In fact, I feel as if I may have been in your way all along.

The Shirt

He left his shirt; a white one that I had worn only once before. I had always wanted to wear a man’s shirt and pull it off. I put it on again today but it felt more like a shroud of sadness than a fashion statement hinting towards the sexual revolution and living in this “man’s world.” My mother wondered what I had dressed up for. I told her nothing. It is so simple, white with a single line of buttons down the front. I paired it with cuffed and torn jeans and a pair of hammered metal earrings. So independent, so ready and excited to be on my own, but spent the majority of the day wearing something of his. It looks good on me. It looked good on him. I close my eyes and pretend he is holding me from behind. Then I open my eyes again and he isn’t here. It is my body in this shirt, in this abandoned shell of his. It was just left there, hanging alone in his closet. Several dozen hangers, of varied colors and materials, and the shirt, hanging there alone. Had he thought it was mine? I wore it only that once, washed it and returned it to his closet. Or did he leave it for me – to remember him, a gift and a burden of the memory of him? Nearly seven years knowing this person I can’t determine the meaning of this shirt. So I wore it. The apartment is huge. It is so much larger than I remember it being – even when we moved in, before the movers brought in our three couches, two arm chairs, one dining room table with two removable leaves and six chairs, twenty seven boxes, two beds, two toothbrushes and thirty six shirts (twenty five of which were mine). Now, only my things remain, and his shirt. And they do not fill up this space. They sit awkwardly, uncertain of themselves without their mates and partners in carpet sitting and teeth cleaning. They stand in corners uncertain of whom they are supposed to talk to now that their dance partners have left the auditorium. They have left school completely. Dropped out. Moved on. It is so quiet. He took the TV. It was his and I said that I didn’t want one. Now, I’m not so sure being left alone with my thoughts. This vaulted space on the second floor leaves me craving the sound of Jon Stewart’s voice or even the recorded Rom-Com’s he so consistently mocked me for. I would give anything to be mocked right now. The loneliness is crippling. Before, I had a person waiting at home for me, or someone that would be returning home to me. I had a date. I had a person to go to eat with. I had a person that would watch TV with me and tell me jokes and do the dishes. There are so fewer dishes now. Trying not cry has me clenching my jaw. The hurt reaches to the back of my throat and then travels down to land somewhere between my shoulder blades. I make resolutions to run every day. Eat better. You know, really focus on ME. But that’s such bullshit.

A State of In Between

I am neither here nor there. I am not a student nor an adult. I am not in a relationship but we are not yet broken apart. I am not in this room or that room, but standing in the doorway; the threshold, the liminal space. Liminality. It used to be one of my favorite terms. I learned about the idea of not being one or the other but both and neither at the same time when I was an undergrad reading about the post-colonial struggles and complexities of Africa countries after the Western Europeans "left." I loved examining what happened to a person psychologically, spiritually, culturally, and physically when they were no longer able to recognize themselves within a very specific context and definition of a group or single identity. I threw around words like "metropole," "hybridity," and "emotional bulimia." I never thought I would be one of those people. Standing in this doorway, the memories of the life behind me - the joys, the struggles, the defending, the learning, the laughing and the crying. But also the life before me, the uncertainty, the hope for something better and greater, the possibility of moving (moving on, moving away, moving forward, moving up), the fear of being a grownup, the potential and wish for forever being a child, the pressure, the release and the fear, oh God, the fear. I brace myself here in this doorway not wanting to leave so many things behind but wanting to run toward what COULD happen. I wonder if I will be pushed, if I will fall, if I will place one foot in front of the other slowly and deliberately or if I will break out into a run and not look back for a while (for you know I will always look back, remember, never leaving the people we used to be and love and hate and are consumed by behind). So I will wait and remain here, in this state of in between, waiting for an answer, a sign, an email, a call, an open hand or a closing door from behind. But while I wait, I will be preparing. I will lace up my running shoes, set money aside, continue to dream and stretch and save and plan. This doorway will be my shelter for now. And only for a little while.

Passing Ships

There are phrases that I love: ships passing in the night; we are as safe as houses; thick as thieves. Phrases that hold meaning, many people can understand, and stand alone without context but at the same time can signify so much depending on the situation. I originally set about writing a series of essays, collection, montage, personal memoir or, rather my ACADEMIC THESIS to relate what I considered to be my unique manner of growing up, how and who influenced me to become who I am today and who I hope to be tomorrow – a writer. I have discovered while writing though, that I want more than anything is to be able to hold my five, twelve, nineteen and twenty two year old self close and let her know that everything is going to be alright. I want to revisit the ghosts of myself in the myriad of different circumstances I remember finding myself in and realizing that even though I wasn’t sure how everything would turn out, I would somehow figure it out. And I have and still continue to. To look back and reexamine the things that happened to me and my experiences are reminders that we are resilient. We carry on. I carried on. As Didion said, I want to “keep in touch with the people we used to be” because everyone else is transient and only I carry myself with me. I share the memories with myself that happened to me. I can look back and reflect upon what I did and said and experienced. I can share that with others now. Because I wasn’t able to voice how I felt and what I thought when I was five. Now I can. I do not want to disappear. I have always feared slipping away, dying an old lady, mute and quiet and without a struggle. And I feared being forgotten. But somehow, it would seem I decided, somewhere along the line to head toward the path of a writer. And if I produce a work or many pieces of text and print and blogs then I will not disappear. I will leave a trace. It was completely unconscious and seemed like the only alternative to use my degree. I do not want to teach high school English and I thought for a minute I could be a lawyer but my complete lack of remembering codes and rules and laws themselves prevented me from getting past the intro to law class I took my senior year. So I will try to write. I will make every effort to remember so that I will not be forgotten.

Little Truths

Sometimes its just easier to tell it like it is. We so often fool ourselves into thinking we're actually sparing feelings, or being polite, or just letting people live but sometimes, very rarely, it helps to just say what's on your mind. Sure, it may hurt a feeling or two, damage a relationship, ostracize you from a group, but however much the truth hurts, it is still at the end of very long days, the best of all possible scenarios. Speak the truth. As much as you can.

Beginnings

This blog is born out of many things...the need for a creative outlet that isn't going to be graded or part of my thesis; a project to work on so that I am not sucked into wasting away hours staring at mindless television; a long-shot hope that I can someday put these thoughts and postings into some sort of collection or develop them into short stories or longer essays; but mostly, it is space that I can write and simply be. I have dozens of ideas, essays, stories, thoughts and musings that I plan to put here, some may be accompanied by a photo or some appropriate visual aids - but I plan to devote much more energy into the power of my words. So I hope you enjoy, or simply take the time to read and consider. I am not here to lecture but discuss paths and the roads taken to where we have arrived. I have come to this new, white blank page to look back at the people we used to be and discover the new ones we have become. Hindsight is 20/20 and I believe that writing gives us the opportunity to record a sliver of the people we are at that moment in time. And when we go back and read what was written, we are reintroduced to our former selves, we are allowed to talk to them, remind ourselves how innocent/naive/hurt/brave/terrified/full of wonder we used to be. We are given the chance to hold the people we used to be and let them know that they made it. Their hard work is paying off. They were stronger than they realized. As human beings, we are given the gift of memories and while I do not recommend living in the past, it is important to know where we came from, the lessons we learned, and the promises we have kept and the decisions we were wise enough to change and opt out of. I hope that through this looking back it will teach us to live here and now with no regrets and live a life that is delightful to look back on. Here's to the people we used to be and the people we will be tomorrow. Here's to the lives that inspire us to live more beautifully today than we did yesterday. Here's to today.