Spontaneous Prose

BOOM – An explosion shakes houses, and the ground, and people; it destroys a house, and the lives of the people inside – six people dead, one childhood friend, one classmate, and four people I did not know. July 13, 2011 – a house exploded in Salem, New York, upstate New York – the real upstate, none of this Westchester bullshit, four hours north, probably more, on the border of Vermont – where all they do is smoke weed and ride four wheelers, stereotypical rednecks, dirt roads. My first love’s family was from Salem – they had a farm, a cow farm. I saw a dead calf once, it was traumatizing; I also saw the heads of slaughtered pigs, perhaps that was more traumatizing. When I heard, that there was an explosion in Salem, my first thought was – Amber – what if it was her? What if she was dead? What would I do? She’d been my first love after all, my best friend in middle school, the girl who broke my heart in high school – the girl who made me crazy, made me do things I now regret; but then again she didn't make me do anything, I am responsible for my own actions, I am the one who chose to drag those scissors across my hips, I am the one who chose to lie to my mother, and to continue to hang out with her and her new boyfriend, I am the one that chose to follow my sisters lead, so she wouldn't be alone.
The explosion. I remember hearing about it and wondering what she was doing in Salem, it didn't make sense – it’s been over a year and I still don’t know she was there; there visiting her boyfriend and his family – everyone said they deserved it because they were sinning, well not everyone, but some people – said because she was spending the weekend with him, because they were probably sleeping together, that they deserved to die in an explosion. An explosion, a house explosion – houses just don’t explode, there is nothing explosive about a house – except for the leaking propane tank in the basement, that some jackass tampered with to get back at the landlord – they changed her death certificate to homicide last winter – that was a tough one, it was so senseless to begin with – not a car accident or a something explainable – and then to think someone did it on purpose – but it turns out homicide isn’t murder, that man, he didn't mean to kill six people, but he did. It’s weird sometimes, how things work out – Amber, my first love, best friend, and bedmate – was also Claire’s best friend, they were friends later, like in high school – after I went crazy, Amber and Claire became friends, I mean, how shitty that the girl who stole my heart and then broke it, would then turn around and take my childhood best friend. I met Claire in first grade – we were fast friends it seems, we grew up with each other, I was always at her house, she was always at my house, we swam together, played together, hung out together – she had an older sister, Ashley – Ashley was a trouble maker so to speak, one time she told us about the boy she was with, they didn't really have sex, he just went in and out and that was it – I was too young to hear this kind of thing, maybe I wasn't  maybe I was just sheltered. Claire and I grew apart, she got into culinary arts, I got into a new group of friends, high school will do that – we still ran track together, played in the orchestra, sitting just a few stands apart – but I think the real thing that drove us apart, was the fact that her father molested her older sister for six years, everyone said he did it to Claire too, but she’d never tell – Claire never believed her sister, she thought she was lying, but Bob confessed, he told the court he did it – but that didn't stop Linda from taking Claire and Zach and Gabby downstate every month to go see their father – but even worse than that, Bob wasn't even Claire’s real father, she went through all of that – but he did raise her. We grew apart because she didn't believe Ashley, and I knew Ashley was right – I knew she was telling the truth, but Claire wouldn't acknowledge that and that drove a wedge between us. When she died, I hadn't spoken to her in a while – maybe it had been months, possibly a year – maybe since graduation, I don’t know how long it was – but I did know she was going to the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, New York – I did know she wanted lots of children, because she loved babies and she was going to own a bakery; she was a great chef, a great pastry chef. But that all ended, with the explosion – we talked to her mother, by virtue of my own mothers insistence, and Linda told my mother that she was fully intact, she was just swollen, like she’s had her wisdom teeth out, maybe a little bruised, but still Claire, she still looked like herself. I thought she had been blown to bits, pink mist was what came to mind – but she wasn't  She was still the beautiful person she’d always been, just dead, just bruised, just in a random explosion that happened to take place as she was in Salem, in a random house, where she wasn't usually – it happened the day before she was supposed to go back to school, what a twist of fate, what a tragic joke the universe was playing. At her funeral, the preacher said it was her time, and that God was calling her home – this didn't sit well with me – still doesn't sit well with me, what the hell does that even mean? Like honestly, she was nineteen years old, and barely at that – she was just able to give blood, she’d finally gotten her weight up enough, at nineteen, and then God calls her home, I don’t believe it, I don’t like it – She wasn't there, at the service, Amber didn't think so anyway, she was so mad that they cremated her. “She was intact, why would they do that? She was so beautiful.” – “I don’t know, it’s their choice.” – “Do you hate me still.” – “I never hated you.” – “You know you could call me to hang out.” – “Okay.” – I guess it’s just not like that anymore, I don’t want to hang out with her, I don’t want to think about her, she’s sad all the time – because her best friend died, and her mother, and her uncle who killed himself when we were in 8th grade, and I don’t want to be sad, I’m sad enough all by myself and I don’t need someone else helping me out – I don’t need to be reminded that we were best friends and that it can never be that way again – 



Claire’s family keeps her ashes in a cookie jar, a nice cookie jar, but a cookie jar none the less – I hate this cookie jar, I hate that at her birthday celebration in June, they brought her ashes – so not only did we have to remember everything all over again, but we were also surrounded by her remains. I don’t like remains, they freak me out, I really don’t like dead bodies – they really freak me out, I’ve only seen two. My Great Grandmother died when I was 10, all I remember was my mother coming into my room in the morning and saying she was dead, I was like okay, and went on with my day unaffected. Then there was the wake, we went shopping and got nice clothes and my mother did my hair in braids, she warned my sister and I – “These people are going to want to hug and kiss you, okay?” – It wasn't okay, that was the last thing I wanted but it wasn't that bad. I saw her, lying in her casket, she looked bloated and like she had a lot of make up on – my mother said if I touched her then I’d dream about her, no thanks I’d rather not – my second cousin Chris had dreadlocks, so did his girlfriend at the time, my Uncle Phil told us – “They put shit in their hair, go smell it and see if it stinks.” – He’s dead now too. He died in June, he’d been sick for a while, years really, but that didn't matter, no one really saw it coming, 48 years old and he just dropped dead, my mother’s brother. It seems to be a reoccurring theme in my life – it was 5am, I was asleep, my mother came out much more frantic this time than she was ten years ago – she said “Uncle Phil died this morning.” – I just stared at her, what was I supposed to think, death is so surreal, here one minute and gone the next, it didn't sink in, it didn't mean anything – I’d seen him a few weeks ago, he looked fine, he couldn't be dead. Worse than that was seeing my mother and her family so sad – so broken, seeing my grandmother in tears and my grandfather barely holding it together, he was so tender, more so than I've ever seen him – maybe that’s how he was coping, by taking care of the rest of us. My mother forced me to go up to his casket, I didn't want to go, made an effort to be out of the room when my family, the four of us, were set to go up – I was talking to my other uncle, and some family friends when my father came to the door and waved me in, I was pissed – I didn't want to remember him that way and said so but my father said – “do it for your mother, she needs you to go up.” – Alright, fine. He looked good, better than my Great Grandmother, but still dead, and still not him – it’s just a body, and he wasn't in it, just like Claire wasn't in her casket.

I Only See You in My Dreams

Thank you for visiting me last night. I only get to see you in my dreams, but every time I do, it's worth it. Every time I see you it brings a smile to my face. So thank you for coming to me when I am stressed with school, and letting me be happy and forget about it for just a little while. I don't know if it's possible to get closer to you in these dreams. I feel like I do things with you that I never did when you were alive, at least not when I was older.

I love getting to see you, and hear what I remember your voice to be, and listen to your laugh. I get to see your smile spread into laughter, making everyone just a little happier. I wish I could still see these things in real life. Dreams are so surreal, you know. Like at times they don't make sense. At points last night it was like things were in slow motion and I was watching an old home movie. And then at other times it was like I was actually there, sitting close to you and we were laughing and talking. It keeps things interesting I suppose.

It's these wonderful nights that make the hardest days, the hardest mornings. I wake up and I realize, that sadly, it was all just a dream. I realize that your not here and you haven't been here for over two years now. It still makes me just as sad. But I don't want you to stop visiting me! Don't mistake my words. Because all of the sadness I will feel in the next few hours, or for the next day, is worth getting to spend just those few moments with you while I sleep. So thank you for visiting me. I look forward to the next time.

Missing You

When this summer started, I wasn't expecting to miss you. I didn't even know what was happening with you and me. I didn't know if it was going to be anything. You had touched my arm under a blanket, that was it. We had been drinking, so in my head, nothing was clear. As the summer progressed it became clear there was more than just alcohol behind this action. Eventually it came out that I liked you and you liked me. What was that emotion? What was I feeling? I was still confused and now scared. You see, its tricky letting people into your life. Its scary and makes things complicated. But I did it anyways. I made trips to the city. To see you, to see my friends, to see sweet lady New York. As the summer went on things seemed to get more serious, more complicated. We skyped and talked on the phone, for hours. Learning about each other, talking about our lives, getting to know one another. I started to like you more and more. But I never had the chance to miss you. I'd never really had you, you can't miss something you've never had. Then, I finally got to hang out with you, really hang out with you. All the talking, all the nights of no sleep from phone calls and skype sessions turned into nights of no sleep because of other things. And then I left again. I left to go home to the obligations I left behind for one short week. And now I know what it is to miss you. I know what it is to be apart from someone you like, someone you call your girlfriend. And what a weighty word that is, it seems. I am sad now, because in a week, when I return to my friends and my sweet lady, I won't get to return to you. I will still be missing you. And right now there is nothing anyone can do about that. Right now this waiting, this thought of when I'll get to see you next, seems endless. I'm sick of missing people. I'm sick of missing you.

Entries From a Cutter Who Never Really Was One

1. I don't remember where I got the idea to use scissors. But I feel no relief as I drag them across my hips. They are barely scratches, but if I press hard enough I can get a few droplets of blood. I still feel the same intense sadness and hurt that I felt before and now I have these cuts to go on top of all of that. I do know not to do it on my wrists though, too obvious. Maybe someday I'll feel the relief wash over me.

2. Came home from school today and did it. I still don't feel anything. Am I hoping I will? Am I just doing it so that I won't feel so alone? Am I doing it for attention? I don't know. The pink mark rises over my flesh, maybe an inch and a half long. Its hard to break the skin when you have no real desire and only a dull pair of scissors.

3. At his house. With her. We're all watching a movie. I don't know why I'm here. I need to do it. I need to feel something other than this aching, blinding sadness. I use the tab off of a soda can. I go into his bathroom and I run it across my skin several times. So I can feel it. So I can see the marks so clearly. And still, there is no escape. Still I have all this sadness. I still don't know why I'm doing it.

4. Got into a fight with her. I told her I was doing it. Told her I was cutting. I told her over AIM. I wanted her to know she was hurting me. That she was forcing me to do this to myself. I go hang out with her and him later, stop at home quick to get something. Run upstairs to find all the scissors gone in the bathroom. Damn, I'll just have to do it later. Go to the bowling ally where the misery increases. I have to do it again. I have to. I use a soda can tab. I feel some relief, but not enough. Not enough to justify it. I go home and find myself in big trouble.

5. I have just gotten out of the shower. My mother comes in the bathroom, demands to see the marks. I show her. She's so angry. I want to tell her I'm sorry I did it. I want to tell her I didn't get anything out of it. But all I do is let her get angry at me, let her get sad and frustrated that she can't help me and this is what I have turned to.

6. I'm talking to my therapist. I can't even be honest with her about my reasons for doing it. She asks me about my cuts. I snottily shoot back that they are scrapes, not cuts. She doesn't react to my attitude. I don't tell her that I only did it because I thought it would help. Not because I wanted to, or really even had the urge to before I started. I don't tell her I'm ashamed and it's stupid. I own it, like I feel I should. I try to take pride in my actions and hope that it validates how much pain I'm in.

7. I don't do it anymore. I try not to think about it. I talk about it sometimes, but never in a glorious way. It was dumb. I never got the sweet relief I felt I had been promised. Instead I screwed things up at home and made everyone at school think I was crazy. I guess that's what I get for being a cutter that never really was one.

Scars

In the Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins, Katiniss has all of her scars erased after winning the games. The scars that marked her hands from years of hunting, and even the scar she acquired in the games, were just wiped away.

I was bothered by this. I love scars. I love looking at my knees and seeing all of the marks, all of the bumps and discolored skin that tells the story of scrapes and bumps. I love looking at my hands and the various nicks that were once there, and remembering what happened. I love looking at my ankles and seeing the various scars, some small and some large.

I have a scar on my knee that is shaped like Africa. Its from when I was first learning to ride a bike without training wheels. I think it was my 7th birthday. Maybe right after. Anyways, I was unsteadily riding around the parking lot of the school across the street from my house. My cousin, who is two years younger than me, was still riding his bike with training wheels and was zipping around. He cut in front of me I fell of my bike. The scrape/cut was terrible. It got infected and I had to keep it covered. Every day for a week a girl in my class asked me what happened and everyday I told her, until I snapped and told her she had already asked me too many times. It did finally heal, and it wasn't until years later that I realised it looked like Africa, but there it sits on my right knee, barely visible.

My hands don't have as many noticeable scars. One of them is from Thanksgiving one year. It was the first time I had used a really nice, sharp knife. In any event I ended up cutting my finger, not a lot, but enough to leave a scar on my left index finger. When I see it I remember years of Thanksgivings at my Uncle's, hanging out with my cousin and hiding from family members. It makes me think of how much I loved Thanksgiving as a kid. It makes me miss the way things were.

My ankles are covered with scars. Most of them from shaving. But one of them is a thin line on the inside of my right foot, by the ankle. Its barely noticeable. Its from the first time I gave my cat a bath. I was sitting in the bathtub in shorts and a t-shirt and I was holding onto him. He was thrashing about, as I should have expected him too. His back claws cut a clean line across my ankle. It hurt so bad at the time. But it was such a clean wound. I wouldn't have expected it to scar, but there it sits.

Not all scars are physical though. Katniss also had mental scars. She lost her father, had to care for her family, lost Rue and now has to deal with nightmares of the games. These scars, unlike the ones on her body, will never go away. I too have mental scars. These are not as easy to see, but if you talk to me for any amount of time, or try to get to know me in any capacity, you will see them. Eventually they become glaringly obvious.

The first one, the one that might be the most hidden because it happened years ago, is the loss of my best friend. This event, this scenario, has shaped many of my feelings and perspectives on the world. I spent a long time trying to forget about everything that happened my freshman year of high school. I lost myself. I was changed for good. I grew up in a strange way, in a way I wasn't actually able to handle. Its so hard for me to access these feelings. I let someone drive a wedge between my sister and I, I promised myself to never let that happen again. Its something I actively work on, I actively make sure no one goes there. I try not to let anyone have any control over my life, because I was so out of control freshman year. I don't want anyone to have that power over me. This is something I try to do and fail miserably at every time. Several people have control over me in some way. But perhaps I feel that if I am the one to give it up, then I deserve whats coming to me. I am slightly more closed off. I am detached. These scars show themselves, if you dig hard enough, but to the naked eye they are not always visible.

My other mental scars include death. The deepest one is the death of my grandmother. I am not sure why I am so deeply affected by her death. She was the first person I really lost, but her death was not dramatic or violent. She died of congestive heart failure. She died in her home, in my grandfathers arms. I am very bitter about her death. And very bitter about what caused it - years of smoking cigarettes. This scar is not hard to see. A person, if they play their cards right, can ignite my feelings about this topic within a matter of minutes.

I have lots of physical scars and a few mental scars. These scars, these marks, they all have stories that go with them. I don't always like these scars, like I said, I can't be a stripper, and I might be a little damaged in terms of my interactions with others and my personal demons. But I wouldn't trade these things for anything. These scars, these stories, have helped compile me and make me into who I am. To erase them, to forget, would be throwing away the pieces of the puzzle and that is something I would never want to do, no matter what.

Shaving

I started shaving my legs when I was 12 years old. All my friends had started shaving prior to this, but I was holding out. I didn't want to start, as I knew it would mean that I'd have to do it forever. It was the end of sixth grade. I had a dance recital in June and everyone was pressuring me to shave. So I did. I don't remember much about those early years except lots of blood, cuts and band aids. I was an adamant leg shaver. I hated stubble. I would shave everyday to every other day during high school. I eventually got better at shaving, not perfect though. I got scared once in the shower and took a 3 inch strip of skin off. The bathtub was full of blood and I had to pick the skin out of the drain. And I then had a conversation with my grandfather about how I could never been a stripper. It happens. For the most part though, I have kept my legs smooth. I never let the hair get too long, I always shaved if I was going to be wearing shorts, a typical girl I suppose.

This summer, when I got home from school I decided to stop shaving my legs. I was too lazy, too enraged with "the man" and just not in the mood to conform to what society wanted me to be. At first it wasn't a big deal. At first no one noticed. The hair got long enough not to bother me. It wasn't rough or scratchy. It was noticeable. I tried to wear less shorts so as to be less offensive. Then my mothers birthday rolled around and we went to get pedicures. I was informed before we went that I had to shave my legs, I was not raised this way, and that I could do whatever I wanted when I was in New York City, but when I was home I would be shaving. So I shaved my legs from the knee down. I did this because I didn't want to rock the boat, so to speak, and I also didn't seem to have much of a choice. I then started to let it grow again. For the same reasons as before, but this time also to prove that I could. So I let it grow. It went through the stages and got long again. Was soft and basically no bother. I started swimming and people started to notice. My mother was horrified. My family friends were horrified. Some of my friends didn't comment, others raised their eyebrows, others only briefly mentioned it and then moved on.

So after one particularly irritating day at the pool I shaved my legs. I hacked all of the hair off. I have yet to let it grow back in such a way, though its quite easy and maybe even a little tempting sometimes. So I never knew it would be such an issue to have hairy legs. I never thought I would be criticized so much for it. Men don't shave their body hair. Why do women have to? Is it some fixation on women being pure and virginal, perhaps child like and pre-pubescent? Am I make wild assumptions about this. Maybe. But I don't understand why I received so much flack for a decision that affects no one but myself. My legs, as I shaved them today, are nice and hair free. They probably will remain hair free. I will continue to shave even though it would be so easy to slip back into not shaving, into having hairy legs. I myself like when my legs are smooth. But that's probably only because that is what I have been conditioned to like. As have most other people in society. Since I am now a clean and civil, and hair free member of society, come and get me! I'm all you've ever wanted, minus the hairy arm pits.

I Don't Do Drugs

I don't do drugs, but I have. And by this I mean I have smoked pot before. I always told myself I would never smoke anything. Through high school I did not smoke. I was involved in sports and was caught up watching my grandmother die from smoking herself to death. That in itself was enough incentive for me to never light up. Needless to say, things changed when I went to college. It's amazing what will happen to your strong convictions when you're desperate to make friends and start hanging out with people who have a completely different lifestyle. Anyways, these are the 5 time I smoked weed.

Sometime in October (2010) - One night, I was sitting in my room doing nothing in particular, when a friend came in and asked us to go with her to the sea port to smoke with some boys. My close friends wanted to be the ones to smoke with us for the first time. But I had heard that you didn't always get high the first time. My thoughts were that if I was smoking with my closest friends at school, I wanted to actually be high. My sister and I looked at each other and decided we had nothing to lose. So we went. Down at the sea port everyone was passing around a blunt. I took one hit off of it. I was not high, my hand stunk, and it tasted terrible.

Late October/Early November (2010) - I was at my very first apartment party. I was drinking a Four Loko out of a cup because I was too ashamed to just drink it out of the can. Almost everyone went to SVA and they were pretentious hipsters who were older than me. I was in way over my head, as were all of my friends that I was with. The party kind of sucked. Then the group of us started talking to Brock. A self-proclaimed wanna be hipster. He was a photography major at SVA and claimed to have a personality disorder. He was also our age. He had a one hitter that he was more than willing to share with us. I took quite a few hits, I wasn't high. I guess I also couldn't tell because I was drunk.

Sometime in November (2010) - So the moment finally came that I was going to smoke with my close friends. One of them had made a bong out of a water bottle. I was and still am impressed by this. Anyways, her name was Betsy. We were in the dorms, in my friends' room on the 11th floor. It was just the four of us. My sister and I had no clue how to smoke out of a bong. She did it wrong the first time, she blew out instead of sucking in. Luckily it wasn't ruined. I remember being slightly panicked and worrying about the smell. We kept spraying Hawaiian Breeze, a scent I will always associate with smoking with these two friends. Anyways, so we got high. This was the first time I was actually high, and probably my most enjoyable experience with pot. We ate granola bars, which was a terrible idea. And then watched porn. Not to get off or anything, strictly as entertainment. And then my sister and one friend went to bed. My other friend and I then started watching drug PSA's. I don't know why we did it, but nothing can make you feel like crap quite like watching a drug PSA while not being sober. We watched a lot of meth ones, they were the scariest. Then I went to bed. The next morning my parents arrived with a bunch of family friends for a surprise visit.

Sometime in December (2010) - My childhood best friend came to the city with her mother for a visit. She's a little crazy. She had smoked and drank before despite being younger than me. She wanted to get drunk with us in the city. So naturally we had a brilliant plan to get cross faded. Using Betsy again and some orange flavored Four Loko, we embarked on the adventure. Evidently, after smoking I am not a fan of Four Loko. The whole event was nothing special or overly memorable. I think I went to bed before my friend did. The next morning I told her mother we drank a little. 

Mid/Late January (2011) - This is the last time I smoked. It was also the first and last time I purchased weed. My sister, myself, and my two close friends each put in money for weed. They smoked all of theirs, and they knew that they had to smoke with us to smoke the rest of it. So one night we were hanging out and they came down to our room and asked us if we wanted to smoke. I did not want to. I was not in the mood to. When I got up to my one friends room and I see that there are going to be six of smoking out of a giant green bong named Bertha, all in a tiny dorm room. I was absolutely not feeling the situation, but went along with it anyways. At one point the room was filled with smoke and we were all frantically trying to push it out the windows with pillows. It was stressful. In hindsight I can say there were too many of us. Anyways, I had hardly smoked when I was handed Bertha. One of my friend's lit it for me and I sucked in. It burned my throat. I then coughed, hurling smoking from my lungs into the room, just short of the window. My throat was on fire. It was terrible. I then had a full blown panic attack and laid on my friends bed laughing and crying. I left soon after and went to bed. I haven't smoked since.

So it would be unfair for me to pretend I don't smoke things. I smoke hookah from time to time. But not pot. I don't like what it does to me, I don't like the taste or the smell. It took me five times to realize this, but now I know. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Storytelling

When I was a senior in high school I read The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien. This book is about the Vietnam War. The book is written in a way that makes it seem very real. And I believed that it was all true; that it was some sort of auto-biographical account of Tim O'Brien's time in Vietnam. As it turns out, it is all made up. But one of the points of the book is that you can keep people alive through storytelling. The guys in the book continued to live on and on because O'Brien wrote about them. He immortalized them.

When I think about this, two people come to mind. My childhood friend Clarissa, who died a little over a year ago in a house explosion and my Nanny, who died a little over two years ago from congestive heart failure, due to years of smoking. I talk about Claire all the time. My friends, her friends, her family, everyone is always talking about Claire. We all talk about what a great person she was, her plans for the future, how she had such an impact on everyone with her kind heart and beautiful smile. People are always talking about their memories with Claire. We are keeping her alive. It makes it less painful to talk about her, because when we do talk about her, it's as if she is not really dead. By talking about her, other people will hear her story. This is how Claire continues to live. Since the day she died, no one has stopped talking about her.

In contrast to that, no one ever speaks about my Nanny. Occasionally my Pa will say something like "I had a good girl all those years". But rarely. Sometimes my mother does, but not really. My aunt, my father, my uncles, they never do. They never mention her. And if they do, its only to point out that shes dead. Her best friend, and a family friend, always talks about her. This makes me so sad because it makes me think about her and makes me acknowledge that shes not here. But at the same time I love it. Finally, someone who wants to keep her alive. I don't talk about her enough. It makes me too sad. I guess it probably makes everyone else sad too. But not Carla, I think she is quite comforted when it comes to talking about her best friend, my grandmother. Carla talks about what she would be saying about certain things. She reassures me that she would be proud of me. I hope that someday we will all be ready to talk about her again. And tell the stories that we we have of her. This way, it will feel like she never left. She'll still be with us everywhere we go, we just have to choose to carry her.

Hello, Stranger

Looking at your Facebook tonight I realize that I don't know you and I haven't in a long time. It makes me wonder why things changed. Why things are the way they are. I miss you, or rather what you were. You are distant now. People ask about you and I am forced to say "I don't know" or maybe I say something sarcastic and mean. Looking at your pictures makes me feel like I am looking at a stranger. I guess because I am. Then I look through your tagged photos. I see the ones you've recently been tagged in. And I'm surprised by how much you look the same. But at the same time, totally different. I continue to go through them until I finally reach high school. Graduation, Senior Dinner Dance, Track Sectionals, A Funny Thing Happened on the way to the Forum, Volleyball and various other nights and days spent together. It seems so long ago. I feel like I used to know you, I guess because I did. I knew you in some way, as much as you would let me. Which at this point, is questionable. I don't know how well I knew you, but we were best friends. We spent entire seasons together on the volleyball court. Even to this day, the fall is a beautiful love affair for us. No matter what, we will still unite over the sport that first brought us together and made us friends. And then there were the winters spent together doing indoor track and then the springs for outdoor. Those were never the same as volleyball though. You were so good at track, you probably still are good. But I wouldn't know, as I haven't seen you and you don't compete anymore. This makes me sad. It makes me wonder what happened. You had so much promise, so much talent, but you couldn't make it. This makes me miss what we were. We were best friends. You were my rock. You were Switzerland. And now you're not. A lot of things have changed. Obviously, we've moved away, done different things with our lives, made new friends. But I never expected this would happen. I never expected you to become a stranger. We cried so much of senior year. We cried because we were running out of time together. We cried because we had just gotten close. We cried because we were all moving to different corners of the state. We cried because we were afraid of losing each other. We cried because we knew our friendship would never be the same again. When we cried about this, we promised to not let anything catastrophic happen to our friendship. We promised to stay in touch. We would stay friends, because we loved each other. We didn't want to lose each other and therefore, despite the vastly different lives we were about to embark on, were not going to ruin this friendship. Sadly, our different choices did ruin our friendship. Looking back, I guess this is the part that makes me the saddest. We were so afraid of losing each other. But that is exactly what happened. I drive by your house almost every day, and I wonder if you're home. What your doing. But not enough to text you. Not enough to hang out. It's been two years. Which is crazy for me to think of. I never thought you would be one of those people that I didn't see when I came back home. I saw you at the beginning of the summer and we made loose plans to hang out. You never called to confirm. That's okay, I see how this is going to be. And it's okay, as clearly I have not stepped up much and made an effort either. It just makes me sad that we are no longer even friends, but rather complete strangers.

Conversation

Me: Anytime you want to quit it, that'd be great.
Brain: What do you mean?
Me: You're really fucking things up for me. All you do is pound and pound. Do you know how hard it is for me to get anything done when this is what you do?
Brain: That is not fair. I am trying to think. Are you really going to sit there and talk badly about me? And yell at me? Well screw you. How would you like it if I just stopped working all together?
Me: You've already stopped working!
Brain: That is not true. You are still breathing. Technically I am sustaining your life.
Me: Yeah, well that's all you're doing! At least Heart is still working...
Brain: Do not drag her into this. She is at least half of the problem.
Heart: That's really unfair Brain!
Brain: All you have to do is feel and be warm and happy. You do not have to deal with anything.
Heart: That's not true, Brain! Whenever you get moody, it makes my job harder!
Brain: Oh it must be so hard to just thump thump, thump thump. And I tell you to do that. You do not even have to make sure it happens. You just get to depend on me.
Me: Alright you two, try to get along... Or we'll never get anything accomplished.
Brain: Shut up Melissa.
Heart: That's not nice Brain!
Brain: Anyways, I resent your comments about my moodiness. My job is hard. I have to file away all of Melissa's thoughts, which is not easy, especially now that you and her are apparently speaking again. What is that anyways? I thought we had a decent relationship Melissa. My life was easier and you were actually producing thoughts back then.
Me: I know Brain, but I wanted to start feeling again! I was missing out on things.
Heart: Maybe she got sick of how robotic and mean you are! You're so controlling. Sometimes you've got to feel, Brain!
Brain: I do not actually. My life is EASIER when I do not feel. And especially when I do not have to talk to you.
Heart: You are being so mean. It hurts my feelings when you say these things.
Brain: It is it hard for me to process things when I have to try and process the 'feelings' you send up to me. How am I supposed to function properly for Melissa, when my duties are constantly being interrupted?
Heart: I don't know Brain, but you're going to have to learn to deal with it.
Brain: No one even asked me if I wanted this. I am the mastermind; I think this should have been checked with me at some point. Perhaps before it happened.
Heart: I know, and I understand. But that didn't happen and this is how it is. So you'll have to get used to it. It's okay to be upset. I'm here for you, Brain.
Brain: Alright, I guess I can try. But it is going to take some time. These things do not happen over night. It might take me months to get used to you Heart.
Heart: That's okay Brain. It will be something for us to work on! Together! This is exciting! I feel like if you and I can learn to work together then Melissa will be happier, and that's what it's all about, right?
Brain: Let's not get too ambitious.
Me: Thanks guys, I appreciate that your willingness to put in the effort.

Absent

"I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between" - Sylvia Plath

It seems I am going to choose the latter. It seems I am going to choose to ricochet in between these two options. I came across this quote at a time in my life when I really needed it. I have been passive and sad for most of the last four years. I have made the decision to slip out of my brain. To detach myself from the world and just live each day in the same brainless way. I decided not to think too much about anything. Things I was once passionate for, like politics and equality and people, just fell to the wayside. I no longer cared. It was easier that way. It took me a little while to not care, especially about people. But eventually it became quite easy. Eventually I was able to go through the motions of my day without much thought. Each day blended into the next, each day was the same. It took a lot to get me really fired up, and at best I was only half as fired up as I let on to be. My life was easy, I was decidedly absent. I went on this way for quite some time. I was on an even keel, which is where I like to be. I am always striving to be level headed, even and collected. This level of detachment made that very easy.

Then my second semester of sophomore year of college I made the brilliant decision to be happy. I made the decision to be an active participant in my own life. Something in me snapped. I realized that I am always running out of time. Something is always ending - the class I really like, the time in my life I can't get enough of, the friendships I am trying to foster/keep alive, the way things are. With each day we lose something and gain something. And I wanted to be there for it, I wanted to see it and feel it. I wanted to enjoy every day. I was no longer wishing away the days, just hoping for them to end so I could move on and tackle the next one. My second semester was amazing. It still flew by, but I can only imagine that those 13 weeks would have gone by in a blink had I not made this decision. I was really happy for a change. Maybe even outwardly happy. This made it easy to pretend that everything was okay. Being happy definitely gave me the opportunity to sort some of my issues out and maybe find myself a little. But it didn't cure all my problems. And it certainly didn't eliminate my underlying sadness that I fear will always be creeping just below the surface.

Now, as I am home for the summer, I can feel this passiveness creeping back into me. I can feel myself slipping, losing my grip on happiness and active participation. Maybe I am doing this on purpose. Maybe I want the days of this summer to fly by so I can get back to the city I love. Or maybe I am just exhausted and tired. And some days it's just easier to not actively participate. Sometimes it's too hard or painful to really want to feel and react. Sometimes, it's too hard to maintain an even and level head with all those emotions floating around. So I will continue to bounce in between these two options, because it seems that's what life is. When I am actively participating I am feeling and reacting and watching the world change around me. When I am not, I don't see the changes, I just let the world fly by me. But when I do eventually wake up I realize things aren't all that bad and that I should want to actively partake in this thing called life. But then there are times when active participation is just too much, and I need to be an empty shell. If my mind can't take it then it's okay to check out for a little while, as long as my body is present and the appropriate responses are uttered, not too many people notice.

Graduation

On this Saturday two years ago I graduated from high school. I am reminded of this because my cousin graduated this morning. Congrats Justin! And the class of 2012! You may not know it yet but this is just the beginning, not the end. I remember my senior year everything was marked by - "this is the last time I will do this..." and that is true. That is the last time things in your life will be the way they are. But, you have so much to move on to. For me, it certainly felt like it was the end of everything I knew, and in a way it was, but that was for the better.

The hardest thing was knowing that the four people I called my best friends would never be the same again. And I think that as I read these Facebook updates, that is what comes to mind. I was so sad at the thought of losing my friends, my best friends. I was afraid of losing them in the capacity that I had always had them. I was convinced that everyone was full of shit for saying that you make the friends you have for the rest of your life in college. I was hell bent on saying that I already found my best friends. I found them in high school and no matter what that would never change.

Well, it did change. And I'm not upset about it. As I get older, yes at the ripe old age of 20 I've decided this, it has become more apparent to me what makes people friends. Shared interests. And obviously some other things like attraction and maybe some biology is involved. Either way, my friends, my very best friends, do not know me anymore. They know who I was and they know a lot about me. But they have not seen me grow and change and really come into who I am. This is scary. The thought of this happening two years ago was enough to make me so incredibly sad. I dwelled on it, posted sad dramatic song lyrics and spent as much time with these people as I could before we all went our separate ways.

So things have changed. We are not nearly as close as we used to be and its hard to come home in the summer and have to become reaquainted again. But its okay. Everything is fine between us, really. Its hard to look back and see how we were in high school and compare it to how we are now. But everything has worked out. I have met some great people at college, and so have they. But that doesn't change what we had at one time, and it doesn't change the bond we have now. Its a beautiful time to look back on and remember. And sometimes, like today, the nostalgia hits me like a ton of bricks. But I don't miss it. I don't miss high school. I miss the people. But thats it. And its taken me about two years to realize this. So like I said already, this is not the end. Its the beginning! And I could not be happier with where I started.

Babies Make Everything Better

Babies make everything better. Whenever I am having a bad day or just need to relax, I go hang out with these baby goats. They make me laugh and smile and ease my heart. The little guy on left, the White Pigeon, lost his brother a few weeks ago. My mother also lost her brother a few weeks ago. I may be putting too many human emotions into this, but when I dragged my mother over to the farm in an attempt to make her feel better, her and the White Pigeon had an instant bond. That day was the first time in a few days I had seen her smile or heard her laugh. She sat with the goats for maybe 15 or 20 minutes, but in that time I think all of us felt a little relief from all the stress and sadness.

I am weary to say this, as I am not the fondest of children, but even human babies seem to have this easing capability. At my uncles wake there were two children there. One was three and the other almost a year old. They were the children of one of my cousins. And just their presence, them being passed around and talked to by what seemed to be an endless stream of adults, made everyone feel better. Even in a time as sad as the loss of a family member, something about new life makes it all better. It was as if in that moment, despite the sadness, people were able to forget about what they were feeling and were able to enjoy the healing qualities for a minute.

I personally am more in favor of baby animals, as they are cuter and less demanding in my opinion. But whatever works for people. Babies are an awesome therapy or stress reliever, unless of course they are the cause of your stress in which case you should find a different baby to mush on for a little bit!

Coming Out... Sort Of

At about 15, after various events in my life, I knew I was gay. I was a freshman in high school and had just lost my best friend, someone who I cared deeply for. I did not feel I could be a lesbian at this time. I hated that I could not control my feelings. I hated that I was going to be different and that my life would not be as easy as if I were straight. For a long time I was absolutely miserable and quite angry. I never told anyone, until recently, that my best friend and I were in some twisted sexual relationship. It was as if we were dating, as there was both the emotional connection and the physcal one. I thought about it all the time and would get defensive when someone would make a comment and did my very best to hide it.

The summer in between my freshman and sophomore year I went to North Carolina, still miserable but getting better. I met a boy there and was instantly in love with him. I don't know what this means for my identity, but I will tell you that at the time I was so relieved. It was just a phase! I actually did like boys. This then ignited the only two relationships I had during high school. I didn't care about these boys, the first one especially. Even at this time thoughts like "it's because you're a lesbian" would creep into my head. They bothered my every time. It was like my own brain was antagonizing me.

By the time I was a junior and senior in high school I was over it. I hardly thought about it and I was in heavy pursuit of some kind of action. And by this I mean I wanted to make out with some boys. By this time I had effectively mastered not thinking about things and pushing things out of my head. So this method of survival was in full effect. And therefore I was able to freely not think about my evident lesbianism, I was able to pursue my men. But the one thing I couldn't deny was no matter what, I just wasn't that into them.

By freshman year of college I was still in denial. Every time anything to do with being a lesbian or just lesbianism in general, got brought up I got really uncomfortable. I would get this feeling inside of me that let me know that no matter what I talked my brain into thinking, I was what I was. I went a little crazy first semester, got drunk, made out with a lot of boys. I did my very best to make out with as many boys as possible. If I enjoyed it then clearly I was straight and clearly if I was macking on anything with a penis, I could not be questioned as gay. I won't say that I didn't enjoy my time making out with strangers in clubs, but I will say that it was not sustainable or fulfulling. I liked it, but only in a drunken haze in a too loud atmosphere with too many people around.

Then in my first semester of my sophomore year of college, I ended up in a class focused on transgender studies. Obviously this class was centered around trans topics, but there was also a lot of discussion about identity and presentation. At this point I was already borderline with my presentation. This meaning that I was choosing to dress how I was comfortable while still maintaining a shred of femininity. This class caused me to look into myself and see what I really wanted, who I really was and how I was going to be really happy. By the end of the semester I had started to take walks with a friend and we would both discuss our questions about our sexuality. I can't really speak for her, but she helped me talk through things that I hadn't ever discussed with anyone. I told her about my potential lack of straightness, which turned into a definate lack of straightness. She helped to work through my identity and embrace it to some extent. By second semester we were really questioning things. We started to become active in our university's LGBTQA center and started to make friends within the community. As the semester went on we both became more comfortable, I became more androgynous and life was good. I was happy, finally. I am out to some people. My close friends, some other people I am not all that close to but happened to be there, and those who ask. These people exist both in New York City and in my hometown.

And now to get to the point of all of this. Am I really out? When people look at me they just assume I am gay. Which is true, but does that make me out? Does it count if I don't actually say it? I don't know. I wonder what people think when they first meet me. I wonder what my professors think on the first day of class. I wonder what people in the halls think when I walk by. I wonder what the people in my hometown think when I show up to a baseball game in my varsity jacket and shaved head. I wonder if I am really an out lesbian. And therefore, I feel only sort of out. Like out to some people and not to others. It's like I myself have told certain people, then the people I have told have told people and the cycle continues. So a lot of people probably know I am a lesbian, or they think they know. This is okay. I just don't know if it counts.