Stormy Weather

I had to leave class and go to the bathroom so I could throw a mini temper-tantrum. I have a right to be mad. I guess I was feeling so weak I let myself get dicked around. Dr. George was right, though. We come from different schools of thought. My interpersonal relationships are just as intimate as my casual ones. Every conversation is a discussion, debate, a way to get to know one another.

...And I am not a Southerner. I can't even begin to understand how to think like one.

This is my trying tour of duty. I hope to look back one day and remember how I endured, thank it for making me stronger, and promise I'll never go back.

I was thinking the other day about how my Father never blamed himself for anything. When I was younger, I saw this a weakness, because it takes real strength to admit that you're wrong, or need help. I've been so concerned about being honest with myself, that I'll accept blame way before I blame anyone else. I'm going to stop doing that. This is not my fault. I'm awesome, but I'm not going to be much more than a friend to any of these dudes. It's too bad really, cause we have a lot to learn from each other, I'm just not allowed to bash Southern Boys over the head with respect and equal opinions of both sexes. It's really frustrating, but no self-righteous speech of mine is going to change them. I'm just going to focus my energy elsewhere.

Bandaid

I read an article yesterday about a model who went on a penniless walking pilgrimage. I could find a good place for my things, its the memories I can't seem to let go.

"You never remembered something as hard as you could so you could tell someone later?"

It's part of being intimate. I think.

"You're jumping the boat."
"Well as long as we're both clear about that, I don't see what the problem is."

But I was scared, and tensed at certain pressure points. I'm like a coil of ropes and when I woke up, I wasn't sure why I had needed that in the first place. He's gone. His mouth, his body, his hands. And everyone, everywhere will feel different, like a bandaid for the scratch.

"Please don't judge me." It was the first thing that came out of my mouth as we stood face to face. He looked like a confused little kid and I thought maybe all along that's what he was hiding under the dye and fancy shoes. He didn't provoke me, but I fell into conversation with his inner thoughts. The kind you shouldn't have to defend. The kind that make you feel uncomfortable when ever someone brings them up. So I don't know why I went there. I don't have anything to loose.

You Complain, you complain, you complain.

At some point as a child I learned to tune out the hard stuff: words spiked with poison, that come from a place of anger and pain. Being whipped around in my seat after a corner taken too fast, the feeling of his fist on my shoulder blade, teeth, knuckles, and the knife in the palm of my hand. I had to run to a place where I knew he wouldn't find me. I'm a coward, but he came after me, and I was scared.

This was the last time I saw him. This was our goodbye. Fitting.

A few days later I was sitting on a porch in Richmond. There was a girl with thick blond hair and almond shaped eyes wearing a black tee shirt and slacks. We talked about a lot of things, but somehow came to the feeling, the anxiety, and the confusion of blatant bullying. I see more of it in the south, where I don't look like other girls, and conformity is highly valued. She was telling me that I should pull out a little crazy, that I should get big, get mean, and stick up for myself.

I've seen guys get angry when their pride is injured. When a girl gets mad, she's a bitch.

I promised myself I would never get mad for irrational reasons, but sometimes I feel angry, and I put it in a box for later. So when I drop my cellphone on the pavement, or spill wine on myself, its like the world's ending. It's literally that small.

So a couple of things: If you think you can get sex out of a relationship you don't value, you're going to die alone. You're 26. If you think you can take advantage of someone for 10 months, but they're a bitch 'cause they're fed up, you're probably gonna die alone. If you think I'm a threat to you, you're just plain wrong. "It's what you do, not who you were, what you wear, or where you've been. So do something." You can dress a part, look a part, act a part, but deep down, if you're an ignorant southern boy, you're just that, and no one with any sense wont see through it. You could be the most amazing, kind person on earth, but if you're dating a manipulator who's taken control of you're relationships, you're just a coward. So what's the point? Make up your own mind.

That's pretty much everything I've been pissed about for a while now. I'm gonna try to be a little more selfish from this point forward.

In other news, I'm single, ineligible, and uninterested. I drove 12 hours in the last 2 days and loved every single second of pavement. Everyone everywhere that I've ever known are still my friends even if we don't talk that often (I know that seems obvious, but I just learned that recently...and thank goodness! Because it's the cause of a lot of my woes). I'm okay, and living in the South is actually pretty sweet. I have the whole country at my fingertips. The future is pretty exciting, and I have awesome friends.

The Happy Stuff.

I was staring into the blue eyes of his Australian Shepard, scratching behind her ears just the way Splinter likes when he asked, "have you lost weight?" I don't even know what kind of question that is, but it managed to break my spell of puppy-love. "I don't know. Maybe," I answered. He's a frequent customer, and I can't take my eyes of his dog Lola.

Home phone numbers. I could stay up all night under the covers with the receiver held to my ear. Every time I become optimistic about my time spent here, I find myself reminded of my roomates, or in this case, on the phone with them. A part of their antics again. Every thing is changing and I'm invisible on the sidelines. There was a puppy who chewed the keychain I wear by my side. There were a million bands, a million girls who slept in my bed, a million snowy nights, and I wasn't there for any of it. Even if they put the phone down and just let me listen to the laughter in the other room.

The night before his birthday, my brother reminded me of the realities that we create for ourselves. I am a perpetual state of, "I was happier here..." or "I was happier when..."

I wasn't. I never was. I've never been content a day in my life. My happiness has stemmed from plotting, from running, or from pretending. A new persona every 8 months that developed out of a rebellion for my old persona. When I ran away, I wasn't following my dreams. I couldn't face Tyler, I couldn't stand how hard school was for me, or how much I hated the jobs I was working. There was romance in the idea of a clean plate. No one was mad at me here. I hadn't let anyone down here. I could do it better here. You can't put miles between your body and your soul. I tore through it, strained my relationships, and sabotaged what I really cared about.

People might live their entire lives feeling lonely, but we used to sit 3 people to a couch, crammed into that living room. I'd fall asleep with my feet by Nick's head before stumbling sleepily into my room, putting on an Owen record, and smiling myself to sleep. I refuse to remember anything else.

If there is anything to learn, it's that I have my entire life to claim. Two years in South Carolina is nothing. I have to see something through to the end and live with the consequences of my actions. Each day is a punishment, for those who think I haven't gotten what I deserve. Seven days is nothing, but it's all I have to look forward to. That, and no more regrets, just cherished memories.

Maybe we could dress in our gowns and stand in front of your fireplace one more time.

Things that are due, or self-reliance

Chris does not blame any trivial issues on overconfidence. If someone transposes a number, he supposes that they were rushing, or doubting themselves, or trying to leave the building before the clock hit 9:30. Never that they were too sure to recheck their numbers.

Truth is, that night, it wasn't a bolstered ego. It was sweaty palms, a nervous stomach ache that started low and worked its way up, like a knot of air through a plastic straw. It gets small in that office, like a blanket, where no one can see your thoughts or feelings. A place where you can count coupons to the beat of your pulse. Yellow walls, the press of your finger prints against the safe lock, or the sound of dollar bills rubbing against one another as you count: 1, 2, 3, 4.

Truth is, everywhere you go, there will be people that hold you back, don't understand you, or whatever it may be. Fighting off those feelings of insignificance, or misconception is a life-long battle that ends in self-reliance.

I'm searching for a better way nestled between two Great Lakes, like the gap between my thumb and pointer-finger. It's not punching the clock, or walking unnoticed across a quad; it's the chase, and the escape. It's longing for the open road, a bus ride North, and finding empowerment through empowering others. I've learned what my hands can do but never seen them unshackled, unconstrained.

The beginning of April, warmth pressed against your cheek. Maybe things could have been different, but I had to fall down and break my arm first.

Lies.

Yeah you fucked up, but it's okay.
And I promise you, the sun will shine today.
But if you find you're out of time,
take a second to remember you're always mine.