Polka Dots

It started and ended with polka dots. Black on white and white on black. Colors that were indisputable, even between us.

I find myself at a loss for words. Instead I've got a slideshow in my head of everything we've ever done. It was brief and wild and saturated with new experiences and kisses and knowing smiles. 

Sometimes we were so foreign to each other that I often wondered if it wasn't just our eyes that saw different colors.

My thoughts are disjointed. This is all I can bring myself to say.

We're not the same, dear, as we used to be.

I feel like I'm finally starting to figure everything out.

As the days go on, I'm beginning to discover more and more of myself. I'm sorting out my feelings, figuring out what my limits are, and realizing what's important to me in the long run, versus the things that only make me feel good in the short term.

Probably most importantly, I'm learning what it means to be me. Just me. I'm figuring out what makes me happy, and I'm learning to live with myself. You know how they always say you must be able to love yourself before you can love others? I always thought it sounded a bit corny, but the more time I spend really growing as a person, the more I realize how true it is.

It's late and I've got a lot of work to do, so I'm going to be lazy and steal a metaphor from a Death Cab for Cutie song:

It's as though I was standing on a frozen lake and pretending it was solid ground. But as time went on the ice grew thin, and eventually I just fell through. These past few months I've sort of been struggling just to keep my head above water... and now I've taught myself how to swim, and I'm slowly working my way toward the shore. And hopefully in the coming months I'll have come to a more solid foundation to stand on.

Okay, I'll stop with the corny analogies for now.

My point is, things are really looking up. And who knows, maybe future me will be able to make up for some of the not-so-great decisions that past me made.

Questions

I find it incredibly ironic that after all I've been through, I have trouble taking care of myself. Don't get me wrong-- I know how to take care of myself. I just... don't.

I guess I didn't even realize I was doing it until recently. Several of my friends have expressed concern for my well being, and it's forcing me to really sit down and re-evaluate my current state. I don't ever get enough sleep, I  haven't been eating well, and my anxiety levels are through the roof. I'm unproductive, I'm unmotivated, and I've been relying heavily on the company of those closest to me for emotional stability.

I guess when it comes down to it, I know (better than most people) how to survive. Because that's all I did growing up. I survived. And as they say, old habits die hard. Despite the fact that I have a great deal of resources to get me through any hardships, I take it upon myself to deal with my own issues. I'm very private when it comes to my own emotions and struggles, and the one thing I almost never do is ask for help. From anyone.

Instead of taking care of myself, I get done what needs to get done and push all other issues to the side. Instead of letting other people know what's going on, I spend hours alone trying to work them out for myself. I survive. 

But sometimes it gets to be too much, and sometimes I have to let people what's going on. But it's always the same. "Hey, I'm going through a lot right now and I just had a crazy break down, but don't worry, I'm fine now and I'm handling it." "Hey, I've got a lot of work to do an it's entirely too overwhelming, but don't worry, I've got a plan." "Hey, I'm not getting enough sleep and I've already skipped class twice this week, but don't worry, I'm working it all out."

I'm handling it. I've got a plan. I'm working it out.

I can't just say it: "I would appreciate some help."

When I was in Chicago this weekend, I went to the Art Institute and saw an exhibit piece by Peter Fischili and David Weiss called "Questions." We sat in a dark room, and a projector would project different questions on the walls in all different languages. One of the ones that struck me was "Could I put my everlasting effort to seem normal toward something more productive?" It made me think about the way my life has been for the past couple of months. Could I put my everlasting effort to appear normal into really taking care of myself?

So, I'm taking steps. I'm going back into therapy for a bit, just to get my thoughts and emotions straightened out. I'm going to start running again and sleeping more to get my body straightened out. I'm going back to my old eating habits and I'm going to see a doctor to get my health straightened out. 

Hah, listen to that-- "I'm taking steps." "I'll take care of it."

So maybe I'm not quite there yet.

A Simple Request

If you're reading this, and if you've read my blog before, there's a good chance that you know more about me than I know about you.

So I have a request: tell me about yourself. Write a comment or send me a message or give me a call. 

It can be something little, like your favorite color.

It can be a secret, sent anonymously. 

It can be a funny story, or a sad story.

It can even be a picture of your favorite place or a favorite quote of yours.

Or maybe we can go out for lunch or coffee some time and learn more about each other.

And if you decide to say nothing (which I hope isn't the case), then tell someone else. You never know what simply sharing something about yourself can lead to. 

What've you got to lose?

Facing the Past

I didn't mean to come home for Spring Break, but somehow I ended up here anyway.

In a way, I've been dreading coming home ever since Josh and I broke up. I wasn't really sure why until I got up here... the simple truth is that everything reminds me of him. And I didn't want to face any of it. I didn't want to see the people who would ask me about it. I didn't want to miss seeing the people I was so used to seeing before.

The first night I was here, I had a long talk with Nana about life and everything that's happened in the past three years. We talked about Crista, we talked about the Soehners, and we talked about Josh. She said that, in a way, Josh and I saved each others' lives. And I couldn't agree more. We found each other in the middle of a very bad time in both of our lives, and we helped each other through it all against the worst of odds.

Aside from Nana, and perhaps my own mother (and even surpassing both of them in a lot of ways), Josh was one of the most important people in shaping who I am today.

I know our break up wasn't as hard for me as it was for him. I know that. But that doesn't mean it wasn't hard. When I lost Josh, I lost my best friend. I lost the only man I had ever loved. I lost one of the few people who knew and really understood all that I've been through.

Was it the right decision? Yes. Do I regret it? No. Do I miss him? Absolutely. You don't spend three years with someone and walk away like nothing happened. My heart might not be broken like his, but it still aches from the loss.

Anyway, this is getting to be to blubbery and too personal.

Toward the end of our conversation, Nana said that we crossed an important bridge in our lives together. And when we reached the other side, we had to stop holding hands.

Say it like you mean it.

I've decided that I dislike it very much when people speak in riddles as a means to simultaneously convey and hide what they mean to say.

Let me tell you a story about how I ended up with my first "boyfriend":

I was in sixth grade. His name was Eric Trumble. I typed him a note that was something to the effect of "The girl who wrote this likes you, but doesn't know if you like her. If you know who it is and you like her, write the word 'yes' and put it in her locker. If you don't know who it is, or if you don't like her, don't do anything." It was a foolproof plan. If he liked me, I'd find the note in my locker with his response. If he liked another girl, she would have no idea who the note came from, thus saving him from the embarrassment of giving it to her and me from the embarrassment of him knowing I was the one who gave him the note to begin with. And if he liked no one at all, I would remain anonymous.

In the end, he ended up handing me the note in person, with his "yes" scribbled plainly at the bottom. Cute, right?

But the thing that strikes me now is how much braver he was than I had been. My plan might have been a work of genius, but the fact that he had the guts to look me in the eye and hand me that slip of paper sort of left me feeling like a coward. And let's face it folks, it doesn't get much more cowardly than that note.

And here I am, years later, and I like to think that I'm a pretty straightforward person. If I mean to say something, I say what I mean. And if I'm not ready to say something, I don't (except on the occasions when I do. The outcomes on those occasions are mixed).

Which brings me back to our original topic: people who speak in riddles. At first I wanted to say that they do it as a sort of social filter; if you figure out the riddle, then you "get" them and therefore they allow you to be a part of their lives. But that seemed a bit pretentious to me, and that didn't quite fit. And then I thought maybe it was done for a measure of mystery. Everyone likes a mystery, right? (The answer is no.)

But the more I thought about it, the more I felt like people who try to hide messages in their words are doing exactly what I did when I wrote that note all those years ago-- they're protecting themselves. From shame, from embarrassment, from rejection, from judgement, from the general nastiness that comes from putting yourself out there and not being received as well as you'd hoped.

I said at the beginning of this post that I dislike when people speak in riddles. Why should I be so against someone trying to protect himself or herself? Here's why: because when you bury your meaning in a pile of meaningless words, even the people who think they know what you're saying would never admit to it, because they're not sure if what you're implying is actually being implied. People take things the wrong way. And if anyone picks up on the fact that they shouldn't take your words at face value, then they might start over analyzing everything you say and make assumptions that you never intended anyone to make.

Eric Trumble might not have done the bravest thing there was to do. He could have actually talked to me about it, or asked me out, or even asked me if I had written the note. But I'm sure he was scared too. I mean, who wasn't scared in middle school? The point is that he stepped up and did what I didn't have the guts to do. He took a social risk, and he was rewarded for it. I've been taking a lot of social risks lately, and even though they haven't all had the outcomes I was hoping for, I still feel like I'm better off for having tried.

So if you're out there, still speaking like the March Hare and typing up notes, then maybe it's time for you to take a leaf out of Eric Trumble's book.

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