1.a. History class

1.b. Drama that I am going to ignore and hope goes away

1.c. Learned that, actually, all straight boys here ARE really weird or involved with someone

1.d. Reminded myself that it’s okay to be single

1.e. Reminded myself that I hate people anyway and don’t play well with others even under the best circumstances

1.f. Chose to ignore the fact that I lie to myself about hating people… all the time

2. Lunch, class, stress, meeting with teacher, failed practice session, quick break, more class, gym

3. SA meeting, where I showed off my incredibly toned legs, cute choice in workout shorts and ability to look sarcastic and fit (read: slightly sweaty but pumped on endorphins) at the same time

4. Saw this quote on Edo’s facebook and decided it suits my week thus far: “I will, however, prove to myself that I can do what I want to do, and that I am as good as I know I am.” I am capable. I am smart. I am efficient, productive, strong and determined to do what I’m here to do, regardless of whatever may stand (or try to stand) in my way. I’m here for a reason, and no one, not even myself, will tell me differently.

But there comes a time when a girl just has to stand her ground and say, “Look, buddy. This is my career, and my education we’re talking about. I need us to do what’s right for me, whether you feel like it or not.”

Of course, nothing is that easy. I can state my viewpoint and give a list of reasons why I stand by it, and still be overridden by someone who thinks that they have the greater insight into the music that wants to be made.

But, sure. That’s fine. I’ll just sit here, miserable and hurt, and not just a little angry, while you call my primary teacher directly to discuss a two-page piece that we could easily present five days from now. Go right ahead, override me, make me feel small and stupid and unskilled.

Thank you, but no thank you for being an inconsiderate, falsely concerned, uncommunicative ass. I really appreciate your efforts to ruin my day.

The end.

As for me? In those old movies, I have big choices to make, still. I can save the hard decisions and the bad decisions for another day, because in those movies I’m content to live in my small bubble: one that consists of bickering and playing with my baby sister and romps in the backyard with my favorite yellow dog. It’s a perfect thirty minutes of childhood, preserved for anyone who wants to watch.

That’s why it hurts to remember. I can sit here and remember happiness felt this past summertime and just want to cry. Sunlight and green things, and iced coffee with lots of chocolate and extra ice; movies and pool nights, the Happening and farm work and guide rail. I had decisions to make, then, too– but they were a little more complicated than an eight-year-old me sitting on the floor unwrapping birthday presents in the living room.

I wonder, if I had decided to press the issue with him, if I’d be this miserable now. If I’d chosen potential over years of friendship… If I had said, “I think I’m in love with you,” when I thought I did, would we still be fighting? And, fighting over what, exactly– that I lost my temper? that I was sad and tired and stressed? that I was stretched thin to brittle, and closed to shattering?

Is that what this is about? That I was rude? That I’m a terrible friend? I thought you knew me better than that.

And what about all of that “I hate it when my friends change themselves” crap I heard for almost a year? What happens when you change? What then? Do I get to sit here and hate it, like you did? Or am I expected to just roll with it and accept that when I need you, you can’t be there for me like I need you to be, because you’re changing– into someone who has friends who are less serious than I am, more fun, with less to do and less at stake… I’m sorry I’m not spontaneous and fun anymore. I have to focus. I have to. I’m sorry.

This is why it hurts to remember. It’s one thing to remember the man you knew in the summertime, but in the cold winter daylight when things aren’t as perfect, you have to face the boy he decided he was, and any frost that comes along.

I have some Christmas music playing, but it doesn’t help the pressure go away. I have cinnamon coffee freshly brewed on my desk, and that does help. But it also serves as a reminder that I have four days left to prove that I can be a smart, dedicated, and productive person. I feel like this semester has pressed me into a corner, and while cowering in that corner, afraid of the work and the knowledge and failure, I’ve forgotten that I really am someone who loves to learn. I absorb new knowledge. I LIKE IT.

I didn’t like anything about this semester except the German language and diction classes, the excitement Dr. Laitz brought to written theory class, and the door Frau Balsam opened for me (helped me open myself?) into the world of German lied. Those things, and my illegal Christmas lights.

They make me happy now, when I force myself to reflect. They’ll make me happy for the next four days, until I can get the hell out of here and prepare myself for the semester to come in the comfort of my own home for a month. I am looking forward to learning the rest of the rep for Lucy’s and my recital, I am looking forward to teaching again… I am looking forward to being a huge cookie monster and going crazy for Christmas. I haven’t been this thrilled to be celebrating this holiday since I was about nine. I’m not kidding, either. I think it has something to do with the fact that I can now get my parents things: real, useful things. And I can spoil my sister like I’ve always wanted to be: with random, frivolous, happy little things that have no value to the rest of the world, but are so fun and precious between the people who give and receive them. (Although, Michelle, if you’re reading this, I didn’t get you a thing…)

Oh, and I can’t stand this– this pointless rambling about stuff that’s not really pointless, no, but it’s not the heart of the matter. None of it’s why I’m writing, none of it has anything to do with the sick feeling I have, all the time. I can’t even blame it on seasonal depression, because there’s no snow (yet).

I can’t (won’t) talk about the one thing, the thing that’s really wrong with me regarding finals week. That’s not for a public blog. But I can talk about the boy thing. And it might seem a little bit stupid, a little girly. And certainly a lot unimportant, considering you’d think there could be one or two other things I could be thinking about, right?

But no. Instead I sit here wishing that, for once in my life, I could meet someone. Maybe it’s this stupid little hope I have of a sleigh ride in a quiet woods, with gentle snowfall and a knitted scarf. Maybe it’s the hazy daydream of laughing with someone, of caring for them enough to find them a thoughtful gift. Maybe it’s the hopeless romantic in me that pleads for an impromptu hockey game on a frozen pond, or a morning of making hot chocolate with Bailey’s and Christmas cookies, or a night curled up together watching tacky traditional holiday movies.

But those things happen in books. Those things happen in movies. And those things happen mostly in my mind. And they happen with someone who’s not a musician, who understands that there is more to life, and who’s typically about four or five years older than I am. Someone who wants all of me, not just the physical aspect. Someone who at least pretends to have a brain located somewhere other than the place where all boys keep theirs.

I’m not saying I want to get married and have babies. In fact, I turn a little green when I think about that. Honestly it’s too early, and I want a Career (yes, with the capital C). But (and this really is pathetic, because there are bigger worries, in reality): I’m lonely. I haven’t dated anyone in over four years. I’d trade all of the kisses since then for someone that respects women, respects what I do, and is a real person.

And that’s enough my emotional weeding for the evening. I have three finals this week and a recording session tomorrow evening (as well as class), so I should probably go and pretend I’m being productive.

I don’t know why that quote makes me feel better right now, but it does. If I were to guess, I’d probably say it’s because right now, I feel like a speck. I tiny speck floating in time without much meaning, without much worth. In reality, I know that’s altogether true (and yet, not true): but that’s a thought for another time.

There are a number of things I should be doing right now, but I can’t seem to think much past the fact that my Dakota bracelet is, yet again, gone from my wrist and pressing in on my heart. It wouldn’t press so hard if I had just kept track of it, made sure it was there! The empty space on my wrist wouldn’t feel quite so bare if I had paid more attention to it. I should have realized that it was likely to fall off– hadn’t it gone “missing” two days ago, and ended up on top of my sweater sitting in the chair? HOW it had gotten off or WHY my wrist is so small are questions at the very top of my miserable list of things to do tonight. I checked everywhere in my room. Frisked my coat, emptied the scarf drawer, scoured the floor and my bookshelf and under my bed and rug. Rummaged through my bag until I was sure, absolutely sure, it wasn’t there.

I just don’t understand. I had been checking it, on and off, since that moment two days ago when the bottom of my stomach lurched away and I’d noticed it gone. I’d been thrilled when I’d found that purple bracelet again.

Now, it could only be in the practice room where I’d spent my time from seven to eight; or else in the street? on the floor of the dorm lobby? in front of the main desk? I wouldn’t know where to begin searching on this campus: the likelihood of it NOT being trampled or picked up and tossed by cleaning staff is really, really slim.

I asked my mother to mail me another one. If I have to staple it to my damn arm I’ll be keeping this one.

The only upside to this is, I think of Dakota constantly. I remember him how he used to be, and how he is now. I remember how he looked when I saw him with Kenny and Jon on Sunday (so much better than the time before, as always!); I think of him as I sit here now, and I think of him every time I look down to see where my bracelet is supposed to go. I think of him, and I toss out hope with my heart. And look forward to a time when he can cut my bracelet off of my wrist himself.

I’m taking a break from decorating my room for break. I’d say I was decorating for Christmas, but that would be a lie: a.) I wont be here for Christmas; b.) I enjoy calling it “Exzasmus” too much, in the style of my father; and c.) I don’t really feel like we celebrate Christmas here. It’s really so much more of a “holiday”– different beliefs and different feelings toward the season combine into one big muddle of sparkling lights and cranky snow-goers. But it’s still a happy time. And it’s still deserving of the little Charlie Brown tree I’m about to set up and adorn with the ornaments Michael sent me from Deutschland two years ago.

Also, after that, Paulina and I are going to celebrate the beginning of the next three weeks (of hell) by opening a few presents of our own, early. One of them starts with a B and ends with aileys, and it has caramel in it. Combine that with chocolate? Can’t wait. Seriously.

Anyway, I still have packing to do so I guess I’ll quit being so excited about beverages and finish up here. Only nineteen more days…

I lost my Single Game of Therapeutic Tetris because of this. I was on level five. For me, that’s actually serious failure.

Look, I can’t help it that I am an emotional person. See? There, I’ve said it. I’ve finally confessed. I am a blatantly emotional person. It’s not a crime. It’s how I’m made. It’s a genetic accident that has led to extremely powerful feelings when I don’t want them and mentally know I sure as hell don’t need them (interfering with my daily life).

But on the other hand, those deeply felt extremely passionate reactions are the reason I can write and mean it. They are the reason I can sing about love and have it reach someone. They are the reason I can bring life to old volumes of music that have been around for centuries. They are the reason I can love so fiercely, and with everything I have.

I care about what happens to my friends. I care when I hurt someone’s feelings. I care when I feel I am being used to get to someone else. I care when people I thought were my very best friends treat me like shit.

I care that I am so uncomfortable speaking up when I feel that I have been treated like shit. Why I am walked over so easily? Why am I constantly taken advantage of?

Is it because I like it? Is it because I want to feel needed by the people I love?

Or is it because that, somewhere along the line, I stopped caring that I treat some of my friends better than they treat me?

I think I just love too much. I love so much that I don’t think before I speak when it comes down to protecting what I feel ought to be protected. I don’t gauge the consequences when I can’t take it any more, and that’s why I can’t stand up for myself. Because it usually turns out with me looking like some know-it-all, high and mighty bitch. When really, I just read a lot, so my bitchiness is well thought out and (for the most part) grammatically correct.

I hate myself for caring. I have thought to myself, why can’t I be someone normal, who doesn’t give enough of a crap to speak her mind about something important? Why can’t I just shut up and keep my advice to myself? I get myself in trouble for being honest. For being absolutely one hundred percent honest with someone I thought I could trust… and then I try to fix it, which is almost just as bad.

What’s wrong with me?

But I can’t change. I won’t change. I won’t even go back and proofread this because even if it makes no sense I refuse to give an inch on this… this entire stupid situation. It’s so petty and I’m done. I just want to go home.

It was *just* for the Messiah sing that is apparently supposed to happen at Eastman every year, but they didn’t do it last year and now I have auditioned, and it was a blast! Granted I felt like projectile vomiting everywhere before hand, but it was so fun!

I sang my very first recit ever (and it was fun!) and I sang a little aria (also fun!) and then I left (the very best part!), but I was happy with myself, and with my singing. It’s all a balancing act, almost a power struggle between my body, that mostly knows what it should be doing, my mind, that tries to remind the body but sometimes short-circuits, and my nerves, that never cease to attempt sabotage of the worst and most mutinous kind, every time.

But I sang, and now I want to sing some more, and that’s ultimately why I’m here. So, I’m going to go practice. Because I’m happy.

At some point within the past three years, I’ve realized that the boy I gave most of my innocence to wasn’t the person I thought he was. He never pretended to be someone else: no, he didn’t pretend. But I did. I saw the hurt and the sadness in him and I wanted to fix it. I saw the scars she had inflicted and the wounds he didn’t want to admit his parents had left him with. I saw a sharp mind and an experienced, worldly soul and I wanted to help him grow. I wanted him to be the man I’d always read about: the one who swoops in to sweep the strong, independent, outspoken and vibrant woman off of her feet.

Well, here I am, nearly four years older and a hell of a lot stronger. And more independent, and hopefully more vibrant; although I can’t comment for sure on the outspoken because I feel like I do an awful lot of listening these days. But I’m smarter, and I suppose that lately it’s struck me just how much stronger.

He was eighteen then; I was fifteen. I was precocious, sure, with quite a bit of educated reading under my belt and a pressure to be better, to learn about the world.
He had been cheated on and, I guess, manipulated. His parents were divorced and I’m sure he’d seen a little too much of the world.

Those aren’t excuses, for him or for me. I guess I could fall back on my old quantification: I never said I loved him; I never gave him everything; I never expected too much, especially toward the end.

But that’s not entirely right. I never said I loved him but I allowed him to manipulate me, to make me think I was less than I am. I allowed him to tell me things about myself that weren’t true. I let him steer me away from my family and my friends simply because he wasn’t that close to his and I wanted to be with him. I gave him my trust. I gave him my loyalty. I gave him my time, my being, little parts of my heart that I’m proud to say I reclaimed and then some.

Long story short, I think it’s really interesting to see how capable I really am of looking back on the only “real” relationship I’ve ever had to see the issues I’d viewed as such complexities then become clear as day, now.

Now I sit here in my room in the dorm building of a school that is leagues and leagues above and beyond what I’d even dreamed of attending four years ago. I’m going to be in debt for the rest of my life, but I charged headfirst into that with the full intention of making the most of myself in the time I’ve been given here. I’m doing something I love, and am going to continue to. I am capable of doing almost anything.

And I all I can think of right now is how much has changed, how much I’ve learned in a few short years. How much I’ve grown. How much my life could have been like the song “Stars and the Moon” from “Songs for a New World.”

And it never changed
And it never grew
And I never dreamed
And I woke one day
And I looked around
And I thought, “My God…
I’ll never have the moon.”

But I’m not. That’s not me, but it could have been. But I don’t think I need someone who can give me the moon, as romantic as that might seem. I’ve grown up surrounded by strong women who take the moon for themselves, and I intend to be one of them. I’ll have the stars and the moon for myself.

And most recently, most prominently, I get so very irritated with the pious few who can’t seem to keep their obsession with God in their pants.

Let me rephrase. Is it really necessary to put Bible verses as your facebook status? Because let me just say, as someone who’s pretty impartial most days, you’re not going to inspire me to start up Bible-reading or hardcore prayer just because you’re John 3:16ing away in the social media. Seriously.

Is it really that important that you dress conservatively or treat everyone else with a heightened sense of “I’m better than you because I have a religion that is the right religion and you can be better than everyone else too if you give up your sinner’s lifestyle and join me”? Is it really that mandatory to wear blingy cross jewelry or carry your Bible around?

I thought the whole point of having a relationship with God was to use his love to love others (and okay, repent your sins and go to Heaven and all that jazz). But if the current mentality is “be obnoxious about your faith and see how many people like it and join in,” I hesitate to ask how many new followers you end up with.

Personally, it’s not appealing to be part of it… Christianity seems way too much like a clique, an exclusive group that you can only be part of if you’re willing to piss all of the nonbelievers off. I don’t want to join in, I don’t want to hear what you have to say because you are, quite simply, annoying as hell (if you’ll forgive the turn of phrase).

And maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m just close-minded and a bitch. Maybe I just can’t accept that this religion IS actually better than all the rest. Maybe I can’t just face facts: that you have to discriminate and be an obnoxious witness in order to have a successful relationship with God.

Or maybe, there needs to be an adjustment. Because I’m pretty sure that I’m a very open-minded person and although I admit to the bitchiness a great deal of the time, it takes a lot to really piss me off. And this cliquey Christian nonsense? Yeah. It pisses me off.