This, and who I used to be

“This, and who I used to be, don’t matter much at all to me
To pin you down, to plant your feet, ‘s a far cry from my destiny”

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.

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And here we go again

Well, back in Rochester. Nineteen days until I see the raging Cattaraugus again. Not that I saw it this time… but whatever. Not the point.

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…

Finally the little meltdown

Whoa, yep. Here it comes. Here we go. Finally the little meltdown.

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.

If music be the food of love (sing on)

I had an audition today!

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.

Reflections on stars and the moon

I’ll preface this by saying, I don’t really know why I’ve thought about these things lately. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d probably figure that it’s part of some larger circle that needs to return and resolve. But anyway.

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.

Can’t think of a title right now because I don’t want to be late

I don’t know what my problem is. First I’m annoyed by workaholics who take a little too much outward pride in being workaholics. Then I’m pissed off because people who clearly have ability don’t make any effort to hone their talent. I include myself in that group sometimes.

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.

Urge

My room is a disaster zone. This head cold I’ve been hanging out with for almost a week now is showing no inclination to leave. I haven’t made a great deal of progress learning new music, although things are starting to improve. And I haven’t done laundry in almost two weeks.

I’m lazy. But slowly growing more motivated. It’s one of those things that comes and goes for me, and I’m worried that I’ll be so excited about POTENTIALLY being capable of making real steps toward improvement that I’ll just spend all of my energy and end up pathetic and back where I started. I’m determined that that won’t be that case, though. Honestly it might come down to sheer willpower… which I have in abundance some days and seriously lack on others.

I go home in nine days, though, so hopefully that will act as a spur, of sorts. Speaking of, I should probably stop wordpressing and start to pick up the haphazard piles of clothing and books that are strewn all over my floor…