A Mind, Lively and at Ease

As a few of my friends know, I’ve kept two bedrooms in my parents’ house for about four years. Added to the room I mostly use in my apartment, that makes three bedrooms I can claim… if I wanted to, which I do. I come from a long line of sentimental pack racks. If asked, I couldn’t explain why I need an old train ticket from Toronto, but I’d still remain adamant that it will remain in my possession. My father collects shirts like cups, thinking that he’d need more of something so useful and easy to put away. His wardrobe takes up every closet in his house. 

I think, worst of all, we’re organized pack rats. I’m typing on top of a chest filled with every paper momento imaginable. We’re good at hiding away what we deem special. 

So, scanning my eyes across what I refer to as my younger bedroom, the bright blue slaps me in the face with my pure, unaffected optimism of childhood. The walls were littered with manga posters, crappy self portraits, a couple of my sister’s abstract artwork from classes in high school, and lastly the brat pack poster that exemplifies teenage years so profoundly and simply. 

When I left this room, the room that I’m working hard to clean out and wipe away its hold on me, I left everything that used to make me happy and couldn’t anymore. I ruined its walls with tape, and those spongy strips of adhesive that let you hang just about everything—before I discovered Command strips, so they rip away the wall with their removal. 

I miss what this room meant to me. How is it possible to be so attached to such physical, material things? Inevitably, with a sort of satisfying rage of nostalgia, I tore down all of those posters and pictures. The emptiness is hard to describe. How in the hell did I like this bright blue, like a clear morning sky? 

Substitutions, those are all that happen. Now, I prefer watching the sunrise and birds at the feeder, tweeting and chattering about their days. My younger bedroom fed off of chaos, hailing originality and worshipping livelihood. It, like me, had energy to waste. 

Saying goodbye to my childhood bedroom is saying goodbye to that part of me: cataloging its remains, the memories, and throwing away the things I never needed in the first place. I’ll never truly forget the most important things, though. I’ll never forget who I used to be, and how happy she always was being herself. 

Here’s to a new year, everyone. Here’s to another year of change. It strikes me, that a year somehow accommodates the perfect timing of seasons and change—that it always manages to pack away a small part of our life, an organization of our experiences and the memories to accompany them.  

What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. Except, well, sometimes it takes longer to get to the stronger part than we ever thought. 

Why do brutal words often accompany the truth? What compels someone to press their teeth and tongue together and make the sound of control, that ever drizzling rain of “shhhhhhhh” that never fails to bruise the airwaves and our sensitive ears? 

Sometimes I believe that I talk loudly because of that shushing sound, and not in its absence. Suppression only causes tireless aversion and eventual upheaval. I am not a dog, not a pack hound with its tail curled under its legs, lapping up the crumbs you leave me. I don’t waver at your command, finally choosing obedience. I fear tornadoes because I am one, and mostly we fear ourselves. I am a natural disaster, and you have absolutely no control over me. 

I was asked once, in conversation, what three things I fear most. 

1. Helplessness: a loved one in danger and I have no ability or way to help them. Sometimes, it’s the thought of being in danger myself and having no way to control it. 
2. Car Accidents: generally being helpless, but usually a stranger is involved as well, so therefore it must be a different fear instead.
3. Loneliness: I fucking hate being alone all the time, but naturally I can’t handle being around someone all the time. Conundrum. 

So, if fear is what keeps us fighting, I can see the correlation. I spend most of my time striving for independence—that way I won’t be helpless and dependent. 

But, in a grand finale, I’m at odds with myself on this also. It’s hard to think so much about yourself when you had poisonous remarks thrown at you most of your life. The harshest being:

• “You’re so selfish.” 
• “You’re inconsiderate, brat.” (and sometimes “bitch”)

I’m not unique in having certain memories stick over time, reappearing in my mind’s eye at my weakest. We all have these small traumatic moments that we let define our idea of ourselves and our personalities. My friend says she remembers a guy, just a random classmate in high school, telling her that her armpits needed to be shaved. So, now, she harbors a strange overcompensation for shaving her armpits, unreasonably self conscious in tank tops and sleeveless shirts. In essence, we let these experiences become more worrisome, and important, than they should ever be. I think it’s taken me the longest to disregard those sentiments of my pedestaled sister. Think, though, if it’s someone close who says something that hurts the worst, well, obviously their judgment is quite subjective and skewed. I know, from the very core of my being, that I’m not all that selfish and inconsiderate—otherwise I wouldn’t have given a penny for what she thought. 

So, as a hopefully encouraging thought for all those suffering with the undeserved abuse of jealousy, disharmony, and discord, I’ll say a very cheesy thing… that’s more hard to believe than brutal:

Find the truth within yourself, and trust your deepest judgments of yourself. Beneath the murk of memories and untidy cruel comments, discover your real feelings about your life. Be satisfied with the person you’ve chosen to be, on the grounds that it was your choice—not the over-embedded manipulations of anyone else… not even the sister you love most dearly. 

Facebook, like magazines, throws everyone else’s life in your face. The least favorites are those who share every insignificant detail, presenting them like tiny trophies or baked cakes. Close by are those who only share the amazing things they do, as if their life is filled with only adventure, cut-throat with awesomeness. Seldom do they truly represent the people we meet. Seldom do we truly believe in every post made, every comment garnered. It’s a sinkhole of self abuse and exploitation. 

Yet, we stick our hands with those quick few letters, opening pages and only entering the famous f, letting our browser immediately guess, and if sentient they would supply utter boredom, the familiar two words and its closing punctuated abbreviation. 

Only on facebook are we still friends with hated exs and rivals. Where we could once forget the bitterness with the passing of time with loved ones, it’s harder to make the disconnection and reconnect to ourselves. 

Sometimes I consider it as a limbo, just a white space of confused feelings. I limit myself, hoping I’ll retrieve some of the power it holds over me. What would we have done during finals before facebook? How would we have distracted ourselves?

The subject of what-ifs and its general chaos are mostly overused by magazines and newspapers, being media’s favorite spokesperson and scandal. It’s useful. It’s partly practical, inviting people to parties that otherwise would have been too much trouble to organize. Together we celebrate the weather, diss the latest stupid celebrity, and share our bursting sentiments. 

I’m always torn between its magnitude and amusement, hoping to reign myself in before I let it direct my emotions and spirit. I’m not logical enough to take it as is and view it objectively. I like real people, looking at their facial expressions and hearing their voices. Not everyone can express themselves effectively with text, and mostly the bare communication, lacking punctuation and adjectives, drags me into frustration…

…or just the plain difference, which I’m still surprised by the ignorance or sheer stupidity of these mistakes, of YOUR, YOU’RE and THERE, THEIR, THEY’RE. COME OOOOON!

Okay, now I need a drink. Damn you, facebook. 

        If I could, I’d paint you with a heart in your hand: how you charm me with the barest of grins and an off-kilter joke. Your hair’s shorn short—easy like your voice. My hair’s tangled, complicated, drifting off into several ends and weaving into open space—I’m a mess, to be exact. I’ll never underestimate the ultimate emotions of an open palm, waiting. 

        Poetry. Italy, characters, relatives. To us religion doesn’t stop on the boundaries of a churchyard. We make each action a prayer, each cause a passage, and each reaction a sermon. The ceiling held secrets we never confessed, and those plastic armchairs embraced thoughts we never expressed. 

        We wear hats. There’s something about the wind and the fact we try so hard to keep warm against it’s unfathomable fury. Sometimes, though, the concept of you is wooden, dry and dull. I never worry, since it can just be more fuel for my fire. 

        You’re flannel and boots—everything I love but never use. You think of yourself as small, but I will never agree. Larger than life, I sat with Paul Bunyan’s grizzly figure, laughing and dragging every person into his warm voice. Likewise, time alters with your presence, and I can’t be surprised that we spent hours talking nonsense and every sense of justice, peace, and pain we knew. 

        I won’t deny my urge to kiss you. I don’t lie to myself anymore. I write base, droll sentences to pass up the emotions—just like how I accused you of pushing away guilt onto others. Don’t you believe me when I say I’m a brat? I won’t take back the pedestal: surely you deserve to be crinkling with amusement sitting above us all. People surround you with real happiness, and you’re always opening your arms to them. You’re the earth, good, wholesome, and sweet with a richness that I’m grateful for—all in all.  

         I’m glad to have spent time with you in the winter. You could be a cabin, a shelter from the cold and snow with extra faux-fur lining for comfort. We crawl to you emotionally, slipping into your empathy like a large sleeping bag. I get feet knocked into me, people catching my attention for your, my, intentions. I always shy away, smile, then come the excuses—no doubt you have more than enough yourself. There’s something, there’s nothing. There’s always a murky lining of thinner on our thick wild landscapes of confidence and expectations. I can’t ask. I can’t give. 

         Like a sunny winter afternoon, I took the time while I had it—satisfied with a day, or in this case, days, well spent in the company of a great friend.