I've been wanting to blog so badly lately to catalog my feelings so I can remember how I feel. I'm in a stage that I don't really understand how to handle. Emotions used to spread like wildfire and fluctuate a million times throughout the day, but all of a sudden I don't feel feelings. They exist, but they don't come through to me. I know they're there but I can't physically think about them or even begin to analyze them. I used to cry all the time. Now I just block it out. I'm pushing myself out of the situation, just leaving it and abandoning it. Walking away is just easier. I'm filling my days and nights with people I love and that make me feel alive. I don't want to go home anymore. I'm scared of what's there and what will soon no longer be. The thought of divorce doesn't scare me because I don't think about it, I won't think about it. I used to be a dreamer and an analyzer but I think those days are over. I've just gotta shut up and go with it. Through all of this I've had an amazing support system. I don't want to tell anyone about this, but there's a few people who just get it.. well kind of.
Melissa One. You came in on your birthday and before I even got a chance to say "Happy Birthday," you looked me in the eyes and asked me what was wrong. For some reason that I have yet to discover, I can't lie to you. I tried to shake it and focus on you because after all it's your special day, but you unselfishly shifted the conversation back to me. You rubbed my arms and just listened instead of interrupting with suggestions and ways that you relate. You didn't just tell me everything was going to okay. I love the way you listen to me and are truly concerned about my well being. Thank you for spending your birthday sitting with me at the bar drowning out my feelings that are unable to be interpreted.
Melissa Two. Mo. You get the teenager side of me. When "no one understands," you do. You are selfless just like Melissa One. You've known me forever and ever since I can remember, I've loved talking to you. We sit around the camp fires spilling our hearts out and talking about things I never imagined I'd tell another person. No matter what I do, you never look at me differently. I'll always be Hay Hay and you'll always care about me no matter how badly I mess up. We can talk for hours on end and we never run out of anything to talk about. You just always know what to say. I hope I can have that same bond with Leah and I can return the favor back to you. I want someone else to have what you gave to me.
When you're gone will I lose control? You're the only road I know, You show me where to go so who will drive my soul?
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Save your breath 'cause here comes the truth.
So I listen to you complain and then I bite my tongue in vain again as I let it slowly all just settle in. Such a pretty picture that you paint, I'm so vile while you're a saint. Funny how your eyes seem thick, not thin.
World War Three. Too exhausted to explain. All I have to say is you will NEVER touch my little sister again if I have anything to say about it.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Stop, Now Think About It
It's time to move on, but that means letting go. I think it's impossible to muster up the courage to say I'm through with you. I wish everything worked out in the moment the way I see it working out in my head beforehand. Stop, being so addicting.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
How to Make a Memory
"I guarantee you I miss my secondhand sanity more than you miss your teenage angst"
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Tail Lights in the Rain
Who thought we'd be playing softball on March 30th? An actual game, on an actual diamond and at Lew-Port?! Never in a million years. The schedule said we had a game, but of course we were all unprepared for a game in March. I went home during lunch to get all my equipment and ran through the mental check list to make sure I had everything I needed. Check, Check, Check.
Third inning in and Adolf hollers "Brown, you're in at first and batting for Meogrossi." In the rush to find my helmet and The Catty, I realized this is the first time all year I've hit off a live pitcher and needed my batting gloves. Rummaging through my bag with not many seconds to spare I could only find my left glove and couldn't figure out for the life of me where the right one could have gone. So naturally, my first varsity at bat my head was everywhere but where it needed to be. Awkward wind-up. Ball One. Foul tip, Strike One. One and One. Suddenly, I got a visual in my mind of where my glove was. It seemed like the world slowed down and my mind was working in slow motion. I watched for my signs, but there's no way I could have received them with that feeling in my gut and those thoughts in my head.
I skipped back to August. I didn't want to say goodbye. We were all huddled in that small room packed full of familiar faces there to say their final prayers and bid their final goodbyes. Common acquaintances slowly stumbled to the front of the frigid room where the cold casket containing my Papa's body boldy stood. Most hugged my Nana and muttered some final form of condolences in her ear and she answered with some kind of appreciative gesture. Eventually, the room emptied little by little and only my family remained. No one was brave enough to make the first move to say a final farewell. My dad grabbed my hand and asked me with tears in his eyes if I would walk with him to do what had to be done. I pulled my black Nike glove out of my back pocket and a few grains of dirt from the diamond floated to the floor of that room so full of silence. I put my glove on the pillow that Papa's head rested on while kissing his forehead and whispering my last salute. All of a sudden it smelled like memories. Papa never missed a game. He'd leave the hospital after bypass surgery and speed there to make sure I had someone cheering for me on the sidelines. Everyone knew his name and carried his chair. Bought him coffee and let him pet their dog as if it were his own. After every team, I'd run over to his car and hug him and he'd tell me he was proud of me even when I played horribly. He never disappointed me and always made me feel proud of myself which few people have the ability to do.
Then just like that I snapped back into the game. My feet were still out of the box when the pitcher released the ball. I closed my eyes and my body just connected. I hit a shot deep into right field, right where Papa always sat watching me, admirably. Rounding the base and talking to my biggest fan, I muttered aloud, "That one was for you." That's the first game Papa missed. But if he could be here, I know he would be. He fought for 21 years to be alive and everyday was a struggle. The season is making me miss him more than ever. But now I've got another spirit on my shoulder when I'm playing a game I care about so much.
I know you'll never miss a game Papa.
I haven't cried in months, but today, on Easter Sunday it feels so liberating. Holidays will always be the hardest, but I know you're here Big Man.
Third inning in and Adolf hollers "Brown, you're in at first and batting for Meogrossi." In the rush to find my helmet and The Catty, I realized this is the first time all year I've hit off a live pitcher and needed my batting gloves. Rummaging through my bag with not many seconds to spare I could only find my left glove and couldn't figure out for the life of me where the right one could have gone. So naturally, my first varsity at bat my head was everywhere but where it needed to be. Awkward wind-up. Ball One. Foul tip, Strike One. One and One. Suddenly, I got a visual in my mind of where my glove was. It seemed like the world slowed down and my mind was working in slow motion. I watched for my signs, but there's no way I could have received them with that feeling in my gut and those thoughts in my head.
I skipped back to August. I didn't want to say goodbye. We were all huddled in that small room packed full of familiar faces there to say their final prayers and bid their final goodbyes. Common acquaintances slowly stumbled to the front of the frigid room where the cold casket containing my Papa's body boldy stood. Most hugged my Nana and muttered some final form of condolences in her ear and she answered with some kind of appreciative gesture. Eventually, the room emptied little by little and only my family remained. No one was brave enough to make the first move to say a final farewell. My dad grabbed my hand and asked me with tears in his eyes if I would walk with him to do what had to be done. I pulled my black Nike glove out of my back pocket and a few grains of dirt from the diamond floated to the floor of that room so full of silence. I put my glove on the pillow that Papa's head rested on while kissing his forehead and whispering my last salute. All of a sudden it smelled like memories. Papa never missed a game. He'd leave the hospital after bypass surgery and speed there to make sure I had someone cheering for me on the sidelines. Everyone knew his name and carried his chair. Bought him coffee and let him pet their dog as if it were his own. After every team, I'd run over to his car and hug him and he'd tell me he was proud of me even when I played horribly. He never disappointed me and always made me feel proud of myself which few people have the ability to do.
Then just like that I snapped back into the game. My feet were still out of the box when the pitcher released the ball. I closed my eyes and my body just connected. I hit a shot deep into right field, right where Papa always sat watching me, admirably. Rounding the base and talking to my biggest fan, I muttered aloud, "That one was for you." That's the first game Papa missed. But if he could be here, I know he would be. He fought for 21 years to be alive and everyday was a struggle. The season is making me miss him more than ever. But now I've got another spirit on my shoulder when I'm playing a game I care about so much.
I know you'll never miss a game Papa.
I haven't cried in months, but today, on Easter Sunday it feels so liberating. Holidays will always be the hardest, but I know you're here Big Man.
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