Punctuality

I feel as though my soul has taken off its shoes and I sit on the side of the river feeling the waves between my toes. Its a cold feeling. I kind of want to jump in and forget everything.

Lets just say, this week was rough.

Rough doesn’t cut it; this week was brutal.

Brutal as in I feel as if I have bruises from the difficulty of this week.

One of my many “very easily butthurt” incidents always deals with time. Punctuality and reliability. Those are things I was always raised on.

I was told that I was unreliable today. That I often said things and never showed up.

I was told that my bosses would hear about this.

Few agree with this particular individual. But one thing is for certain: he hit home. If he wanted to hurt me he finally found the way.

I don’t know, at the moment I’m trying to remember all of the favors and volunteering that I showed up for. And those I didn’t show up for – with reasons. And I’m trying to pinpoint more than once where I deviated from my word.

Perhaps I’m biased, perhaps I am wrong in my ideas where I always was punctual, was always reliable.

That and mix in a guy. Another one. This one who made me smile, made me laugh and made me hate him in one swell move.

“Nothings worse than a boy you hate than a boy you love.” Markus Zusak.

I feel the fictional water flowing through my toes, my body turns back to reality where I’m sitting, cross-legged on my mattress, fuming about something that really shouldn’t matter to me.

Who cares what the man who thinks I’m unreliable thinks. Who cares that everybody else has a deviating opinion from him.
Who cares that the man who told me he loved me multiple times but told himself he was no good for me kissed another girl and sent me a text message.

I stress myself out by caring too much what others think of me. And that will be my downfall.

A lesson

I find myself sitting between two college students and watching them draw work that i will not see myself doing until years later. The idea haunts me. I eat the following:

image

As i continue to attempt to draw something way beneath their level:

image

(sorry about the shadow, its my arm).

the teacher comes out and plops a book next to me:

“youll soon be done with this book this is your next.”

“I think i can manage.”

“Thats the spirit! Youre at the point now where nothing will be easy anymore and everything will be progressively harder. Few will make it and those that dont will interpret this as failure. If youre willing to learn this everything is on you now.”

i look to the left at the beautiful hydrangeas (my favorite flower) the student is drawing and to the right at the mushrooms the other student is. I look on the walls and remember the motto she spoke when i first started my lessons:

“turn your home into your own art gallery.”

i remember when i was younger and drawing was all i had for a friend and for company. I remember how unartistic i was and wanted to learn how to paint so badly that i saved up money for an easel and paints when i was eight. I remember scrounging up the money to pay for these classes.

I answered with a line drawn on the paper. And the teacher dismissed me, planning her next lesson as one that may break me apart.

Walking with mama

After a tumultuous year, I (and my mother) get to spend few solitary and peaceful moments together. It’s not that we don’t want to but our personalities clash so heavily and we aren’t very good talkers, always keeping quiet unless our honest truths come out.

Which in our conversations, happens a lot.

Yesterday, she and I walked alone for a while, got along and suddenly I realize, this is the mother I love and adore, who loves and adores me. I’ve missed so many moments of my life being torn up by her and she by me.

Throughout the human life, especially in adolescence, it’s healthy to rebel, and rebel I did. I also knew it would hurt her but at the same time, in order to preserve my sanity I did.

“Mem, how many days left?”
“86.”
“I’m going to hold onto each of those 86 days and miss you terribly when you’re gone.”
“Regardless of all the fighting?”
“You’re still my baby girl. And you bright this light into this household.”

I didn’t cry then. But I cry recalling these words to anonymously show the world how much I love my mother, and my mother loves me.

Mom, in 86 days I won’t be a child anymore. I’ll be growing up. I’ll always be your youngest and you’ll always be the mother who lay in bed for three months straight after four miscarriages trying to keep me alive in those pivotal few months and watched over helplessly as doctors kept me in an ICU for a week because they thought I was defective because I was born to older parents. You watched me grow in three different continents, always struggling to make the right friends and choices, in the end you are the reason why I made it so far without too many problems.

Closing this horribly sentimental blog post, last night I realized. No matter how hard I try, or seek. I’ll never understand a mothers love and strength until I am a mother myself.

Old friends

I am looking through some friends Facebook pages. Some of them it’s been over eight years and I’m staring at the screen.

I want to say something

But ten years is forever, they’re on my friends list but we’ve never talked, I’ve always wanted to know, I’ve always wanted to be there with them

forever.

My heart breaks when I get to two friends who I was inseparable from in sixth grade. Two boys, back then I was like Arya Stark, I was a young girl, a better fighter than most boys and often questioned as one. We even had a cat episode together. I was one of the boys, and when girls would ask me out they’d protect me.

I was the first to move the next one followed a few months later.

we never got back together

There was a Skype call here and there and we tried, well, I tried. I moved to a new country and was supremely unhappy, whereas the one who stayed wanted to try, as well. The one who moved as well wanted to move on. He wanted to grow up without us. We kept somewhat a tab on each other for years. I was very close to the one who stayed growing up. He listened to me, he tried to help and when I got suspended from the school he listened and didn’t judge. He saw it as my way out of hell.

We continued correspondence and high school came along. I had never heard from the boy who moved ever again except on his birthday when Facebook would tell me where I’d grin and write him something nice and he responded to everybody but me. The other one drifted too and suddenly I became popular at my new school, in my new home home and I forgot them as well.

Soon people remembered me as the girl who hung with the boys, the straight edge who cursed like a sailor but made cookies for everyone hoping they’d feel better. The kind girl with the sharp tongue who came from everywhere and nowhere. They found me and added me on Facebook, scarcely trying to keep a friendship but discussing their private lives publicly online and realize how much they – and I – have changed.

There is no common ground anymore. The years have killed so many of my friendships and made me into a harder person, but a more realistic person. My fingers hover over the keyboard, my brain tries to think of something to write because “happy birthday” will not suffice.

I’ve tried all my life.

I close the window

And tell myself they have the means to reach me, I’m tired of trying only to be pushed away and I won’t treat them like they’ve treated me over the years.

Anne Frank

I went to a restaurant with my parents and a friend today and pulled out a book. I noticed I got a lot of strange stares and when we got up to leave the manager stopped me and handed me “The Diary Anne Frank”, the 60th anniversary edition, unabridged, in full context AND the version that she intended to publish after the war. (Apparently there were two diaries, the long version, and the edited version).

After doing a bit of sleuthing, apparently today is the anniversary of when she found out she was going to Bergen-Belsen, where she would spend the last few months of her life. It is a gift from God and already I feel kind of attached to it; I’ve never been much of a diary person. In fact, to post on tis blog I have a timer that reminds me everyday to post.

I’ll keep reading, maybe there is something that I need to understand.

Skipping stones

My father and I, mother watching warily from a height above us, sat by the riverfront. I watch as the river swells, laughter rises, and beauty both diminishes and is soon replaced by the nighttime sky.

I wait until the sun sets the world on fire. I let this moment drag.

“Dad, I’ve never learned how to skip stones.”

“What kind of childhood have you had?”

A nomadic one, a cultural one, a confusing one thoughts flow into my head.

“The one you gave me.”

He bends down with his aching knees and has a fist full of rocks in his hands. He puts one into my hand and shows me how to throw it as if I’m still a child.

Moments like this make my mothers heart swell and my father regrets momentarily how much of a normal life I’ve never had. Then he laughs about it and realizes he could never change it. I’m eighteen now, I look and act nothing like a normal eighteen year old and that’s what makes me their child.

I continue to skip rocks until the fires dim out and the world is cold and cool again. I listen to the sounds of splashing in the canoes we rode earlier, the chanting of the temple we visited and although so much joy and beauty existed, I found my most favorite part of the journey was skipping stones along the river bank with my father watching the first ripple, create a second ripple, then a third, to sink into the bottom of the bank.

What was, what is, and what will be.