When I was little I used to wrap myself in the blue comforter on my daybed and count the lines in the red LCD numbers of my alarm clock - the little lines that make up each number. One has two lines, while two has five and looks like a backwards five, and therefore five has the same. Three never felt quite right to me, there were five lines, but it didn't look like a five and wasn't divisible by five, nor were seven and eight on my list of happy numbers either. My favorite time was always 6:54 because they each contained the exact amount of lines as in the number and counted down as six: five-four.
This was during the days when I counted everything from the number of tiles in the bathroom to the number of holes in a pair of window blinds. I would superstitiously jump over cracks in sidewalks, not because stepping on one would break my mother's back, but because it disturbed the whole piece of sidewalk, cutting my perfectly square pieces of walkway into two, three, or more non-symmetrical forms. As a child this visual dissonance was greatly agravating and I would have to count and recount these pieces if the crack didn't go all the way through and I was unsure about how many to count it as. I was afraid if I didn't count them correctly God would know and would think I was dumb and punish me for it. My mom would try to get me to look up so I couldn't see these things, but I knew they were there. A child always knows they're there. Counting was deeply satisfying and consuming. There was comfort in the numbers that were always around.
The problem with the red LCD clock next to my bed was that every minute the numbers would change. five:four-five = 5:42 and two-five:five-three = 12:37. I would whisper them and close my eyes and try to see if they would stay closed for exactly a minute, but I would peep through a small corner, because I didn't want to actually miss the change from five to four.
This was all when I was little, when I needed the comfort that only comes from controlling the mysterious. I don't count like that anymore, the only thing I seem to count now are days and hours. I make countdowns and list times because I still like them.
As my department was being laid off I counted down the days on my calendar and had trouble deciding which little boxes to number, like do weekends count or not? As the days drew nearer it came down to hours but not seconds, because I've never been too keen on seconds, unless we are refering to a meal. I've always liked having a sense of consistency, but now as I await the approach of my flight out of the country I find myself unable to count. I can't count because of a perfectly natural thing, a volcano that has thwarted my "plans." A volcano has confused my sense of timing and made it clear that I cannot always plan on things, I just have to take it as it comes.
I am okay with this. I am not disappointed like some people are disappointed for me. I have waited almost thirty years to travel, a few more days won't be the end of me. Actually I have waited... 10,932 days to go on this trip. Well... that's the number of days I've been alive at least, though I'm not sure if tiny jaundiced Nicole actually knew she wanted to go on this trip someday, or did she?
My inclination is to count down the hours till my supposed flight tomorrow, but I'm going to let it go like I've learned to let a lot of other things go so that I don't feel disenchanted. When things don't turn out it's okay because things will turn out how they should in the end, I've learned this many times over.
I will wait and I will see with little hope of guarantees, but if it should be right for me, the thing will come, will come to me.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Thursday, April 15, 2010
A phone without a face - Contact Info
I haven't had a phone cord to wrap around my wrist while laughing at someone on the other end for ten years now. I haven't had to memorize phone numbers or remember last names since then either.
Often I miss the feeling of tangling in the cord and laying down with the large receiver covering one ear while my pillow the other. But I think the past is meant to be missed, like the nostalgic way in which I think about recording my favorite songs on the radio on tape after calling the radio station and requesting them. Tapes of Green Day and Envogue with radio wave fuzz from the early 90's are still collecting dust in my drawers because they mean more than the easy grab and go mp3 selection we have now. I would sometimes sit for hours by the radio waiting for the song to complete my mixed tape that I was going to give to some boy, but never did.
I've given up all that for a phone free of cords and possibly the ability to memorize numbers because that's what my generation has done. I don't particularly like phones. I don't like to make calls, I don't like to text and I hate that people feel compelled to get your number and call right away to make sure you haven't made something up (thank you fumbers for making a bad situation a little bit better). The only thing I seem to do on my phone is check my facebook. As of next Tuesday I will be unable to phone face for a while. Instead I have opted out of having my phone with unreasonable roaming charges roam with me and figured it might need some well deserved rest anyhow.
Instead, I have opted for an international prepaid phone of which the number and all contact info will be listed at the bottom of this post. The phone will be my little outlet, though I will be primarily reachable by internet: Facebook, e-mail, skype. I am not worried that I will need people, but what if I do? I'm fairly independent and make friends quickly, but I will miss everyone from here too. So what I request is that you out there leave me a voicemail just so I can hear the sound of your voice. Please say something damn funny. Okay, it doesn't have to be funny, it could be a song, or something else and I will smile when I hear it. I will light up and feel lucky like I always do to have wonderful friends and know that they are going to be there when I come back.
I am grateful for this trip and able to do it because of my mom. I am bringing her with me in my heart because I know she wanted to do this with me but is unable to now. Everyday I live life like I mean it, is for her. I try to do this everyday because she deserves it and I am going to live in Europe like I mean it! (well... that's if I get there. crossing fingers icelandic volcano stops erupting soon).
Phone:
To call me toll free call 1-866-305-6462 then enter either of the numbers below. I likely won't be picking up many calls, but if it's urgent text me. (texts are free for me to receive!)
Int. +447924449893
US. +19787679852
Skype: siddhananais
e-mail: siddhananais@gmail.com
Often I miss the feeling of tangling in the cord and laying down with the large receiver covering one ear while my pillow the other. But I think the past is meant to be missed, like the nostalgic way in which I think about recording my favorite songs on the radio on tape after calling the radio station and requesting them. Tapes of Green Day and Envogue with radio wave fuzz from the early 90's are still collecting dust in my drawers because they mean more than the easy grab and go mp3 selection we have now. I would sometimes sit for hours by the radio waiting for the song to complete my mixed tape that I was going to give to some boy, but never did.
I've given up all that for a phone free of cords and possibly the ability to memorize numbers because that's what my generation has done. I don't particularly like phones. I don't like to make calls, I don't like to text and I hate that people feel compelled to get your number and call right away to make sure you haven't made something up (thank you fumbers for making a bad situation a little bit better). The only thing I seem to do on my phone is check my facebook. As of next Tuesday I will be unable to phone face for a while. Instead I have opted out of having my phone with unreasonable roaming charges roam with me and figured it might need some well deserved rest anyhow.
Instead, I have opted for an international prepaid phone of which the number and all contact info will be listed at the bottom of this post. The phone will be my little outlet, though I will be primarily reachable by internet: Facebook, e-mail, skype. I am not worried that I will need people, but what if I do? I'm fairly independent and make friends quickly, but I will miss everyone from here too. So what I request is that you out there leave me a voicemail just so I can hear the sound of your voice. Please say something damn funny. Okay, it doesn't have to be funny, it could be a song, or something else and I will smile when I hear it. I will light up and feel lucky like I always do to have wonderful friends and know that they are going to be there when I come back.
I am grateful for this trip and able to do it because of my mom. I am bringing her with me in my heart because I know she wanted to do this with me but is unable to now. Everyday I live life like I mean it, is for her. I try to do this everyday because she deserves it and I am going to live in Europe like I mean it! (well... that's if I get there. crossing fingers icelandic volcano stops erupting soon).
Phone:
To call me toll free call 1-866-305-6462 then enter either of the numbers below. I likely won't be picking up many calls, but if it's urgent text me. (texts are free for me to receive!)
Int. +447924449893
US. +19787679852
Skype: siddhananais
e-mail: siddhananais@gmail.com
Monday, April 12, 2010
I take comfort in your hug
We didn't hug much when I was younger because the polite thing to do was smile. We hugged at special occassions like birthdays or last meetings as someone left for good and we stayed behind. We hugged on Christmas because Jesus would have wanted us to hug and we said thank you, thank you, thank you even if the gift would soon be stored in the attic next to dusty rugs, magazines, and other rightfully hidden things.
So when I met the girls, otherwise known as the ladies of NighTraiN, I was more than a little hesistant to meet them in their free hug love fests. Hugs were akin to being boiled alive - thanks pastor mark for that one - in that my skin literally felt like it was burning and I would need extra strength aloe vera to soothe the pain. The problem was that NighTraiN, formerly known as Hot Grits ladies wouldn't take no for an answer.
We met as strangers thrown into an unlikely play with foreign objects (also known as our instruments) and an unwritten script. We met as black women with different black identities in what was hoped to be a subversive voice in the Seattle punk rock scene/identity. An all black female punk rock band. what? We met under the pretense of blackness, of some underlying unity that I otherwise didn't understand and somewhere in this unification meant.... hugs.
At first it was a point of contention for me and I would attempt to bolt from practice before anyone could get their hugs all over my clean skin. However, my attempts were fruitless because Sel, our bass player, decided to install a routine in which I would get a hug every single practice when I walk in and when I leave. I could have fought this, but I knew that my aversion to hugs was likely some kind of a human connection problem that I should resolve and so... I let it happen.
It seemed like hugs were endless in those days. I would make the rounds from one lady to the next and sit peacefully in my seat awaiting the twinge of my skin to subside, but as soon as I began to feel comfort and coolness, arms would wrap around my neck and there would be a happy high black woman telling me that this was good for me. It was like I was in treatment and never getting out.
Slowly but surely months of treatment began showing signs of improvement in me. I began to sit closer to my friends, sometimes coming as close as brushing my arm against theirs in passing without panic. More months passed and I started curling my arms in the nook of my friends arms as we walked down avenues and into stores. After more than year it happened, I started wrapping my arms around others out of my own volition. It happened at a community group meeting, then at work, then at a show.
It's hard to believe that was two years ago. I realized tonight when I was at the James Lanman and The Good Hurt's show, saying hi's and goodbye's to bands and their friends, how much I enjoy the feeling of a well meaning hug. Of a hug that represents trust, or friendship, or love. I love the sound of deep breaths exhaled as each body pulls in and the force of the hug panics the air around it. You can feel the change in the air and mood as other people hug, as arms flail through the air and sometimes fumble for the right part of their counterparts body.
I feel skin differently than I used to as the warmth from someone else tingles instead of burns my own. It's hard to believe so much can change in two years. More of me has changed than just my ability to touch another body, but I am happy now that I can at least take comfort in what people offer in their hugs: acceptance.
So when I met the girls, otherwise known as the ladies of NighTraiN, I was more than a little hesistant to meet them in their free hug love fests. Hugs were akin to being boiled alive - thanks pastor mark for that one - in that my skin literally felt like it was burning and I would need extra strength aloe vera to soothe the pain. The problem was that NighTraiN, formerly known as Hot Grits ladies wouldn't take no for an answer.
We met as strangers thrown into an unlikely play with foreign objects (also known as our instruments) and an unwritten script. We met as black women with different black identities in what was hoped to be a subversive voice in the Seattle punk rock scene/identity. An all black female punk rock band. what? We met under the pretense of blackness, of some underlying unity that I otherwise didn't understand and somewhere in this unification meant.... hugs.
At first it was a point of contention for me and I would attempt to bolt from practice before anyone could get their hugs all over my clean skin. However, my attempts were fruitless because Sel, our bass player, decided to install a routine in which I would get a hug every single practice when I walk in and when I leave. I could have fought this, but I knew that my aversion to hugs was likely some kind of a human connection problem that I should resolve and so... I let it happen.
It seemed like hugs were endless in those days. I would make the rounds from one lady to the next and sit peacefully in my seat awaiting the twinge of my skin to subside, but as soon as I began to feel comfort and coolness, arms would wrap around my neck and there would be a happy high black woman telling me that this was good for me. It was like I was in treatment and never getting out.
Slowly but surely months of treatment began showing signs of improvement in me. I began to sit closer to my friends, sometimes coming as close as brushing my arm against theirs in passing without panic. More months passed and I started curling my arms in the nook of my friends arms as we walked down avenues and into stores. After more than year it happened, I started wrapping my arms around others out of my own volition. It happened at a community group meeting, then at work, then at a show.
It's hard to believe that was two years ago. I realized tonight when I was at the James Lanman and The Good Hurt's show, saying hi's and goodbye's to bands and their friends, how much I enjoy the feeling of a well meaning hug. Of a hug that represents trust, or friendship, or love. I love the sound of deep breaths exhaled as each body pulls in and the force of the hug panics the air around it. You can feel the change in the air and mood as other people hug, as arms flail through the air and sometimes fumble for the right part of their counterparts body.
I feel skin differently than I used to as the warmth from someone else tingles instead of burns my own. It's hard to believe so much can change in two years. More of me has changed than just my ability to touch another body, but I am happy now that I can at least take comfort in what people offer in their hugs: acceptance.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Not the last day, but almost
He finds an old, used gym sock pressed into the back of his locker from the beginning of the year and his friends say "eeew" or feign nausea from what should be a putrid, caustic smell after such a long time in a cramped space and somehow isn't. Not long after, there is a squeak from the girl across the hall that turns into a grunt from one of the guys and then body after body begins to shake in laughter, not because it's quite that funny that there's a musty old sock now laying on the floor mid hall, but because they're all part of this experience and because they are losing something - each other. Laughter seems to creep in when there's no more to say about how sad it is to leave and to see you go and congratulations on the next thing. They are seniors in their last week of school at P.S. 555 cleaning out the remnants of left behinds that had insidiously crept in and made it more and more difficult to shove their books inside.
A girl finds a love note she wrote to a boy and never handed over and wonders whether she should just do it now because there's nothing to lose. She doesn't though, because what if she sees him this summer around town and it's awkward. She wants to enjoy any last glimpses she has of him before college without the intrusion of truth.
Oh but wait... none of this is happening now, to me at least, even though it feels like it. We were packing up boxes and putting things away today in my department as we are the first to go during the layoffs. There were no locker doors, but I could hear them. There were no dirty socks, but I could smell them. Well... perhaps those were my actual gym socks that are sitting underneath my desk. Anyhow, it almost felt bittersweet as I gathered up all of the trinkets I have received from my coworkers throughout the last three years. I moved all of the little toys and pictures to a single space on my desk and stared at them wondering what box I am going to store them in for years to come. When I will open it up to look and how I will feel.
It's common for me to wonder how I will feel in the future now. I never used to care but now I catch myself preparing for the sadness that comes from fond memories. It's safe to say that sometimes I don't enjoy fond memories because I begin to project the sadness that will come. It is likely I will keep the box sealed until I have forgotten the names of everyone I worked with, which means forever.
I haven't cried yet, but I know I will. The laughter has already begun because of the discomfort that comes with removing security. Like seniors, we are moving on and leaving each other unsure where we will be going next. I may not miss the job, but I will miss the people. I will miss the raucous laughter from the lunch room disrupting my concentration. I will miss the hugs, the conversation, and the bathroom peeping - haha.
I am ready to move on even though I will be sad when it's gone, but before I leave I look forward to uncovering anymore dirty socks.
A girl finds a love note she wrote to a boy and never handed over and wonders whether she should just do it now because there's nothing to lose. She doesn't though, because what if she sees him this summer around town and it's awkward. She wants to enjoy any last glimpses she has of him before college without the intrusion of truth.
Oh but wait... none of this is happening now, to me at least, even though it feels like it. We were packing up boxes and putting things away today in my department as we are the first to go during the layoffs. There were no locker doors, but I could hear them. There were no dirty socks, but I could smell them. Well... perhaps those were my actual gym socks that are sitting underneath my desk. Anyhow, it almost felt bittersweet as I gathered up all of the trinkets I have received from my coworkers throughout the last three years. I moved all of the little toys and pictures to a single space on my desk and stared at them wondering what box I am going to store them in for years to come. When I will open it up to look and how I will feel.
It's common for me to wonder how I will feel in the future now. I never used to care but now I catch myself preparing for the sadness that comes from fond memories. It's safe to say that sometimes I don't enjoy fond memories because I begin to project the sadness that will come. It is likely I will keep the box sealed until I have forgotten the names of everyone I worked with, which means forever.
I haven't cried yet, but I know I will. The laughter has already begun because of the discomfort that comes with removing security. Like seniors, we are moving on and leaving each other unsure where we will be going next. I may not miss the job, but I will miss the people. I will miss the raucous laughter from the lunch room disrupting my concentration. I will miss the hugs, the conversation, and the bathroom peeping - haha.
I am ready to move on even though I will be sad when it's gone, but before I leave I look forward to uncovering anymore dirty socks.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Peoples plans a trip
Well... since I'm not using this blog for anything else these days, I am going to use it for my travel log. In a mere twelve days from now I will begin my journey overseas for the first time in my almost thirty year long life. First stop- London! Then I will be whisked away to Paris and then Italy. I am not sure what to expect at this point. People have said it will change my life, but will it? Will it change my life anymore than the time I went to Alabama and endured racism from both sides of the color line? Will it change me more than living in a latino neighborhood across the street from the Norteno's leader in my city. What exactly will it change about me and my character?
I have all of these questions about what will transpire and how my heart will come out afterward. Am I really prepared to do most of this alone? Some people have expressed their worry for me, that a girl shouldn't go alone. Ha, I am not a girl anymore. Even if my mind sometimes wishes to be that 8 year old girl being tucked into bed by her mother and made bacon and home fries for breakfast the next day. I am acknowledged everyday in the mirror by this woman that sometimes I don't even recognize. I recognize that she wants to go and go alone.
I remember my first "big" trip to DC when I was 17 and looking at colleges. It was initially supposed to be one that I got for finally losing enough weight to get me under 200lbs. Unfortunately, I was never able to make that weight but Riri and Raleigh took pity on me and decided that college was important enough to give up on their hopes of getting me healthy first. I savored that trip because of The Mall and all of the Smithsonians we were able to go to. I relished Washington Cathedral's nooks and art. I sat in the pews without knowing God and felt him there. I then made it my life's goal to Cathedral hop one day, to feel the burn in my skin as I took communion when I shouldn't have and cry again as I did staring at a painting of La Pieta.
I like to think of this trip as the present to myself that they were trying to give me back then. I turn thirty this May and for the first time in my adult life I am under 200lbs. I am the healthiest, happiest, and frankly the most beautiful I've ever been and am ready to be a part of the world. Yeah... maybe it took me this long to not be frightened anymore; to be confident enough to just leave.
I hope that my questions are answered by the end of this trip. I hope to find this elusive "change" that people talk about. I envision european romance that I'm sure to find in sideways glances and fleeting conversations, but nothing more. I remember all of the authors and their stories, Stein and Woolf and Nin. I want a story. I need a story.
Twelve more days and I'll be off to find one.
I have all of these questions about what will transpire and how my heart will come out afterward. Am I really prepared to do most of this alone? Some people have expressed their worry for me, that a girl shouldn't go alone. Ha, I am not a girl anymore. Even if my mind sometimes wishes to be that 8 year old girl being tucked into bed by her mother and made bacon and home fries for breakfast the next day. I am acknowledged everyday in the mirror by this woman that sometimes I don't even recognize. I recognize that she wants to go and go alone.
I remember my first "big" trip to DC when I was 17 and looking at colleges. It was initially supposed to be one that I got for finally losing enough weight to get me under 200lbs. Unfortunately, I was never able to make that weight but Riri and Raleigh took pity on me and decided that college was important enough to give up on their hopes of getting me healthy first. I savored that trip because of The Mall and all of the Smithsonians we were able to go to. I relished Washington Cathedral's nooks and art. I sat in the pews without knowing God and felt him there. I then made it my life's goal to Cathedral hop one day, to feel the burn in my skin as I took communion when I shouldn't have and cry again as I did staring at a painting of La Pieta.
I like to think of this trip as the present to myself that they were trying to give me back then. I turn thirty this May and for the first time in my adult life I am under 200lbs. I am the healthiest, happiest, and frankly the most beautiful I've ever been and am ready to be a part of the world. Yeah... maybe it took me this long to not be frightened anymore; to be confident enough to just leave.
I hope that my questions are answered by the end of this trip. I hope to find this elusive "change" that people talk about. I envision european romance that I'm sure to find in sideways glances and fleeting conversations, but nothing more. I remember all of the authors and their stories, Stein and Woolf and Nin. I want a story. I need a story.
Twelve more days and I'll be off to find one.
Monday, November 23, 2009
holiday weeps
It's been forever since I've written a blog and it comes down to one thing... thinking that it's not worthwhile to blog. The thing though that is bringing me back is that I go through my journals every once in a while a realize how grateful I am to have memories stored on the paper that I just can't seem to store in my head. The fact is I am sure that my memory is faulty and nothing really seems to store so I rely on other information to give it back its missing pieces. It seems like everything inside there has missing pieces, but the fact is that I want a complete bowl instead of something with cracks in it for my soup to leak through. Well in knowing that maybe something is just wrong with my memory I have decided that yeah, I don't care how ridiculous it seems to do these blogs because I'm going to need them in the coming years or even months, perhaps even tomorrow.
It is three days before Thanksgiving, which for me is a marker now and I'm sure always will be. The holidays have in the past never left an indelible imprint on me, but this time for the first year I will be left with loss. I heard a story today on NPR about traffic accidents, that 400 people last year lost their lives on Thanksgiving. I felt momentarily grieved for these people, for the broken notion that even though they may feel compelled by bloodlines to sit through awkward conversation there is a certain contentment in knowing they'll be there. okay, I can't assume all of these people had families that wanted them there, but if they did, those people were perhaps worried and scared by the missing presence of their loved one until they were then devastated. The simple fact is that now when I see something or hear something about loss it affects me in a totally different way than it used to.
Last Thanksgiving was the last time I saw my mom. She didn't actually die during Thanksgiving, but she physically died for me because I remember the last long, hard hug she gave me, the moment I last saw her smile while she wrapped her black and white scarf around her neck and said, "honey, don't stay away too long" and " I will miss you."
At the time as in most times I didn't know it would be the last but I remember thinking that it was important to remember that moment, every last detail of her departure because somehow I felt like it would be the last.
As the holiday approaches I find myself seizing up emotionally one minute and then breaking down the next. Crying during movies like The Bucket List not because I know Morgan Freeman's character is going to die but because I know the loss that his wife is going to feel once he is gone. A lot of other people have felt loss before, but up until her passing last March I was lucky to say that I hadn't felt that kind of loss, something I had actually related to a friend the day before I found out she had gone, not knowing when I said it that she had already passed.
It is hard as this holiday comes as I'm sure it will be hard the next, and the next, then the next come. As I fill in days without her, days that she should be here to tell me I'm doing something wrong or just to simply say, "I love you."
I heard her voice last night in a dream and even though it was hard when I awoke and realized she still wasn't there I was grateful for the dream. I called her on the phone to find out where she was because I was so afraid she had died already, and she said, "thanks for calling, I love you." That's all she said, there was nothing more, but in my sleep I was the happiest I had been since a point I can't actually remember - verifying my need for blogs/journaling/podcasting or something of that nature.
This Thanksgiving when I give thanks like I should but never do, I am going to give thanks for every moment I had with her. Though I may not be making her a feast this year, she will still be sitting at my table.
It is three days before Thanksgiving, which for me is a marker now and I'm sure always will be. The holidays have in the past never left an indelible imprint on me, but this time for the first year I will be left with loss. I heard a story today on NPR about traffic accidents, that 400 people last year lost their lives on Thanksgiving. I felt momentarily grieved for these people, for the broken notion that even though they may feel compelled by bloodlines to sit through awkward conversation there is a certain contentment in knowing they'll be there. okay, I can't assume all of these people had families that wanted them there, but if they did, those people were perhaps worried and scared by the missing presence of their loved one until they were then devastated. The simple fact is that now when I see something or hear something about loss it affects me in a totally different way than it used to.
Last Thanksgiving was the last time I saw my mom. She didn't actually die during Thanksgiving, but she physically died for me because I remember the last long, hard hug she gave me, the moment I last saw her smile while she wrapped her black and white scarf around her neck and said, "honey, don't stay away too long" and " I will miss you."
At the time as in most times I didn't know it would be the last but I remember thinking that it was important to remember that moment, every last detail of her departure because somehow I felt like it would be the last.
As the holiday approaches I find myself seizing up emotionally one minute and then breaking down the next. Crying during movies like The Bucket List not because I know Morgan Freeman's character is going to die but because I know the loss that his wife is going to feel once he is gone. A lot of other people have felt loss before, but up until her passing last March I was lucky to say that I hadn't felt that kind of loss, something I had actually related to a friend the day before I found out she had gone, not knowing when I said it that she had already passed.
It is hard as this holiday comes as I'm sure it will be hard the next, and the next, then the next come. As I fill in days without her, days that she should be here to tell me I'm doing something wrong or just to simply say, "I love you."
I heard her voice last night in a dream and even though it was hard when I awoke and realized she still wasn't there I was grateful for the dream. I called her on the phone to find out where she was because I was so afraid she had died already, and she said, "thanks for calling, I love you." That's all she said, there was nothing more, but in my sleep I was the happiest I had been since a point I can't actually remember - verifying my need for blogs/journaling/podcasting or something of that nature.
This Thanksgiving when I give thanks like I should but never do, I am going to give thanks for every moment I had with her. Though I may not be making her a feast this year, she will still be sitting at my table.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Wasn't that bag already unpacked?
My mom bought me a kid sized pink suitcase when I was younger. No… not one that a kid can fit into, but one that was just the right size for my Barbie Dolls, my baby blanket, and my miniature pink rotary phone that I talked to my imaginary friend on every night.
I was going on a trip, a long and far away trip from San Jose to St. Louis and I wanted my own suitcase. The thing is that I don’t remember this, because I was four and I don’t remember anything before the age of five. The thing is that I know now that I wasn’t just packing dolls and blankets, but this is when I began to pack fears and anger into my little suitcase, one that has grown over the years into one of those cases that the airline charges an extra $50.00 for because of its weight.
My mom put me on a plane and left me for a year in the care of my family: an uncle I believe is the consensus among family members. In my little pink suitcase I began stuffing my fights with my imaginary friend, the way Kermit treated Ms. Piggy, and the anger I had at my mom for letting me go for so long, but I remind you that my memory is faulty and I don’t remember any of this, just stories of stories, thrice told and fairly old.
I thought this bag would have been organized, repacked, moved, unpacked, and stored a long time ago. Therapy started at six when my hands became raw and looked bloody, which is when I began to tell my mom that I felt dirty and had to get it off by washing my hands fifty times a day or more. I only remember blocks and kids play things at these sessions, but I’m not sure if this is because I remember them or because this is what all doctors offices have for kids. I don’t remember how it stopped, what the doctor said to make it stop or if he told my mom what to do, but I know that one day it did and I began pulling my hair.
I never wanted answers for these things until recently. I never wanted my memories back from before I was five. I never wanted… anything until I was made aware that the things I did back then and still do aren’t necessarily normal or okay. I’m not saying that anyone’s normal because I don’t necessarily even believe in that term, but… I think I want answers now.
I sometimes want to find the kids that called me ugly and fat and show them that the person then isn’t the person now, but what I’ve realized since going to my new and amazing counselor is that that person… is still there. The little girl that was ugly and cried every night and didn’t think she was good enough for anyone is the same older girl that thinks the same way. The little girl that suffered from an overeating disorder because she was sure that food was the only thing that could like her is now the older girl that is in a constant battle with food and still dreams of being like all the other girls, some kind of beautiful.
My counselor, though she is amazing, gave me a look of confusion and a sentence of disbelief when I admitted that I think I’m ugly and have always thought this. I thought she might laugh for a moment because she thought it ridiculous that I could have this conception of myself. I laughed it off, because that’s what I always do, but she said we had to figure this out and that we were going to have to go waaaaaaay back the next couple of weeks to figure out where this is all coming from. Essentially she said that I am going to have to unpack the load that I’ve been carrying this whole life, while I’ve been denying for a long time that it’s there. Perhaps I’m ready to let go of the little girl now so that I can be a woman, but I don’t think I’m going to ever give up my blanket.
I was going on a trip, a long and far away trip from San Jose to St. Louis and I wanted my own suitcase. The thing is that I don’t remember this, because I was four and I don’t remember anything before the age of five. The thing is that I know now that I wasn’t just packing dolls and blankets, but this is when I began to pack fears and anger into my little suitcase, one that has grown over the years into one of those cases that the airline charges an extra $50.00 for because of its weight.
My mom put me on a plane and left me for a year in the care of my family: an uncle I believe is the consensus among family members. In my little pink suitcase I began stuffing my fights with my imaginary friend, the way Kermit treated Ms. Piggy, and the anger I had at my mom for letting me go for so long, but I remind you that my memory is faulty and I don’t remember any of this, just stories of stories, thrice told and fairly old.
I thought this bag would have been organized, repacked, moved, unpacked, and stored a long time ago. Therapy started at six when my hands became raw and looked bloody, which is when I began to tell my mom that I felt dirty and had to get it off by washing my hands fifty times a day or more. I only remember blocks and kids play things at these sessions, but I’m not sure if this is because I remember them or because this is what all doctors offices have for kids. I don’t remember how it stopped, what the doctor said to make it stop or if he told my mom what to do, but I know that one day it did and I began pulling my hair.
I never wanted answers for these things until recently. I never wanted my memories back from before I was five. I never wanted… anything until I was made aware that the things I did back then and still do aren’t necessarily normal or okay. I’m not saying that anyone’s normal because I don’t necessarily even believe in that term, but… I think I want answers now.
I sometimes want to find the kids that called me ugly and fat and show them that the person then isn’t the person now, but what I’ve realized since going to my new and amazing counselor is that that person… is still there. The little girl that was ugly and cried every night and didn’t think she was good enough for anyone is the same older girl that thinks the same way. The little girl that suffered from an overeating disorder because she was sure that food was the only thing that could like her is now the older girl that is in a constant battle with food and still dreams of being like all the other girls, some kind of beautiful.
My counselor, though she is amazing, gave me a look of confusion and a sentence of disbelief when I admitted that I think I’m ugly and have always thought this. I thought she might laugh for a moment because she thought it ridiculous that I could have this conception of myself. I laughed it off, because that’s what I always do, but she said we had to figure this out and that we were going to have to go waaaaaaay back the next couple of weeks to figure out where this is all coming from. Essentially she said that I am going to have to unpack the load that I’ve been carrying this whole life, while I’ve been denying for a long time that it’s there. Perhaps I’m ready to let go of the little girl now so that I can be a woman, but I don’t think I’m going to ever give up my blanket.
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