New plan for rehearsals: since trying to be confidant and funny isn't working (like at all), I'm just going to sit with James, give him a pat now and again, and read my lines. I'm going to work hard to make this role the best I can make it, because Beatrice deserves it, and so does this show. If my social graces are lacking--and they always are, unless someone goes on slow motion to smile at me and tolerate awhile--then I will redouble my efforts. Even though it hurts to notice how quiet applause might be for me or how horribly I butcher situations I mean to be happy, even though it hurts, I will not.... fight it. I will.. accept. I will smile.
For seven years, I've believed that I'm alone. Not because there weren't people, but because I thought there weren't humans. I thought Empathy had died a long time ago, that Chivalry had died with it, and that Chaos was sipping out of fine martini glasses on a throne made from their corpses.
For a longer time than seven, I really believed I could overturn that rule, but the more plays I'm involved in, the more I feel useless... too big or too small.... trying too hard or not enough.... but I love those people. I love those people so much; I love just being spoken to. I love hearing the sound of my voice with someone else's, rather than me just humming nervously in the halls because I'm worried I'm going mute, I haven't checked for hours. Even when I'm daydreaming, I always start those daydreams alone.
I'm done trying to fight it. High school and middle school were made to flatten us against a wall, to show us nobody can win. And they're right: we can't win the war against high school injustices, but we most certainly can win the war against adults. Because until now, what I've negated to realize about myself is that I have been winning.
I HAVE been winning. I became exactly who I've always wanted to be: gentle, and decent, and good, and occasionally decadent or clever, and mostly graceful.... I know where Magic is. Magic is in believing, and that belief can save lives, and I know it. I know it in my heart. I know the hearts of everyone, too. I'll give them anything they want from me, and let that be my weakness large.
Let my faults come from loving too much, rather than loving not enough. Let it come from listening too much instead of not at all. Let trying too hard and fucking it up be worth more to me than not trying at all... let me give up a passive resistance to the fear of my somehow civil disobedience.
The next time somebody snickers at me for walking as though I don't wear shoes with my head in the clouds and they shoot me a bullet, let me take it to the chest. What bullet of insolence can scar a worthy heart? I will walk away and, rather than imagining myself to be what they wanted: Beautiful (but arrogant for that beauty), snarky (and lacking civility by that acceptance), and cruel (and using the love to end itself)--let me be instead who I am now. Let me walk away thinking, "I am a lady. I hold my heart like gold, but yours like oil; with prices always on the rise." The next time somebody trips me, let me turn to them and say, "I love you, and no matter how cruel you are to me, I'd do anything to help you."
Let them laugh. Let them stare. I'll pick up my hum and keep walking....
Of course, this revelation is temporary. But I'm going to try to make it less so this time; I really am. I want to be all right with myself. I want to take confidence in the fact that I'm different from them all, that I really am the hero I've always wanted to be....
But I know it'll still hurt when the laugh, and they do.
They always laugh.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Special: a poem for Brad
Friends pick up and drop me,
and drop me
and drop me,
Friends like to forget that I'm telling the truth.
I point out that lonely
is horrible, that we all try to end it
and they gape at me,
I'm "awkward" for speaking my heart.
It hurts and I'm crying and nobody listens.
Nobody knows my heart hurts
when two of the three stare at each other
don't answer me
tolerate me.
Everything hurts. I'm crying in bed.
I want my friends. Where are they? Finley had to go... school tomorrow...
I tried not to text him. Then, I also tried not to cry.
Tonight, at rehearsal
my cast mates laughed at me
my director wouldn't look me in the eye or smile
I feel like they hate me
but really, it's not even that
they don't even notice me enough to do even that.
I'd do anything for you. I'd sacrifice so much for anyone, anytime, anywhere. Even if I don't know you.
Why do you hurt me like this? Who else do you stare at like that when they speak? Do you stop talking when other people talk?
No. No you don't. It's just me.
I'm special.
My heart hurts... for me. For Kate and Katie. For Brad. For Ms. Schutlz. For April. For the woman at the Culver's counter with boyfriend issues (that diamond heart is flawed, is flawed).
And also, tonight... for me.
I'm special.
and drop me
and drop me,
Friends like to forget that I'm telling the truth.
I point out that lonely
is horrible, that we all try to end it
and they gape at me,
I'm "awkward" for speaking my heart.
It hurts and I'm crying and nobody listens.
Nobody knows my heart hurts
when two of the three stare at each other
don't answer me
tolerate me.
Everything hurts. I'm crying in bed.
I want my friends. Where are they? Finley had to go... school tomorrow...
I tried not to text him. Then, I also tried not to cry.
Tonight, at rehearsal
my cast mates laughed at me
my director wouldn't look me in the eye or smile
I feel like they hate me
but really, it's not even that
they don't even notice me enough to do even that.
I'd do anything for you. I'd sacrifice so much for anyone, anytime, anywhere. Even if I don't know you.
Why do you hurt me like this? Who else do you stare at like that when they speak? Do you stop talking when other people talk?
No. No you don't. It's just me.
I'm special.
My heart hurts... for me. For Kate and Katie. For Brad. For Ms. Schutlz. For April. For the woman at the Culver's counter with boyfriend issues (that diamond heart is flawed, is flawed).
And also, tonight... for me.
I'm special.
Special: helping Molly
Molly needs me.
I'll help, but in the end, what she needs help with is her perspective with herself. I will not be her Elizabeth. She needs that on her own.
I'll help, but in the end, what she needs help with is her perspective with herself. I will not be her Elizabeth. She needs that on her own.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Special: my diabetes, Dan, a concert (if you read anything, read this)
It's funny how much we take for granted, really.
Like my diabetes.
Two nights ago, my pump unhooked in the night. What that means is, the needle that drove it into my skin was useless because the plastic part couldn't hold on. I was sick. I was hot. I was throwing up nearly all night, throwing up past having anything left in my stomach. It didn't matter, didn't do any good. I still couldn't sleep, so I just laid down on my bathroom floor--cool, freshening, and sickening that I was there, that it was really me and there was nothing else I could do but wait for insulin to kick in--and tried to listen to all the advice I've gotten when I try and talk to people about this. Words from very wise, wise people run through my head:
"Come on. It could be brain cancer. Imagine if you were *really* dying. You could have been born dead. Could never have lived. Well, you have to take insulin, but what if you needed an iv, instead? What if you could never see the sky?"
It doesn't help. I still throw up, and I cry like nobody's business because it should help. Good advice should make the pain go away, but it doesn't.
It doesn't stop until four a.m. I go to bed. I'm too hot too sleep, I toss and turn--alarm sets off at six. Time to "get up"...
I'm too sick to go to school and miss the cast list. I sputter my words because my brain won't function; it's still sick. My hands shake, my eyes won't stay open because my body is tired as much as my mind is. Everything hurts. Learn the Law of Sin, Payton! Learn how a star functions!
I'm sick for the third time by the hour mom rescues me from myself.
Mrs. Brock says, "Bad day, huh?" I think about my night. Could be brain cancer, I remind myself. "There've been worse," I say.
I sleep for six hours.
Next day. Get my script and folder. Manage to upset Schultz. Katie's hurt and Kate is hurt and I can't help either and I want to cry for them. My heart hurts.
So I hang out with Finley, wait for the Pops concert. My friends, they are in band, so why not see it? My sister, too. I'm excited for the music. I'm excited for that special fifth grade portion where I lean to the person next to me and go, "God! My ears ARE BLEEDING!"
The fun's in hoping the person next to you isn't a fifth grade parent, I suppose. Is that wicked?
While waiting, Finley takes me to Kentucky fried Chicken/ Taco Bell. He's standing in line to order and my pump... stops working. The buttons made to order start clicking down and down and down and up and up and up, and within seconds, my life stops. I have no choice. I have no order. No dinner for you, Payton. Time to go home. IMMEDIATELY.
I call mini-med. Okay, they'll send me a new pump. Great. Meanwhile... shots.
It is astounding that a small, small thing--made to save my life--gives me so much pause.
http://www.health.com/health/static/hw/media/medical/hw/h9991451_001.jpg
Here's a diagram. Simple, isn't it? Plunger, cap, needle, barrel. Four parts. Save your life. In fact, when I was a little girl, they gave me a teddy bear. Charlie, (Or Charleena, depending on whether or not your particular bear had a skirt) had bright colored patches all over him. Elbow, buttock, legs, arms, stomach....
The bear was always, always happy when he had remembered to give himself an ''insulin injection''. The bear didn't cry. The bear didn't struggle. The bear didn't hide. His facial expression didn't even change.
I did all of those things.
What else would a little girl do? Mom answers people who ask with saying, "The next time you look at your little girl, imagine her saying, 'Mommy, please don't hurt me. Mommy, please don't hurt me anymore.' "
But hey... I could have cancer.
Now, my pump's dead. I have to use the shot. I don't know the carbohydrate ratio. Finley googles it since no one in the house has really looked at it since I was eight. Of course, he's right. He draws it up... and I have to give it to myself. Intermission of the concert involves me waiting for Finley to draw my insulin--his expression so hopeful that he has it right, but he's scared, the way he looks at me, like his heart hurts..... mm. Guess he knows a little of what I feel after all--and then I go into the bathroom. I calmly untie my sweater, let it fall on the dirty floor. I uncap the syringe....
Cap. Needle. Barrel. Plunger.
It only stings a moment, but I remember.... And then it does sting. It stabs me in the heart like it's terrible, and god, I want to scream, I want to throw that fucking piece of plastic into a fire and leave it there.
I stick it in my skin. I push the life inside. I cap it. There's a little girl eating a cookie in the bathroom--probably snuck it from the table--and I say, "How's the cookie?" And she smiles and says, "Good!"
She has no idea how good it sounds. None. But I can't have it unless I do that again... Cap. Needle. Barrel. Plunger.
I walk out to Finley. I hand him the syringe. He keeps saying, "How did it go?" And when I start to cry--because I can't not cry, I honestly couldn't if I wanted to--he says, "Did it hurt?"
Yes, it did hurt. It stung and now I think it might be killing any lack of demoralization I've ever had, ever. My mother had to do hundreds of these to tiny CHILDREN...
Children I now can't have.
This hurts me. Not just the Children thing...the everything. It's tearing me apart in a way I can't describe, and I don't know how to let go of it. I hate it. I hate everything. I just want to bury myself in a hole and not come out for a long, long time.
After I embarrass myself sobbing onto Finley's new shirt, he pokes me with his chin gently.
"You have a visitor."
Sarah Knox. Opens her arms, gives me a hug. "Hey, hun. Everything all right?"
"My pump died," I say, wiping my eyes and smiling--Sarah likes smiles--"so I have to use these for awhile." I lift up the syringe. Dead, now. Discarded as easily as my ability to snark down a cookie whenever I wanted one... Useless.
"Ah, well," she says, "You're fine."
And I remind myself: It could be worse. It could be Alzheimer's... Amnesia... Cancer.... D.I.D...
We take our seats at the concert. Eighth grade band plays Phantom of the Opera... my heart wraps around "All I ask of you." I mouth the words:
"You'll hold me and you'll hide me...."
Finley takes my hand, after telling me why I don't deserve this, how strong and brave I was for this one stupid little shot--after all, I remind myself, I've had thousands--and I realize Sarah was right:
I am "fine."
I still feel awful. I feel hurt and poisoned and wrong...
After the concert, I see Kate with Dan. I know he's Dan from his eyes. Little children parade around in white shirts, but all I see are that white reflected across his eyes, eyes which glow with a forbidden sunlight that chills me in a way that causes fear. When he smiles at her, I think I should almost want to hit him. I shake, I try to get angry, and my heart hurts for Katie.
Dan... I want my friend to be happy, but I don't think he loves Kate. I can see love like I feel it, and I had neither happen with him near her. Dan needs her for something. I can tell. I can sense.... I know. Something's... broken, in him.
But my heart hurts for him, too. I can't help it... because I'm an idiot. Why does he need--? I stop that train of thought.
I eat dinner. Ramen. Another shot.
It could be worse. I could have cancer.
Like my diabetes.
Two nights ago, my pump unhooked in the night. What that means is, the needle that drove it into my skin was useless because the plastic part couldn't hold on. I was sick. I was hot. I was throwing up nearly all night, throwing up past having anything left in my stomach. It didn't matter, didn't do any good. I still couldn't sleep, so I just laid down on my bathroom floor--cool, freshening, and sickening that I was there, that it was really me and there was nothing else I could do but wait for insulin to kick in--and tried to listen to all the advice I've gotten when I try and talk to people about this. Words from very wise, wise people run through my head:
"Come on. It could be brain cancer. Imagine if you were *really* dying. You could have been born dead. Could never have lived. Well, you have to take insulin, but what if you needed an iv, instead? What if you could never see the sky?"
It doesn't help. I still throw up, and I cry like nobody's business because it should help. Good advice should make the pain go away, but it doesn't.
It doesn't stop until four a.m. I go to bed. I'm too hot too sleep, I toss and turn--alarm sets off at six. Time to "get up"...
I'm too sick to go to school and miss the cast list. I sputter my words because my brain won't function; it's still sick. My hands shake, my eyes won't stay open because my body is tired as much as my mind is. Everything hurts. Learn the Law of Sin, Payton! Learn how a star functions!
I'm sick for the third time by the hour mom rescues me from myself.
Mrs. Brock says, "Bad day, huh?" I think about my night. Could be brain cancer, I remind myself. "There've been worse," I say.
I sleep for six hours.
Next day. Get my script and folder. Manage to upset Schultz. Katie's hurt and Kate is hurt and I can't help either and I want to cry for them. My heart hurts.
So I hang out with Finley, wait for the Pops concert. My friends, they are in band, so why not see it? My sister, too. I'm excited for the music. I'm excited for that special fifth grade portion where I lean to the person next to me and go, "God! My ears ARE BLEEDING!"
The fun's in hoping the person next to you isn't a fifth grade parent, I suppose. Is that wicked?
While waiting, Finley takes me to Kentucky fried Chicken/ Taco Bell. He's standing in line to order and my pump... stops working. The buttons made to order start clicking down and down and down and up and up and up, and within seconds, my life stops. I have no choice. I have no order. No dinner for you, Payton. Time to go home. IMMEDIATELY.
I call mini-med. Okay, they'll send me a new pump. Great. Meanwhile... shots.
It is astounding that a small, small thing--made to save my life--gives me so much pause.
http://www.health.com/health/static/hw/media/medical/hw/h9991451_001.jpg
Here's a diagram. Simple, isn't it? Plunger, cap, needle, barrel. Four parts. Save your life. In fact, when I was a little girl, they gave me a teddy bear. Charlie, (Or Charleena, depending on whether or not your particular bear had a skirt) had bright colored patches all over him. Elbow, buttock, legs, arms, stomach....
The bear was always, always happy when he had remembered to give himself an ''insulin injection''. The bear didn't cry. The bear didn't struggle. The bear didn't hide. His facial expression didn't even change.
I did all of those things.
What else would a little girl do? Mom answers people who ask with saying, "The next time you look at your little girl, imagine her saying, 'Mommy, please don't hurt me. Mommy, please don't hurt me anymore.' "
But hey... I could have cancer.
Now, my pump's dead. I have to use the shot. I don't know the carbohydrate ratio. Finley googles it since no one in the house has really looked at it since I was eight. Of course, he's right. He draws it up... and I have to give it to myself. Intermission of the concert involves me waiting for Finley to draw my insulin--his expression so hopeful that he has it right, but he's scared, the way he looks at me, like his heart hurts..... mm. Guess he knows a little of what I feel after all--and then I go into the bathroom. I calmly untie my sweater, let it fall on the dirty floor. I uncap the syringe....
Cap. Needle. Barrel. Plunger.
It only stings a moment, but I remember.... And then it does sting. It stabs me in the heart like it's terrible, and god, I want to scream, I want to throw that fucking piece of plastic into a fire and leave it there.
I stick it in my skin. I push the life inside. I cap it. There's a little girl eating a cookie in the bathroom--probably snuck it from the table--and I say, "How's the cookie?" And she smiles and says, "Good!"
She has no idea how good it sounds. None. But I can't have it unless I do that again... Cap. Needle. Barrel. Plunger.
I walk out to Finley. I hand him the syringe. He keeps saying, "How did it go?" And when I start to cry--because I can't not cry, I honestly couldn't if I wanted to--he says, "Did it hurt?"
Yes, it did hurt. It stung and now I think it might be killing any lack of demoralization I've ever had, ever. My mother had to do hundreds of these to tiny CHILDREN...
Children I now can't have.
This hurts me. Not just the Children thing...the everything. It's tearing me apart in a way I can't describe, and I don't know how to let go of it. I hate it. I hate everything. I just want to bury myself in a hole and not come out for a long, long time.
After I embarrass myself sobbing onto Finley's new shirt, he pokes me with his chin gently.
"You have a visitor."
Sarah Knox. Opens her arms, gives me a hug. "Hey, hun. Everything all right?"
"My pump died," I say, wiping my eyes and smiling--Sarah likes smiles--"so I have to use these for awhile." I lift up the syringe. Dead, now. Discarded as easily as my ability to snark down a cookie whenever I wanted one... Useless.
"Ah, well," she says, "You're fine."
And I remind myself: It could be worse. It could be Alzheimer's... Amnesia... Cancer.... D.I.D...
We take our seats at the concert. Eighth grade band plays Phantom of the Opera... my heart wraps around "All I ask of you." I mouth the words:
"You'll hold me and you'll hide me...."
Finley takes my hand, after telling me why I don't deserve this, how strong and brave I was for this one stupid little shot--after all, I remind myself, I've had thousands--and I realize Sarah was right:
I am "fine."
I still feel awful. I feel hurt and poisoned and wrong...
After the concert, I see Kate with Dan. I know he's Dan from his eyes. Little children parade around in white shirts, but all I see are that white reflected across his eyes, eyes which glow with a forbidden sunlight that chills me in a way that causes fear. When he smiles at her, I think I should almost want to hit him. I shake, I try to get angry, and my heart hurts for Katie.
Dan... I want my friend to be happy, but I don't think he loves Kate. I can see love like I feel it, and I had neither happen with him near her. Dan needs her for something. I can tell. I can sense.... I know. Something's... broken, in him.
But my heart hurts for him, too. I can't help it... because I'm an idiot. Why does he need--? I stop that train of thought.
I eat dinner. Ramen. Another shot.
It could be worse. I could have cancer.
Special: Beatrice, being a jerk, an unappreciated director
Beatrice.
I didn't really process how awesome that role was today, and now I feel like a jerk. A big, over-analyzing jerk. Both Kate and Ms. Schultz told me today that I would "steal the show" as Beatrice. It also wasn't until today that I noticed the coincidence... not until after Ms. Schultz probably thinks I'm ungrateful. Oh, jeez.
Coincidences? Nope. Finley actually repeated something that he couldn't tell me unitl after the cast list was up--"Payton may not be happy playing Beatrice, but she'll steal the show. Just like she did as Chef Hatami in Don't Drink the Water."
I wish he'd told me that earlier. I thought it was an ability thing. I thought Ms. Schultz just didn't think I had the ability. Nobody told me I was doing the best of my ability in these roles, and it wasn't until after Ms. Schultz had heard ''rumblings'' (how discreet. I appreciate her obvious effort) that he told me this... and now I feel awful. So when I told her I "did" have a problem, I was telling the truth...
I'm happy for it.
Who wouldn't want to be related to Dominic?
I didn't really process how awesome that role was today, and now I feel like a jerk. A big, over-analyzing jerk. Both Kate and Ms. Schultz told me today that I would "steal the show" as Beatrice. It also wasn't until today that I noticed the coincidence... not until after Ms. Schultz probably thinks I'm ungrateful. Oh, jeez.
Coincidences? Nope. Finley actually repeated something that he couldn't tell me unitl after the cast list was up--"Payton may not be happy playing Beatrice, but she'll steal the show. Just like she did as Chef Hatami in Don't Drink the Water."
I wish he'd told me that earlier. I thought it was an ability thing. I thought Ms. Schultz just didn't think I had the ability. Nobody told me I was doing the best of my ability in these roles, and it wasn't until after Ms. Schultz had heard ''rumblings'' (how discreet. I appreciate her obvious effort) that he told me this... and now I feel awful. So when I told her I "did" have a problem, I was telling the truth...
I'm happy for it.
Who wouldn't want to be related to Dominic?
Monday, February 21, 2011
Special: Sorcha and Devlin (a dream)
"It would not be wise to wake her, sister." Devlin speaks.
"Perhaps. But what will of reality can withstand mine?" Sorcha answers.
Devlin, the shadow court leader, and Sorcha, the high queen of Faerie. Fictional characters from the Wicked Lovely series.
They're talking about me.
Sorcha bends over me, her flame-like hair brushes my cheek. "Awake," she whispers, and, somehow calm, my eyes open, staring into hers.
"By what will does a dying bird entice a star, my lady?" I answer back. My breath blows her hair slightly, like a breeze.
"And lo, your toy speaks." Devlin is apparently angry at Sorcha. I wonder why? "Well? What lie does the queen of logic offer her enticement?"
"Hold your tongue, Devlin. The mortal needed us."
"Needed you? Needed your intrigue, perhaps. Your will, your honor and dignity--your willingness to try that honor and dignity for the sake of it. I need your capriciousness. But then, none of that is new to immortal beings, Queen Faerie." I answer obediently, more than a little confused.
And my bedroom is gone. Suddenly, Sorcha stands tall next do Devlin, and I lie on the shore of a beautiful, sun-lit lake, the waters of a Grecian blue, the forest light and playful. Devlin and Sorcha are dressed of garb from the Elizabethan era, whereas I am somehow in a lace nightgown--black--with a plunging neckline.
"No, my love. You need us." Devlin had helped me from the shore, and as I stood, my dress turned into a material made of water; translucent and flowing. My curly hair touched his hand as he continued. "You see, you're turning into a human, Payton. Sorcha--" he indicated his sister with a swift movement of his head "--desires you to stop that transformation. She says that without magic, you will die, will be remade."
"And so she shall be," says Sorcha evenly, "you have been a being of power with the magic you see and embrace, day by day, the magic God has given you. You walk filled with love among humans, but since you have stopped to feel that love more carefully, have shared it with others, I fear it will wither in light of your envy and ambition."
"Envy and ambition lacking is a rare enough thing in itself, for faerie or mortal, my lady," replied Devlin. "Surely you can see that?"
"Can't I be both, Sorcha?" I whispered.
"I don't know," she replied, perfect eyes staring into my soul. "Can you?"
I woke up in the bath tub, the faucet still on, the water now cold.
I was so exhausted I'd fallen asleep IN MY BATH TUB.
Sorcha, there are too many Devlin's out there who don't get it.... help.
"Perhaps. But what will of reality can withstand mine?" Sorcha answers.
Devlin, the shadow court leader, and Sorcha, the high queen of Faerie. Fictional characters from the Wicked Lovely series.
They're talking about me.
Sorcha bends over me, her flame-like hair brushes my cheek. "Awake," she whispers, and, somehow calm, my eyes open, staring into hers.
"By what will does a dying bird entice a star, my lady?" I answer back. My breath blows her hair slightly, like a breeze.
"And lo, your toy speaks." Devlin is apparently angry at Sorcha. I wonder why? "Well? What lie does the queen of logic offer her enticement?"
"Hold your tongue, Devlin. The mortal needed us."
"Needed you? Needed your intrigue, perhaps. Your will, your honor and dignity--your willingness to try that honor and dignity for the sake of it. I need your capriciousness. But then, none of that is new to immortal beings, Queen Faerie." I answer obediently, more than a little confused.
And my bedroom is gone. Suddenly, Sorcha stands tall next do Devlin, and I lie on the shore of a beautiful, sun-lit lake, the waters of a Grecian blue, the forest light and playful. Devlin and Sorcha are dressed of garb from the Elizabethan era, whereas I am somehow in a lace nightgown--black--with a plunging neckline.
"No, my love. You need us." Devlin had helped me from the shore, and as I stood, my dress turned into a material made of water; translucent and flowing. My curly hair touched his hand as he continued. "You see, you're turning into a human, Payton. Sorcha--" he indicated his sister with a swift movement of his head "--desires you to stop that transformation. She says that without magic, you will die, will be remade."
"And so she shall be," says Sorcha evenly, "you have been a being of power with the magic you see and embrace, day by day, the magic God has given you. You walk filled with love among humans, but since you have stopped to feel that love more carefully, have shared it with others, I fear it will wither in light of your envy and ambition."
"Envy and ambition lacking is a rare enough thing in itself, for faerie or mortal, my lady," replied Devlin. "Surely you can see that?"
"Can't I be both, Sorcha?" I whispered.
"I don't know," she replied, perfect eyes staring into my soul. "Can you?"
I woke up in the bath tub, the faucet still on, the water now cold.
I was so exhausted I'd fallen asleep IN MY BATH TUB.
Sorcha, there are too many Devlin's out there who don't get it.... help.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Special: on Scott Walker
Brodi's status:
Were you talking to yourself?
Or do you consider listening to what your parents say word for word being knowledgeable on a subject?
Brodi: Actually I don't even know their opinions on the subject. And I'm pretty sure I can come up with a informed position on the subjecty myself.
Me:
Do you know what *you're* talking about? Teachers are being ripped of their pensions and their unions for compromise are being dispelled without purpose. Jobs will be eliminated. Public servants--like, you know, VETERANS and teachers--are g...oing to be hit by this. Not you. People who watched us grow up are being hurt by the Government we created to protect them. Yes, people need to make sacrifices, but if that's the case, it should be the Governor's duty to spread that out slowly over everyone, not rashly throw it in a wagon rushing down a hill at forty light years a second.
He wants this done by TODAY. He proposed it LESS THAN A WEEK AGO.
I will not agree to this unfair insanity, especially not from my elected officials... and neither should you.
Tabitha:
doesn't really matter what you think. the bill is going to pass.
Me:
Is that so? I notice we don't have school today...
Tabitha:
And the bill will pass thats all i'm saying
Gwen:
Okay Payton if you are complaining about how fast this is going consider this, Democats past the smoking ban in 48 hours. Two years ago Democrats pasted a HUGE tax increase in 48 Hours. This isn't really being all that "fast tracked".
Me:
You see, maybe I'm alone here, but dispelling UNIONS and ERADICATING JOBS in a FALLING ECONOMY is slightly different from, say, decreasing second-hand smoke. I'm not saying nobody should try to fix the economy. I'm just saying that before you get all troll-like--as ALL OF YOU are--you should maybe, you know, talk to some people on the other side of the fence. America was built on compromise and what's right to do. Did you know that Scott Walker promised to create more jobs for his election campaign? Not only has he refused to build that train--and, you know, CREATE JOBS--but he's now passed this bill. This bill that, you know, will not only DESTROY MORE JOBS but also further fuck up our school system. I'm a senior; it won't be me writing on slate tablets with chalk next year after the "Governor" rips NINE HUNDRED MILLION from your school budget.
http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-
Dear Tabitha: These are the people who agree with me. You and your Three to five facebook buddies can consider how this nation is run and stop laughing at we ''stupid democrats''.
Tabitha:
the bills gunna pass so get over it... and don't pick just me out of Wendy and Brodi when all I did was say the bill was gunna pass.
Me: What an in-depth and collective response. Maybe you should go into office.
Tabitha: maybe you should go fuck yourself?
Me: Think of me when its repealed.
I am not a police officer. I am not an elected official. Maybe I am too involved. But when there are people like this around.... I'm sick of being silent. I'm tired of letting ignorant imbeciles kick and scream and be heard when I am not. I'm tired of being nothing.
Nothing. I look at the lives of people I've helped, and today, I feel angry. I want to hurt those who hurt them. My heart stings and spits acid at the world.
School tomorrow. I'll be proven correct on that cast list.
I don't want to go.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Special: Envying Kate (and sorry, Schultz)
Play auditions today. My Last for Fort Atkinson High School. As with my other rehearsals, Schultz had made up her mind when we went in. Kate actually told me she "knew Schultz knew that she [Kate] wouldn't take anything other than a large role." Verbatim. And I'm reading for Beatrice. Why? Because to Schultz, who doesn't know me and won't even take the chance to know me, LIKE EVERYBODY ELSE, I'm crazy. I'm stupid. I'm absent-minded because I hum to myself.
So for this play, I will be cast. As Beatrice. Kate will be Allegra. Why? Because Kate ALWAYS gets the big roles. Since the beginning of time. Because she won't take anything else. I try and be open-minded and, for my trouble, have gotten smaller and smaller roles with less importance and less personal relation throughout the years. Not a single chance to shine. Do you think people remember Chef Hatami, or Mrs. Hollander? I'll be talking to people who have seen it--most don't even remember I was in the cast--and then the subject will move on from the main characters to, "Who were you, anyway?" "The Chef. You know, the french one?" "Oh! The fat chick who made weird food!"
Lovely. That's *exactly* how I want to be remembered. Conner will also be cast. So will Johnny (who I basically dragged into the audition process), and so (I hope) will Nathan Cozak, who I went out of my way to approach and say, "You are Hollister. Audition." But of course, I couldn't have done those things, could I? I'm *anti-social, eccentric, and freakish*. Good God. If I'm cast as Beatrice, I'll have to really think hard about taking part in this production. I'm fucking sick of this.
I wanted one--ONE--chance to be the big person. One. You want to know the difference between Kate and I? She's thinner and prettier. Schultz likes her better. People talk to her. She's competent with any and all tools. She can fix Katie, whereas I cannot. Apparently she's also a better actor, or at least she's talented enough to take every dream I've ever wanted. I can't watch that happen again with this group, especially not after the shit that went down with the Haunted Hallway and Greese. The people who've been my heroes for four years don't give a fuck about what I want. They won't give me the chance to develop, rather, they just want the money. They want the liked person.
Who'd come to a play I was starring in? What's that? No one? Oh, right. So just give me a role people can laugh at me in. Like they do every day. What else is there do do?
Well, I do like Payton... eh... Payton, will you be a corpse, please? Sorry, you'll be sitting on the floor FOR HOURS.
Sure, Ms. Schultz. Anything for you.
Thanks. Kate?
Yeah?
You're a Zombie. You'll get the best makeup and costume, and you'll have to lead these guys. They're relatively new to acting, but I know *you* can handle it.
Gee, thanks!
You see, that was the Haunted Hallway for me. Tonight was more:
Payton?
Yes, Ms. Schultz?
I need you to be the exact person I picked you out for, since my instincts are never wrong.
...Um.... But can't I try for another person? What about one of Edward's wives? I really understand betrayal well--that is, not being as pretty as the other person. I really want a chance to prove myself as an actress, and I can really empathize with--
Kate?
Yeah, Ms. Schultz?
You're Allegra. She's one of the main female roles. Congratulations. Payton, read as Beatrice, please?
I don't want to go to school tomorrow. I don't want to go. I don't want to see that I'm right. Again.
Get to know me, Ms. Schultz. Even though you won't ever read this, or honestly, in my opinion, care, you are killing my dreams. You won't even let me taste one, and I might be done with it.
So for this play, I will be cast. As Beatrice. Kate will be Allegra. Why? Because Kate ALWAYS gets the big roles. Since the beginning of time. Because she won't take anything else. I try and be open-minded and, for my trouble, have gotten smaller and smaller roles with less importance and less personal relation throughout the years. Not a single chance to shine. Do you think people remember Chef Hatami, or Mrs. Hollander? I'll be talking to people who have seen it--most don't even remember I was in the cast--and then the subject will move on from the main characters to, "Who were you, anyway?" "The Chef. You know, the french one?" "Oh! The fat chick who made weird food!"
Lovely. That's *exactly* how I want to be remembered. Conner will also be cast. So will Johnny (who I basically dragged into the audition process), and so (I hope) will Nathan Cozak, who I went out of my way to approach and say, "You are Hollister. Audition." But of course, I couldn't have done those things, could I? I'm *anti-social, eccentric, and freakish*. Good God. If I'm cast as Beatrice, I'll have to really think hard about taking part in this production. I'm fucking sick of this.
I wanted one--ONE--chance to be the big person. One. You want to know the difference between Kate and I? She's thinner and prettier. Schultz likes her better. People talk to her. She's competent with any and all tools. She can fix Katie, whereas I cannot. Apparently she's also a better actor, or at least she's talented enough to take every dream I've ever wanted. I can't watch that happen again with this group, especially not after the shit that went down with the Haunted Hallway and Greese. The people who've been my heroes for four years don't give a fuck about what I want. They won't give me the chance to develop, rather, they just want the money. They want the liked person.
Who'd come to a play I was starring in? What's that? No one? Oh, right. So just give me a role people can laugh at me in. Like they do every day. What else is there do do?
Well, I do like Payton... eh... Payton, will you be a corpse, please? Sorry, you'll be sitting on the floor FOR HOURS.
Sure, Ms. Schultz. Anything for you.
Thanks. Kate?
Yeah?
You're a Zombie. You'll get the best makeup and costume, and you'll have to lead these guys. They're relatively new to acting, but I know *you* can handle it.
Gee, thanks!
You see, that was the Haunted Hallway for me. Tonight was more:
Payton?
Yes, Ms. Schultz?
I need you to be the exact person I picked you out for, since my instincts are never wrong.
...Um.... But can't I try for another person? What about one of Edward's wives? I really understand betrayal well--that is, not being as pretty as the other person. I really want a chance to prove myself as an actress, and I can really empathize with--
Kate?
Yeah, Ms. Schultz?
You're Allegra. She's one of the main female roles. Congratulations. Payton, read as Beatrice, please?
I don't want to go to school tomorrow. I don't want to go. I don't want to see that I'm right. Again.
Get to know me, Ms. Schultz. Even though you won't ever read this, or honestly, in my opinion, care, you are killing my dreams. You won't even let me taste one, and I might be done with it.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Special
Sometimes my heart hurts. I feel like I'm trapped in a cage and the world is screaming at me, throwing things, pointing, insisting. I'm like a compass needle that's just going to keep spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning everywhere, and I don't know where it'll stop. There are horrible things in the world and I am powerless. I want help. I want a hug. I want it to stop. I want someone to distract me from this. I want not to be downgraded on my identity in a Diversity class. I want two and a half hours of studying for a Math test to mean something. I want my friends to be happy, especially the ones I know are in trouble.
I want to not feel overwhelmed, but I am; and by far less than I've seen before.
What if I'm not strong enough to breathe? What if I'm not brave enough to live?
What if I'm not enough?
I want to not feel overwhelmed, but I am; and by far less than I've seen before.
What if I'm not strong enough to breathe? What if I'm not brave enough to live?
What if I'm not enough?
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Special: a dream for Kate (It's not real, Payton...)
Crap. Why is it my subconscious keeps beating me up with proof of my failures?
Had a dream last night and into this morning. Passed hours in moments. It's nine a.m. on Sunday morning, and I'm awake, I'm shaken, and I'm angry at my own sub conscious. Not the best way to start a day, I'll work hard to smile today--sing some Snow White in the shower, and call Finley. Call Katie. Call anyone. I'm bored out of my mind with this withering contentment, with the lack of action that cowardice has driven me to.
Not important, that. I'll figure it out. What's more important is... my dream. It was really weird. In a castle (one mixed with scientific-technology that was extremely advanced, some with the adobe style mixed with Bahama's blue sky and water, some rather looking like rooms from my middle school, and the outside kingdom a dead-rip off of Agra-bah, from Aladdin), a strange Queen (the king we never see, but I suspect he's turned into an elephant, as there's an elephant everywhere with a crown on his head, and he carries himself well) rules.
And, for whatever reason, Kate and I live there. Not together. Not as a couple. We still know and have memories of our "real" lives, but for whatever reason, we are together.
Right at the beginning, I am choir class, but everyone is painting, (and the room is like the one they dance in at Take the Lead) and I'm in a back aclove singing. Mr. Engstrom finds me and is angry, how dare I not share in the activity? So we trump up the stairs (from my middle school) to what must be Gym (the upstairs hallway from Fort, downstairs gym from middle school) and find everyone--running. Somehow, the parallels aren't exact, so we're running in a square corridor with no walls on the outside it, where there's a giant hallway. Mr. Engstrom makes sure everyone knows that if we were breathing properly, that we could run longer. Instead, we go downstairs (middle school gym) and start to play a strange form of dodgeball that involves spinning disks made of foam which we dodge with martial arts moves.
While we play (magically, we are all very gifted) Leslie is always--despite the fact she's on my team and it doesn't count to hit me--after me. Always sneering when she knocks me to the ground, always mumbling insults that sting me. Everytime she's forced to help me up (so it looks like an accident to Mr. Engstrom and some other teacher, a brown-haired version of Mr. Backstrom, my elementary school music teacher), I say, "I love you, Leslie," after which she and her friends mock me. Towards the end of the game, she pulls out a stone disk (like the foam ones, only stone) and flings it at me. Her aim is excellent, and I make no move to dodge it, dumbstruck by the power of her hate.
It cuts my stomach, I fall to the ground, the tiniest bit of blood seeping through my pretty shirt. "Your hair's so outta style it looks like greased worms in an oven, you fucker!" I shout, "You even own a mirror?" Leslie walks over, kicks my face, and leaves. "I hate her," I say quietly to myself. "I really might."
Oh, no. I don't hate anyone. Dream Payton finds this horrible, and, hugging herself, I start to cry. And who should come over... but Kate. Kate's much prettier than she normally is. There are bits of silver on her clothing, a pearl barrette in her hair. She's dressed as a courtier (except for the jeans). I can almost feel the tears on my face, warm and real, my dream vision becomes a little flurried, and she says, "Payton... what happened?"
"She hates me," I said. "I love her and she hates me. My heart hurts." I say it like I'm surprised, like I wasn't expecting to tell her that, and she looks at me for a minute and sighs and says, "Payton, it's all right. I'm sure she's just jealous of you. I know I am. Knowing who to love..." and with this enigmatic (and very unlike Kate) statement, she hugs me. I don't really know why (and attribute it to dream reality), but she doesn't let go, like she really wants to help me. Really wants to listen.
"What happened?" Whispers Kate.
"Leslie is plotting to kill the Queen," I whisper back, with a glance at Backstrom and Engstrom. "Let's meet up later."
We do, and I can jump high and run fast and have beautiful angel wings suddenly and we meet up--and then Leslie blames us for her plot and the guards give chase, and we meet the queen to explain her malice, but she says it's too late--the Order's already been given for our heads--and we flee into the city. The guards pursue us, but I arrange an escape... the escape is interrupted by more guards. I throw Kate onto the balloon, and she screams--she's about to lose her friend, because through this, we've become friends, and she trusts me, she tells me things that she needs help with and I advise--and I say, "I love you."
The guards take me to the gallows. Celebration in the streets as the Queen's attempted murderer is about to be killed.
Confetti litters the ground as my body falls from the rack.
I wake up. Shaken, I walk over and take out Don't Drink the Water's cast announcement, look at Kate a moment. Sigh. It's not real, Payton. See? She's fine.
"I love you," I say. My bed is a shambles--had I been struggling?--but I cuddle back into it anyway, holding tight onto a pillow.
It's Sunday. I'll go back to sleep.
Had a dream last night and into this morning. Passed hours in moments. It's nine a.m. on Sunday morning, and I'm awake, I'm shaken, and I'm angry at my own sub conscious. Not the best way to start a day, I'll work hard to smile today--sing some Snow White in the shower, and call Finley. Call Katie. Call anyone. I'm bored out of my mind with this withering contentment, with the lack of action that cowardice has driven me to.
Not important, that. I'll figure it out. What's more important is... my dream. It was really weird. In a castle (one mixed with scientific-technology that was extremely advanced, some with the adobe style mixed with Bahama's blue sky and water, some rather looking like rooms from my middle school, and the outside kingdom a dead-rip off of Agra-bah, from Aladdin), a strange Queen (the king we never see, but I suspect he's turned into an elephant, as there's an elephant everywhere with a crown on his head, and he carries himself well) rules.
And, for whatever reason, Kate and I live there. Not together. Not as a couple. We still know and have memories of our "real" lives, but for whatever reason, we are together.
Right at the beginning, I am choir class, but everyone is painting, (and the room is like the one they dance in at Take the Lead) and I'm in a back aclove singing. Mr. Engstrom finds me and is angry, how dare I not share in the activity? So we trump up the stairs (from my middle school) to what must be Gym (the upstairs hallway from Fort, downstairs gym from middle school) and find everyone--running. Somehow, the parallels aren't exact, so we're running in a square corridor with no walls on the outside it, where there's a giant hallway. Mr. Engstrom makes sure everyone knows that if we were breathing properly, that we could run longer. Instead, we go downstairs (middle school gym) and start to play a strange form of dodgeball that involves spinning disks made of foam which we dodge with martial arts moves.
While we play (magically, we are all very gifted) Leslie is always--despite the fact she's on my team and it doesn't count to hit me--after me. Always sneering when she knocks me to the ground, always mumbling insults that sting me. Everytime she's forced to help me up (so it looks like an accident to Mr. Engstrom and some other teacher, a brown-haired version of Mr. Backstrom, my elementary school music teacher), I say, "I love you, Leslie," after which she and her friends mock me. Towards the end of the game, she pulls out a stone disk (like the foam ones, only stone) and flings it at me. Her aim is excellent, and I make no move to dodge it, dumbstruck by the power of her hate.
It cuts my stomach, I fall to the ground, the tiniest bit of blood seeping through my pretty shirt. "Your hair's so outta style it looks like greased worms in an oven, you fucker!" I shout, "You even own a mirror?" Leslie walks over, kicks my face, and leaves. "I hate her," I say quietly to myself. "I really might."
Oh, no. I don't hate anyone. Dream Payton finds this horrible, and, hugging herself, I start to cry. And who should come over... but Kate. Kate's much prettier than she normally is. There are bits of silver on her clothing, a pearl barrette in her hair. She's dressed as a courtier (except for the jeans). I can almost feel the tears on my face, warm and real, my dream vision becomes a little flurried, and she says, "Payton... what happened?"
"She hates me," I said. "I love her and she hates me. My heart hurts." I say it like I'm surprised, like I wasn't expecting to tell her that, and she looks at me for a minute and sighs and says, "Payton, it's all right. I'm sure she's just jealous of you. I know I am. Knowing who to love..." and with this enigmatic (and very unlike Kate) statement, she hugs me. I don't really know why (and attribute it to dream reality), but she doesn't let go, like she really wants to help me. Really wants to listen.
"What happened?" Whispers Kate.
"Leslie is plotting to kill the Queen," I whisper back, with a glance at Backstrom and Engstrom. "Let's meet up later."
We do, and I can jump high and run fast and have beautiful angel wings suddenly and we meet up--and then Leslie blames us for her plot and the guards give chase, and we meet the queen to explain her malice, but she says it's too late--the Order's already been given for our heads--and we flee into the city. The guards pursue us, but I arrange an escape... the escape is interrupted by more guards. I throw Kate onto the balloon, and she screams--she's about to lose her friend, because through this, we've become friends, and she trusts me, she tells me things that she needs help with and I advise--and I say, "I love you."
The guards take me to the gallows. Celebration in the streets as the Queen's attempted murderer is about to be killed.
Confetti litters the ground as my body falls from the rack.
I wake up. Shaken, I walk over and take out Don't Drink the Water's cast announcement, look at Kate a moment. Sigh. It's not real, Payton. See? She's fine.
"I love you," I say. My bed is a shambles--had I been struggling?--but I cuddle back into it anyway, holding tight onto a pillow.
It's Sunday. I'll go back to sleep.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Special: Technically Sterile
The first doctor appointment after I turned eighteen, my doctor spent the time I was paying her for to carefully and painstakingly inform me that if I am pregnant before my diabetes is perfect, and I give birth to a baby, not only is it likely that that baby will have diabetes, but that it will be threatening to both of our lives.
In short, she told me it was a person risk for me to ever bare children.
Of course, I managed to repress that--until we watched a video today on Communism, specifically the power of Mao and the Great Leap that ended in famine. You know what was in the video? Tiny children. Women smiling at their babies and holding the hand of the innocent chinese young. The hope for China.
In America, babies are a staple product. They produce them for the fun and pleasure and expectation of it. To reproduce is like a social more here, and I can't do it.
I started crying in that video. There were opera singers dedicating ballads to the Greatness of Mao, who swam across the Xiangxe river, one of the four dragon-rivers of China, and I cried; because that will never be me. That will never be my baby without severe threat to me in my body, and even if I live, I'll be spooning the poison of a diabetic life into a tiny, helpless body. I picture me recovering from a long birth and holding a lifeless, small body... breathless.... dead.
Picture my tears, clear, running over the body that never felt sun... never tasted food.... never heard my voice, my lullabies to them... never met their Father--can picture Finley, originally tall and strong, happy and fearless, to weeping.... his face contorted in an anguish from the shame I've brought him....
My children. My children.
I have never appreciated the honor, that honor God gives us; that I may bring life into the world. I have always wanted a son, a daughter.... always wanted to sit through the crying, share my stories, share the world. Always wanted to continue Finley's line... and I remembered today I can't, remembered today that there's one more thing in which I am a fuck up. I picture my mother and Grandmother laughing at me, the silly girl who can't make children--no such warning was given to Taylor--and my heart... hurts.
To keep my nerves, I started to hum a disney song. The people in the back row mocked me. After that, we read articles and answered questions, people laughing all the while, pushing one another, pretending to care about wireless internet.
No one notices me, crying silently, trying not to cause trouble.
Something the world will never know:
My children.
In short, she told me it was a person risk for me to ever bare children.
Of course, I managed to repress that--until we watched a video today on Communism, specifically the power of Mao and the Great Leap that ended in famine. You know what was in the video? Tiny children. Women smiling at their babies and holding the hand of the innocent chinese young. The hope for China.
In America, babies are a staple product. They produce them for the fun and pleasure and expectation of it. To reproduce is like a social more here, and I can't do it.
I started crying in that video. There were opera singers dedicating ballads to the Greatness of Mao, who swam across the Xiangxe river, one of the four dragon-rivers of China, and I cried; because that will never be me. That will never be my baby without severe threat to me in my body, and even if I live, I'll be spooning the poison of a diabetic life into a tiny, helpless body. I picture me recovering from a long birth and holding a lifeless, small body... breathless.... dead.
Picture my tears, clear, running over the body that never felt sun... never tasted food.... never heard my voice, my lullabies to them... never met their Father--can picture Finley, originally tall and strong, happy and fearless, to weeping.... his face contorted in an anguish from the shame I've brought him....
My children. My children.
I have never appreciated the honor, that honor God gives us; that I may bring life into the world. I have always wanted a son, a daughter.... always wanted to sit through the crying, share my stories, share the world. Always wanted to continue Finley's line... and I remembered today I can't, remembered today that there's one more thing in which I am a fuck up. I picture my mother and Grandmother laughing at me, the silly girl who can't make children--no such warning was given to Taylor--and my heart... hurts.
To keep my nerves, I started to hum a disney song. The people in the back row mocked me. After that, we read articles and answered questions, people laughing all the while, pushing one another, pretending to care about wireless internet.
No one notices me, crying silently, trying not to cause trouble.
Something the world will never know:
My children.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Special: Killing Taylor, remebering Stephanie, I am a reticence
Elephants. You know, I've been thinking a lot about them today. They're republicans.
Kate got a letter very unlike the one I wrote yesterday, because I was too stupid to study her movements first. She was already hurt and I meant to help, and instead I think I've made it worse. I can't know, can I? She doesn't trust me. And why would she? For all intents, she takes my life as a lie. Who trusts liars, especially those with good intentions?
She's been a liar with good intentions before, after all. That makes me a reflection of her, maybe? And if I'm a reflection of her, then she doesn't trust herself at all, and who didn't know that? My heart's starting to hurt for her, in spite of what I know she's done--and not only to Katie. To herself, too. I tried to give her what made Katie happy, because I thought it might make Kate happy, too, since they were in love once, and it didn't work. I did nothing.
I am insignificant to her entirely, in point of fact. A reticence who cannot be trusted makes nice with a letter that confuses and twists and now I can't even offer a hug without her fear, not after this. This is what I get for writing an honest letter. This is what I get for showing myself. Rejection.
I wonder if I brought it on myself. Too much happiness at once. Too many people who know I'm not the freak they've always thought I was. I'm up to two, after all. Two whole people to trust and love. Three might be too many. Three might be greedy or rash, even with the best meanings behind the action.
I really hope that's not true. I want to help her. I do. I love her, and I hate that I can't. Are those sentences a broken record, yet? I'll move on.
Found a conversation between myself and Stephanie today.
Here it is:
Ms. Schultz said today that she needed an adorable little darling for Peggy sue. I've invited Amanda Ciske, the most adorable darling I know. I bet Katie and her would be great friends after the text Amanda sent me today:
"He wants to hang out, and he dangles himself in front of me.. I can't be friends with someone I'm in love with... :("
Maybe she's getting advice from the wrong person.
In other news, Taylor got herself in trouble again because she hates herself--AGAIN--and I have to clean it up. Again. I have to clean it up and not only that, but my mom AND Taylor blame me for it. And I'm like, 'What do you want from me? What do I do that's so horrible?', and they both have plenty of answers for it. Another person I can't help. Just keep breaking my heart, guys. Good job on that.
When it comes to the play, at least, it's feasible to hope all goes well...
Kate got a letter very unlike the one I wrote yesterday, because I was too stupid to study her movements first. She was already hurt and I meant to help, and instead I think I've made it worse. I can't know, can I? She doesn't trust me. And why would she? For all intents, she takes my life as a lie. Who trusts liars, especially those with good intentions?
She's been a liar with good intentions before, after all. That makes me a reflection of her, maybe? And if I'm a reflection of her, then she doesn't trust herself at all, and who didn't know that? My heart's starting to hurt for her, in spite of what I know she's done--and not only to Katie. To herself, too. I tried to give her what made Katie happy, because I thought it might make Kate happy, too, since they were in love once, and it didn't work. I did nothing.
I am insignificant to her entirely, in point of fact. A reticence who cannot be trusted makes nice with a letter that confuses and twists and now I can't even offer a hug without her fear, not after this. This is what I get for writing an honest letter. This is what I get for showing myself. Rejection.
I wonder if I brought it on myself. Too much happiness at once. Too many people who know I'm not the freak they've always thought I was. I'm up to two, after all. Two whole people to trust and love. Three might be too many. Three might be greedy or rash, even with the best meanings behind the action.
I really hope that's not true. I want to help her. I do. I love her, and I hate that I can't. Are those sentences a broken record, yet? I'll move on.
Found a conversation between myself and Stephanie today.
Here it is:
that what?
....I just need to talk to him. That's all. *Sighs* I just need to feel safe...just for a minute...
can not i make you feel safe?
It isn't that... It's more like...
Have you ever been yourself around people, but not really? A facade--a mask? And the mask...it's a monster, and there are so many voices to listen to...so many endless pulls and tugs and headaches from being that Elia--Mask... living... being... watching...
Oh, God. Constantly watching.. And then you breathe...and you are given wings to open; and the shackles are smashed...
He lets you out. You're cool with a fever, you're flying while falling, and he'll pull you up if you fall over... safe...
It's.... it's overwhelming again, Stephanie.
Have you ever been yourself around people, but not really? A facade--a mask? And the mask...it's a monster, and there are so many voices to listen to...so many endless pulls and tugs and headaches from being that Elia--Mask... living... being... watching...
Oh, God. Constantly watching.. And then you breathe...and you are given wings to open; and the shackles are smashed...
He lets you out. You're cool with a fever, you're flying while falling, and he'll pull you up if you fall over... safe...
It's.... it's overwhelming again, Stephanie.
Payton Thompson January 17, 2010 at 9:57pm
And he's the only one that can do that. Everyone else... They... they can't. Most of them don't even want to. Today... it was a... a bad day with me being Eli--Wearing the mask. You see?
I'm going to find you a quote. It is from one of the most amazing people i know. Give me a second to find it.
"Martin was not an optimist; he was a prisoner of hope." Optimism is about assuming there's evidence that justifies your outlook while hope is about creating the evidence and procuring your own happiness or vision of the world.
It is one of my favorite quotes, and I hope it can help you as it has me.
It is one of my favorite quotes, and I hope it can help you as it has me.
No.
I appreciate the sentiment, dear--but no. This is something that even you won't be able to get.
Not this time.
I appreciate the sentiment, dear--but no. This is something that even you won't be able to get.
Not this time.
You underestimate me, but fine, if you want to stay in your mood all night, i'm not going to try to get you out of it.
It isn't a question of underexpectation. I don't need a solution. I just need some help. I just need someone to not need to know or expect anything of me. I just need someone to know without knowing what I've had to do... have done... will do.
And that person...
is him. But hey. That's fine. I'll stay in my un-declared, un-chosen mood all night.
I hope it's okay with you that when I'm upset, I stay that way for more than three minutes. It doesn't matter. I'm still here for you; that's the important thing to me anyway. I'm being selfish by wanting to break off and stop crying. Silly, irresponsible, stupid El!
How're you?
And that person...
is him. But hey. That's fine. I'll stay in my un-declared, un-chosen mood all night.
I hope it's okay with you that when I'm upset, I stay that way for more than three minutes. It doesn't matter. I'm still here for you; that's the important thing to me anyway. I'm being selfish by wanting to break off and stop crying. Silly, irresponsible, stupid El!
How're you?
Stephanie needed to be independent while exactly what she feared she was. She needed to balance what she wanted with what she hated to make what she was as a person. I tried to help, and when she didn't need me any more, she threw me away like garbage. That hurt and no one knows and it doesn't matter.
"He wants to hang out, and he dangles himself in front of me.. I can't be friends with someone I'm in love with... :("
Maybe she's getting advice from the wrong person.
In other news, Taylor got herself in trouble again because she hates herself--AGAIN--and I have to clean it up. Again. I have to clean it up and not only that, but my mom AND Taylor blame me for it. And I'm like, 'What do you want from me? What do I do that's so horrible?', and they both have plenty of answers for it. Another person I can't help. Just keep breaking my heart, guys. Good job on that.
When it comes to the play, at least, it's feasible to hope all goes well...
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Special: I love you, world--my heart hurts--Kate's original letter (happy endings...)
Well, my secret-keeper warms my heart. I did it. For once in my life, someone besides Finley knows me. Someone else knows how much I hurt. That's terrible of me to be happy for, I think? She already goes through so much, but I might be... might be helping. Just a little. That's all I want, is for people to understand me. It seems to be a very dangerous and risky being, that is, being exactly who we want to be.
Trusted her with news about the wolf. Not sure how I feel about that. And since she trusts me... which is happy, which makes that pain she shields against herself just the slightest bit shallower, I do not pry. I listen. I think. I comment. I am respect.
You know what I felt like, when I came to fort? I felt like I was Crazy. You know who embodies that belief about myself?
Apparently, Kate. She actually notices enough to post, but not post the truth. She hurts and I can't fix over it. I actually gave tears over that, and I'm a little ashamed I did it in front of someone who's already in emotional turmoil. Nice job, Payton. Sheesh. She [Kate] thinks I'm hiding in a fantasy world, and I wonder when she'll realize her world is more fantasy than mine is. I see her. I see her walk and the smile she doesn't mean but wants to mean. I see her spiky hair and how she wishes it would hide the droop in her shoulders.
I want to love her. I do, obviously. But this... this is wrong. She didn't even know I'd be there and she hurt me with it. I can't say different; clearly, I've said some not-so-nice things here. But... at least I always try and get the truth before I even get close to judging anyone for anything, ever. Kate didn't. Kate just assumes that because I tried to touch her hurting heart, I must be delusional. I don't think she knows me.
Almost nobody knows them. When I write "I feel alone", it's not because I don't recognize that there aren't people around me. It's because I'm not ever myself until I can feel safe doing so, and that's only with Finley and Katie. Pick a name out of a hat. Either or, those two both know how exactly I live and breathe to love. I love before I even think. It's my nature. It's why I'm alone, because in that sense, who else really knows?
And who would care? I can't see people who laugh at me for trying to do well in school joining hands and suddenly holding me like I deserve and saying, "I love you, Payton. Of course I'll let you help, here's what I need" because they don't do that. Not even with themselves. At least, I know Kate doesn't. It's funny that an unintentional word choice my Katie agreed with can hurt when I don't want it to. I want to take it as truth, because Kate wrote it as truth. But I wish she knew that when I used to walk up and talk to her and she'd look at me like she were worried I'd pull a lighter, it was because I saw her and my heart hurt for her, because she hurts--and I know it.
She doesn't know that. Would she think I were crazier if she did? I wonder what people would do if they knew exactly how much I do love them. Like in The Last Unicorn, you know? "Anyway, I love you. That's all I have to tell you... that's all I have to say."
I won't break the secret-keeper's trust, but this hurts. I wish Kate knew. I wish Kate would somehow mysteriously derive what I've tried to do for her and Katie and go, "'Oh, Payton," and fall in, and let me fix things--because I honestly believe I could do something.
And that's what she needs.
Met Jessica Huckabee today. She needed a willy-nally pole girl who didn't know jack, and I gave it to her. I think Katie was confused, and when I saw that, I realized she wouldn't want me to hide myself, so I blended them together, only giving the bare minimum of what could help Jessica with... whatever she needed help with. I didn't know at the time, and I don't know more now.
I'm worried what the combination will do, but I love Katie, and this was Katie's friend. When Jessica left, Katie was honest. Katie talked a long time and I listened without restriction or fear, just like yesterday. Well, almost today now...
I think things are a little better than before for her. Just a little, and that's all I ask. Katie and I cuddled for awhile today. Like Elizabeth and I used to cuddle before... before she took what I feared and used it to hurt me. Elizabeth hurt me. I have to get used to saying that, because it's true, and it's not okay. I don't deserve that. Never did. Anyway, Katie and I cuddled, because even when I tried to say that what I'd glimpsed briefly didn't matter, tears ran down. I'm lonely. It really consumes me, honestly, really, it does, this horrible horrible thing, like I'm gulping down some endless night. A moonless night that tastes like melancholy. "If you love me, set me free, let me touch the light!"
I listened to Katie's heart when she held me. I think she understands what I need, a friend. I really need a friend. Just one person I can trust and discard skins in front of. And I can with her. I think she's starting to grasp that, and I appreciate it. It makes me happy knowing she's happy; I feel it a little more today.
You know what I wish I could do? I wish I could write Kate a letter.
Dear Kate,
I'm not normal. I love people more than I love anything else in the whole world. I cry for strangers who are in trouble, and I cry for you. I know what you need. You need to stop growing up. Rather, you need to grow down. You accept a truth, one not yours, as your own, and from that skin you morph it into a horrible thing that isn't really horrible at all, but wonderful; something that can set you free and make this go away, and rather than use it, you ignore it for what you think you should be, but can't be, and won't be. Kate, I watch you every day, just like I do everyone--and I think it's killing you.
You're not enough of yourself to be angry anymore. Just hurt. I feel what you feel in the step of your toes and your pretend, polite conversation. If you make jokes, after all, people will laugh; what fool would associate a happy, clever Kate with a forest-made-Kate whose house is on fire and filled with hungry orphans? Only a crazy person, I'm sure. Crazy like me. But you see, Kate, I'm not crazy. I love too much to be crazy. Rather, I give people what I think they need. Bruno mars sings that he'd take a grenade for "ya". What you don't know is that I'd take one for ANYONE. I love so much that I cry when I see your heart hurting. It makes my heart hurt, too. It's why I'm angry all love stories have happy endings, but for you, I'm writing one right now that will. Even though you wouldn't read it if I told you or give a flying fuck in the buttock of an elephant, I'm writing one, because you said it would make you happy, and I want that. Desperately.
It's funny because none of this matters. Your heart still hurts and you know it and now I'm a freak who lies to you, right? You don't even care. You just want me to to stop talking to you. Maybe you want me to turn out to be some normal, masturbation-addicted freak with like six french movie collections and leukemia so you can hug me and go, "Poor Payton!" while thinking, "God, why am I here, again?"
My heart hurts for you. I want you to know that. Even though you won't, even though you think I'm a horrible person and I've cried for you tonight, you hurt someone I love, and I need to deal with that. Almost as much as you do. I'll do anything you ask to help you, but you won't let me. You're too strong to be on your own. This is a test of self and I think you will fail, and I'm sorry, but that's true. I don't want it to be. Please let me help. Please know I've helped Katie, am helping Katie, and that I can do a lot more than the girl who transferred out of your science class rather than face your annoyed glares.
I'm more than you think I am. Stop judging me and love me like I love you, because you're breaking too many hearts--and I won't let you have mine.
P.S.--please don't call me a liar who lives in a fantasy world. I created a world for people to be safe in and to need certainty in themselves, and one of them--a handsome boy a helluva lot smarter than you, or me--faked his own death in order to hurt me and he did--AND YOU DON'T CARE. You don't know me at all, and you don't want to...
I wish you did.
I love you.
Payton
I won't send it, and she wouldn't read it if I did. It hurts me a lot, God.
Why does this have to hurt more than anything else from someone I trusted and spent time with?
Katie said she'll be spending a lot more time with me soon. I wonder if that means I'm growing on her?
I... I have a friend. I have... a friend. Somebody who held me while I cried and listened. I needed that, and sometimes, it can't be Finley I get it from. Sometimes I really need a friend, a different perspective.. and he doesn't need all this...
I'm sorry, world. I can't help all of you. But I want to. Always, I want to. You see, I love you. Even if you're mean to me. Even if you committed fraud. Even if you started a food fight. Regardless of how many ''good tasks'' you've done. Regardless of how much play time you've put in.
I love you.
Trusted her with news about the wolf. Not sure how I feel about that. And since she trusts me... which is happy, which makes that pain she shields against herself just the slightest bit shallower, I do not pry. I listen. I think. I comment. I am respect.
You know what I felt like, when I came to fort? I felt like I was Crazy. You know who embodies that belief about myself?
Apparently, Kate. She actually notices enough to post, but not post the truth. She hurts and I can't fix over it. I actually gave tears over that, and I'm a little ashamed I did it in front of someone who's already in emotional turmoil. Nice job, Payton. Sheesh. She [Kate] thinks I'm hiding in a fantasy world, and I wonder when she'll realize her world is more fantasy than mine is. I see her. I see her walk and the smile she doesn't mean but wants to mean. I see her spiky hair and how she wishes it would hide the droop in her shoulders.
I want to love her. I do, obviously. But this... this is wrong. She didn't even know I'd be there and she hurt me with it. I can't say different; clearly, I've said some not-so-nice things here. But... at least I always try and get the truth before I even get close to judging anyone for anything, ever. Kate didn't. Kate just assumes that because I tried to touch her hurting heart, I must be delusional. I don't think she knows me.
Almost nobody knows them. When I write "I feel alone", it's not because I don't recognize that there aren't people around me. It's because I'm not ever myself until I can feel safe doing so, and that's only with Finley and Katie. Pick a name out of a hat. Either or, those two both know how exactly I live and breathe to love. I love before I even think. It's my nature. It's why I'm alone, because in that sense, who else really knows?
And who would care? I can't see people who laugh at me for trying to do well in school joining hands and suddenly holding me like I deserve and saying, "I love you, Payton. Of course I'll let you help, here's what I need" because they don't do that. Not even with themselves. At least, I know Kate doesn't. It's funny that an unintentional word choice my Katie agreed with can hurt when I don't want it to. I want to take it as truth, because Kate wrote it as truth. But I wish she knew that when I used to walk up and talk to her and she'd look at me like she were worried I'd pull a lighter, it was because I saw her and my heart hurt for her, because she hurts--and I know it.
She doesn't know that. Would she think I were crazier if she did? I wonder what people would do if they knew exactly how much I do love them. Like in The Last Unicorn, you know? "Anyway, I love you. That's all I have to tell you... that's all I have to say."
I won't break the secret-keeper's trust, but this hurts. I wish Kate knew. I wish Kate would somehow mysteriously derive what I've tried to do for her and Katie and go, "'Oh, Payton," and fall in, and let me fix things--because I honestly believe I could do something.
And that's what she needs.
Met Jessica Huckabee today. She needed a willy-nally pole girl who didn't know jack, and I gave it to her. I think Katie was confused, and when I saw that, I realized she wouldn't want me to hide myself, so I blended them together, only giving the bare minimum of what could help Jessica with... whatever she needed help with. I didn't know at the time, and I don't know more now.
I'm worried what the combination will do, but I love Katie, and this was Katie's friend. When Jessica left, Katie was honest. Katie talked a long time and I listened without restriction or fear, just like yesterday. Well, almost today now...
I think things are a little better than before for her. Just a little, and that's all I ask. Katie and I cuddled for awhile today. Like Elizabeth and I used to cuddle before... before she took what I feared and used it to hurt me. Elizabeth hurt me. I have to get used to saying that, because it's true, and it's not okay. I don't deserve that. Never did. Anyway, Katie and I cuddled, because even when I tried to say that what I'd glimpsed briefly didn't matter, tears ran down. I'm lonely. It really consumes me, honestly, really, it does, this horrible horrible thing, like I'm gulping down some endless night. A moonless night that tastes like melancholy. "If you love me, set me free, let me touch the light!"
I listened to Katie's heart when she held me. I think she understands what I need, a friend. I really need a friend. Just one person I can trust and discard skins in front of. And I can with her. I think she's starting to grasp that, and I appreciate it. It makes me happy knowing she's happy; I feel it a little more today.
You know what I wish I could do? I wish I could write Kate a letter.
Dear Kate,
I'm not normal. I love people more than I love anything else in the whole world. I cry for strangers who are in trouble, and I cry for you. I know what you need. You need to stop growing up. Rather, you need to grow down. You accept a truth, one not yours, as your own, and from that skin you morph it into a horrible thing that isn't really horrible at all, but wonderful; something that can set you free and make this go away, and rather than use it, you ignore it for what you think you should be, but can't be, and won't be. Kate, I watch you every day, just like I do everyone--and I think it's killing you.
You're not enough of yourself to be angry anymore. Just hurt. I feel what you feel in the step of your toes and your pretend, polite conversation. If you make jokes, after all, people will laugh; what fool would associate a happy, clever Kate with a forest-made-Kate whose house is on fire and filled with hungry orphans? Only a crazy person, I'm sure. Crazy like me. But you see, Kate, I'm not crazy. I love too much to be crazy. Rather, I give people what I think they need. Bruno mars sings that he'd take a grenade for "ya". What you don't know is that I'd take one for ANYONE. I love so much that I cry when I see your heart hurting. It makes my heart hurt, too. It's why I'm angry all love stories have happy endings, but for you, I'm writing one right now that will. Even though you wouldn't read it if I told you or give a flying fuck in the buttock of an elephant, I'm writing one, because you said it would make you happy, and I want that. Desperately.
It's funny because none of this matters. Your heart still hurts and you know it and now I'm a freak who lies to you, right? You don't even care. You just want me to to stop talking to you. Maybe you want me to turn out to be some normal, masturbation-addicted freak with like six french movie collections and leukemia so you can hug me and go, "Poor Payton!" while thinking, "God, why am I here, again?"
My heart hurts for you. I want you to know that. Even though you won't, even though you think I'm a horrible person and I've cried for you tonight, you hurt someone I love, and I need to deal with that. Almost as much as you do. I'll do anything you ask to help you, but you won't let me. You're too strong to be on your own. This is a test of self and I think you will fail, and I'm sorry, but that's true. I don't want it to be. Please let me help. Please know I've helped Katie, am helping Katie, and that I can do a lot more than the girl who transferred out of your science class rather than face your annoyed glares.
I'm more than you think I am. Stop judging me and love me like I love you, because you're breaking too many hearts--and I won't let you have mine.
P.S.--please don't call me a liar who lives in a fantasy world. I created a world for people to be safe in and to need certainty in themselves, and one of them--a handsome boy a helluva lot smarter than you, or me--faked his own death in order to hurt me and he did--AND YOU DON'T CARE. You don't know me at all, and you don't want to...
I wish you did.
I love you.
Payton
I won't send it, and she wouldn't read it if I did. It hurts me a lot, God.
Why does this have to hurt more than anything else from someone I trusted and spent time with?
Katie said she'll be spending a lot more time with me soon. I wonder if that means I'm growing on her?
I... I have a friend. I have... a friend. Somebody who held me while I cried and listened. I needed that, and sometimes, it can't be Finley I get it from. Sometimes I really need a friend, a different perspective.. and he doesn't need all this...
I'm sorry, world. I can't help all of you. But I want to. Always, I want to. You see, I love you. Even if you're mean to me. Even if you committed fraud. Even if you started a food fight. Regardless of how many ''good tasks'' you've done. Regardless of how much play time you've put in.
I love you.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Special
Katie knows I love.
I think I might have helped. Tomorrow I will read if she wants it still, after leaping into my pool. I hope I did. I want to.
Thank you, God.
I think I might have helped. Tomorrow I will read if she wants it still, after leaping into my pool. I hope I did. I want to.
Thank you, God.
Special: the things they carried
In "The Things they Carried," Tim O'Brien liked to use lies to teach. He'd tell you about a horrible, inevitable murder of war as though to touch fingers to your neck and say, "This was real. I was there." Because the feeling that word leaves behind, true or not, teaches you the truth in the lies. The imprint of what you want to ignore, but can't. You can't because his heart sings with such terrile beauty, such langorous melencholy, that your soul reaches out as if to say, "Enough! I know! I accept!" while simultaneously whispering, "I feel you, man. Is that wrong? I'm sorry..." and then: "can I help?"
People don't like that, like that lies can touch our souls and imprint on what isn't a s upermodel, Hitler, or a cheeseburger--but even the ones who are angry about it lay at night with its soung on their chests and think, "Why, Man?" at Tim O'Brien, the author who also had no choice, who the truth still weighs on so heavily he has to give it to you or pass more of himself away, "fucking why?"
But when we learn that weight, we cannot drop it. To drop it is to scream that it is no longer an issue, and we no this is not the case. It's funny, though--I always lie awake at night thinking, "Why?"
Because I teach through lies, too.
Only the things I teach--they aren't searing my soul like Tim O'Brien's do His. You can't understand what that's like. Not unless you swallow those lies like honey you were hungry for, feel them inside your gut like a strike of a snake tooth, learn.
What's fun about this situational knowledge--this flair for teaching technically unessessary education--is something in that I know who needs to be taught it. Who will be taught it, who is willing to be taught by me. Who will learn.
So really, my heart screams to lie for truth. Tim O'Brien's called a masterwork writer, because he told the lie-truths. Then again, his lie-truths--they're about war. The Vietnam war. He knew he must fight, and fought. Guilt for a lack of reaction from the American people pummels his every word into the wisdom of a war hero, and that, if nothing else, renders him as what our labels project: a hero.
Does that mean I'm always fighting? Does that mean I have a constant enemy? With who? Who are they? Why?
Who am I fighting? What is my war?
As I first wrote this, people in Diversity glare at me as if to say, "Time for Reality, Payton."
You're lucky for your lies, O'Brien. Nobody listens to mine.
"Communism?"
I feel the lies of Tim O'Brien because they speak to me.
Do they speak to you?
People don't like that, like that lies can touch our souls and imprint on what isn't a s upermodel, Hitler, or a cheeseburger--but even the ones who are angry about it lay at night with its soung on their chests and think, "Why, Man?" at Tim O'Brien, the author who also had no choice, who the truth still weighs on so heavily he has to give it to you or pass more of himself away, "fucking why?"
But when we learn that weight, we cannot drop it. To drop it is to scream that it is no longer an issue, and we no this is not the case. It's funny, though--I always lie awake at night thinking, "Why?"
Because I teach through lies, too.
Only the things I teach--they aren't searing my soul like Tim O'Brien's do His. You can't understand what that's like. Not unless you swallow those lies like honey you were hungry for, feel them inside your gut like a strike of a snake tooth, learn.
What's fun about this situational knowledge--this flair for teaching technically unessessary education--is something in that I know who needs to be taught it. Who will be taught it, who is willing to be taught by me. Who will learn.
So really, my heart screams to lie for truth. Tim O'Brien's called a masterwork writer, because he told the lie-truths. Then again, his lie-truths--they're about war. The Vietnam war. He knew he must fight, and fought. Guilt for a lack of reaction from the American people pummels his every word into the wisdom of a war hero, and that, if nothing else, renders him as what our labels project: a hero.
Does that mean I'm always fighting? Does that mean I have a constant enemy? With who? Who are they? Why?
Who am I fighting? What is my war?
As I first wrote this, people in Diversity glare at me as if to say, "Time for Reality, Payton."
You're lucky for your lies, O'Brien. Nobody listens to mine.
Later, I asked Ms. Feutz why we went to war in Vietnam. "One word answer," I said. She looked at me blankly, like she thought I was nuts.
"Communism?"
I feel the lies of Tim O'Brien because they speak to me.
Do they speak to you?
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Special
She drinks poison like it were wine,
were wine to drink and wine for laughter
wine to clink in crystal glasses,
poison that she drinks like wine.
She seeks solace, comfort, home
home that she's lost as not before
she left herself inside that glass
that glass of poison that she drinks.
I am not an antidote,
no hands of mine can cure for this cause bare,
and as I hug myself at home
she tears herself apart.
She tears herself apart.
I picture poison, dripping
from her luscious lips like blood
a smile slowly forming as her beautiful eyes stray closed.
She smiles as she drinks,
she smiles as she drinks.
Harm
the human blisters in the light of disappointment
alas, alack, and woe
that she was not all she wanted to be--
she was to me.
Does she know that she is beautiful?
Does she know that she is strong?
Does she know that she is courage,
courage hanging on the wall?
The poison that she drinks
has only one antidote:
love and self-respect.
I love you, Katie. I really, really do.
were wine to drink and wine for laughter
wine to clink in crystal glasses,
poison that she drinks like wine.
She seeks solace, comfort, home
home that she's lost as not before
she left herself inside that glass
that glass of poison that she drinks.
I am not an antidote,
no hands of mine can cure for this cause bare,
and as I hug myself at home
she tears herself apart.
She tears herself apart.
I picture poison, dripping
from her luscious lips like blood
a smile slowly forming as her beautiful eyes stray closed.
She smiles as she drinks,
she smiles as she drinks.
Harm
the human blisters in the light of disappointment
alas, alack, and woe
that she was not all she wanted to be--
she was to me.
Does she know that she is beautiful?
Does she know that she is strong?
Does she know that she is courage,
courage hanging on the wall?
The poison that she drinks
has only one antidote:
love and self-respect.
I love you, Katie. I really, really do.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Special: Sorry, Schultz
“Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around.” ~Leo F. Buscaglia
I've got a few things to write about today. The first of them, because I'd like to make amends for an earlier post, is "Director"--a.k.a., as I'm rapidly realizing nobody reads this (who cares about a whiny teenager from an area without conflict, really?), Ms. Schultz.
This story starts simply enough. Finley and Shawna educate in the writing lab Tuesdays and Thursdays. Sometimes, I visit them, making sure not to overly distract Finley or come when either of them are with students. Rarely more than a few moments; Shawna covers during late lunch so Finley can eat with me. That's all I see him for, and I feel like I need to say that, just so anyone who reads this and knows me--knows about Payton--that that's the truth, the honest truth; that I don't hang on his every gesture every moment of every day. That sort of behavior doesn't make for a future.
After finishing a design for a GSA t-shirt (pirate and ninja next to each other, t-shirt reads: 'Friendship. 'Tis good. Fort Atkinson Highschool GSA 2010-2011), I decided to hand it over to Ms. Hall almost immediately. I walked from the art room towards the English pod--and Ms. Hall had a class. The writing lab was totally empty of students, so I walked in, held out the piece of paper to Shawna (I really feel approval-starved sometimes, this is an example) and asked what she thought. She told me the ninja looked like a mummy.
And then, Ms. Schultz. She was quiet that day. I could tell from the way she moved that she was--well, seemed at the time--a little upset, and probably tired from all the play work. Shawna (failing to notice this, surprising from someone who ''knows her so well'') tries to address her, the topic moves--slowly, vaguely--to Shakespeare for a moment. Finley offers to help with the play (also failing to notice it, poor Ms. Schultz!), and is rebuffed by Schultz, explaining (tersely but with perfect politeness, as one may expect from a genius in a quiet mood, rather expertly handling the annoying younger children) that what he offered to do ["Fold programs or whatever"] cannot yet be done.
Silence. Shawna's eyebrow furrows. Finley exchanges a glance with her. I smile, cough away their stupidity, and excuse myself. Afterword, (Ms. Schultz left shortly after I did) Finley and Shawna talk about how ''tense'' it was. I noticed what they felt--that tightening of the stomach, the short, quick glances--but did not automatically label it as ''tension'', which, apparently, they both did. Finley laughs about it--''What a weird moment!'' type stuff, but Shawna, finally bringing to bar the internal frustration at being unable to be close and a ''savior'' to Schultz, decides to rant about how ''unprofessional'' she was towards Finley and I. Other similar remarks. Chatter-chatter. Blah-blah.
In the end, Shawna--and this decision makes me angry even now, though I can repress it for happy thought of the after-time--decides to address Schultz regarding this. Going to battle with a tigress is not a good idea when one is a tiny chicken, and the result is predictable: Chicken is clobbered by tigress, who allows chicken to live, chicken cries about how unfair life is, etc. What upsets me is that Shawna (see above: chicken) told Ms. Schultz (also above: tigress) that Finley and I bank on her approval to continue both our relationships and our lives. Things of that nature. Shawna told Ms. Schultz that she treats the pair of us terribly, always has, always will. Terrible things like that. She then enlists the help of Steiner (not my first choice for a firing squad partner) to battle against said tigress, wounding minorly. Schultz sends home the Chicken...
And goes to Finley. Finley tells her (after she asks, mind) that he and I have no problem with her (true) and would tell her if we did (true). Finley sends me a text that Schultz ''is on the warpath''. I sneak out of Diversity to text him back. We exchange the above story. After school, I find Finley. Finley expands on story. I go and talk to Ms. Schultz after expressing my frustration of the situation to Finley ("How dare she! We have nothing but respect for our *director*!").
Ms. Schultz and I exchange a few unimportant social nothings, and then--cautiously--I interpose, "I heard about some writing lab drama today that involved you, me, Finley and Shawna. Is everything okay?" Ms. Schultz--so torn by this, one of her former friends or at least minor friends doing this shit to her AGAIN after Atticus and God knows what else--snaps at me. I pick up a few snippets of her life from said snap, and realize I was right: she is lonely.
I'm angry at everyone for that. She's a good person. Still cautiously, I manage to choke out that "anger makes us angry at ourselves, and she's too angry at herself." (It comes out more like "You are too angry at yourself to be yourself.") She doesn't really get it, and I don't want to expound. It's not my place, is it? She'll get it if she thinks about it. After she refuses my hug (my heart breaks over that), I leave her. Alone as she was when I walked in, I stop a moment to admire her bravery and general valiance at mere life.
I go to Finley. He asks me what happened, and I tell him my heart hurts. Basically what that means is that there's someone I want to help, but can't, and when I can't help someone, it literally consumes me. Like I feel sad and confused and angry as though it were my fault somehow, or what-have-you. It's awful. It's probably one of my biggest ''weaknesses''. I ask if he'd break up with me for Ms. Schultz, because they're wonderful and might even do okay as a couple. He flat-out refuses, reminding me we're engaged and other such things while still agreeing Ms. Schultz is very pretty and deserves a good man in his way. We discuss dating--I'm all for a dating site or whatever I can do so she isn't alone, but Finley reminds me that he and I aren't her peers, we're her students, and that any attempts to end that loneliness would probably be taken insultingly by her.
He's right and I know it--I was just gushing to say something other than, she hurts, she hurts, help her, help her!--so, excusing myself from the volunteer hours I was going to spend on the set (why would Director want more time with the living Drama Finley and had temporarily become?), I went home with Finley. My night isn't very happy. Finley has to leave to get Riley right after rehearsal, I have math homework, my heart hurts, and mom... mom isn't very.... We'll get to that later. Nevermind. Doctor Quinn, Medicine woman has just come on with an episode about a library when the phone rings. I assume it's Mr. Monahan (who my phone died on mid-sentence and I felt truly, awfully terrible about it), but it isn't.
It's Ms. Schultz.
The miracle of this is stunning. I race up the stairs full speed, panting out things like, "Gosh, oh, wow, what can I do for you?" I stride quickly to the kid's bathroom. For one of the first times in my life, I'm not tongue-tied. Like an Adult Payton, one that's frighteningly superior to me in every way, I let that out for a few minutes--just this one conversation. Wish I knew how I did it. Anyway, she [Schultz] has an issue I can help with, which is all I've really wanted since I've first met her. She calls to make sure I'm okay with her, that Finley's okay with her. What she's really calling about, though, I think, is to make sure I don't agree with Shawna.
She informs me (honestly) that Shawna's said and done some awful things about and to her on the Facebook, and she just wants to make sure I'm okay with her. I can almost hear the under-whisper of, "what if she's right?" It sounds so much like something I would do that my heart rips. So I tell her. I talk a straight line, I talk a blue streak, I talk like talking wouldn't ever run out, like I was full to the brim with words about Shawna and Atticus and Ms. Schultz and Finley and myself. I tell her that Shawna and Atticus carry drama gardens in their back pockets, and she shouldn't grow seeds there (I slur that sentence and have to repeat it. I do). I tell her that Finley and I respect and admire her, which means we do want her approval (especially on our relationship, I felt I pointed out), but we realize and respect she doesn't have to give it. She said a very similar thing on one of the times she spoke, almost verbatim from our first conversation earlier that day, which made me very proud, even if it wasn't me that put that thought there, even if she already had it... proud she was fighting for herself, I guess.
I tell her that when I ask for advice or respect, I don't ask it to complain about it. I ask it because I want to be influenced by that person's experience and want to learn from it. Asking it just to discard it (like Shawna seriously had done THAT DAY), is not legit (or cool or whatever vernacular term she'd prefer I use, to which she laughs, which makes me smile and makes me a little braver about this word-vomit). She replies that she didn't give me enough credit. Then, I told her that Shawna, who probably knew she was under a lot of stress, shouldn't have kicked her when Shawna knew Ms. Schultz had stress, stress which strains our opinions of ourselves, and that kicking her [Schultz] when she was wounded and angry at ourselves was such a low thing to do, was awful. I told her that I knew that wasn't maybe what she wanted to hear or even why she called or what she wanted at all, but I wanted her to know that, that that was awful and terrible and made me very, very angry.
Tearfully, it sounded like, she told me I had a beautiful heart. Maybe she was just choked up, but she sounded happy which made my hurting heart feel better, like poison was being sucked out one word at a time. I can't remember what I replied to that. I'm pretty sure I started shooting off my mouth about how wonderful and awesome she is and how much I respect her (which is what I've always wanted her to know I mean).
Silence a moment. I wait, because it isn't done and I know it isn't, this conversation. She told me she'd talked to the Fox about Creative Writing, and how I wanted to learn some things, and we chattered about it, worked out the details... she's going to teach me, blog. Really, really teach me. She has lunch when I have study hall. I get time with her before I have to go and re-build my world. She wants to hear more, and maybe, just maybe, I can teach her some stuff while she teaches me some stuff, can make her a little happier or a little less stressed about things. Maybe while I'm around, she'll fall in love and I'll watch her blossom and open like the angel I know she is.
The talk turns to turkey. I.E.: the play. I tell her it would be my delight to help, ending with a few joking remarks (from both of us) about how Schultz is good at yelling at her play kids, how she was a little late but what the hell, she's a director, she can pretend she was being reflective, etc. Katie and I exchange words on the subject the next day, Katie explaining how terrible things had also been said about HER, which makes me more angry. Shawna's envy that Katie is close to Ms. Schultz is idle and vain and makes me furious. Of course a director looks through that! What kind of idiot are you to hurt her like this?!
For now, whenever I'm around Schultz, I feel like I'm not around a goddess of the stage anymore. I feel like I'm around a person whose pain I can really relate to and understand and that maybe, someday, I'll be lucky enough to help her through if she wants me to. Because I really want her to be okay. I think I get so angry at her sometimes because I love her, because she gave me a place to be myself in like a seed is given land to grow on. I think that's my fault. I think, in that way, we're all as bad as Shawna. I can help her with the little things for now, and that would make her day better, and who knows where that would lead? It'll all be okay. I want her to be okay, God. Please?
In other news, my mother. She expects a lot of me, but it really just isn't her. It's everyone. I feel suspended. When I'm about to go on stage, I feel like the whole world is about to explode, like everything's on me. For this part of my life, this window between today and yesterday and graduation, I feel like that all the time. Only this isn't a play. If I say the wrong line in a play, people will forget. Life will go on. In the end, I can run it again tomorrow, and tomorrow, it'll be perfect. But real life isn't like that, is it? If I charge medical supplies to the wrong credit card, I can't do it again. That's money that someone has to put up, or I die. If I apply too late to a college or say the wrong thing in the application, they refuse me. That's it, I'm refused. Different college away from Finley, my best friend. If I don't make a doctor's appointment, I don't have one while I can have mom's insurance, but what if I say the wrong thing? What if I get a really bitchy secretary like the last one was? My tongue freezes. It's like I can't do it.
I feel like my whole world is frozen in one moment, and if I do the wrong thing, my whole life will be awful and terrible and I won't realize any of my dreams. Does mom know that? Does she even care? Sometimes I wonder if she cares and just wants me to tough it out. Like, I'm a lame kid with brains but no moxy. I'm not brave enough. But aren't I brave every day? Don't I stick needles into my skin? Don't I leave the house to enter a building full of people who don't even bother to see me every day? Don't I keep going to math knowing I likely won't do well?
But I can't make a phone call. When it comes to the big moments, I'm too afraid of the repercussions. I'm too afraid everything will go wrong if I make a mistake, and everyone--down to my counselors at school--encourages that line of thinking. How can I promote myself for scholarships when I feel like the whole world is staring and their stares are branded into my skin for life? I don't know and I'm terrified to find out. The problem is, by fearing, I'm stopping myself from being brave. Does bravery mean ignorance? Brom said to Eragon, "One part brave three parts fool" like it were a compliment. What would he have said if Eragon were a genius? Would he have done anything? "One part coward three part intelligence" on his deathbed? I don't know. I think my mom thinks I don't take my future seriously. What I don't think she understands is that I understand exactly how much gravity is has riding on it, which is why I'm entirely terrified to move.
And I'm really scared to find out. When the main character in ''The things we carried'' was drafted, he had time to think about it and consider it. He had to fight for that time, but he had it. I feel like I'm fighting with much less success. This is the first time in my life I'm begging someone to take my hand, and for the first time, the world is saying, "You're too old for it; your hand is too big for mine."
Today, I wish that when I finally scream, someone will listen.
I've got a few things to write about today. The first of them, because I'd like to make amends for an earlier post, is "Director"--a.k.a., as I'm rapidly realizing nobody reads this (who cares about a whiny teenager from an area without conflict, really?), Ms. Schultz.
This story starts simply enough. Finley and Shawna educate in the writing lab Tuesdays and Thursdays. Sometimes, I visit them, making sure not to overly distract Finley or come when either of them are with students. Rarely more than a few moments; Shawna covers during late lunch so Finley can eat with me. That's all I see him for, and I feel like I need to say that, just so anyone who reads this and knows me--knows about Payton--that that's the truth, the honest truth; that I don't hang on his every gesture every moment of every day. That sort of behavior doesn't make for a future.
After finishing a design for a GSA t-shirt (pirate and ninja next to each other, t-shirt reads: 'Friendship. 'Tis good. Fort Atkinson Highschool GSA 2010-2011), I decided to hand it over to Ms. Hall almost immediately. I walked from the art room towards the English pod--and Ms. Hall had a class. The writing lab was totally empty of students, so I walked in, held out the piece of paper to Shawna (I really feel approval-starved sometimes, this is an example) and asked what she thought. She told me the ninja looked like a mummy.
And then, Ms. Schultz. She was quiet that day. I could tell from the way she moved that she was--well, seemed at the time--a little upset, and probably tired from all the play work. Shawna (failing to notice this, surprising from someone who ''knows her so well'') tries to address her, the topic moves--slowly, vaguely--to Shakespeare for a moment. Finley offers to help with the play (also failing to notice it, poor Ms. Schultz!), and is rebuffed by Schultz, explaining (tersely but with perfect politeness, as one may expect from a genius in a quiet mood, rather expertly handling the annoying younger children) that what he offered to do ["Fold programs or whatever"] cannot yet be done.
Silence. Shawna's eyebrow furrows. Finley exchanges a glance with her. I smile, cough away their stupidity, and excuse myself. Afterword, (Ms. Schultz left shortly after I did) Finley and Shawna talk about how ''tense'' it was. I noticed what they felt--that tightening of the stomach, the short, quick glances--but did not automatically label it as ''tension'', which, apparently, they both did. Finley laughs about it--''What a weird moment!'' type stuff, but Shawna, finally bringing to bar the internal frustration at being unable to be close and a ''savior'' to Schultz, decides to rant about how ''unprofessional'' she was towards Finley and I. Other similar remarks. Chatter-chatter. Blah-blah.
In the end, Shawna--and this decision makes me angry even now, though I can repress it for happy thought of the after-time--decides to address Schultz regarding this. Going to battle with a tigress is not a good idea when one is a tiny chicken, and the result is predictable: Chicken is clobbered by tigress, who allows chicken to live, chicken cries about how unfair life is, etc. What upsets me is that Shawna (see above: chicken) told Ms. Schultz (also above: tigress) that Finley and I bank on her approval to continue both our relationships and our lives. Things of that nature. Shawna told Ms. Schultz that she treats the pair of us terribly, always has, always will. Terrible things like that. She then enlists the help of Steiner (not my first choice for a firing squad partner) to battle against said tigress, wounding minorly. Schultz sends home the Chicken...
And goes to Finley. Finley tells her (after she asks, mind) that he and I have no problem with her (true) and would tell her if we did (true). Finley sends me a text that Schultz ''is on the warpath''. I sneak out of Diversity to text him back. We exchange the above story. After school, I find Finley. Finley expands on story. I go and talk to Ms. Schultz after expressing my frustration of the situation to Finley ("How dare she! We have nothing but respect for our *director*!").
Ms. Schultz and I exchange a few unimportant social nothings, and then--cautiously--I interpose, "I heard about some writing lab drama today that involved you, me, Finley and Shawna. Is everything okay?" Ms. Schultz--so torn by this, one of her former friends or at least minor friends doing this shit to her AGAIN after Atticus and God knows what else--snaps at me. I pick up a few snippets of her life from said snap, and realize I was right: she is lonely.
I'm angry at everyone for that. She's a good person. Still cautiously, I manage to choke out that "anger makes us angry at ourselves, and she's too angry at herself." (It comes out more like "You are too angry at yourself to be yourself.") She doesn't really get it, and I don't want to expound. It's not my place, is it? She'll get it if she thinks about it. After she refuses my hug (my heart breaks over that), I leave her. Alone as she was when I walked in, I stop a moment to admire her bravery and general valiance at mere life.
I go to Finley. He asks me what happened, and I tell him my heart hurts. Basically what that means is that there's someone I want to help, but can't, and when I can't help someone, it literally consumes me. Like I feel sad and confused and angry as though it were my fault somehow, or what-have-you. It's awful. It's probably one of my biggest ''weaknesses''. I ask if he'd break up with me for Ms. Schultz, because they're wonderful and might even do okay as a couple. He flat-out refuses, reminding me we're engaged and other such things while still agreeing Ms. Schultz is very pretty and deserves a good man in his way. We discuss dating--I'm all for a dating site or whatever I can do so she isn't alone, but Finley reminds me that he and I aren't her peers, we're her students, and that any attempts to end that loneliness would probably be taken insultingly by her.
He's right and I know it--I was just gushing to say something other than, she hurts, she hurts, help her, help her!--so, excusing myself from the volunteer hours I was going to spend on the set (why would Director want more time with the living Drama Finley and had temporarily become?), I went home with Finley. My night isn't very happy. Finley has to leave to get Riley right after rehearsal, I have math homework, my heart hurts, and mom... mom isn't very.... We'll get to that later. Nevermind. Doctor Quinn, Medicine woman has just come on with an episode about a library when the phone rings. I assume it's Mr. Monahan (who my phone died on mid-sentence and I felt truly, awfully terrible about it), but it isn't.
It's Ms. Schultz.
The miracle of this is stunning. I race up the stairs full speed, panting out things like, "Gosh, oh, wow, what can I do for you?" I stride quickly to the kid's bathroom. For one of the first times in my life, I'm not tongue-tied. Like an Adult Payton, one that's frighteningly superior to me in every way, I let that out for a few minutes--just this one conversation. Wish I knew how I did it. Anyway, she [Schultz] has an issue I can help with, which is all I've really wanted since I've first met her. She calls to make sure I'm okay with her, that Finley's okay with her. What she's really calling about, though, I think, is to make sure I don't agree with Shawna.
She informs me (honestly) that Shawna's said and done some awful things about and to her on the Facebook, and she just wants to make sure I'm okay with her. I can almost hear the under-whisper of, "what if she's right?" It sounds so much like something I would do that my heart rips. So I tell her. I talk a straight line, I talk a blue streak, I talk like talking wouldn't ever run out, like I was full to the brim with words about Shawna and Atticus and Ms. Schultz and Finley and myself. I tell her that Shawna and Atticus carry drama gardens in their back pockets, and she shouldn't grow seeds there (I slur that sentence and have to repeat it. I do). I tell her that Finley and I respect and admire her, which means we do want her approval (especially on our relationship, I felt I pointed out), but we realize and respect she doesn't have to give it. She said a very similar thing on one of the times she spoke, almost verbatim from our first conversation earlier that day, which made me very proud, even if it wasn't me that put that thought there, even if she already had it... proud she was fighting for herself, I guess.
I tell her that when I ask for advice or respect, I don't ask it to complain about it. I ask it because I want to be influenced by that person's experience and want to learn from it. Asking it just to discard it (like Shawna seriously had done THAT DAY), is not legit (or cool or whatever vernacular term she'd prefer I use, to which she laughs, which makes me smile and makes me a little braver about this word-vomit). She replies that she didn't give me enough credit. Then, I told her that Shawna, who probably knew she was under a lot of stress, shouldn't have kicked her when Shawna knew Ms. Schultz had stress, stress which strains our opinions of ourselves, and that kicking her [Schultz] when she was wounded and angry at ourselves was such a low thing to do, was awful. I told her that I knew that wasn't maybe what she wanted to hear or even why she called or what she wanted at all, but I wanted her to know that, that that was awful and terrible and made me very, very angry.
Tearfully, it sounded like, she told me I had a beautiful heart. Maybe she was just choked up, but she sounded happy which made my hurting heart feel better, like poison was being sucked out one word at a time. I can't remember what I replied to that. I'm pretty sure I started shooting off my mouth about how wonderful and awesome she is and how much I respect her (which is what I've always wanted her to know I mean).
Silence a moment. I wait, because it isn't done and I know it isn't, this conversation. She told me she'd talked to the Fox about Creative Writing, and how I wanted to learn some things, and we chattered about it, worked out the details... she's going to teach me, blog. Really, really teach me. She has lunch when I have study hall. I get time with her before I have to go and re-build my world. She wants to hear more, and maybe, just maybe, I can teach her some stuff while she teaches me some stuff, can make her a little happier or a little less stressed about things. Maybe while I'm around, she'll fall in love and I'll watch her blossom and open like the angel I know she is.
The talk turns to turkey. I.E.: the play. I tell her it would be my delight to help, ending with a few joking remarks (from both of us) about how Schultz is good at yelling at her play kids, how she was a little late but what the hell, she's a director, she can pretend she was being reflective, etc. Katie and I exchange words on the subject the next day, Katie explaining how terrible things had also been said about HER, which makes me more angry. Shawna's envy that Katie is close to Ms. Schultz is idle and vain and makes me furious. Of course a director looks through that! What kind of idiot are you to hurt her like this?!
For now, whenever I'm around Schultz, I feel like I'm not around a goddess of the stage anymore. I feel like I'm around a person whose pain I can really relate to and understand and that maybe, someday, I'll be lucky enough to help her through if she wants me to. Because I really want her to be okay. I think I get so angry at her sometimes because I love her, because she gave me a place to be myself in like a seed is given land to grow on. I think that's my fault. I think, in that way, we're all as bad as Shawna. I can help her with the little things for now, and that would make her day better, and who knows where that would lead? It'll all be okay. I want her to be okay, God. Please?
In other news, my mother. She expects a lot of me, but it really just isn't her. It's everyone. I feel suspended. When I'm about to go on stage, I feel like the whole world is about to explode, like everything's on me. For this part of my life, this window between today and yesterday and graduation, I feel like that all the time. Only this isn't a play. If I say the wrong line in a play, people will forget. Life will go on. In the end, I can run it again tomorrow, and tomorrow, it'll be perfect. But real life isn't like that, is it? If I charge medical supplies to the wrong credit card, I can't do it again. That's money that someone has to put up, or I die. If I apply too late to a college or say the wrong thing in the application, they refuse me. That's it, I'm refused. Different college away from Finley, my best friend. If I don't make a doctor's appointment, I don't have one while I can have mom's insurance, but what if I say the wrong thing? What if I get a really bitchy secretary like the last one was? My tongue freezes. It's like I can't do it.
I feel like my whole world is frozen in one moment, and if I do the wrong thing, my whole life will be awful and terrible and I won't realize any of my dreams. Does mom know that? Does she even care? Sometimes I wonder if she cares and just wants me to tough it out. Like, I'm a lame kid with brains but no moxy. I'm not brave enough. But aren't I brave every day? Don't I stick needles into my skin? Don't I leave the house to enter a building full of people who don't even bother to see me every day? Don't I keep going to math knowing I likely won't do well?
But I can't make a phone call. When it comes to the big moments, I'm too afraid of the repercussions. I'm too afraid everything will go wrong if I make a mistake, and everyone--down to my counselors at school--encourages that line of thinking. How can I promote myself for scholarships when I feel like the whole world is staring and their stares are branded into my skin for life? I don't know and I'm terrified to find out. The problem is, by fearing, I'm stopping myself from being brave. Does bravery mean ignorance? Brom said to Eragon, "One part brave three parts fool" like it were a compliment. What would he have said if Eragon were a genius? Would he have done anything? "One part coward three part intelligence" on his deathbed? I don't know. I think my mom thinks I don't take my future seriously. What I don't think she understands is that I understand exactly how much gravity is has riding on it, which is why I'm entirely terrified to move.
And I'm really scared to find out. When the main character in ''The things we carried'' was drafted, he had time to think about it and consider it. He had to fight for that time, but he had it. I feel like I'm fighting with much less success. This is the first time in my life I'm begging someone to take my hand, and for the first time, the world is saying, "You're too old for it; your hand is too big for mine."
Today, I wish that when I finally scream, someone will listen.
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