Raw

This here, may be the most unedited, raw feelings I've ever been able to transcribe. I may write and type through tears and sniffles and runny mascara more often.

________________________________________________________________________________ 4-7-2013

Someone... please answer why it takes a Sunday night, stuck at a red light, head on the steering wheel and mascara all over the place to search deep enough for something worthy.

I find myself itching to get home to transcribe tears into all they mean and represent. Put the hurt on paper. This moment has nothing to do with present healing and everything to do with looking back when the seas are calm.

I’ve always believed that the best dancers are those who trick you with emotions when zero emotional attachment exists. Dancer communicate through passion, not necessarily present feelings. Saying that, it goes the same for writers. In my head, I beg and plead that the days allow me to find time and desire and raw passion to write. To write it all; the good and the bad— every emotion I feel throughout the day. I find the good throughout the day. I, for the better part of time, am optimistic and happy and excited about the future.

When things are good, I don’t need writing to survive. I think of it, in a way, I crave to preserve these feelings. To bottle them up for a raining day—I can watch from afar how things will eventually look up. I can sip on them while the sun dances its way into the day. I can slurp and gulp until the emptiness fades and rainbows and unicorns and reality set back in.

Unfortunately, it’s hard to write them when things are great. I always believed it was easy to write when the going got rough, It was something to lean on; something to rely on. A comping mechanism; an outlet and form of therapy that was much cheaper than medication.

The only thing harder than breaking from cloud nine to document the great, is trying to form words for pain felt on the inside.

Than those moments creep in. I’m scared, beyond scared.

Tonight, all I know is that red light experienced so much hurt and pain and a mess of mascara. The song that witnessed it all will always hold those emotions. Like, my mascara forgot where it belonged and I was wearing it all over my sleeves.

On paper, I am complete. I’m financially independent. I know what I want. I’m willing to work my ass off. I’m comfortable in my own skin. Physically and mentally and emotionally and spiritually.

Than those moments creep in.

I compare myself others. Where they are; what they’re doing, accomplishing, experiencing. I’m not them.

Goodness it hurts.

I believe God has it all planned out.

He is out there looking for me. He loves me already as deep and pure as I adore him. He’s praying for me as I am him. I beg and plead.

Sitting at a red light with my head on the steering wheel—begging God to bring me to him. There is so much life I have left. So many plans, planned. I want a hand laced into mine; one that never wants to let go. I have this picture in my head. One that has been and will continue to be altered but the end results, always the same.

There is so much love bottled. Inside. Kept away. Waiting for the moment to explode into someone else. To crash into the dreams and desires and hopes of another human being. To have it all. Create it all. Fall in love every day and every night. Over and over again-- like the first time, every time

burnt muffins

Set the fire alarm off and burnt the muffins. They came from a box; I added three ingredients and poured the goopy batter into muffin molds. The timer beeped at fifteen; below the minimum requirement. They’re sitting on my stove, black as the night sky. Yeah, I burnt muffins out of a box. It’s been one of those days.

I need to write as much as ever tonight. This here, a moment where I question just how honest I’m willing to be, I’m reminded of a little promise made to my inner self about honesty. Honesty means vulnerability and vulnerability is not exactly my favorite concept—unfortunately, the intelligent side of my subconscious is firm on improvement. Vulnerability means improvement; vulnerability is necessary. This post will be different. Thoughts are spinning and whirling a jumbled mess inside my head. My subconscious is rolling her eyes mumbling "drama queen" while my inner self is screaming a girly scream and holding on for dear life. This is all I've got.

o   "We left their mark on California." It’s a labor of love; raw passion to the bone. He’s embarking on the same adventure I set out on at nineteen-years-old. There are only two reasons young adults are drawn to this lifestyle like a moth to a flame: 1, internal obligation for first or 2, absolute loathe of second. I beam with pride when I talk about him; he is living out his dream, passion paving the road but inside, it tears me apart. Parental instincts boil in my blood; I've never experienced the stir of untainted joy towards someone else’s happiness and accomplishments. With this come unsolicited, soaked tears. Convinced most people live entire lives without experiencing the need for something which evokes passion. Intense crave running below skins surface; barely touching heaven—it’s about coming alive. Oh, am I thankful for it all. Aches and pains and pops of my knees are all reminders of what once was. Absence of desire never gets easier. This here and now, this is my life. Attempting to help my ‘baby’ brother grasp just how special this feeling is. To treasure playing music in the clouds, on cloud nine, encouraging him to take big bites of out heaven. Let the feeling of coming alive burn into his soul and mind and heart and every part of him. Suck it up; let it cut deep and scab and eventually, scar. Leaving fragments and memories to guzzle later in life. To never forget what coming alive feels like.

o   Unpredictability has recently pitched a tent in my life and I have a suspicious feeling that it may be consulting a local Realtor. There should really be permit requirement for purchases of that nature. I've watched seventeen episodes of Pretty Little Liars, since Thursday, in a desperate attempt to create consistency and predictability. I have no appetite what-so-ever; not even for Wynn’s chunky chicken salad and ‘everything’ pretzel chips. My bedroom floor is scattered with piles of clean clothes, dirty clothes, bottles of nail polish and purses and shoes; it's all piling up. Constant eye rolls as I continuously step trip over the growing piles. Haven't thought twice about actually tidying up. Feeling as though I’m being left behind; an old soul who occasionally fails to remember my age.  Drowning in the brilliance of others is where I've been finding comfort in the chaos. Constantly overcompensating a forward motion, suffering a debilitating fear of regression. Rubbing my eyes, anxious for resolution, for peace, for a sound mind and improvement. With time, it will happen. With time.

This is all I've got. For now.

Pink flowers down Caxambas Court

Sweet, sweet summertime.

Ridiculous amount of emotions and experiences must be documented from the last two weeks. With time, they will. Tonight, I'm in the here and now. Soaking in the warmth of my Shabby Chic bedding as if it were an overflowing bubble bath, enjoying heaping spoonfuls of double dark chocolate gelato and fresh memories of adventure.

Sunday nights are reserved for family dinners and giggles and wine and stories. Old friends and new friends are welcome with open arms. Tonight, three-year-old Avery and I walked hand-in-hand picking pink flowers down Caxambas Court. Consuming hearty helpings of pasta and shrimp and lobster, we ended the night with bowls of fruit piled high with whipped cream. My belly and heart are full at the thought of it all. Watching Avery enjoy a Florida summer sunset over fruit salad, she would mumble, night night strawberry, right before she would sink her teeth into the juicy seasonal fruit. Intelligent beyond her years, she identified every fruit. I had to giggle when I heard, night night cucumber. I thought, for sure cucumbers had no place in a fruit salad. Avery learned tonight that kiwis and cucumbers are extremely similar in appearance. I basked in the presence of this free-spirit. Oh did I enjoy this summer night.

The sun sank below the horizon line as cars and trucks and boat engines roared and we departed our separate ways. Refreshed and prepared to conquer the week ahead. Behind the wheel of my brother's silver two-door Honda, I drowned thoughts and worries in my sixteen-year-old self's summer playlist, breathing in cool, humid Florida air. Oh, did I feel full and blessed and free and whole.

Welcome back sweet, sweet summertime.

Gate D11 Seat 27A

I swore To myself I'd write before I touched down in Paris. Do me a favor and read between the lines on this one. Pay no mind to the disorganization, the rambles, the sweaty palms and emotional jargon this post is about to contain...in just a short while.

Propped up cross-legged in a leather airport chair. I'm beyond gracious for the Starbucks I stumbled upon moments ago. Approaching the gate, not a single Starbucks in sight. What airport, international none-the-less, doesn't have that gold mine in a cup? Just my luck, this one did. I swear I heard angels sing.

Miami International, Gate D11. It's quickly approaching. Surrounded by strangers catching up and joking in an unrecognizable language. I'll assume it's French but I'm not willing to confirm it. At this very moment, it just occurred to me:  the most 'foreign' place I've ever been is El Paso, TX. There aren't beaches in El Paso. Definitely foreign.

'The moment.' The moment I've had branded on my calendar for months. The moment typed in all caps accompanied with little airplanes and strokes of emotion. It is here.

Four months ago I stood in my parents driveway begging and pleading her not to go. Heaving, gasping for air, doubled over in physical pain, piercing eyes met mine. Regretfully forcing her to second guess her decision, if only for a second, fearing I would not be okay without her. For the fist time understanding what "take care of yourself" meant. Take care of myself?! I wanted to shake her and say, "THAT'S WHY I HAVE YOU!" Too self-absorbed in the moment to form sentences. All she could fathom was, "should I go get Mom?" My countdown began the very next day.

Writing this, seat 27A houses the emotions of that night. Fighting their way out in the form of tears. Pain has ceased but recounting how vulnerable I felt is a horrifying realization. Sounds dramatic; I'm well aware but I'm also aware that grasping our relationship from the outside, is beyond challenging. It's rare and it's natural. We communicate silently through our eyes. In our early twenties, we whisper and giggle and hold hands under the covers in our childhood bedroom. My heart aches for those who never experience a relationship of this magnitude.

Less than twenty-four hours from now, we'll be [by choice] sharing a tiny bed, holding hands and whispering months and months of stories early into Friday morning. Longing for this for so long, it's just now I realize why the anxiousness feels absent. She hasn't felt it either. Initially, my heart ached. Are we OK being far away from each other? Have we grown apart? Has this destroyed our precious relationship?

Surely not but we have changed as women. We've grown wings; we've ventured beyond what is safe and what is cozy and what is expected. Conquered fears, overcome adversity and proved to ourselves we are strong and independent and adventurous; bound and determined to be better than we were yesterday. I believe I wrote--and if I didn't, I surely intended to--this would be our chance to grow separately together.

That, we did.

I land on unfamiliar soon, welcomed by all the familiarity I can guzzle at once. From there, we will embark on our next adventure, together. Four months ago I prayed that nothing would change between us. Appreciative for unanswered prayers, things have surely changed.

We are better women than we were four months ago; we are changed for good.