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.

Giggle sweet nothings

One of those I'm-in-a-funk-and-have-no-idea-why kind of days. How badly I want to write something wonderful; something I can sip in at a later date and love it. How I'm convinced that will make this bad  weird indescribable mood more enjoyable. Well today, I've got nothing.

A day where I long for my sister. Not sorority sisters. Not best friends. Pure flesh and blood that knows what and how and when to say exactly the right thing. She never has the answer and she knows that. We talk things out; we talk life out. Memories reemerge to link us to better days; to happier times. We giggle sweet nothings and we hold hands. Hold tight, linking not only hands but souls knowing, we're never alone.

Regardless, today I feel a little something like that. Alone. Disconnected. Lengths of time from my best friend; my greatest confidant; my other half

Better Friends

You have friends and you have better friends. Most importantly though, you have core friends.

They laugh with me the way my sister and I giggle till our abs ache; have witnessed, first hand, streams of tears when my feelings are disregarded. Core friends understand my tough exterior is merely that, an exterior, and their reaction to the vinyl wall quote I hold up in the middle of a Target isle at 8:00 on a Tuesday night asking, "how do you feel about this?" is "not bad... well, the beige bothers me." I put it back on the rack. Not because she didn't like it but because she inconceivably pin-pointed the reason I just wasn't sold on the vinyl quote. It was all the beige.

I once read that a woman should never have a 'best' friend. Friends should not be ordered, for each serves a unique purpose in life. I do however, recognize that fact that I have core friends. We talk about our lives together. There are many 'when we have children, promise me we will do that with them' and even more 'tell me right now our husbands will be friends, too.'  That promise was made. Those men have no choice, now. That's the best part about it though: we'll wait for those men. For that time. For our time.

There will come a day when we will pick up the phone to a screaming voice saying, I'm engaged, and another day it will be, I'm pregnant. We will celebrate the happiness of our friends. We'll drool over diamonds. They will hold me together when I walk down that isle and I will, without question, reciprocate. There will be afternoons where we'll rub growing bellies and find humor in the bellybutton poking out.We will love one another's children as if they are our own. We will kiss them and hold them and love them and celebrate them.  We will celebrate.

There will be days where we look into the eyes of these God sent woman and say I can't do it. I will hold them with no intention of letting go. Only then, when they find the strength within themselves to keep going, I will unwrap my arms but never will I let go of their hand. I wish I could say that we will never have days or weeks or even months where we feel that monkey jumping on our back. The weight on our shoulders that is too heavy to carry alone. Times where we feel like we just can't. At 20-something-years-old, there will be those times. The sun will rise again and we will celebrate. Celebrate another victory; an obstacle overcome.

We will celebrate with pink drinks in fancy glasses, high heels and the unspoken admiration for one another.

We will celebrate.

Little Miss Crankypants

Walking into my house this afternoon, this post dawned on me. After hustling all day at work, I left nearly sweating. Finish the newsletter, print this, email that, chase that one down, give these people a tour, take reservations & the list went on. Every time I turned around there was a wrinkly old person standing at my office door needing something. They are very needy. I feel like you hit a certain age and then proceed to regress back to a helpless child. It's okay though. I am happy to help. It is my job after all. No problem. The weird part? The second I stepped out of the front doors, I turned into Ms.Cranky. BOOM. Like that. Out of nowhere. Cranky, irritable, anti-social and wishing I was "I dream of genie," could nod my head and be home. No such luck. At least for now.

I (of course!) fought traffic the entire way home. I know, I know- it comes with living in paradise. From Christmas to Easter our little beach town is swamped with those who drive too slow and don't quite know where they're going. To top it off, they're in absolutely no hurry what-so-ever. Again, its ok. It's only for a few months and this town does survive off tourism. I get it. I'm usually the only one that doesn't complain about the traffic but today, Miss. Cranky had a few choice words... followed by a prayer of apology for my impatience...for our precious tourists and snowbirdies.

Then, it dawned on me. Am I sorry for being cranky? No, not really. Sometimes you need to be cranky. You need to go home and lock yourself in your room, hurrying to get in your pajamas, without so much as muttering a word to your poor roommate. Normally, I'd send a text across the house saying "sorry for being a bitch" and then make up some excuse like, "I'm just really tired." Not this time friends. I'm allowed to be cranky every once in a while. I don't have to be Miss Politically Correct and Miss Friendly every. single. day. I really try but sometimes, I just have an off day. Sometimes, the wrinkly people just wear me out. Sometimes, I can't muster a happy "hello." I just can't. I'm allowed to sit in my bed for the entire evening and continue to work.  I'm allowed to skip Wednesday service at church to catch up on work. To finish stuff for work, stuff for Rotaract, stuff on my to-do list that seems to grow by every waking moment. I'm allowed to eat chocolate chip waffles for dinner, with milk, in bed-- because I want to.

So, needless to say, I have been Little Miss Cranky this afternoon. I'm not sorry about it. Tomorrow is another day. I will wake up with a smile on my face and seize the day. Today, I learned that you're allowed to  be cranky every once in a while.

A look back at the year

With 4th of July weekend quickly approaching, it's difficult not to think about where I was and what I was doing this time last year.  Maybe because prior to this year, 4th of July was virtually non-existent or maybe because this year, it is.  It feel like that part of my life is so much further away than just a year; that the people who meant the world to me, I no longer communicate with.

Exactly a year ago, I was on the second floor of a convention center, dressed in enough layers for ski slopes, physically and emotionally weak in every sense of the word; wishing time away.  It wasn't all enjoyable but I did (and still would) long for the end result.  The struggles, the hard work, the pain-- all things I am proud of.  I've defied my own abilities and that journey has shaped me into the woman I am.  I understand what I am capable of. I've proved it time and time again. As with all wonderful things, you eventually reach the last page of the chapter. It was all part of what I lived for, what I loved and what I eventually had to leave behind. To move on. To grow. To start my life in reality.

It's undoubtedly a bittersweet sensation and continues as a daily struggle, I can't help but strive for peace. Peace within the situation. Peace within myself. I'm still searching for my silver lining because I believe it exists.

Believe.

Swore we'd never see the end

This past weekend I attended Tri Delta's Spring Formal as one of my dearest little sister's date. Well, back-up date to be exact- which was the only reason I didn't turn down the invite in fear of being "that girl" who returns to her old sorority events in hopes of re-living her college years.

My biological sister serves as the Continuing Education Chair where one of her duties is making sure the seniors are recognized in a special way as they enter the next chapter of their lives. This year, she chose to have a table at formal, on the table was a card for each graduating senior. On my way out, I stopped to write a few words in these cards, all ending with "PC '07 <3 Heather." I made it to the last card before I was flooded with this unrecognizable feeling that came in the form of tears...or for anyone who knows me, hysteria. It was in that moment I realized that we have reached the end of the road in our collegiate journey. Those who are graduating now, are women I began that journey with nearly four years ago as strangers. We set out into the unknown together, side-by-side, and since have conquered all that we were set to endure. We got our big sisters, who (we felt) left us soon before we were ready; we held positions (we though) we would never be able to handle; and we became big sisters, who thought, we would never live up to what our big sisters were to us.

Everything everyone warned us about, preached to us about, got us excited for, prepared for, scared for and yearning for, we saw, we did, we faced, we accomplished, we overcame, we conquered and sometimes, we just figured it out. Those times we didn't, we had the greatest gift of all-- our sisters to lean on, to hold us up and to pull us through it. We had the wise words of those who came before us and our ritual book to hold tight.

Last night, as I turned off the light next to my bed I took a moment to appreciate the picture (and frame) that sits comfortably on my nightstand. It's a picture of my little sister and her little sister (my grandlittle) with Ohana engraved at the bottom, and three perfectly shaped Deltas. I smiled and glanced over at the two gorgeous paddles hanging on my wall, positioned perfectly under my initiation certificated from Tri Delta's Executive Office. It was such a surreal moment; one day I thought I would never see. Emotions ran again.

It's not a specific feeling; it's every feeling all at once. Four years ago I took a chance and a risk to participate in formal recruitment. By means of fate and God's will (and proper ritual procedures, of course) I became a Tri Delta. At that moment, I did not only pave a path for myself, but for my little sister who would- two years later- become my legacy. Whom I helped initiate and who wore (and almost lost) my pin proudly over her heart, for the next year. I never saw it before but I see it now that the leap of fate I took as a fearless 18-year-old freshman has changed the entire course of my life and my little sister's life-- and any daughters or neices we may have in the future.

This experience has taken me from a girl to a lady and now a woman who is ready to face the world alone and confidently, with Tri Delta near and dear to my heart. This has made us all better; has made us willing and able to embark on our newest journey and next chapter of our lives.