Foolish Thoughts

I tell you everything, even when you don’t want to listen.  You’re who I run to. I just like being along side of you… 

 

Today I’ve been in a state of blah.  I’m not really sure where it’s coming from.  Generally, I’m a happy person, or at least content.  I’m easy going, not easily bothered, and it really takes a lot to upset me.  But today, I don’t know, I’ve just been argh.  This morning I woke up so angry and I didn’t even know why.  I didn’t want to get out of bed, but I didn’t want to lay there either.  I wanted to go out, but I wanted to stay at home.  I was hungry, but nothing appealed to me.  Nothing satisfied me, nothing, not even my clothes.  They actually hurt next to my skin.  Maybe it’s the weather?  Maybe I’m just ready for spring and the sun and its warm rays?  Maybe I’m ready to move forward, move on, move out, something?  Today I just really needed someone to hold me and there was no one there.  And I think what makes me angry is that I’m the one to blame for this.  It’s my fault I’m alone.  I’ve chosen to be alone…for the most part.  Overall, it’s been my decision.  But I’ve been thinking that maybe I don’t want to be alone anymore.  I don’t want to do it by myself.  I need someone to fill this emptiness, this void, this anger.  Change is hard, that I know, but I’m ready for a change.  So I’ve decided to make some changes.  I’m going to try and be more open.  I’m going to be more, care more, love more, because I’m tired of feeling alone and angry all the time.

“I say me, knowing all the while it’s not me.”  ~Samuel Beckett, The Unnamable, 1953

 

Lately I’ve doubted myself.  I doubt the person I am and the person others perceive me to be.  I worry that no one knows the real me, that I’ve spent so much time and energy convincing everyone of  this lie, one that I tell so well, that at times I’ve even fooled myself.  We all go through life wearing masks.  We allow ourselves to be and act a certain way while in certain company.  Some see our professional side, where we do our job and we do it well.  Some see our fun, wild side, where we let go and don’t care.   While others see our angry, destructive side, where we get mad and scream.  Then there are those who get to see our vulnerable side, where we are weak and helpless.  We don’t always consent to all our sides, we limit what people see. 

On first impression, most perceive me to be quiet, extremely introverted, and an emotionless individual.  And for the majority of those, that’s the only face they will see.  I will either never become comfortable enough or feel safe enough to reveal my other portion.  Though, once I become relaxed and at ease, I will start to come out of my shell, revealing more.  I will begin to participate in conversation, allowing myself to laugh and smile.  But even then, I won’t let my guard fully down.  I convince myself that I cannot trust you knowing all of me.  Either you won’t understand, appreciate, or approve.  I fear if you don’t like part of me, then you won’t like me, and that’s not a risk I’m willing to take.  I will only show you what I want you to see, or rather, what I think you want to see.  At times this proves to be demanding and challenging.  There have been occasions where I’ve failed completely, being too drained from the charade that I surrender and fall apart.  I don’t like being exposed like that, feeling weak and powerless.  That’s why many have never seen me cry.  I won’t give in to it.

I’m not sure if there is anyone who knows me completely, who has seen every side and face. There are a few, select, that have seen most of me.  I can count them on one hand.  I’m able to calm down and not worry what they think of me, because they accept all of me.  These are the ones who when I laugh, they laugh, when I cry, they cry, when I fight, they fight back. They don’t care that I’m flawed.  They see and understand and acknowledge all my masks, and for that I’m able to be me.

 

I don’t feel much like writing.  I don’t feel like thinking.  I just want to sleep. God please, give me tonight.  Let me sleep without dreaming.  Let me dream without touching.  Let me touch without shame.  Let me have without wanting.  Let me want without having. God, take it away.  Ease my mind.  Let me close my eyes and sleep, at least for tonight.

 

I can’t sleep.  I’ve tried.  I’ve even resorted to counting sheep and well, that became too stimulating after about the ninth sheep.  I began to picture the sheep, not white and fluffy, but with color and at times with clothing.  There was a gangsta rapper with a gold chain and a grill that said, “BAAA” along with a female sheep wearing Jimmy Choo’s “Heart Leather” peep toe with it’s matching button accessory (which I would give my first born for) and a green with muti-color circle design Hermes scarf around her head (which I almost want more than life itself).  I stopped when I became jealous of the sheep and their particular designer clothing.

I’ve tried a warm cup of hot chocolate, but it didn’t help.  It only made me want another cup, this time with marshmallows.  I would go for the glass of warm milk, but I hate milk and I’m a little lactose intolerant, and that would cause a whole set of problems besides sleep.

I’ve tried listening to my “sleep” playlist on my ipod.  I turned it down low and soft, but the only thing I have on my “sleep” playlist is Damien Rice, Ryan Adams, Ray LaMontagne, Peter Gabriel, Rhett Miller, Bright Eyes, and Schuyler Fisk.  All are amazing and have voices that make me melt like a popsicle on the Fourth of July, but they are all filled with lonely, depressing, heart wrenching, love lyrics.  After about the second song I was almost in tears with the realization that not only am I awake, in bed, in the middle of the night, but I’m awake, in bed, in the middle of the night ALONE!  It’s a very sad and depressing realization.  Not one that I like to think about often.  Though, at night, lying in bed is when I think of it most.  I keep myself busy and preoccupied during the day, that I really don’t think about it, or at least I push it to the side and to the back of my mind like I do everything else I don’t want to deal with.  I find it’s easier to block, to worry about another time.  I keep telling myself that I like being single, that being alone is what I want.  I don’t want the responsibility of someone else.  I like taking care of me.  I like knowing I can do what I want, when I want, and with whom I want.  I’m only 25, there’s still so much I want to do before I even begin to think of settling down with someone.  It’s selfish and self absorbed, but it’s the way I feel.  I think.  Until at night, like now, or when I see a couple walking down the street, in the park, at the movies, holding hands and then I want it…I want someone.    I want the companionship, the friendship, the handholding, the kissing, the looking, the lying next to each other, the conversation, and the safeness.  But I don’t want to look for it.  I don’t want to date.  I hate dating.  I hate the whole idea of dating and everything that goes with it.  I hate the awkwardness, the time, the pain, the planning, and the effort of it all.  Dating to me is a waste of time and energy.  I want the fairy tale.  I want a guy to come and sweep me off my feet.  I want the love at first sight type of thing, though I don’t believe in it.  I want to feel instantly comfortable.  I don’t want the guessing and doubt.  Actually, I don’t know if that’s what I want.  I don’t have any freaking clue what I want.

What I want right now is sleep.  I want to turn the computer off, the lamp off, get under the covers and snuggle in, close my eyes, and fall asleep.  That’s all I want, at lest for now.

Mom:  Long sigh, accompanied with rolled eyes, “What’s wrong?”

Brooke:  “…………………..”

Mom:  “Why are you crying?”

Brooke:  (Insert horrible sobbing, along with snot and tears) “I don’t know.”

Mom:  “What do you mean you don’t know?  Is there something wrong?  Did you have a bad day at school?  Are you hurt?”

Brooke:  Still sobbing, “No…I don’t know.”

Mom:  “Brooke!”

Brooke:  “What?  I don’t know.”

Mom:  “Well, if nothings wrong then dry it up and put a smile on your face.”

Brooke:  “It hurts my face to smile.”

Mom:  Another long sigh, but with hands thrown in the air, “Fine.  Then cry.  I give up.”

Throughout my three years in junior high, this was the daily conversation my mother and I shared when she would get home from work.  I would be thrown across my bed, face down, crying into a pillow.  To talk, I would only slightly turn my head, never making eye contact with her.  She was concerned and she did care, but she was tired.  She was tired with it all, “It” being me. 

I hated junior high.  I hated going.  I hated being there.  I hated myself while I was there.  It wasn’t that I was an outcast, and I wasn’t that girl that everyone made fun of.  I had friends, but I wasn’t popular, that wasn’t the problem.  I didn’t mind that I wasn’t popular.  I felt that I was popular enough.  I had the cool clothes, the cool shoes, good grades, good hair, good complexion, and good friends.  But still, I was miserable and I would come home and cry everyday.  I guess puberty had a lot to do with it.  My hormones were severely off balance.  I believe I had a chronic stomach ache for three years.  I would refuse to go to school the week I was on my period, complaining that I was in too much pain, and my teachers wouldn’t allow me to go to the bathroom during class and I didn’t have time to go between classes.  I would beg my mother every morning to let me stay home.  This ploy only worked about once every two or three months.  On the days she made me go, I would call, usually after lunch and plead with her to come and get me.  This tactic rarely worked either, and when it did, I was not taken home, but taken to her office where I would bounce between examining rooms until the end of the day, when she was finished seeing patients.  How I rationalized this was better than being at school is still a mystery to me.

School overall, sucked.  However, what got me through each day, beginning in eighth grade, was my pre-algebra teacher, Mrs. Zutaut.  Without her, I’m not sure I would have made it through junior high.  She fascinated me and I looked up to her for that reason alone.  She took time to listen and offer advice.  She allowed me to hang out in her room when I didn’t want to go to class.  She was my safe haven, someone I could talk to, someone I could go to, someone who took an interest.  She was my teacher, a teacher who at the time cared.  While shuffling through boxes of my books today, I stumbled upon a book she gave me, along with a poem and a letter.  The poem said:

“No one can determine who I am, but myself.  My parents can not.  My teachers can not.  My friends can not.  They can guide me, but in the final analysis the problem is completely mine.  For I have abilities that are completely unique to me and the challenges of life is for me to discover them, to develop them, to use them.  For then and only then will I know who I am.”

Tears streamed down my face as I read these words.  Still, after all these years I realize I still look to my parents, teachers, friends, and now even boy friends, and jobs to determine who I am.  Even years of maturing and growing, I have not learned to trust in myself.  I’m not sure if that’s a skill I will grasp.  I rely so heavily on what other people think that I’ve lost sight of who I am.  I realize I do this, but still, I continue to do it…Why?

Looking back now, I ask myself, was I a depressed teenager?  Sure.  Was I just going through a phase?  Yeah.  Did I eventually out-grow it?  Sort of.  My mother would say I’ve gotten better, but I still have my moments.  And I would have to agree with her.  I still go through days where I prefer to be alone and be down and depressed.  I feel you can’t be happy everyday, though my mother doesn’t agree.  She says, “Being happy is sometimes a choice, and sometimes you have to choose to be happy.”  I believe that’s true to a degree.  But then I feel that sometimes it’s ok to be sad and unhappy, and not know why.  I still hate it when she say’s, “Put a smile on your face, let me see the pretty girl hiding under that frown.”  And I always respond with, “It hurts my face to smile.”   

 

I’m sitting on my front porch working on my lesson plans for next week. Actually, I’m working on lesson plans from four weeks ago. After my last observation from my supervisor, I regretfully neglected my daily logs and reflections. At the time I had better things to do then write lessons and reflections. Now, I’m kicking myself in the ass. Would it have killed me to jot down a few notes each day? What, I can’t remember, was so important that I was unable to write down the days activities my students engaged in? No, actually I do remember what was so important…sleeping, watching tv, and doing abso-freaking-lutely nothing. I thought I had my priorities in order. Apparently not. The only reason I’m even working on them now is my supervisor is coming for her last observation tomorrow. I’d really have to screw things up to ruin this, like hit a kid or pull a Mary K. Laturno. But leave it to me to fail student teaching during my last week. It’s something I would do.

Along with these ridiculous lesson plans, I’m also worried about what is going to happen in two weeks. I’m finished come May 5th. However, I’m moving my stuff out next weekend. Where I’m moving I’m not sure. That’s something I need to figure out. My stuff: furniture, bed, clothes, shoes, kitchen ware/appliances are moving either to my parents house or storage. I still haven’t made up my mind where I’m going. A month ago I had it, my life, all figured out. (I laugh hysterically at myself for even typing that and more for thinking it). The PLAN was to spend the summer in New York, taking writing classes at NYU. Well, NYU smashed that plan by not providing enough housing for their summer students. After going through the long and agonizing process of being accepted, I now have no place to live. Huh, no place to live. That seems to be a reoccurring theme in my life right now.

There’s always the option, the one my mother favors, loves, and encourages, the one where I move back in with my parents. Not a horrible option. There would be no rent, free home cooked food, a pool and jacuzzi. Those are the pros. The cons, which right now out weigh the pros, are: moving back home to live with my parents. Yep, there’s just the one, but it’s a BIG one. I love my parents and I love spending time with them, but after being away for the last seven years I don’t think I would survive, and to be honest, I don’t think they would either.

So now I’m left with worrying what to do come May 5th when I graduate. Where do I go? Where do I go for three months? In September, the PLAN is to go to London and intern with public schools teaching English. But if those PLANS go as the last few I’ve made, I better have a back up PLAN, but what? Everything for the past 25 years of my life has been planned for me. What schools, what friends, what sports, what clubs, and up until 7th grade what clothes. My parents have either decided or I’ve simply just followed a freind and their plans. This is the first time I’ve been in full control of my future. It scares the crap of out me.

For now I’m going to channel my inner Scarlet O’Hara and say, “I can’t think about that right now. If I do, I’ll go crazy. I’ll think about that tomorrow.”

I saw you today.  At first I didn’t want to be there.  I thought of a million excuses and reasons for me not to go, but still I did.  Once I was there I was ready to leave, something in me didn’t want to stay.  I was nervous and I couldn’t sit still.  My attention was elsewhere, not on the talk at hand.  My mind drifted along with my eyes.  It was difficult, almost impossible for me to concentrate on one particular thing.  My thoughts kept jumping.  My fingers kept thumbing.  My words kept stumbling and all I could think of was, “Why am I here?”  And my answer, “You.”  You’re the reason I was there and the reason I shouldn’t have stayed.

I saw you today.  I saw you cry.   And I couldn’t comfort you.   I didn’t know what to say or how to hold you.  I didn’t know how.  I just stood there, it was all I could do.  I was paralyzed with helplessness and guilt.  You were alone and you looked at me.  I always find it hard to look you in the eye.  I saw the wet on your face and the tears were still in your eyes.  And again, I just stood there.  Then you took me in your arms and you held me.  You relieved me when I should have been consoling you.  Why?  I didn’t need to be held.  I should have been there.  But I failed you.  It’s not the first time, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.  I have perfected the art of failure to those I care the most about.

I saw you today.  I should have been there for you, but I was a coward.  I let fear and judgment consume me, and I remained planted in my seat.  I let you stand alone and broken.  I let you fall apart, while I sat back and watched.  I should have been a friend and been there for you.  I should have held you, soothed you, been a pillow for your head.  I should have been the strong one and pulled your weight along with mine.  Your burden I should have picked up and carried.  I didn’t have to say anything.  I didn’t have to have words of wisdom or a solution to it all.  I just needed to have been by your side and held you along the way.  I should have been the eyes that cried with you and the knees that kneeled with you.  I should have been there.

I saw you today.  And you saw me.  You saw what I was capable of and how easily I can turn my head.  You saw my weakness, my quickness to leave.  There are a lot of things I should have done, and I’m sorry.