There's one thing I'm sufficiently sure of: I have always been a musical critic. On December 7th, 2005, I expressed my irrepressible love for Jay Ungar and his Ashokan Farewell. It conveyed something to me and through me, that I simply could not express in words.
But there is a point where music cannot fix that which it conveys. It can show, but not explain. It can interact, but not fix.
And God knows, I needed fixing.
Recently, while lounging on my feather comforter, the smell of the fresh paint in my room lingering in my hair, and moving boxes strewn about the carpet, I discovered something. I already knew it, really, but it was a check mark in the space that desired confirmation. I opened my pink journal, the one with pug puppies on the front and a remarkably thin and beautiful girl, to confirm that, yes, I rely on males for happiness. Ridiculous, refuted revelation.
What do you expect?
My father, when I was a child, was translucent. You know when you have dreams that are so tactile and real, and then there's that blotchy spot, location, item, idea, or person, that you simply cannot see or remember. That's my father. Yes, he was definitely there, but the vague memories I have of him are him leaning over in a tree stand to tell me to be quiet, him mowing the lawn, him telling me to do the dishes, him drinking sour tea, and him 'taking the Lord God's name in vane' when a silly airplane flew straight into a building.
All of which occurred in the one story house.
On my birthday, up until I moved, my mom would call me to her, and tell me about the day I was born. I was the only baby my dad cried over. Why? Because I caused pain. My mother couldn't be properly medicated because my doctors didn't even understand English. He saw how much pain she was in, and he wept. I caused pain, and he wept.
Not much has changed.
The most that HAS changed, however, was that while I was out causing so much pain, for others and myself, I was also being marked by pain caused from others. That's the beautiful part of my egocentric little self. I was so wrapped up in how much I was hurting myself and others, that it didn't exactly dawn on my that others could hurt me, too. I would have blamed myself for the Oklahoma tornados if I didn't know that it was scientifically absurd. All pain revolved around me. Alas, geocentricism to the guilty heart.
Three years later, as I reflect on my teen years from a bed placed in a home that does not belong to me or my family, I realize that pain, like life is a circular chain, linked, and occasionally broken.
So in all reality, this is not a memoir about a woman's capability to function, but rather, it is a story about circles. Love, it's a circle, one that can certainly be unbound. A circle that can be linked and layered with many more circles. Life, then, is just one elaborate version of the olympic symbol. Everything is bound and and layered and linked. What a beautifully painful thing that is.
I hurt my mother the most. She was my best friend, but I brought her so much pain. My dad, on the other hand, hurt not only himself, but everyone else around him. And after these short years, much anxiety, a little college and tolerance of myself, my margin for bringing others pain has significantly declined. I have gained a capacity to experience pain. I've gained this space by allowing myself to love, because to love is to hurt. To love is to let yourself be vulnerable. To love is to allow others to be linked into your circles of pain, trust, and chain themselves to your very being. And in the end, what is a life without love?
It was plaid skirts and tube socks. It was getting lost while driving because of getting lost mentally. It was zoloft and books. Post it notes and anxiety attacks. Mirrors and scales. Smudged lipgloss and unanswered phone calls. It was the way he looked when he said he loved me and the way he looked when he said he never wanted to speak to me again.
So, that being said, I've learned to love. I have learned to accept pain and joy as two things that sometimes coincide.
