even the stars hideaway

As I sit in my favorite alcove in the Starbucks above B&N, I watch as red leaves swirl majestically to the ground dancing on their way to land, rather crunchily on the ground.  The yellow and orange leaves still holding firmly to the branches of the tree,  reluctant to leave (pun!) their home.  But everything changes and tomorrow when I come back a gust of wind will have had its way.

Beyond the smiles and laughter. Beyond the air of self confidence and happiness. There is me:  A hint of perfume in the night, spoonfuls of peanut butter, driving to contain myself, driving to lose myself, dancing without abandon because sometimes it feels so good to just let everything go. I am not invincible. Within me there is doubt all of the time. Solitude is preferred. You can't take more than two hot showers in a day to stop the madness; that isn't acceptable. I think too much; I talk too much; I talk too much about what I think. I'm not always proud of myself.

I have always been a middle person. Clinging to those at the top but always falling solidly somewhere in the middle. Nothing spectacularly amazing or destructive will ever come of me. I work hard; I work really hard and I've always ended right up in the middle.

So this is me screaming at the top of my lungs. I am not okay.
I'm not fine.
I'm not right. 
I want to be rain that tastes like wine.

It is a different world, a world where leaves change colors and it gets cold before December; a world where, despite how much I want to believe it, I just don't quite fit in, but then again I certainly didn't fit in Mississippi. Its a world where people don't know that there is a difference between an Oxford and a button down and frankly don't care and, perhaps, I never did either. Although I was born and raised in the South, I never considered myself a southerner, always falling back on the 'my parents aren't actually from here...' line and now living in the North, I find that i don't quite identify with the social norms presented.

Change, however, may be a good thing; a lot of Southern traditions are stuck obstinately in the past; and a lot of Northern traditions refuse to acknowledge there even was a past. Stuck between both worlds gives me perspective; a transition, much like that of the fall leaves.  Some trees choose to keep their leaves green all year long, keeping them close, refusing to let go; to allow for new growth. I've already begun to change colors.

Something scientific having to do with leaf hormones. That is why the leaves change colors. They fall to the ground, turn brown and make terrific crunching sounds.  Perhaps they are there to remind us that right before winter there is beauty and warmth. Or perhaps they, like the rest of us, simply can't survive in frigid temperatures and must do what is necessary to survive.

Because in the spring there will be the promise of new life, green buds shooting up. To give us all something to be proud of.  Even the late bloomers, eventually bloom.

I'll see better when the smoke clears inside my head

My momma always said "sticks and stones can break your bones but words will never hurt you."
I always hated it when she lied.


Words hurt.


We need to talk


Everyone thinks you're insane


You will never amount to anything more than a housewife


There are certain things that I know: 
There is more to me that I know, and If I can be made to see it, perhaps for the rest of my life I will be unwilling to settle for less. I know this. 
I also know that No one can make me feel inferior without my consent. Thank you Eleanor Roosevelt.


I don't know why people change their minds or feel the need to contradict themselves. I don't know why he looked at me like that Saturday night. I don't know why my best friend and I fight about stupid things. I don't know why my fingers and toes are always frigid. 


I feel like damaged goods. That maybe they were right, I am insane and won't amount to anything more than a housewife. When will I come first?  When will i be worth that kind of risk? They say that everything is okay in the end, and if it isn't okay then it isn't the end.  But as I get older my desire to be alone increases,  Am I so dissatisfied with my fellow man that I prefer to sit alone with my coffee and think? Or am I just dissatisfied with myself? 


I don't know if I'm doing anything right, but I am certain that I'm trying. And for now, that is good enough.  That'll do pig. That'll do. 

Thoughts on September 17

September 17, 2010 12 AM

“Nobody said it was easy, Oh its such a shame for us to part. Nobody said it was easy, No one ever said it would be this hard.” 

Have I lowered my standards? Why am I so impatient to be loved? The people I love the most just stumbled into my life. I’m trying so hard to MAKE things work with people instead of just letting them happen.

I feel so alone in a crowded room.

College is different than I thought. I love my classes and they are challenging but not overwhelming. The social scene is overwhelming for me. It has never been easy for me, the care and keeping of friends, but somehow I thought I was past that stage of my life? I work so hard. And for what? Do other people feel this way? I left everything I know to embark on this NEW totally unfamiliar Grand Adventure. But isn’t life always just a great big Grand Adventure? Maybe I put too much faith in the Idea of college rather than the fact that I’m still the screwed up little girl I’ve always been with a million and one problems.Maybe Kayla was right maybe if I’m myself everything will fall into place. 


But I’m so scared of being inadequate of people not liking the real me. I’m intimidating and weird. I’m abrasive and eccentric. I find it really really hard to believe a boy will ever cherish that about me. I’m happiest playing soccer barefoot at midnight with boys or reading a book completely alone at a coffee shop. I’d rather sit and talk or watch movies in sweats than wear a dress. I’m not that girl. I will never be that girl. But I feel like if I’m not that girl, no one will ever love me.  I’ve never trusted anyone as much as I did Rob. So now I’ve learned to trust no one. I expect guys to defer when it comes to me. I expect to be second-best.  My standards have lowered in the attempt to be loved and I don’t know what to do. I just want someone to talk to and hold my hand and look at the stars with. Some one that thinks I’m worth the effort. That comes to me first and says,

          “Hey, you are crazy and intimidating and just plain weird, but I wouldn’t change a thing about you. Because your brand of crazy makes me weak at the knees. You are beautiful in your confidence. Your intelligence is enthralling and your passion for life makes me want to be a better person. I will stand outside your window in the rain because you are stubborn fool and won’t admit you’re wrong. But I know you will come around because in the end, you are just my kind of wonderful. Your crazy matches up with mine and I know when you are hurting. I know when you are too proud to admit you are upset.  I’ve known you as my best friend and I know you are what I’ve been missing my whole life. I love you.”

That is my standard. That is what I want. Why am I trying so hard to make things work that are just supposed to be?  Because I’m impatient and stubborn and hurting and because I know deep deep down that in my jaded, bitter soul that I’m a romantic. I have faith that one day, if I keep trying someone will come along and prove all my theories about men wrong. Someone will want to be with me and sit outside and listen to the wind with me, that is why I try over and over again.
I fall. I get back up and try again. I’ve always had the spirit of a six year old boy. Let us see how many big nasty bruises I can get before I break something vital.  So every day I wake up and package my fragile glass heart up with a mixture of bubble wrapped advice and a bajillion little packing peanuts of experience. I tape it off and send it on its way. Perhaps to the next Grand Adventure. Hoping someday someone will be willing to sit down and patiently unwrap each layer in the box and then find something truly worthwhile. But until then, I wait. I wait until that day with faint hope and always always looking towards the future.

There aren’t any mountains in Mississippi

“There aren’t any mountains in Mississippi”

This was my first thought as I glanced over the shoulder of my fellow passenger, a bleached blonde Southern Belle from Yazoo City(pronounced YEAH-zoo), and got my first glimpse of the place I’d called home for more than 18 years.   There is no shoreline either, not in the heart of central Mississippi.  At UVA I could see mountains from Ida’s dorm and at WM there is a beach within biking distance.  As the wheels hit the tarmac with a jolt all I could see for miles was the vast expanse of well… nothing. 

As I said my goodbyes to my friend with the worn-in cowboy boots and possibly too much blush for any other state in the Union, I began to take in everything from an outsider’s perspective.  There was this constant running dialogue in my head “In Virginia...would be different….would never happen…people just wouldn’t get it.” 
I went to Mugshots and watched as a boy in a plaid shirt held the door for a beautiful girl in a sundress and cowboy boots; our waiter used the proper “yes ma’am” and “no ma’am” when taking our orders; and the table next to us had fried pickles.   Adding to that, the Mississippi State Fair is in town and for those of you who have never experienced the sheer freakish excitement for the two weeks that is the Fair …well I don’t know how to even begin to explain it.

The first thing I did (after promptly dumping all my stuff in my room) was to hop in Fugly (my car) and start driving.  Something I’ve realized about Virginia is that people don’t drive just to drive.   So much of my Senior year was spent in a car, music blasting, Sonic drink in hand, just driving. It didn’t matter where. It was just about the journey.  It was about the conversations, the laughs, the silence, the gas station coffee…maybe it was because the only places open after 10 pm were Wal-mart and Taco Bell or maybe it was because there simply is something so enchanting about all of your decisions being solved by driving down a two lane highway with only your headlights keeping you on track.  That night, alone in my car, it felt just like summer again, I was invincible in my decisions, just me and the radio.  I steadily worked my way through all the songs on my iPod containing the title “home”

I had been contemplating the word all day. Home. What does it mean?  Virginia is my home. At least for the next four years.   I like it here, I really do. I have friends, I have familiar routines, I don’t have a foolproof way of dealing with my feelings, yet, but I’m sure just like everything else, it will fall into place before I know it.   Home is where the heart is right? Not quite. I think for me Home is a little more complex.  Not something I can quite articulate. It is more than familiarity. More than friends or family.  Michael Buble’, Josh Groban, John Denver, Simon and Garfunkel all sing about home as an abstract concept.   Sometimes it is hard, not exactly having a solid place I can call home. Mississippi, Virginia, Illinois, West Virginia, all have shaped me.  The landscapes, the faces, late nights, early mornings, all a blur, constantly shifting. For some people home is concrete. 315 Monterey Dr., Hunt Hall, Cauthen.  I guess I’m more of a drifter, a light packer, taking with me what I need and learning to trim away the excess.   So maybe Virginia is home or perhaps just another pit stop on my journey.  The key is to remember that not all who wander are lost.