Things That Make Me Feel Better (Even When The-World-Is-Ending-BooHoo-Poor-Me)

Sometimes things get messy.  They go wrong.  Sometimes it is when everything is moving along smoothly, your life is humming at an almost industrial pace and the sun is warm and the future is roses.  Sometimes - most times - it is when things are all ready pretty bad.

Too much to do.  No time.  So many needs.  No money.  Every ounce of me parceled out, weighed and measured and carefully divided, poured lovingly and hectically into the various people/places/things/goals that cry out for my attention.

That, for me, is almost always when the storm comes rolling in.  The last crack of lightning to an already fragile structure that stands no chance and simply bursts into flame.  In case you were wondering which you clearly weren't because I am so dramatic  last night was a lightning-strike kind of moment.  Why it was and the details don't matter.

Because less face it. . .  when shit hits the fan, it hits the fan.  The clean up is what matters.  I am still in the defecation-spreading-all-over-the-walls-in-blatant-disregard-of-my-orderly-life phase. . . but even still I realized as I sat here, stomach in more knots than a badly done cat's cradle, I have comfort.

In a Boyfriend who stops his entire world every time my silly fragile world comes unraveled.

A friend who knows from a three word text that something is wrong.  And quietly shows up in my kitchen, arms open to catch my crazy in a bear hug so tight I couldn't squirm away, forcing me to actually let go and . . . cry.

Comfort in jamming my headphones in to study the rest of the night away (no sleep was forseen) and being unable to ignore the ding of Facebook as another friend firmly instigated a totally asinine conversation.  I don't think I was supposed to know I was being checked up on, so. . . sshhhhh, ok?

A roomie who looked me in the eye and informed me of how strong and brave I am in her eyes, and demanded that I try seeing myself that way for a few seconds. I'm trying.

Opening my mailbox, where I have been collecting soft white envelope after soft white envelope, some traced with silver, others tied with dark ribbon, each containing a message of condolence for yet another friend who has lost a parent.  Everyday for two weeks I have gone down and placed my key in the lock, listening to the cool metal click open and expose the sadness neatly packaged in the gaping maw of a metal mouth my mailbox becomes.  Everyday I place my hand inside and offer a silent prayer thanking God for such a supportive community. I place donations in a small envelope and stack the sympathy on the edge of my counter, trying not to let my fingers linger on someone else's sorrow.  Today when I opened the mailbox, a bright yellow envelope greeted me, with cheerful, looping hand writing.  A note from a friend, who thought my mailbox (and heart) might need some cheer.

I find peace in the gently prying questions of my pseudo brother, who is maybe the only person alive who has found the right tone between soothing, insistent, and compassionate that will instantly make me open up.  Sometimes a lot of crazy comes out when I do.

There is the friend who saw me walking and knew from the set of my shoulders that my smile was lying.  There is such a strength in being transparent - the strength of being an Us and not an I.

Finding myself, instead of running my scene from A Midsummer Night's Dream, being squeezed in the papa-bear hug of one of my favorite faculty.  60 seconds - no more, no less - of being hugged and being me and breathing, were required before I was allowed to say a single line.

Joy in the sly smile shared when the last ballet class of the semester holds a mini-rebellion in ballet and the accompanist is a willing cohort!

A sense of hope when I round the corner from work and see beautiful lilacs (my favorite flowers) blooming in the rain, their perfume all the sweeter in the cool damp air.

The pure exhilaration only dancers and athletes know when your body suddenly obeys you.  We're talking a triple pirouette here people!  To the left.  In jeans!


Perhaps most excitingly, my big source of comfort is finding out I have a Cassie Care Package on the way!  I wish there was a way to convey to you the excitement this encompasses for me.  Imagine a a beautiful and female Mad Hatter.  Now imagine her as a former competitive diver.  Now set this imagining loose in SoHo.  This is who is creating my care package.

And that, ladies and gents, is a beautiful thing.

The Inner Child

You know how wise man have often talked about the child inside of all of us?  That happy, adventurous, joyful and free spirit who keeps us youthful?  Creative?  Inspired?  How important it is to let the inner child out?  Well, I've always had a hard time with that idea.  I agree there is an inner child inside of all of us. . .

But in my case - and I think maybe in the case of many other abuse victims - the inner child is not as joyful, as free, as at peace as the grownup version of myself.  I can still picture her, my inner, younger self.  Sometimes - often in the still of the night, or when I am somewhere peaceful like by the water or in a silent stage/rehearsal space - she reappears.  I can close my eyes and see her there, like I'm looking in a mirror.

She is short for her age.  Her hair is long and brown, hanging well below her shoulders.  Her brown eyes are big in her small face.  There is intelligence there, and passion.  But it's already curtained, hidden by little traces of fear.  You can still see the questions, though.  Always, always, always a question.  Who? And Why? And when?


I wish when I touched my inner child, I felt the urge to cartwheel.  Or to dance.  But usually, I just end up feeling sort of sad.

Her nose is too big for her face, just like her hands and feet are too big for her limbs.  She's a thin girl - very thin.  All skin and bone, hands and feet, and brown eyes.  Sometimes she is holding a book. Almost always she's holding a worn, well loved doll.  Even when she was a toddler, the only thing this little girl ever wanted was a story, her dolly, and enough room to dance. 


Sometimes it isn't at all like looking in a mirror.  It's like I've become the little girl again.  Confidently answering questions, talking too fast and too much and never far from a book.  Carefully listening beyond my own chatter, for any sound of instability.  Any hint of a threat.  The sounds of breaking things: plates, knick knacks, fingers, hearts.  They each shatter under different amounts of pressure, each cracking at a different volume.  If you keep your insides very still, you can actually feel the vibrations.  Way down deep in your core, like the echo of a plucked guitar string.  While I've never been very good at keeping still I'm very good at staying still.  I'm always in motion, doing something.  Even as a kid - but my spirit is still.  Calm.  Listening for the vibrations.

Tonight was one of those nights, when all I could see in front of me was the little girl I used to be.

There are already circles under her eyes, even though she's barely even ten years old.  They're faint and thin, delicate lilac rings, more a suggestion of sleeplessness than a statement of it.  If you know what to look for though, you see it.  The telltale badges of someone who imagines worlds past the stars instead of sleeping beneath them. 


I feel myself sliding back into that old self, who loved the worlds books and ballets brought her to as much as she feared the one she lived in. I feel little and nervous again, as I imagine making decisions others might judge me for.  As I think about changing my appearance, embracing the person I'm becoming, so different from who I was, I feel my little self peer around the corner, asking if it's ok.  Ok to be someone new?  Is it. . . safe?

She always wanted a big brother.  Someone tougher and cooler and smarter than her.  To show her the ropes.  To worry when the shouting happened that she might get woken up.  To make fun of her - to notice her. She wants someone talk to, instead of only getting to listen all the time.  As much as she talks, she's a good listener - it's her "hidden talent" like the ones beauty queens have.


When I ask a question now, it's with my in-between voice.  The one that sounds like me, 21 and self-assured, but comes from me, 9 and a half and without any confidence at all.  I ask my big brother questions - oh yes, I have a big brother now.  As soon as I became a teenager - all awkwardness and nervousness and strange ideas - God decided to send me someone who'd adopt me as his little sister, maybe because our strange baggage sort of. . . coordinates.  And now I reach out to him, asking about how it feels to get a tattoo and what I'm afraid of when I think of moving to a big city alone.  And somehow my little voice takes over and I'm talking too about where my fears came from.  He's telling me now to be brave - tattoos hurt and moving is lonely.  But it's worth it to sacrifice for things you love and believe in.  Right?

Right.

And I suddenly wish I could summon my elementary school self here, and answer some of her questions.

Does the shouting ever stop?  Why do some people get best friends and some people no friends?  Did you know ballet terminology is actually a mixture of three different languages (if you don't count English?)


It's ok.  The shouting stops - though the vibrations never do.  You'll always feel them, behind your closed eyes, in between your heartbeats. . . in the pause in other's stories.  Don't worry about friends: I promise there will be good and loyal and true and courageous people in your future.  You'll keep learning ballet terminology for as long as I've seen of your life.  And whenever you're really angry, or truly ready to cry, or bad dreams creep back in, you will recite it in your head - every step you know, every movement you love, lovingly repeated. You get a big brother.  And a big surgery.  And a very kind and sweet man will kiss you, right before you leave for college.

It's ok to cry, little one.  There is a lot of time left for cartwheels. . .

What A Week

Things have been a little crazy around here.

To make it brief (because I'm tired and therefore selfish) so far I have gotten absolutely sunburned.

Cheered on Brother's baseball team in the playoffs

Made enough cookies to feed said baseball team

Began redesigning my blog (clearly I'm only partially done)

Gotten so angry at an umpire, I briefly considered the pros & cons of fist fighting in a dress

Cheered for the boys in their Championship game (it was a heartbreaker, folks.)

Saw one of my close friends for what will be the last time for several years (unless he gets stationed somewhere in New England before I graduate from college?) 

Attended a cookout wedding

Wrangled more than half a dozen children under the age of eight for an entire day of camp

Nearly finished reading "Harry Potter & the Sorcerer's Stone" for the 1,000 time

(And nearly wept for my childhood when I read an offhand line about a "VCR" which I didn't blink at as a 10 year old, whereas Boyfriend's 10 year old sister doesn't remember them)

And of course there was the incident where I chased my dogs through the neighborhood . . . barefoot.

In boxers.

For a 1/4 mile

With glass in my foot.

One final thing I just have to mention, before I try to sleep: one of the boy's from Brother's team had to be escorted off the field and to the hospital today, in quite a lot of pain, frighteningly pale, and seeming dizzy/somewhat disoriented.  He's a very good kid, and any prayers you could offer or good energy you could send his way would be much appreciated.  

Please enjoy the rest of your weekend, and I'll be back with details soon!