I hate this. I hate the lack of words, the frustrations, the want to be able to write something well only to be left with a jumble of inconsistent non-profundities that could have been written by my little brother. I am a spastic mind with no method to maintaining the median between monotony and madness, and I hate it.
Nonetheless, I must write. Far too much of my day has been spent dwelling on one topic: marriage.
Why? Why would I be thinking about this? I am a twenty year old student with a lifetime worth of aspirations that cannot be completed if I get married. I want to finish my college education. I want to get my masters of education through ACE or TAC, working in underprivileged schools to truly educate students who struggle, making a difference not only academically but in other ways as well. Part of me wants to join the Peace Corps, experience another culture, and teach students who teach me another paradigm of the world. This same part of me wants to do missionary work, not because I feel qualified or as if I have anything to offer, but because I want to learn to just be with another, to see them for who they are and allow everything to be ok, even if it isn't. I want to travel and see places, visiting relatives in Italy who I keep contact with yet have never met. I want to enjoy the diversity of life across the globe while furthering my education, a task that would be difficult if I had a family.
In addition to this, part of me dreads the concept of married life. It seems unfair that young couples so in love necessarily must meet the fate of falling into everyday routine. It seems that all relationships eventually simmer down to daily life with no excitement or surprises. I enjoy getting to know him. I don't want to know him well enough that there's little left to know, and, alongside this, I dread knowing him well enough to see those sides of him I never wanted to know. I don't want to see him someday so caught up in the routine of work and home life that he forgets his purpose, yet we both struggle with purposelessness now. I don't want to see his already occasionally strong anger deliberately directed at someone who really hurt him or us. I dread the thought of doing infinite piles of dishes, changing diapers, and dealing with those inevitable daily disasters alone while he is gone to work, too far away for a hug. I dread knowing his work is stressing him out, yet I am too caught up at home to give him a hug. I don't want to reach the day where I have my problems and he has his, yet we lack the time to fully discuss both. I don't want this to become our problem. Marriage seems like such a fleeting star in the night sky, a glorious meteor shower with a myriad of stars, only to sink into a greyish haze after the honeymoon is covered by clouds.
Yet, I miss him so now. Despite by fear of monotony, someday, at the end of the day, I just want to come home, fall into his arms, and know I am accepted and loved by at least one person in this dismal, dark, dreary world. I want to have those petty arguments that bring tears to my often-too-dry eyes, tears both from being hurt from the argument and from knowing he's worth arguing with. I want to laugh with him as we struggle to figure out the best way to arrange the furniture in the living room without putting the t.v. in front of the window or blocking the entrance to the dining room. I want to feel so drained every morning from a night up with the baby that I am forced to take up his habit of drinking tea, sitting down every morning to enjoy a cup with him. I want to sit in a corner and sulk after he angrily informs me that I'm too self-focused, falling short as both a wife and mother. I want to become frustrated when he fails to fix the faucet, despite my persistent pleadings. I want him by my side while we struggle to educate our kids to truly have a passion for learning. I want to be exasperated alongside him at the Legos left out on the floor. I want to see his eyes mist up when our daughter shows of her dress for her first dance. I want to have his shoulder to cry into after the police call at midnight to inform us our son has been in a car accident. I want to share the joy when we revive the news that our child is engaged. I want...
I want every second of every day to be spent in knowledge of our commitment to each other, yet this is the thing I also almost dread. This is what I am afraid of.
I'm only twenty and still in school. Why have I spent a significant part of today thinking about this?
Monday, December 19, 2011
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Friday, September 30, 2011
Sheets.
Sliding under my sheets into bed--I do it every night. Every night, I go through the same routine of brushing my teeth, washing my face, and crawling under those dreaded sheets, knowing that the next morning I will wake up just as tired as I went to sleep. Not tired physically. Tired mentally. Emotionally. Spiritually. Sometimes, I seems as if that one act--sliding under the sheets--is suspended in eternity, never-ended. It is as if that action were my one reality and everything else were naught but an illusion of smiles brought about by delicious chocolate chip pancakes and breakfasts with friends. Of long walks with a man who I think I love, but internally I haven't the faintest idea what that means. Of a sense of sadness at the realization that I could spend my entire life looking for my true home and never find it. Of longing to understand what goes on behind those beautiful hazel eyes. Of missing the days when my not-yet-dreaded sheets were covered in princesses whose hair I would trace with my finger when sleep evaded my six-year-old self. Of missing the person I used to be back where all that mattered was the lime-green Popsicle I slowly ate while sitting in my favorite climbing tree. Of a curiosity as to why leaves rustle the way they do, so musical and so peaceful. Illusions. Is that all they are? Is there no other reality other than these 100 count pastel purple sheets? It is here where this reality seems more real and concrete than the sound of my keyboard clicking as I type out these words.
A hypothetical situation somewhat rooted in reality.
I suppose there are certain times where certain things should not be said, where the words of certain individuals are all to menial in light of the sorrows of this world. What I have to say is small amid this vast recession and millions of Americans looking for work so that they can afford their Starbucks runs. This is minute when put alongside recent natrual disasters and the lives lost and pain caused to so many. It hardly compares to those whose lives were smashed to pieces when an airplane dive-bombed during an airshow or the Indiana State Fair grandstand fell on the audience. The reality of the millions of people dying from aids and all the starving children tower over my miniscule issue. Amid the hurt of this world, this issue seems next to nothing. I am just one person, with few friends, living a small life. I realize I do not matter. Nonetheless, this matters to me. Because it is these little things that add up to create a larger things. Because if we could resolve issues on the level of the individual, maybe, just maybe, greater issues would fade. Because, well, when it comes down to it, why can't we all be friends?
I realize this question is absurd not only among the pain and suffering of our world both present and past, but even on the level of the individual. I know that you may be so busy that you cannot handle the stress of branching out and showing cordiality. I realize you have a test to study for, studying which apparently consists of sitting in a lounge and talking to other friends. Without me. I suppose that booth in the dining hall just must have the most comfortable seats, unlike the one I sit at. This is why you walk by this half empty table, which a year ago you would have sat at, to go back to the booth away from others. I guess the reason you never invite us along is because your car does not have enough seats. It is ok. It really is. I have my own friends, and, just so you know, I also have a car. I can bring my own seat. But, of course, you were not aware of that. We have only been distant acquaintances for a few months now. But... before then, we were friends.
Truth be told, what I am trying to get at here, is... I miss you. Trying to reason with your rational is like trying to accept the rational behind avocado pits or the beauty of rustling leaves. See, you are a really cool person. Really, really cool. I know that if you would just let me talk to you, I could see the beauty in your story. I am not asking for a deep, interpersonal relationship. I am not even asking for friendship, although I do wish it. All I ask is that you take that cold shoulder, apply some de-icer, and let me share in your smile. The front of your face is so much more lovely than the front of your hand, which says "stop. Don't look at me." go away." I want to see that--your beautiful self--in your friendship. I want to see your smile
I realize this question is absurd not only among the pain and suffering of our world both present and past, but even on the level of the individual. I know that you may be so busy that you cannot handle the stress of branching out and showing cordiality. I realize you have a test to study for, studying which apparently consists of sitting in a lounge and talking to other friends. Without me. I suppose that booth in the dining hall just must have the most comfortable seats, unlike the one I sit at. This is why you walk by this half empty table, which a year ago you would have sat at, to go back to the booth away from others. I guess the reason you never invite us along is because your car does not have enough seats. It is ok. It really is. I have my own friends, and, just so you know, I also have a car. I can bring my own seat. But, of course, you were not aware of that. We have only been distant acquaintances for a few months now. But... before then, we were friends.
Truth be told, what I am trying to get at here, is... I miss you. Trying to reason with your rational is like trying to accept the rational behind avocado pits or the beauty of rustling leaves. See, you are a really cool person. Really, really cool. I know that if you would just let me talk to you, I could see the beauty in your story. I am not asking for a deep, interpersonal relationship. I am not even asking for friendship, although I do wish it. All I ask is that you take that cold shoulder, apply some de-icer, and let me share in your smile. The front of your face is so much more lovely than the front of your hand, which says "stop. Don't look at me." go away." I want to see that--your beautiful self--in your friendship. I want to see your smile
Friday, February 25, 2011
It would have to be *this* big
"It would have to be thiiiiiiis big" My five-year old sister, Gracie, reached to the sky with one arm, stretching the other arm to the ground and spreading them as far apart as they would go.
She was explaining how big a drop-down/multi-vinyl record player would have to be in order to hold 200 records.
"That's not big enough!" Brendan, our nine year old brother, commented, always wanting to be the knowing older brother.
"It's THIS big!" Gracie emphasized again, struggling to stretch her small arms apart just a little further.
Brendan rolled his eyes at her physical limitations, forgetting that a record-player could likely never hold that many vinyls.
It's funny how sometimes the simplest things point towards the deepest realities. Gracie was trying everything within her limitations to portray what she believed to be true, and yet she fell short. I guess that's like life. Some things are beyond us, beyond our abilities. All we can do is try anyways, stretching as far and living as best we can.
She was explaining how big a drop-down/multi-vinyl record player would have to be in order to hold 200 records.
"That's not big enough!" Brendan, our nine year old brother, commented, always wanting to be the knowing older brother.
"It's THIS big!" Gracie emphasized again, struggling to stretch her small arms apart just a little further.
Brendan rolled his eyes at her physical limitations, forgetting that a record-player could likely never hold that many vinyls.
It's funny how sometimes the simplest things point towards the deepest realities. Gracie was trying everything within her limitations to portray what she believed to be true, and yet she fell short. I guess that's like life. Some things are beyond us, beyond our abilities. All we can do is try anyways, stretching as far and living as best we can.
Friday, January 14, 2011
I'm sorry
***Just a note. This, as with other blog posts, are not necessarily reality. Rather, many of my posts tend to be either loosely based on reality or based on something I read, the lives of those around me, etc.
Afterwords, you apologized. You said you were sorry, and that it was at least 90% your fault. As if one can put a percentage on culpability. You said that you never should have let that happen, that you should have kept your reason in check and your hands to yourself. You said that you were the man, that you had to be the responsible one, that it was all you, you you. And you apologized. For not treating me as you ought. For hurting me. You thought you hurt me, but I hurt you.
I tried to tell you why. I tried to explain that all I wanted was for someone to understand, but you misunderstood. Earlier, when I asked how your day was, you said "good" and then "goodbye," leaving me holding a silent phone. When I tried to tell you I felt left out, you gave me a sympathetic hug and told me that "it will be ok. Everything will work out." You're always telling me that--"It will be ok." As if time actually heals. What a lie. What a sickening, dark, twisted lie. Time won't remove underlying issues. Like you, time won't listen to me, time won't understand, and time won't love. I just want to be understood. And loved. Really loved.
I have become familiar to your changing the topic when I am trying to share parts of myself, of my past, of who I am as a person. Of my confusion towards who I ought to be. Oh, sometimes you listen.Sometimes you fulfill every requirement to nod and smile. But you do not understand. I want you to understand.
Yes, you apologized.You said you were sorry for what you believe to be an issue, for what you believe to be hurting me. It is not an issue. You did not hurt me. What hurts me is your not understanding this. Your not understanding me. But... maybe I have this wrong. Maybe you will understand someday. If I give it enough time.
Afterwords, you apologized. You said you were sorry, and that it was at least 90% your fault. As if one can put a percentage on culpability. You said that you never should have let that happen, that you should have kept your reason in check and your hands to yourself. You said that you were the man, that you had to be the responsible one, that it was all you, you you. And you apologized. For not treating me as you ought. For hurting me. You thought you hurt me, but I hurt you.
I tried to tell you why. I tried to explain that all I wanted was for someone to understand, but you misunderstood. Earlier, when I asked how your day was, you said "good" and then "goodbye," leaving me holding a silent phone. When I tried to tell you I felt left out, you gave me a sympathetic hug and told me that "it will be ok. Everything will work out." You're always telling me that--"It will be ok." As if time actually heals. What a lie. What a sickening, dark, twisted lie. Time won't remove underlying issues. Like you, time won't listen to me, time won't understand, and time won't love. I just want to be understood. And loved. Really loved.
I have become familiar to your changing the topic when I am trying to share parts of myself, of my past, of who I am as a person. Of my confusion towards who I ought to be. Oh, sometimes you listen.Sometimes you fulfill every requirement to nod and smile. But you do not understand. I want you to understand.
Yes, you apologized.You said you were sorry for what you believe to be an issue, for what you believe to be hurting me. It is not an issue. You did not hurt me. What hurts me is your not understanding this. Your not understanding me. But... maybe I have this wrong. Maybe you will understand someday. If I give it enough time.