Reading my writing out loud. It's
like a peek inside my crazy, neurotic head. It makes me sound even more insane
because what do you think I choose to write about except the most outstanding,
ridiculous thoughts of the day. I don't typically put pen to paper about that
time I went from morning to evening and nothing fucked up. My happiest times?
I'm too busy having fun or basking in my own glow to crack open the
computer and hammer it all out.
And so I end up reading to you about these brief moments of lowered dopamine, because it happens to strike me as an interesting topic days later, when I am fiddling my thumbs trying to come up with something for writing group.
Do you want to hear about the real me? The me who loves drawing and painting and singing and dancing. The me who has traveled to six different continents and puts pictures and memories into little booklets so that the trips stay alive during the long year at home. The me whose apartment is filled with pillows and blankets and couches and cushions for hanging out. The me who likes dinner parties and hiking and eating cookies and the color gray and has never lost a game of Boggle. This me wants to meet a man, fall in love, and have a family, but doesn’t want to settle down.
Do you want to hear about the me I put out there for first dates and old married friends from high school? She is sweet and charming and laughs easily and likes to talk about herself. She gets rosy from the alcohol and has a hard time eating because she is so nervous. She will not kiss you on the first date and she will not like it if you try.
Do you want to hear about the me that my students know? I have red hair and wear a lot of jewelry. I hate whining. Community Circle is sacred and I do not tolerate when you lie down or whisper while someone else is sharing. I listen to Beyonce every morning; she wakes me up when the caffeine doesn’t. I judge books by their covers. I am very loving and warm and use pet names like Sweetie and Honey and stay calm most of the time. I don’t yell very often. At least, that's teacher me right now; 2010-2011 me was a different beast.
Do you want to hear about me as a daughter, a sister, a cousin? I am the good girl. I got the good grades. I was nice. I was responsible. I babysit. Sometimes I cannot stand my brothers, like when they are acting their age.
And so I end up reading to you about these brief moments of lowered dopamine, because it happens to strike me as an interesting topic days later, when I am fiddling my thumbs trying to come up with something for writing group.
Do you want to hear about the real me? The me who loves drawing and painting and singing and dancing. The me who has traveled to six different continents and puts pictures and memories into little booklets so that the trips stay alive during the long year at home. The me whose apartment is filled with pillows and blankets and couches and cushions for hanging out. The me who likes dinner parties and hiking and eating cookies and the color gray and has never lost a game of Boggle. This me wants to meet a man, fall in love, and have a family, but doesn’t want to settle down.
Do you want to hear about the me I put out there for first dates and old married friends from high school? She is sweet and charming and laughs easily and likes to talk about herself. She gets rosy from the alcohol and has a hard time eating because she is so nervous. She will not kiss you on the first date and she will not like it if you try.
Do you want to hear about the me that my students know? I have red hair and wear a lot of jewelry. I hate whining. Community Circle is sacred and I do not tolerate when you lie down or whisper while someone else is sharing. I listen to Beyonce every morning; she wakes me up when the caffeine doesn’t. I judge books by their covers. I am very loving and warm and use pet names like Sweetie and Honey and stay calm most of the time. I don’t yell very often. At least, that's teacher me right now; 2010-2011 me was a different beast.
Do you want to hear about me as a daughter, a sister, a cousin? I am the good girl. I got the good grades. I was nice. I was responsible. I babysit. Sometimes I cannot stand my brothers, like when they are acting their age.
College me wrote for the
newspaper, ate Shabbat dinner with Hillel, worked at Jamba Juice, started an a
capella group, and visited old ladies in nursing homes. One time I painted a giant replica of
Gustav Klimpt’s The Virgin and we
hung it in our dormitory lounge. At
the end of the year, one of the boys made an impassioned request to take it
home with him. I was just going to
throw it away, so I said sure.
High school me took every art
class offered until there were none left and then they had to offer AP art
studio in which I excelled but only earned a three out of five on the AP exam. This news was less soul-crushing than
the B I was given in AP Calc, even though I aced all the tests except the Big
One. High school me hated
calculus. High school me had a
crush on Mike Silver for two years until we were finally left in my friend’s
bedroom on New Years Eve and got to make out. This was a formative experience.
Grade school me? Spacey and smart
and chatty. My mother used to
stand me up in the backyard with a towel around my shoulders and a butterscotch
candy in my mouth while she cut my hair.
I slept in a bunk-bed above my brother and read books way past my bedtime. I had several best friends.
Me as a baby? I learned to crawl
backwards before I could crawl forwards. I wouldn't fall asleep unless I was in
the car. I was an only child back
then.
****
Nowadays, I find
myself teetering on the edge of a giant abyss, tip-toeing my way around the
crack in the earth that waits and waits and waits for me to fall in. There is nothing in that empty canyon,
just darkness, but I’m still curious.
I know that if I try to peek, if I lean over too far, I’m going to pitch
forward and my body will float down down down lightly until I hit the
bottom. The fall isn’t hard; you
don’t have to think about it.
Gravity takes over. It’s
once you have stopped and are looking up at the bright sky above and thinking
how high it is and how slick the walls that you remember you prefer the sun.
I long for the
warmth of the sun.
I am stuck.
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