irony and regrets

When Emily told me the news, I had to laugh. It was funny in the too-much-drama-to-handle way. The blog I wrote last night, venting my feelings about Julie, was only posted for twenty minutes, after which time Emily and Cassidy told me it was too harsh. Although my feelings were justified, they said, there would be consequences for what I write. I have often chided others for their naivete. Just because you didn't want consequences does not mean they won't happen. I did not want contention so I deleted the post. The humor comes into play when it is discovered that in that mere twenty minutes Julie read the blog and has sworn estrangement hence forth. She told Emily that I deleted the blog to destroy evidence. Yeah. Okay. If I wanted to do that, I'd erase her ridiculous comment.

The sad part is that I deleted it for her feelings and for my soul. I wanted to rise above it, to be a better person. I released my frustrations slowly, reading the scriptures and elevating my feelings. I determined to be more like the Savior. I was glad I had erased something so hurtful. I was humbled and repentant. But I still got to face the consequences. I missed out on the chance to explore something beautiful because I was laughing at something ridiculous.

I am sorry when I lose my temper and say things that are cruel. It is what I hate most about myself. I deleted the entry because it was the first time I could literally take my words back. I'm not sad that they were read. I like to be honest about how I feel so that it does not get suppressed and start suffocating everyone I'm around including myself. Confrontation leads to clearing the air, to understanding each other and to learning to find a middle ground. It is an irony in life that avoiding confrontation leads to contention.

I am sorry that I hurt Julie's feelings, but I would not retract my own. I am sorry that she wants to avoid the apartment because of me, but I am not sorry if that brings peace. I am not sorry that I used my own blog -my journal- to express myself. I am sorry that it is leading to such drama.

touched

Tonight Emilie got home. Oh, how I have missed her. I babbled to her like I do only to my family. Babbling is my forte, but I only do it around people with whom I am comfortable. I told Em about the drama this weekend, about fights with roommates and calls from home. We talked about falling in love. We talked, she talked and I talked. Then we went shopping. At Walmart I was given one of the best compliments of my life.

"I like talking to you," she said. "Even though Caitie isn't home I know it's alright because I can talk to you."

the man trap

The bait is released, a beautiful girl of only nineteen. The unsuspecting beast is lured to her lair with whispered promises. That is when the trap is sprung. The entire pack moves in for the kill, submitting the victim to hours of physical torture. We've done it before; Tuesday night was not the first time. It will not be the last.

Chris was victim number one that night. He wanted to learn to dance, and Julie had seemed a promising teacher. What she hadn't explained was that she would force him to move his body in extreme fashions to absurd music with her roommates watching. But oh! We did more than just watch. We heckled. By the end of the night he was sweating and utterly disheveled. All the while he is of course aware of what he is undergoing. Or is he? Does he know that every look, every step is being analyzed for future discussions, so that when Julie asks us at the end of the night what we think of him, our answers will be full of over-killed observations. He was innocent, and we destroyed him.

Unfortunately for the male pack, our hunger was not appeased. As Steve walked below our window, carring home a supply of cupcakes, Emily's impromtu soliciting secured us dessert to top off our earlier feast. Dance for us! Dance he did. He spun Emily with the naive belief that he was demonstrating his lack of dancing talent to the group. What he was actually doing was submitting to our psychoanalysis. Did he look at her the way I think he did? We examined him over and over, telling him what to do and when in order to observe his alacrity. We, the sick-minded females of laboratory 99, decided to play Pavlov. Drool puppy! Drool for Em! And when you go, leave the cupcakes here.

We have pictures to document the evening, the proof satan will use against us in the judgment day.

discretion

Hey!
Hi.
I recognized the back of your head.
Impressive.
Where are you off to?
A meeting. Hey, can I talk to you later? It doesn’t have to be tonight.
No, my curiosity is peaked. I have no patience when I know people want to talk to me. Come over tonight. But not until eight because I am watching Gilmore Girls.
Can’t I watch too?
If you really want to.
See you at eight.
-------------------------
So, it’s nothing serious. Don’t be worried.
What’s up then?
I need to talk to you about –
I thought so.
It’s just that, well I mean I, do you know…
Blunt equals good communication.
Let’s just say I know what’s going on.
Do you want me to talk to her?
No.
Good.
I just wanted to talk to someone about it.
I hate to say it, but honesty is the best policy.
Ok. I’ll talk to her.

check mate

Last night I chose Steel Magnolias over the homecoming game, much to the chagrin of my roommates. We'll let that pass. As a result I was shunned, left alone while they hunted for an unused TV to watch our teams potential failure. (weirdly we won). While I was thus ensconced I received a visitor. Chris, the unaware love of Julie's life, came over and invited me for a game of chess today. My smile appeared before I thought about it.

Julie came home that night grinning from ear to ear because Chris had sat by her watching the game. Her cheeriness cooled when I told her of his invitation. I know the girl rules. I tread dangerous ground. My wariness grew when Tarythe told me Chris knew I was the only one home and had come purposefully.

We played the game today. Julie sat next to me as the match progressed. She watched like a hawk to learn the dynamics of each player. The King had very little room to maneuver. The Queen was ruthless, a jealous guardian of her domain, while the Knight sidestepped trap after trap, heading for the King. In the end it was check mate, as it always is. One player is backed into the corner with nowhere to move without dying. To stay perfectly still also welcomes doom. Today I got check-mated.

tombstones

I watched Tombstone yesterday and cried through it. I cried over the friendship between Doc Holliday and Wyatt Earp. Doc, dying of tuberculosis, never misses a fight along side his friend.

Wyatt: Doc, this isn't your fight.
Doc: You've got a hell of a lot of nerve saying that to me.

Man in Posse: Doc, you should be in bed. Why do you do it?
Doc: Wyatt Earp's my friend.
Man: Hell, I got lots of friends.
Doc: I don't.

Doc passes out in the saddle from exposure and exhurtion. He is left behind when Wyatt goes to do battle one-on-one with Johnny Ringo. Wyatt leaves him out of love, and for the same reason Doc beats Wyatt to the rendezvous and dispatches with Ringo first. The battle costs him and he goes to Colorado to a sanitorium to die. Wyatt comes every day, on the last of which he gives Doc a present before dealing out the cards for poker, but Doc doesn't want to play anymore. Yet, before he dies, he takes care fo his friend.

Doc Holliday: What do you want Wyatt?
Wyatt Earp: Just to live a normal life.
Doc Holliday: There is no normal life, there's just life, ya live it.
Wyatt Earp: I don't know how.
Doc Holliday: Sure ya do, say goodbye to me, go grab that spirited actress and make her your own. Take that and don't look back. Live every second, live right on through the end. Live Wyatt, live for me. Wyatt, if you were ever truly my friend, or if ya ever had just the slightest of feelin' for me, leave now, leave now, please.
Wyatt Earp: Thanks for always being there, Doc.

After Wyatt leaves, Doc sees a pamphlet-style book entitled My Friend Doc Holliday by Wyatt Earp. Doc smiles and dies alone without anyone to hold his hand. I wept watching that, watching how the two men loved each other, and hurt themselves for the other. I watched the last scene and decided that I do not want to die alone. What if my tombstone didn't read "beloved wife and mother"? I can't stand the idea that I'll have no one to hold my hand as I face death. Someone once said that (probably) that it is not the manner in which you die but the manner in whih you live that matters. In that case I want someone to hold my hand as I face life. I want a friend like Doc, who will always be there.

rain

When it rains I feel a symphony. I love rain because, unlike the soaking from submerging, the sensations come individually, a drop here, a splash there. As each contact with the skin is made, an indistinguishable note comes forth. Disney's Bambi captures the effect. As I walk in the rain I feel the music, as each little piece of the storm joins in with the others. The flute, the violin, the cello, the kettle drum; when it snows, the large soft flakes sound like an oboe. It's a magic thing walking in the rain, hearing the comforting drip of water on the surrounding surfaces, and imagining the echo of the orchestra.

hiding behind mascara

My feelings were hurt by Ben yesterday. He told Julie that I had been mean to him. I went to apologize. I told him it was unintentional and even unnoticed. I stood before his roommates, looking at him and gave away my pride. He rolled over on the couch and told me it was no big deal, that it's not like it's keeping him up nights. He turned back away. All I could do was walk out. I couldn't explain my hurt. Had I been disappointed that I hadn't wounded him? No. I felt small because he had not acknowledged my effort to be his friend. I felt that I was no big deal.

That was my last visit to apartment 130, at least for a while. It's not because of Ben. It was a feeling I got putting on mascara before FHE. I looked at myself in the mirror -beautiful, Caitlin said- and hated something, knew something had to change. I skipped the meeting to which I ought to have gone and sat alone in the apartment, listening. An observer would have witnessed one side of a conversation, as if overhearing a phone call. What is it that has to change? What am I meant to do? /I can't. I have to apologize to Ben. /Fine. I'll say my goodbyes then. /Not at all? /I can do that....When I went I did not say goodbye. They don't know I'm not coming back. How can I tell them? There's no reason to it. How can I say to them, I'm sorry but I have been wearing too much mascara recently so I can't come over anymore?

The connection as I see it is this: vanity. Or self-consciousness. Either one. Sure I like putting on makeup, I like playing dress up. I've done it at slumber parties and before the mirror with my roommates. I often enjoy how I look, but I am afraid that that was all I was becoming. I was losing myself in a mess of paint and powder. I have always given bad first impressions to those who end up meaning the most to me. The reason is quite simple. I trust my friends more when they go through the bad and still stick around. If I can get the bad out of the way at the very beginning then I can stop being afraid, stop wondering when they are going to find something in me that they hate, something that will make them leave. With apartment 130 I have done just the opposite. I have flirted and flounced and primped. I needed mascara. Ted did not recognize me. And the thing is...I am much too vain to do that. I believe myself beautiful without a facade, and all I want is someone else to realize that, to think, she might not be wearing mascara but she doesn't need it.

I loved that Ted was thrown off when I wore mascara. He should be. I don't wear it, and he knows me. That is what means the most, being known. Ted told me a week ago that when I hurt so does he. He once told me that when he met me he thought of me as a cute fun girl worth getting to know. Now (and here comes a phrase meant especially for his amusement) why can't I find a guy like that?

I called him when I felt slighted by Ben, and I told him that I needed to talk to someone to whom I wasn't completely expendable. He laughed at me, at the turn of phrase and the modest hope of my value to him. I used to hate when Ted laughed at me. I hated feeling that I wasn't good enough. I was scared to show him who I was, because to have him laugh at my inner self would have killed me. But, lo and behold, when I let him see me, he did not run away, did not find anything to hate. He still laughs, but he doesn't leave and so I love his laughing. It reminds me that I am known, all my ridiculocities (made up word but effective nonetheless) and I am loved.

I think I can go back over to apartment 130 when I decide that I am fine with rejection. Because, when that time comes, I believe that I will not meet with it. Ted taught me that.

lessons in love

Angry girl music. That's normal. At least it is for girls who have been dumped. But does angry girl music usually include Wicked and Cindi Lauper? It seemed more uplifting than any post-breakup rant that I had experienced. In fact, Emilie insists her boy isn't a jerk. She, being a good person, takes comfort in the fact that his intentions were honorable and that he didn't want to hurt her. I, I take comfort in that eventually. At the time I want to revel in bitter thoughts of him as an evil heartless jerk. I don't want the touchy feely, we'll still be friends approach. I want to blame him, myself and then him again. After I heal then I can be thankful for what I had. But right away I don't want to think about what I learned, and I definitely don't want him asking how I am. She, she loves him for still caring, where I would curse him.

I learned most of my breakup lessons from Kevin. Of course I had three chances to learn them. What did I learn? I learned that I can make my face absolutely blank to completely mask my feelings from my emotional attackers. I learned that I am just as irrational as everyone else despite the fact that I maintain calm. I learned that I would rather be hurt than hurt someone else, but that hurting still feels terrible. I learned that despite the fact that I claim with firmness that I will never agian be hurt in that manner, I will once more put myself in the vulnerable circumstances I claim to despise. I learned that all the lessons we learn from breakups are the wrong ones, and that if it weren't for chocolate shakes and popcorn no one would ever try a second time to fall in love and the species would be doomed. I learned that the lessons worth learning are found during the relationship and not the breakup.