I woke up shortly before my door bell began to ring obnoxiously. Ding-Dong. Ding-Dong. Silence. Ding-Dong. Ding-Ding-Ding-Ding-Ding-Dong. Silence. Should I get up and answer the door?  I picked up my phone and had no text messages that would alert me to a possible visitor. I’m not big on unannounced visitors I guess. I don’t know what I dread about it. The possibility of a vistor invading my space for just a bit too long? I like to be prepared for visitors. Or maybe it’s just that I’m not a fan of waking up to door buzzing. I hadn’t even had my coffee yet.

Anyways, I decided the obnoxious ringing of the door bell meant I knew this person quite well. Most likely my mother. However, my mother always texts me that she’s in the driveway. So I decided to go to the door. No one was there. But I could see my mother’s car in the driveway. I opened the door, and she got out with the box for my grandmother that I had painted in Easter theme. She came in so we could tape up the box. I’d taken all the tape off so I could paint it. Then she had be write my grandma’s address on it. And she stayed for a cup of coffee.

After I had some caffeine surging through my veins, I began to sort through my things again. Shoes, cell phones, chargers, MP3 Players. Basketballs. Beanie Babies. More beanie babies. Belts. All in the donation pile. Purging. I hope this is going to feel lifting once these things leave my possession.

I did find a bag of gummies that were delicious. And I’m just now getting around to washing the running shoes I wore on Isle Royale last summer. Tossed in my Viabrams too. The first day I hiked in my Viabrams. Every bone in my feet that I didn’t know existed, I became very well aquatinted with in an excruciating way. I don’t believe I’ve worn the shoes since.

Have I mentioned that I’ve been painting? Acrylics. I want to take a class, but I haven’t come across anywhere offering painting classes in acrylics in Marquette. Hm. I always wanted to paint, but I was too afraid of the canvas. I still am pretty intimidated by it. And have NO IDEA what it is I am doing. But, still, I’m attempting to put some paint onto the canvas.

Tonight I painted some more. And painted long enough that I finally got what all the negative talk was about with acrylics drying fast. I usually paint a background. Let it dry. Paint another layer. Let it dry. Paint another element. Let it dry. Tonight I was trying to paint a whole scene. Two hours later and I’m frustrated because I can’t jump between the different elements of the scene because when I jump back, that part’s already dry. Or mostly dry. So I’ll have to get something—I think it’s called a medium of some sort—to fix that. Have I mentioned I recently went to the store to buy two tubes of paint in addition to the primary colors I have (and mix). I was so fixed on getting a bright color. Magenta. I bought Quinacridone Magenta. I’ve get had any real need to use Quinacridone Magenta. I can’t even prononce Quinacridone. I don’t even know what it means. But this color of Magenta is quite pretty. I think I just have put too much pressure onto this color. The color I really needed to buy is brown. Multiple browns. I seem to love browns. And while I’m getting better at mixing browns. I still can’t consistently mix a brown. I’m also really drawn to abstract art. Modern, minimalist paintings. Except. I’m drawn to trees. I drawn to nature. I want to be doing non-nature things, and I find myself wanting to draw trees. Wanting to draw what I know. I know the outdoors. I live in the Upper Peninsula. But I want to be painting modern abstract things. I need to take a class.

And now I’m off to bed. Because I’m up way to late.

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So I’m moving to Long Island at the end of May. I’ve been asked if I’m nervous. Honestly, no. I’m excited. I can’t wait to go. I’m counting down the days. I’m ready to leave this town. But I’ve got a lot of stuff to sort through before leaving. For example: what to do with my multiple netti-pot contraptions: electric, pot-looking, and bottle. What to do with the countless gifts I never found any use for. Or the gift certificates from 4-5 years ago with $4-5 left on them. The bottle of rice wine. The pictures. The watches that need batteries. The salt & pepper shakers. The shot glasses. The basketball cards. The DVD collection. The books. Did I say the books? Of course the books stay. The books get to stay. But what about the ticket signed by Simple Plan? The basket of old GI Joes. The crap. The non-crap crap. It’s just overwhelming. I mean, what was the purpose of buying a single package of glass cleaner from the car wash (presumably) if it’s just going to end up amongst the rest of the stuff. Blah, blah, blah. I’ve found past love letters, post cards from everywhere and anywhere, a titanic poster packaged as if a collectable. Have I said: blah, blah, blah? Blah, blah blah blah blah.

Anyways, everything’s being sorted into four piles: trash, things my mother would like, things I want to keep, and things I’m going to donate (the biggest pile). I want to move with as little as possible. I don’t need to hold on to the fondue kit I never used, or the various valentines themed albums I won’t spend the time to fill, or the rest of the gifts I left packaged as they came.

Here’s what I want to bring: my bike, mac, backpacking gear, 1/2 the clothes I currently own, books, desk, book case, shoes and make-up. And other things that I’m not thinking of at the moment. I want to fit it all in my car. I think I’ll leave my snowboard, tennis rackets, softball mit, cross-country skiing stuff. But I suppose I’ll have to bring my winter stuff. And I do have a lot of jackets. I’m just afraid of all the things I’ll want to bring but wont and then might need when they’re like 2,000 miles away.

Now I’m going to attempt to go to bed, and maybe blog about this and more tomorrow.

Maybe I’ll blog about my new favorite beverage: a rattler—half lemonade, half beer. It’s good. It’s really good.

And maybe tomorrow I’ll blog about quitting Adderall.

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So I spent a few hours tonight going through some of my older writings. I found some lyrics/poems I wrote in high school. I get all nostalgic reading through these old words:

Take your pride back, look underneath your skin
And tell me why, why it’s been this way for awhile…
When you look at me all I see is a blank stare.
I see into your eyes and they tell me the story.

It’s been a long time waiting,
But now you’ve finally grown your wings.
And I’ve become your past, haunting your everyday.
And I try so hard to let go, but this day seems to be an unending fight.

I’d tell you I cry myself to sleep,
But you’re unemotional.
I’d tell you it hurts to see you act this way,
But you haven’t cared for awhile.

You have a new companion,
Someone to tell your stories to
Someone to sit with for hours
I haven’t had that chance in months.

My time runs off their plans.
If you could only understand, I could understand.
But these days are dying
And my time is precious, just not to you.

And then there’s this:

You built me up with lies of trust,
You tore me down with promises.
It’s how you play me with your words.
Your actions speak for your heart
So let this go tonight, if I meant anything you’d say goodbye
You’d say goodbye tonight.
As these words drift into your hollow soul,
remember why you hurt me so bad.
It’s not how you feel, it’s how you act.
So let this go tonight.
And as you walk through the door, don’t forget to say goodbye.

And then there’s this gem that ended up on Poetry.com because I was intrigued when I received an email about a year ago that said Poetry.com had re-discovered a poem I submitted a long time ago: middle school or high school. Except, now I’m listed as a poet on a mass-user-based-poetry-site-that-accepts-everything-and-anything. AND it says that I submitted the poem 10 months ago. Maybe 10 years ago. But 10 months? No. So here it is (notice the amazing use of capitalization, or lack of it, and such):

Pieces of ME

All i knew was what we had.
Lying here tonight, deep inside of you.
My path was paved knowing your intentions were to keep me here.
Sadly i must leave, leave this fairy world.
Tonight in my head, turning the days of our lives into dust,
i’ll always remember you.
as our lives separate into two separate worlds, please lead me

I was most definitely an emo-punk-alternatively-dressed and pink-purple-red-black-hair-colored teenager. About two years before all that became popular. Well, I guess I wasn’t a teenager: somewhere between 16/17 and 18. Then I went back to dressing much less emo. For the most part, my first year in college was spent dressed in trucker hats, dark colors, ripped jeans, and eye liner like yah. I made it to a lot of house parties my first year in college. Like every Thursday, Friday and Saturday. It was rare that I wasn’t called Avril. So yah. Here’s a picture:

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So last night I spent some time wrapped around the base of a friend’s toilet. Embarrassing. I didn’t even make it out to the bars. I got dropped back off at home. I’ll be turning 27 in a little over a month. Not really appropriate behavior for an about-to-be 27-year-old. Not really appropriate behavior for anyone. And now I have lots of time to feel the effects of my oh-so-fun-alcohol-filled-night. Which has got me thinking. What alcohol allows for me to do is lower some of my super-duper walls I’ve built brick-by-brick, year-by-year, ever since I can remember. As a kid I often couldn’t verbally get out what I wanted to say. I didn’t know how to ask people for help. Or how to ask people to do something, like, you know, hang out. Or something. My dad would say: “Spit it out already” or just “Spit it out” or “Spit it out Hailey.”

Now I say everything and anything on my mind once I’m comfortable with you. Except that’s not entirely true. I say everything and anything that I’m willing to share. What I don’t say is everything and anything that makes me vulnerable. But I’ve been trying to change. I have moments of vulnerability. Moments when I’ll let myself be vulnerable around someone else. But those moments usually come in some form of frustration. In some form that allows me to feel as if I can take back whatever I said. That allows me to feel as if I’m ultimately above whatever feelings I’m expressing.  Maybe I simply don’t know how to let myself express what I hold dearest without some kind of stipulation. And it shows. Because most of the people who’ve been around me the last few years or so would probably say I’m different in the way I express myself. Would probably say I experience emotion more logically or calculated or rationally than most females.

I’m not saying that I don’t. But I’m also not saying that this is how it’s always been. I mean, sure, I’ve always had a hard time expressing my emotions. In high school and the beginning of college I would short-circuit emotion I perceived as vulnerable with frustration. A frustrating kind of anger. Mostly because I was feeling attacked or misunderstood or taken advantage of. Mostly because I was feeling vulnerable (!) and I didn’t know how to verbally express myself precisely enough and clearly enough and accurately enough. So when I was twenty, I took Prozac for a month. I stopped because it made me numb to the world whirling around me. I lived through all the little experiences that had frustrated me—in a sense—into a state of blindness. Prozac showed me it was possible not to feel. Prozac showed me another way, another possibility. Without even realizing it, I began to adapt my emotional responses, and soon enough I no longer even knew that frustrating blindness. And then my old frenemy moved some of her things back into my town without my knowledge sometime in the last six-months to a year. Or a version of my old frenemy.

I don’t know what to do. I feel out of control. I feel as if I have no control. For the last 3 1/2 years—5 1/2 if you count the transitional period—, I’ve ultimately been in control of my emotional responses as they apply to the people in my life. I’m not anymore. I don’t like it. Sometimes I want to just give up. Shut everyone and anything with the ability to provoke an emotional response in me out. But I guess I’ve just got to wade through the muck. Become better at not being in control. Because what I know is that I don’t want to go back to the numbness. I may never be able to forgive myself for not being able to save Buddy. I maybe never be able to forget that I wasn’t smart enough or this enough or that enough to not fail Buddy.

But I can try to be a better person. I can remember that I don’t ever want to return to my parents home office when I first realized I’d partially lost my voice. I don’t ever want the persistant and invisible weight pressing on my lungs to return. I don’t ever again want to watch his upper body jerk upwards again and again as he attempts to sit up, and hear him yelp the week before his death.I don’t ever want the dreams to return: the bloodless amputation of my left ring and middle finger at the knuckle that aren’t reattached because I can’t make a decision quick enough; or when I’m in my parents basement with a deep, bright red gash between my thumb and index finger from where Charli bit me, and my dog’s bone cancer riddled body is turned away from me before he begins to disappear into the chair that turns around to face me, and it’s my pharmacist. I don’t ever again want to have to give the OK for Buddy’s Vet to come to my home to stick two needles in him: one in his muscle to put him to sleep, and one in his vein to stop his heart. I don’t ever again want to watch his paw prints melt away with the snow for months: the prints that told the story of his last moments outside, on his last day spent on earth, of his painful stubbornness. I don’t ever again want to feel the responsibility that comes with giving the OK to euthanize Buddy. Or have to transport my dead dog—his bottom half in a black garbage bag surrounded by a ratty blanket—in the back of my suburban to the counter at the vet clinic. I don’t ever again want to leave Buddy to the hands of strangers so that he could be returned to me in the form of ashes.

I want smiling not to be an effort. I want to stand without my vision blurring. I want to eat without it making my mouth dry. I want to wake up without my body feeling weighted down. And I do. I’ve come so far from where I was. But every conflict, every misstep I take with my friendships, everything I do that makes me feel out of control petrifies me that I’ll return to where I was. Whenever I feel most out-of-control, I write. Or I blog. I don’t always put what I write out there for everyone to read, but in some odd way, I think blogging allows for me to get my story out there. For me to express myself, and step back from the ledge of all that is the wonderful fear that I’ll fall all the way back down to the bottom of the dark rabbit hole I’m working my way out of. Blogging also helps me lower some of my walls that I’m not yet or always able to lower in the presence of others. In that way, blogging and alcohol have similar functions. Except one is much more constructive.

When I watch TV or movies, I’m often jealous of the words these characters can say aloud. Of the conflict they can wade through without having such a black-and-white vision of conflict resolution as I often operate under.  For example, I was watching a movie in which Steve Carol’s character says the following to one of his high school age’d daughters who is mad at him for not letting her be with the guy she’s convinced she’s in love with:

“What don’t I understand, Cara? Please, help me out. What is it? Is it frustrating that you can’t be with this person? That there’s something keeping you apart? That there’s something about this person that you can connect with? And whenever you’re near this person, you don’t know what to say, and you say everything that’s in your mind and in your heart, and you know that if you could just be together, that this person would help you become the best possible version of yourself?”

I don’t know. In the movie he fights for what he knows is right despite the consequences. Or at least he’s fighting for a better reality. I can never see past the consequences. Not sure I ever will.

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The four year anniversary of Buddy’s death shall arrive January 30. Yet I needed to stop at my parents last night to remember the exact date. I keep his file and X-Rays in the upstairs desk along with four barely worn Ruff Wear booties. Then I went downstairs to make a Keurig hot chocolate pod that I got for Christmas. But my Keurig is at my parents. I don’t live with them. It’s kind of cute. Anyways, I didn’t reset the cup size so the hot chocolate spilled over. I was about to pour some of the scorching hot chocolate into a separate cup when my mother suggested I use a separate cup. So I assumed my mother—and Charli, my cat who was on my mother’s lap, watching me also—meant that I should place the paper cup filled to the brim into the large mug. Needless to say, it went disastrously.  Hot chocolate coursed over my hands, across the counter, onto the kitchen floor my mother had just washed. I cleaned it up, and told my mother I was leaving. I was at the front door, getting my boots on, and she had to ask the dreaded question: what’s wrong. I tried to give short answers, and just blame stress. Then, without knowing, she went in for the kill by offering to make me another hot chocolate. I refused. I didn’t want the hot chocolate. And before I knew it I was bawling. My mother was insisting on making me another cup of hot chocolate. I was insisting on not having the hot chocolate. Saying it’s not the hot chocolate. And she’s still talking hot chocolate. And I’m still refusing. While at the same time wondering how much taller I am than my mother because during the hugging and my sobs, I felt much taller in the way I hung over her shoulder. So I did go home. But then I left to go buy a bunch of chips and dip and Red Velvet ice cream that somehow ended up costing almost $80.

Anyways. I want to better myself. I want to be better. But I can’t help thinking I don’t know how to do that. If better means forming better friendships then I don’t know if I can do that. I’m not meant to be a person with many friends. Maybe many acquaintances. But friends, no. I hate conflict. I hate confrontation. I hate feeling uncomfortable. I’ve never been a person who needs people. Yet somehow, I tricked myself into believing I needed people all the time. I don’t need a lot of people. Maybe a dog, yes. But people I can take long hiatuses from. I usually find one person that I can befriend. One person I can count on. One person I can trust. But that person isn’t here. Most of my friends are in relationships. Most of my friends are unhappy in their relationships. I’m not in a relationship. Blah, blah, blah.

Tomorrow I’m going to make a dent in the book I have to read for book club this month. That’s right. I joined my mother’s book club. And then I’m going to get my hair cut. Finally. And probably hang out with all my many many friends. Many to me is probably few to others. But it’s still many to me.

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So yesterday, I was driving, and I think I heard something about birthdays on the radio, which sent me on a tangent. Every year of our lives, on the day we are born, we celebrate our birthday. It’s never occurred to me to celebrate, or give thanks, or just ask my mother what this day–my birthday–means for her. So easily our mother’s struggle is forgotten, put out of our minds, and dismissed. It got me thinking. How the very way mainstream American culture socializes us to celebrate our birthdays teaches us to focus on ourselves. To forget about all the hard work it took to get us to this point of celebration. How our notion of birthdays teaches us, on a grander scale, how to perceive life: to dismiss the messiness. The first word that popped into my head when considering mothers and birthdays was narcissistic. Really, I’m pretty unaware of how other cultures treat birthdays. Or how the evolution of birthdays came about in the context of mainstream American culture.

I get that we’re only born once, and then there’s the whole miracle of birth, but, really, had things turned out differently in history, I wonder how mainstream American culture would have addressed the culmination of pregnancy. And, I can’t help but be enamored with how important the words we use can be. How much the focus changes if in the above sentence I had used “childbirth” instead of “pregnancy.” How differently the images conjured in my mind are when I think of childbirth compared to pregnancy. But then the more I think about it, the more they seem the same. The more the differences fade away, however little those differences may have seemed.

It just seems like the things I hear people complain about the most are the very things we teach our children. We teach our children to focus on ourselves. Our birthday is all about us. We get the presents. We get swooned over. We expect our birthday to be all about us. Me, me, me. What we aren’t teaching our children is to celebrate that which leads up to what we were socialized to celebrate. On my birthday, my mother gives me a hug. I give her a hug back for all the thoughtful commodities she may have given me. I’m thanking her for making me a cake, decorating whatever, buying me items. I’m not thanking her for the initial 8 months she allowed me to grow inside her. I’m not remembering her struggle. I’m not considering the pain she went through so I could become the person I am today. That just seems insane to me.

Insane.

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