In this very same room last year, I typed on this very same keyboard, on the very same blog, about the lack of light in my limbo.  I saw nothing like the light Virgil saw as he was destined to an immobile eternity with his boys.  Instead, I saw nothing, besides the life I wanted; that is, the aspect of life I wanted so bad I gave up the desire for any others.

In this very same seat, while my students wrote their finals, I imagined what it would feel like to sit in this seat knowing I did not have to worry about my position – both literally and metaphorically.  While I watched them scrambling to find the words to prove they deserved the grade they were asking for, I found myself scrambling for a deep breath. 

I just took it; she was right.  And my students?  They found the words to prove themselves, both this morning and last year.

I maintain that I must continue to do all that I should, could do in order to not feel guilty; in order to maintain order in my life.  What if I just left it alone that day?  The memories wouldn’t have changed, and I would have just moved on by now.  And the funny thing is, I did move on, until I thought it was possible you could have, too.

Why do endings scare us so?  Shouldn’t they signify  some other beginning?  I shouldn’t have a beginning I imagine the ending of, anyway.  And that is all I did with you, over and over again.  Almost like you were every word of every good sentence, but a lack of punctuation.

And sure, I don’t mind grammar mistakes, that is until they change the meaning.  Your words are without marks, and your experience has left me scarred.  I’m tired of going to the secret-quiet journal about you; I’m tired of being tired of listening to how tired you are.  Truth be told, I only open it, or think about opening it, when I think you have, too.  You aren’t what I thought you were; you weren’t who you thought you were either.

Eleven times two brought double luck in the form of you leaving.  What day is it, besides the day you left?  The day I said goodnight first.  I had no choice.  You are your own island, and I’m tired of tripping along the circular coast.  North or south, I’m still in the same place latitudinally speaking.  The coordinates to your map are off, and all I got was this stupid t-shirt.

I’m tired of writing about you, and of reading you in every word; your words are meaningless, your marks are off, and I refuse to be a buried survivor.  And, for the record, I hated that t-shirt.

Every little girl, every grown up woman, faces heartbreak and disappointment, and I used to think that was a sad statistic. Now, however, I am beginning to develop a sincere appreciation for all things “la.” It takes the strength of an ox to be a woman, of this I have always been sure.  It is the surface of all things I have just known.  Call it intuition, or even insight, that I had gotten to the effect before I figured out the cause, but know this:  a woman can only be that ox based on the things she faces, and the way she stands up, dusts herself off, and keeps on riding.

I used to be scared of the gut punch because I remember what it felt like to wake up remembering the bad news.  Bad news, I have learned, however, is the projection of your accomplishments, experiences, feelings, intuition, knowledge, opinions, memories, etc. Or, lack thereof.  The one who made it bad was me … all along.

Only now do I see that the times I let someone else make me feel unpretty, it was because, perhaps, that is what was happening inside my own abdomenal walls.  In being prepared for a gut punch, I haven’t let myself live.  Once I opened myself up to the punch, to the pain and the ramifications themselves, was I able to feel like an ox.   When I got rid of the fear, I got back to feeling pretty; to being me.

Pretty is in the eye of the beholder.  I find the ox far more attractive than the snake.  When you slither away, hiding from all and blending in with the surroundings, I am the one depended upon for strength, and saught after as well.  You might be a pet at most, but even if I belonged to someone else, it would be for good reason — not decoration or rebel status;  pretty is not about the decoration but the projection of kinetic energy; possible work.

There is no more bad news; when I wake up, I remember who I am and what that represents.  Whether you see an ox or not, well, that is not a speck in my universe.  I get to walk out of the house, get into my car, order my coffee, and still be me, with no muscles clenched anymore.

Punch me, you remain you, and when you wake up and get coffee, that’ll make you feel unpretty.

I went to this song hoping to find a climate to my mood, but instead found the answer I already had, but didn’t want. And isn’t that what we look for in advice, anyway; the answer we want?  While everyone said they were so proud, I wasn’t; I was scared.  While everyone highlighted my backbone, my spirit, my pride, I felt like I had none.  But, feelings aren’t always facts.  And facts are still open to interpretation, I would say.  The fact of the matter is, I have far too much respect for the love I am in love with to accept anything less; to accept another version of it.  I tend to believe that feelings are more factual than facts, anyway; it is my reality (and yours, as well).  And they are different.  Reality is based on personal feelings which come from the analyzation of facts.   I am consistent in every aspect of my life.  And now I can interpret any situation while holding my head up high:  I won’t let real love pass me by, just your version of it.

The reason I am so obsessed with the idea of going back and telling myself things is because these things are somehow certainly the beginning to an end I finally learned along the way.  Through the bumps and roadblocks, though, I never seemed to mind it all because of this formulaic movie idea.  Until now.

If you are what I think you are, then yes, life is like a movie.  While I am trying to stay open-hearted as I am brokenhearted, one thing remains certain:  up until now I was able to roll with the punches and believe in the power of my imagination.  I so believe in the power of the mind that I know there is — there has to be — another segment left.  I am known for my iron-will, but this is like one of those bad dreams when you can’t wake up.

My best friend was being my best friend throughout abnormally long and drawn out texts as the fact that I do not have a window in my office was becoming more of a blessing and less of a worldly disguise.  Had I actually been able to swallow the depth and sound of the brick-like droplets outside, I might have become more cantankerous than my already choleric disposition had been offering to the outside humans I continued to come in contact with (its true they always appear when you don’t want them, and hide when you do).

I can’t say for sure how unhappy I was or for how long; all I know is, it was a day that proved to me that I am actually capable of thinking of something other than work while I am at work.  This is a feat in itself; this has never once happened before.  When I am at work, I don’t just forget to check my phone, I forget I have a phone; I forget I have a life.  I am in love with my job, and I love that I can escape from everything with it.  I just couldn’t yesterday.  And everyone tells me the nausea was because I actually care.

“Actually” is the magic here, it actually has to come in from of care because I never do.  Well, I never did.  And I was afraid to admit it; I was afraid of all of it.  I was even afraid to admit how afraid I really was / am.  The thing is, though, that after much deliberation, texts with my mommy and the bff, I realized that the scariest part about being scared is that I could stay petrified forever.  Anais Nin described this realization far better than I could when she said “And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” Alicia Keys called it the Element of Freedom.  I don’t know what I will call it, but I know it was unlike anything I have ever experienced before.  And I bloomed in all that rain.

The funny thing is, as much as I mirrored the weather, whether I saw it or not in the physical sense, my climate was unchanged.  Even in my darkest moment, when I could not dive into my true love of my career without hitting my head on the shallow bottom of the dark blue pool, a bit of light creeped through.

The me I once was, in the form of the aforementioned student, sent  me this:

She said it made her think of something I had said to her.  And it dawned on me, I often wish I could go back and tell myself that I would be okay.  Looking back, I know I needed someone to point it out then. Although my parents always did, I might have needed someone else.  When I told my student that she would be okay, because I saw so much of who I was within her when she was sitting on the hardrock couch in my office, I technically did go back and tell myself.  It was in the process of learning that maybe having my job wouldn’t mean everything would be okay, I learned exactly the opposite.  It made everything okay!  And okay is not the worst thing to be.

Gina sent me this quote when I was so scared of the end; but, this is just the beginning.  And so, I bloomed; and it hurt much less than swallowing the pain and holding it inside. If only I could go back and mention that to myself at some point!  Sigh.

I spent so many days last year, looking at my name on the door, not because it was my name on the door, but because it stood for me having what I have been searching for all this time.  I told everyone that if I got the job, I would be okay in every other aspect.  Nobody believed me, they said other things would go wrong; people would come and go, things would become done and undone.  The truth of the matter is, however, that I have finally learned that no matter who comes and goes, or where they come from, I still get to be me when they walk away.  The only thing is, I need to work on sharing the time and the path,instead of road-blocking.  They could be worth the company.  But, it would still be my choice.

If I could go back and tell myself my name would stay on the door, I am sure a deep breath would have been in order, but the person who was staring at it so hard knew a bit more about persistence than I.  Perhaps there is a lot to be said about looking backwards every now and again; every version of who I was makes sense to who I am.  I suppose that is because those versions didn’t go away, I am the amalgamation of them.

What I couldn’t see as a little girl was how amazing the Wicked Queen’s plan really was; SW NEEDED a man to break her out of entrapment and repetition, she COULDN’T be (herself, a human, an effective citizen of her place) without attention (in the form of a kiss) from a man. How entirely badass is it that WQ was pissed that SW was more radiant and lovely than her, so she made her into one of those chicks that needs a man to survive?

I have some friends who are what WQ turned SW into, and I have to say, as happy as they think they are, there is a lot to be said about the people who see that kind of existence as a different form of the entrapment they felt when their lives were just repetitious and solitary.

In no way am I knocking love; I love love, perhaps even more than those who NEED love, but that is just the point here.  In order to have love, you have to be down with it, be nice to it, fight with it, treat it like you would anyone else you care for, admire, and respect; you need to prick it when it pricks you; beat love down.  You need to be in a relationship with it, accept it for all its faults, respect it, give it, take it, make it; NOT expect it or plan it or make it up. Perhaps Disneyfication wasn’t such a bad thing; we just didn’t interpret properly.

The WQ, that gorgeous piece of tail, was smarter than all of those princess bitches, and it was the audience’s fault for not assessing the situation properly.  I want love; real, inconsiderate, knocks you on your ass, turns life upside down and inside out, untimely, shakes you up love; not what its “supposed” to be.  Meant to be is far greater than supposed to be.  Supposed to be is entrapment; meant to be is rhythmic.

I am no longer putting down Disney, the world which birthed my fear of falling, of love, and flying.  Realistically, the only way to have that kind of love is to be willing to fall or to fly for it.  Or, you know, choke some bitch with an apple if she gets in your way.