Monologue of the Woman Dreamer

I don’t know how to peel back the months of my life. When those moments I was in became days that drifted into years, how I stopped recognizing myself in old photographs or where the people beside me in them went, or how to get them back. (As if I could convince myself it would be the same.) When six year old innocence became sixteen angst, became the shell of this twenty six year old woman. I blazed through adolescence with bleached hair, a hungry heart, a kind of wild ambition I can’t even dream up now.

Graduation was almost five years ago. The night before, I stood on that dock ready to jump, ready for cool dark water, something to shock my body, something to wake me up, just something underneath that May moonlight to either bathe me or drown me, I wasn’t sure which. It’s a strange feeling to want to be consumed. To be ready for it. That desire, that ambition, meant long city nights were ahead, and I fought my way to see them through. To pay the electric, to keep the light on, to keep burning. I set myself on fire. I raked through a 9-5 like I was taught.  I stopped looking for answers to the questions I forgot I’m allowed to ask, steadied myself against the current of the world and from reaching the bottom of the bottles on my shelf. I buried myself. Had milestones and mistakes on repeat. I bled trying to figure out just what it meant to be successful. A degree. A job. An apartment. Check, check, check. I did all of it. And yet…what for? And what now?

What happens when the supposed keys to happiness don’t twist and give way at the door in front of you? What if your wants and your needs and your reality don’t meet at this intersection and you look over to find nobody but doubt is sitting shotgun? I’m knee deep in my life and all of a sudden, I’m not sure where I am going or if I like it and who I am. I’ve stood in shadows and I’ve stood in the light, and I still don’t know how to love myself in either.

But I’ve loved. I’ve loved men who have seen all of me and yet never even knew my scars. What does that say about them? Better still, what does it say about me? I’ve loved the chase, the thunder of the unknown barreling through me. I love the hum of a heartbeat, the strength of fingers interlocked, the safeness of a naked soul. I clung to the notion I should romanticize busyness. I loved making calendars and planners fill up until I realized I was emptying myself. Running on coffee and the belief that I was making you, or at least someone, proud. That I was becoming something. Starving despite a full stomach, the appetite for my life lost. Maybe I’m repeating myself. Maybe we’ve all been there.

Women- how fragile and fierce are we? Too much this, too much that, but not enough. Crooked noses, big feet. Hair that frizzes in summer heat to swallow anything it touches. Clavicle bones that are never kissed, shoulders sunken with a weight we shouldn’t have to carry. The dripping curve of a lower back that forgot how it felt to be touched. Eyes an ocean of maybes. Stomach too soft, hips hidden from unwanted gazes (even our own), cellulite sliced into upper thighs as if it was a hot pepperoni pizza. Lips that beckon to tell secrets and inhale whatever a sunset is made of. Made of a million particles of “what ifs” and a swelling storm that rages even when we’re calm, even when we smile. Everything we are could bring you to your knees. We are composed of sheet metal our fathers molded from childhood, translucent glass that can never break, diamonds and teeth from past lovers, wood from the tree in your front yard, dirt roads and plastic bags, and stitched together with ribbon our mothers gave us- fragments of raw love, fraying at the ends. With bad posture and clumsiness and a beautiful brain and a lot of guts. I promise I am 75% fire and within me there is a real hurricane. I feel too much and I feel nothing at all. I’m trying to explain to you how that’s possible.

How do you learn to know who you are when the world is still telling you who to be? Where can you find what you love and let it kill you?  Maybe we’re just the blind leading the blind toward this whacked-out definition of happiness. Will there ever be a moment you look in the mirror and you don’t feel even just a little uncomfortable?  How do you make sure friends won’t be just a profile on a Facebook page and family won’t be strangers you feel obligated to see on holidays? Stop hiding behind filters and phones. Strip it all down, scream, do something. We’re so far removed from feeling anything and acknowledging it, revealing it. Too immersed in media and this illusion that everyone else has it together, and therefore so should we.

I’m here to tell you I don’t. I’m not exactly unhappy with my life. I’ve stood in crowds at concerts, feeling invincible. But when it ends, I wonder when’s the next time I’ll feel a part of something again. I’ve been told how envious people are of my accomplishments and experiences, like my life was this incredible dream they wish they could attain or trade something for. To some, that validation would hold meaning. But what do you say back, when they don’t realize the half of it? I’ve made friends in corners of the world, but those connections don’t reach across phone lines, probably for reasons that all lead back to me. I’ve stood on Machu Picchu, dined atop the Eiffel Tower, rode a camel in Morocco. I have traveled to cities where my tongue couldn’t speak the language, felt my skin burn from the fire of a different sun, and I’ve tried to soak my tired bones in all of it to find out what it means. Seeking fulfillment. I’ve crossed state lines and boundaries and crossed off bucket lists. I’m living but when do I start to feel alive?

And here we are already, another calendar year, another birthday looming ahead, emotions moving at the speed of light. How did we get to this place? I wish I could slow it down. These seasons are melting together so fast, memories always slipping through the tiny cracks in the palm of my hands as I try so desperately to hold on to them. And yet, I’m here still secretly hoping the leaves would just hurry up and change again, still wondering if there’s something more and measuring up just short of it, still waiting to find the word “yes” just so I can say it out loud, over and over again, to my reflection without flinching.

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Publication Updates

Hi y’all, I have great news to share!

Two articles have been published this week.

Check out a past blog post that made it into Thought Catalog here.

And read on to discover What Keeps Us, published on Odyssey Online. I’ll be posting weekly articles there as well. Please be sure to comment and share! I’d love to hear from you.

 

Thanks for following! Stay tuned for what I have up my sleeve for next time;)

 

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The Night Five Strangers Fell in Love

Picture this- It’s nearly midnight in Sevilla, Spain. I’m just getting to my hostel when I hear a Jack Johnson song being played in the distance. As exhausted from my travels and at the end of my rope as I am (getting lost, train delays, aching feet, empty stomach, etc.) the melody pulls at my heartstrings. Even though I am tired, I don’t want to wonder “What if?” Something tells me I need to find where it’s coming from…so, somewhat reluctantly, I follow the sound to discover Jukebox Munich (pictured below).

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And damn it, they’re good, and funny, and play songs I still love. I’m hooked. I drop my heavy backpack, tell my sleepy conscience to hush, and decide to stay a while. While sitting there on the curb listening to them, I meet Andrea, from Italy. He had a camera and an infectious smile:

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We make small talk until it dives deeper into the darker parts of ourselves, and we tune out the music. After playing hours on end, the band calls it a night. Just as I’m thinking this is where my late night ends, someone makes a suggestion. And just like that, with a crowd of about fifteen, we all decide to get beer and hang out before going our separate ways home. However, it’s too early in the morning, and everything is still closed. We walk to the other side of the river, where a place was closing, but one of the locals convinced the owner to sell us beer for a euro. He poured them out quickly- red solo cups halfway filled- as if he was going to get caught.

So we go and sit next to the river, our half beers in hand, and next thing I know, we were talking about what our dreams were and who our siblings were dating, how we felt about having kids and marriage, language barriers and what we studied in school, all while the band carried on in the background.  Andrea seemed taken aback when I asked him what his dream was.  Moments later he finally brought it back up and said, “I want to do something with politics. I see so much about how old European tradition is fading away, and how the States and Italy and others have these problems, and I want to help fix that. Although I know that’s impossible.” It was such an unexpected answer and I could tell he didn’t share it with a lot of people. He asked me about mine. Why I was traveling. How I’m very different than what he expected from an American, though he knows we’re not all the same.

When the band finally had enough, and the crowd disappeared,  Andrea, three Spanish girls (Júlia, Melanie and Martina) and I stayed behind, still mid-conversation. I discovered the girls were from Costa Brava as well, not far from Blanes! Júlia studied in Rome so she could speak some Italian with Andrea, and and Martina had previously lived in Canada, and all three of them could speak English with me. We ended up sitting on a street corner while they rolled cigarettes and spoke about everything from this side of the sun. I completely bared my soul to them about the fear of losing my parents, about being terrified that I would not find whatever it was I came to Europe to discover, how I felt conflicted with my “almost” relationship, fights with my brother, my thoughts on gun control and gay marriage, etc. You name it, we covered it.

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             Martina                                                       Melanie and I

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           Júlia                                                        Andrea

It made me sad, even ashamed, to hear the stereotypes of Americans- just always thinking their way is right and that they are superior to other countries. I know this is a common stereotype, but I don’t want to be seen this way. While I love my country, I don’t think we are the best. I can’t disagree, however, that America has become wrapped up in fast food and television and so consumed by their own stress. The European lifestyle is about savoring– lunch and the company you are with is ENJOYED, not rushed. I wish we were that way. So many  Americans want to go to Europe, but it is not necessarily the case with all Europeans. I find this interesting.

Martina was tall, with so much spunk in her personality that although it would be easy for people to perhaps not appreciate it or like it, it made me fall in love with her. She had no boundaries on her feelings, no apologies about her thoughts, or words. Her outstretched hands brushed yours when she laughed. I felt instantly comfortable around her, around all of them, actually. She just didn’t give a shit about being anything but herself and it caught me off guard how much I admire that in a person. I wished I could be so secure in my own skin, so unapologetically myself. She was so strong because maybe before she had been forced to be. Melanie was beautiful, with dark hair and light eyes, and quiet, not as fluent in English. She agreed to many things we were saying, and I could tell her spirit was young but on fire. The streetlights shone across Júlia’s tan skin and reflected off her nose ring. She had the warmest brown eyes. She could say anything, and you’d trust her. She confided to us about how her parents separated and she didn’t become close with them until after that. She said she realized as we are getting older that they are not the vision of what we thought they were, they make mistakes and have hard times and need us, too.  We can’t force them to feel something or understand and change. But that when they finally realize it, we will be there with open arms.

Andrea told me he lives more than an hour away from his parents and at 25, this is his first time really traveling alone. He said he initially was nervous but felt he needed to do it. And how without that freedom, we never would have met each other. I realized he was right- if we were with our families or friends, we probably would never have thought to approach or speak to one another. He argued how we should really pursue writing or singing or painting, or whatever the hell it is that we want. Martina said it best- maybe it’s not even fear of failure that we are so scared of…it’s what happens once we actually GET what we want or have been searching for- will we take it? And then what? That is the big question, because we are always looking for and wanting something better.

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We talked about how it shouldn’t be so hard to love one another. I really just wanted to break down…I was falling in love with these strangers, these new friends, and we were feeling something so much bigger than ourselves, talking about the world and although we knew and had only seen so little, we realized so much. Some people, they said to me, would never do what you did, they’re too scared, and you’ve already made the most courageous step you could. I don’t think they could ever understand how much I needed to hear that.

We laughed, too- talking about the “cobra” move in a club when a guy approaches you and you duck away. I learned so many tongue twisters in Catalan and words for things that I didn’t know had their own definition (all of which I have now forgotten). Also, that all Catalans talk about is shit. “My face is shit.” “My life is shit.” I was dying of laughter.

Finally, Andrea looked at his watch and realized it was 7:30 a.m. He suggested breakfast. So we walked around to find a restaurant but none were really open at 7:30 am, and if they were, they didn’t look that appealing. Finally, we stopped at the square, where we joked Andrea was Lord of the Flies since they all kept landing on him. We saw an older man painting the most beautiful picture of the cathedral. Took snapshots of us laughing and looking dead in zoning out from zero sleep. We finally stopped to eat, getting pan con tomate and jamón, and café con leche. Everything was so good and perfect and cheap and we just laughed because Júlia said it was her favorite birthday she’s ever had and that she didn’t even feel tired even though she had been up for almost a full day, and everything was fate that brought us together. And that since I had to leave at 2 p.m., why not spend every second together and make the most of the last time we have together?

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So I checked out of my hostel early and they bought me a Red Bull and we headed toward Júlia’s car, which was near the corner of O’Neill’s restaurant that we had been sitting at and talking all night. She went to park it somewhere else because they were giving out tickets, but we ended up listening to “Thrift Shop” by Macklemore and “Blurred Lines” by Robin Thicke (which was so cool that, despite being from three different countries, we all knew) and driving the completely wrong direction to just make a circle and park the car again in the same spot, finally giving in to just paying the meter. It made me laugh because that’s precisely how I drive.

I convinced them to go to Plaza de España and I loved their reactions to its unspeakable beauty, because it was exactly how I felt when I saw it for the first time. We took pictures and sweated under the sun together, then got granizado to quench our thirst, and cool our throats. So refreshing and good! Headed back to the square by the cathedral and sat in the shade next to the building where a man played the guitar (probably annoyed by our incessant talking), and the horse drawn carriages were pulling in. They kept telling me I’d have to write the story of our night but I can’t think of one word to say about it. Even if I could think of a million, it wouldn’t do it justice.

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I swear to you, we just couldn’t stop talking. Our conversation continued into handsome Spanish dads and why they don’t like bullfighting, and how Júlia’s mother makes her gazpacho for when she is hungover and gets home early in the morning and sleeps all day, how European lifestyle is just better and I just need to move here. Our feet were caked with dirt, Júlia’s nice once white shorts stained from sitting on city curbs and street corners and dirty pub chairs. Martina’s thick dark eyebrows danced when she talked, a wide mouth grin and deep voice, that went high when she sang or got excited, always joking. Melanie’s bright blue eyes reflecting with the sun, her dark curly hair bouncing as she laughed and shook her head at Martina. I cherished them…Júlia’s warm embrace and Andrea’s smile that lit up like a sunrise and their nose rings that I thought about getting sophomore year of college and the fact that they rolled their own cigarettes and could speak three languages and still be so incredibly beautiful after all the traveling and nights without sleep. I was soaking in every moment. I learned if you close your eyes and have a spoon in your hand, the moment the spoon drops you’re having the best moment of sleep. What about the best day of your life? I wanted to say.

And I started to cry right then and there, because I had never felt happier, or experienced a connection like this before, but also because I knew this was probably the last time I would ever see them again.

Perhaps we were only meant to have that one night, Júlia said.

Maybe she was right. Maybe it was so perfect, it could only last a day. But it was enough- in just those hours, they changed my life and healed my soul.

So this is for you, my dearest friends. Until we see each other again.

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All my love,

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