Facets

I wrote the following passage at a time where I was struggling to understand what I wanted and how I felt. I’ve come a long way from the mental state I was in when I wrote it, and a lot of the progress came from physically listing everything I was feeling – sorting it out in a physical way is infinitely easier than attempting to muddle through it all in my brain. If nothing else, I feel like it is a fascinating way to visualize how my brain processes difficult concepts. After writing, and talking through everything with a few close friends, I reached a place where I was no longer pulled in 100 different directions. And now I’m slowly approaching my own internal resolution. So here I document how I felt, as a reminder of who I was, who I want to be, and how I thought through a disheartening situation.

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It has become increasingly clear to me in the past few days just how many facets of me I am balancing. My ability to compartmentalize has always been there, and I think it’s helped me significantly in the past, but sometimes I think it just bites me in the ass. This is me, trying to elucidate how the hell my brain works. And while I may be writing here about my various reactions on one specific topic, I actually do this for pretty much anything that causes me to stress out. Let’s see how many facets we can find. Shall we?

Anticipation

They sat, side by side, on the couch. His feet were planted on the floor, hands resting by his sides. She had her legs folded underneath her. She was leaning slightly toward him due to her chosen position, hands in her lap. They both stared at the TV, but to be honest, she hadn't the faintest idea what she was watching. Her back was stiff, but she couldn't come up with a way to shift her weight that wouldn't seem awkward or fidgety. She settled for moving her hands out of her lap and letting them land on the couch.

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He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. So still. Prim even. Was she really that enthralled with what was on the TV? He'd been looking toward it, sure, but he had been unable to focus on anything other than the girl sitting next to him. Her eyes seemed to be analyzing every pixel, memorizing each scene. Perhaps he was the only one in the room whose mind was so distracted. He did not want to be watching TV. Not with her body so close to his. But if she was enjoying it, he could restrain himself for a bit longer.

4 Letters

This is an old piece I wrote, but it's been on my mind a lot recently, and thus, I'm republishing it here. Sorry if you've read it before. ~A
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Love. A word. 4 letters.

It can be hollow – a word said to fill a space, a silence. It can be life-changing – the very thing some people live for. Some verbalize the word to everyone they know. Some avoid it. Blaspheme it. Some search high and low for its meaning. For the feeling it should evoke. Or simply to hear it used toward them.

Something I Need To Say

A friend recently came to me, upset with his college’s LGBT group and, in particular, an event they were holding. In celebration of the beginning of LGBT history month, the group held a picnic of sorts in a well-traveled area of campus, with drag shows, a ‘priest’ wandering around, draped in a rainbow shawl, and games such as ‘Pin the Tail on the Bigot’. My friend, a gay man, was disgusted by the display. In his words, “What are straight people supposed to think of this? What am I supposed to think of this?”

Quest'uno è solamente per me.

Ciao, tutti!
Ho deciso di scriver solamente in italiano oggi. Mi dispiace che qualche persone non possono capirmi. Mi mancano parlar e scriver in italiano ogni giorno...ma sono contente di studiarlo ancora. Così. Che cos'è nuovo nella mia vita? La scuola, i compiti, scrivendo, studiando, i teleprogramma, e più. Mi guaduarerò in maggio, penso. Spero. Adesso devo decidere che vorrò essere col mio futuro. Perché non è una decisione importante o niente...

Devo imparare come usar gli accenti sul mio computer. Sono più importante in italiano, e non usargli mi fa pazzo. Forse qualcuno mi imparerai. Ognuno? Ognuno? Bueller? [N.B. Guglielmo mi ha insegnato! Ti voglio bene, Guglielmo!]

Sto realizzando che il mio vocabulario non è buono adesso. Ricordi quando potevo parlare solamente in italiano per ore, di molte teme? Ricordo. Mi manca quell'abilità. È triste che
non posso farlo adesso. Voglio imparare come farlo ancora. Impararerò e vincerò!

Allora, questo è abbastanza più per oggi. Da scriver in italiano usa troppo del mio cervello...

A presto!
~Ambra

3:11pm 10.13.10

Foolish Dreams

She read the words for what seemed like the hundredth time. So honest, so sincere. She could see how she might have been the inspiration. But she didn't know how much of that was her projecting how she felt into his words. It was written about someone, that much he had said. Any why couldn't they be about her? She wanted them to be. To have some sign that her feelings were being reciprocated, even a little bit.

To Write

I can't write poetry or lyrics. Hand me a guitar and tell me to outline a song and I'm lost. Force me into the confines of a structure and I falter. I freeze, my mind goes blank, and I might start to cry. I've tried dozens of times to write a limerick, sonnet, or haiku. My song lyrics come out as drivel. I simply do not possess those skills. The people who do never cease to amaze me.

No music. No poetry. No lyrics. Where does that leave me? It leaves me with the spoken word. Prose. Senseless ramblings, mainly. Sometimes, they develop into a pattern of sorts, but it's pretty rare. I don't think in eloquent phrases. I don't write rhymes that can both bring a smile to your face and cause your heart to wrench. I just...write. It's for me, mostly. Writing helps me sort ouf how I feel - something I struggle with daily - and sometimes assists me in releasing some of the stress and tension that I put on myself. Putting a pen to paper (or fingers to a keyboard) is often all it takes for me to relax, unwind, and get in touch with myself again.

Inspiration is a funny thing. It can come from a word I hear on the radio. A phrase I come across in my dreams. A memory once considered lost. A scent, an image, a stray emotion. A what-if that is out of control. It can hide from me for months, and then sneak up and knock me on my ass. It can control my thoughts, forcing me to lose focus on everything else in the world. It can cause me to lose sleep. I wish I could bottle inspiration up and save it for when I actually had time for it. Alas, that's not the way the world works. I take it when it comes, hate it when it's absent, and always wonder when I will see it again.

If you hate what I write, that's alright with me. I may be too honest for you. I might have an opinion that is in stark contrast to yours. You may think I am too emotional, or too logical, or crazy, or heartless. You may see my need to write in order to discover how I feel as a weakness. And that's okay. You see it how you want to. I see it as the easiest and cheapest way to guarantee my own sanity. I'm sorry if what I write offends you, makes you feel uncomfortable, or seems a little bit too honest and personal. Trust me, it's just a tiny bit of what's going on in my head. Scary thought, right?

12:45pm 10.11.10

What's Wrong?

He raised his head from the table and groggily looked around the room. What time was it? The ever-helpful clock on the wall said it was almost 2am. That didn't seem right, but he trusted the clock better than his own judgment at the moment. He saw on the table beer cans...everywhere. He wasn't sure how many were there. He didn't want to count. However many it was, it wasn't enough to make him feel better or to help him forget. He rested his head in his hands. His head hurt. He raised his head again after a few minutes, pushing his disheveled hair out of his face. It fell right back in to his eyes. He reached for the phone and scrolled to her name in his contact list. It wasn't there. Damn it. He had deleted her number in a moment of finality a few hours before. He'd known it for years, but his mind was a little too fuzzy to come up with the right digits.

The Joy of Feeling

I feel confused. Lonely. Broken. I feel lost inside my own mind. Trapped in a labyrinth I created, with no Ariadne to show me the way out. I feel doomed to wander in my own mind, prey to my own demons, hopelessly alone. But I don't want to be alone. No. For the first time in a long time, I don't see myself being happy alone. Like I'm missing something I didn't even know I should have.

I...don't know.

Shame on me for wanting you the way I fantasize about.

Shame on me for letting myself fall for you. I know better. I don't fall. Hell, I rarely crush. I'm always too busy. Too introverted. Too depressed. Too lost in my own head. I hate that world, but at least I'm comfortable there. This new world. These butterflies. This constant desire to know you better. To know what makes you tick. To get inside your head. It makes me a little queasy. I'm not sure how I feel about it yet. It's definitely outside my own little world, that's for certain.

The Strong One

75% of what I write is me projecting an emotion I'm feeling onto a character. This piece is from the other 25% - a direct look into how I feel, albeit still in the 3rd person. These pieces are rare, because they're much more difficult for me to write. Opening up is not something I do easily.

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All her life she had been a nurturer. The one people leaned on. The one they came for advice, to bitch, vent, or cry. The role had been thrust upon her when she was far too young to know how to help herself, much less anyone else, and she knew no other way to live.

Now, don’t misunderstand. She loved helping others. Nothing made her happier. But they would rant and feel better. She would internalize their pain and let it mull until it made her crazy. Not so much with friends – those problems she could let go. But the family problems were eating her alive inside. She could feel them, chipping away at her soul, causing her to suffer just as those she loved did.

She didn’t know how to make it stop. She loved that they came to her, but their issues were far beyond the scope of her 22 years. What did she know of neglect or divorce? How was she supposed to advise someone on how to manage their marriage when she herself had been single for years?

How in the hell did they expect her to deal with her own problems when she was busy helping them? She supposed she was too good of a support system. They leaned on her because she had always been the strong one. They forgot that her brave face was just that. Deep inside, hidden from even herself most days, was a scared, insecure little girl. A girl that sometimes just wanted someone to console her. Hadn’t she earned that yet?


1:37am 8.18.10

Not. Mine.

These are just a few of the million words I wish I had the nerve to say. Go go gadget passive-aggressiveness!

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You have not been mine in a long time. I have no claim on you. I have no say in what you do or where you go. Though, really, I never did. I’m no longer even privy to such information. I hate you for leaving me behind. I admire you for starting over on your own. Most days, you don’t even cross my mind. On the days that you do, I often become a train wreck, emotional baggage strewn over the tracks. Memories I had thought lost bubble to the surface of my consciousness. So why, if you no longer belong to me, do I still refer to you as mine? Is it a deep-seeded, if not primarily subconscious, way of telling myself I want you back? No. I refuse to travel down that road again. You are not mine. Perhaps you never were.

Somedays I wish I could erase you from my mind all together. Then I wouldn’t have to suffer through such bittersweet reminders of who we used to be. You helped make me who I am today, and I, you. I’m sure you never told her that. Told her how you were before. You took credit for the person you are, never once mentioning the one who helped you learn when to push people away and when to let them in. It surprises me how much that bothers me. You taught me too, and I have never once tried to deny that. Perhaps that is the great difference between the two of us. The reason we didn’t work. Why does she get to enjoy someone I struggled with for years?


1.18.10 3:05am

She Hoped It Was

It's amazing what one can be inspired to write while sitting in a never-ending lecture.

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The lecturer droned on, as he had for nearly two hours, but she couldn’t focus anymore. She had reached the point where all she heard was a buzzing sound, no syllables or words were discernable, and she certainly couldn’t translate what she heard into coherent concepts. Apparently she was not the first to zone out. Looking around, about one third of the class had their heads on their desks. Several were surfing the internet, and those whose pens were moving seemed to be doodling more than taking notes.

At times like these, she wondered why lecturers kept talking. Surely they knew no one was paying attention. Did they talk to hear their voices? Just in the hopes that something would spark the audience’s interest again? If one third of the class is asleep, just call it a day.

She was fully aware that if she analyzed the lecture material half as much as she analyzed the lecturer, she might actually get something out of class. As she rested her head on her forearms, she realized she simply didn’t care.

The combination of too much studying and sleep deprivation brought out the best of her apathy. She was running on caffeine and saltines, and it was barely enough to keep her awake. Not near enough to keep her focused or alert. Someday, she hoped, she’d get to sleep more than five hours consecutively. At this point, more sleep was not an option. Study, class, study, class, short nap. Rinse and repeat. Sleep and eating tended to be the first things to go when tests got near. And there was always a test or three looming.

She begrudgingly raised her head from her desk, flipped through the seven slides she had missed, and forced herself to focus again. Thirty-six more minutes of this lecture. Four more years of this school. At this point she kept going only under the hopes that it would be worth it in the end. She hoped it was.

10.13.09 4:22pm

Benvenuti!

Hello, my name is Amber, and I'm a 4th year medical student. I enjoy quiet nights at home watching movies and large glasses of sparkling grape juice. I will be your tour guide through the inner workings of my own head. From time to time I will give you a peek directly into my thoughts, but for the most part, you'll have the unique experience of seeing how I felt at a certain moment through the eyes of characters I have created. If at any time during our tour, you have questions or comments, please raise your hand. Any questions before we begin our trek? Ok, good. Keep your arms and legs inside the car at all times...it's bound to be a bumpy ride.