getting better

If you're looking for something witty and amusing, this is probably not what you want to read. Also, I'm pretty aware the the following paragraphs are very self-centered, but they are as honest as I know how to be, although I know it's full of cliches and mushy gushy rhetoric. If for some reason you can relate to this stuff or get anything out of it, please let me know because I'm not so sure that a blog is the best format for writing diary-like thoughts like these.

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I'm learning how to learn. Despite being injured, my cello lessons have been amazingly constructive lately. It's difficult for me to admit, but I've often closed myself off in the past and approached new information with negativity and defeatism. For the first time, and probably out of desperation, I have decided to let go of the fear of losing control and admitting that I have so so far to go in learning music. Last semester, I desperately attempted to force my body to complete tasks it did not want to complete. I marched up three flights of stairs each day and locked myself in the practice room until it was time for me to go home to sleep, then I came back to school as soon as I woke up. I took pills that allowed me to ignore pain and I rubbed menthol gel on my arm that distorted my senses. I became angry at my own body for disobeying me when my recital was a month away.

And now, because I have to, I respect my body and the work it does. I see myself as an animal now, and not a machine. Six weeks of physical therapy and alexander technique have made me truly aware of my body for the first time. I've also realized how comforting it is just to be touched by another person. As a twenty one year old, I've almost forgotten what it feels like to be held by a parent. But after falling apart, I actually enjoy needing to be touched whether it's a massage in physical therapy or having my neck gently cradled in my alexander technique lesson. I'm letting people take care of me, and I've learned how to stop feeling guilty about needing help and needing to basically be held and loved like a child again

And nobody wants to hear a love story, so I won't tell mine. But I am with somebody who treats me (and everybody else) with so much respect and love that... I feel like I might explode with happiness.

So these days, I don't give myself guilt trips about things I can't control. I try to listen to my body instead of manipulating it. I don't allow myself to spend time with people who make me insecure and weak. I let people help me because I know I need it. I remind myself that I must define success for myself, and it can happen within my own time frame. And I allow myself to fall in love because I know I'm worth loving back.

More than anything, I hope that someday I can become strong enough that I can return some of the love that's getting thrown my way.

The crude sounds that you are inspired to create will never escape this room. I sealed the windows and doors shut before the concert. You will never meet the pretty girl down the hallway because she refuses to strain her neck so that she may hear the faint sound of something that may or may not be the radio.

When you pour your heart out, it splashes around on the floor and lingers and stinks. I'm walking carefully around it on my way out of this place. Others will slip as they run towards you smiling, and maybe a few will slide right into your arms.
What a mess.

hazel

We all want to talk to dead people, and we all try to do it in our own special and screwed up ways. If I ever had a daughter, I think I'd like to name her Hazel after my great grandmother, who I never met. There's no real reason for me to do something like this. My Dad tells me that she had a low, raspy voice and made lots of pies, and his eyes tear up when he tells me how much he wishes I could have met her. He tells me about his mother, Mildred, who died of stomach cancer when she was just fourty something. She worked at a women's clothing shop. My great grandfather once saved a bus full of people from getting hit by a train. These are the people I come from on my Dad's side, and this is all I know. I want these details to help explain who I am, my motivations, my body, and my fears. They probably never will, but that wish is all that keeps these people.... well... less dead. And why do I want them to be less dead? Because death is terrible, I think.

Touch a quilt. Write a Reqiem. Host a seance. You can talk to the dead, even if they don't listen.