Monsters Need Beds

So many things to do, but I need to write this. It's really important, and I want to remember it later.


I think my specialty is telling small crowds really revealing, personal things about myself. I seem to do that really often. In a strange, nerve-wracking sort of way, I'm kind of getting used to it, and I think I like it.

I waited for a few other people to go first before I told myself to get it over with. I was slightly less nervous than I might have been because I played it for Jacob before I left, but I was still shaking a little. When I walked to the front of the room, sat in that lonely chair, looked up at the musicians sitting before me, and felt Andy Wilkinson's presence to my left, it got really bad. A few notches short of a heart attack.

Stage fright is one of the few frights I don't have. I swear, audiences don't make me especially nervous; a small amount of nervousness is ingrained in my personality, and the fact that I've never played and sung a song in front of a group of people made this a higher scale of nervousness. But the scariest thing was the song. Describing the song. Singing the song.

"My song is called "Monsters Need Beds"," I said as I sat down. A few people laughed, and I wanted to hug them. I went on and talked about The Process, how this song started as a bunch of nothing, just several pages of rambly phrases that didn't connect, until I met with Mr. Wilkinson. He looked through it and we found a little passage of something that was the most "song-like" out of all of it. I didn't tell them or him that the little passage was a poem I started writing because I was tired of failing at writing the song.

"This song is about monsters in our lives and what to do with them, but for me specifically, it's about depression," so I say holding my ukulele. "Um... there's a line in the second verse that says "Try the medicine." For me, that means depression medicine, but it also means other things... the things we do to heal ourselves. Um... in the third stanza--sorry, verse--there's a line that says "I'd rather fight a man," and that's a reference to aikido... because... I took an aikido class this year, and it's really helped me... I don't know... Um..."

I was so nervous. Just then, the door opened, and the only person in this class who really reached out to me walked in.

"I guess I'll just sing it."

I glanced at Andy Wilkinson. He nodded. The silence was a glass window waiting to be smashed. My fingers were shaking. I started playing.

I'm not going to lie. I wasn't counting while I played. I just played each set of triplets until I could remember how the next piece of the melody went. My eyes stayed on the strings, and I probably made silly faces while I was singing, but I got through it without any huge mistakes.

Everyone applauded, as we always do. I sighed.

The comments were all kind and complimentary. All I need to do is chart it.

Andy said that Willie Nelson would be proud; everything was balanced well. The ukulele was fast and complicated, the melody slow and simple. It sounds sort of like a lullaby, and goes really high on the neck, but is about depression. He cautioned me when I first told him I wanted to write a song about this on ukulele, but in the end it worked.

In a moment of silence, my songwriting friend (okay... I've only talked to him once... but he lives on my floor, and told me to come by if I wanted help with my song. I just never did because by the time I had anything to show him, I had figured out what to do. I think it still counts.) spoke up for me.

In the next pause, Andy asked "Was this scary to write?"

"Yes," I said immediately. It was scary to write and terrifying to sing.

"You know you've got a good song when it's hard to write. If you're scared shitless to play it for people, you've done something good."

Someone else commented that she was really glad I chose to sing this and share it with everyone. Every time I've done this someone has said something like that. So I believe it's worth it to bare your soul sometimes.

We were allowed to leave early this time, if we didn't have anything else we needed to play. I took him up on it because of the essay, journal, poems, and physics homework I need to do (and this is still productive because I'm going to put this in my Caswell journal). I was sad that I would miss my friend's song, though...

At the very least I could catch his eye as I left and say goodbye. So I did. He gave me the kindest smile and said goodbye back. Then, as an after thought...

"Good job! Very... reflective. I really liked it. Really nice." I said thank you about three times, glanced from his eyes to the floor about five times, and then finally stepped out the door. Just one more glance back, and I saw him do the same. Leftover jitters.

Austin, you'll never know, but I absolutely love you.

Well, you can infer. After next Monday, when class is over, I think I'm going to write him a short note and tape it to his door. Just to give him a proper thank you. People really ought to know how amazing they are.

All of you are changing my life for the better, and for that I thank you so much.

I absolutely love you.

Sunday Phone Call

"RAWR! I love you!"

I love you, too, Jacob.

All my laundry is clean and put away right and proper. My bed is clean and made, the sheets tucked in and everything. I put signs, notes, forks, and a dream catcher on my walls. I washed my dishes.

Just about everything is due Tuesday and finals are coming up. Will I make it? I don't know. But I'll give it a shot.

My song is ready to perform.

I taped poems to two people's doors.

I don't know if I'll make it, but I feel so good.

Thank you, I love you, and Good Luck. <3

What if we Knew our Neighbors?

Israel, Terri, Laura, thanks for taking me to the reading last night. I loved it.

I wish I had been more awake... All night I felt I couldn't quite react to things as I felt them. My face was slow to respond...

The truth is, all day Friday I was really struggling with the medicine.

I don't want to dwell on this, because I really want to avoid sounding as if I'm complaining, and I don't want to be the kind of person who constantly talks about her problems. I do want to say a few things about it, though, and quickly give a little context for whomever may be reading this.

After the month or two or however long it's been, after my research, opinion-gathering, and thinking, I decided to try medicine. I doubt my decision. I believe I would have doubted it either way, but this way I can say I gave it a try. I started it Tuesday night, so this is day four.

I've done my research, but I still feel weird taking it. It isn't actually fully effective until the third or fourth week, so it isn't supposed to do much right now. So far it's just given me a slight headache and a vague sense of drowsiness. I didn't really feel very affected by it until Friday.

Friday, I felt sick and sleepy all day. It was mild, and that's a normal reaction, but it was really scary anyway. I felt disoriented and embarrassed. I felt very drugged. I know those are just psychological reactions, but I couldn't quite redirect some of those thoughts... I wondered how much other people could see it, if my eyes looked as blank as they felt to me, and if my reaction time seemed as slow as I thought it was. I think probably I did look a little off or something, but I don't think people perceived it as badly as I suspected. I'd like to think they didn't.

I wanted to apologize to everyone I was around, wanted to tell them "I'm sorry. I feel really weird today because of this medicine I'm taking," just to explain myself in case they did see it as much I thought they did... but I was too embarrassed. And I didn't want to put anyone in an awkward position by saying something about it--how do you respond to that? So I thought it was best if I put it here, because you can feel free to read it without responding.

I wished I was a better audience member for Janisse Ray, an honest-to-goodness Nature Writer and an honest-to-goodness poet. I was feeling worse physically by that time. I felt too distracted by it to write things down in my notebooklet. I wasn't sure during the day if it was actually the medicine making me feel that way or not, but I believe now it was because when I took it again upon getting home, I felt better. So I think I was feeling the effects of it wearing off. It was sort of like benadryl with a strange headache. I couldn't concentrate, and my eyes kept drifting away...

She talked about how unhappy America is in spite of all her achievements. She mentioned the record numbers of people on medication for depression and other mental illnesses. At the time, while I was feeling really sick and weird, I felt a pang of guilt for adding to that number. Then I revised the thought. The problem is not the people on medication. The problem is all the pain that weighs down on so many people. My taking medication isn't furthering the problem... it just means that I'm beginning to get an insider's perspective and I can contribute to the healing later.

I did feel bad for a while, anyway. I just really wanted her to know I appreciated her coming. It was really sad to me that she thought she wasn't Friday Night worthy and thought we'd all rather be somewhere else. I think I'll say something about that when I email her, because I don't know how sincere I sounded when I said "What better way to spend Friday the thirteenth?" I really meant it, but I felt so weird. But how could I not be happy to be there? How often do I get to hear honest-to-goodness writers speak?

And speak to them personally?

First, I was freaking out because I was actually walking up to her. Then I was freaking out because she shook my hand and asked me my name. Like my name was at all important. That was amazing. And to talk to her, have a conversation with her all of the sudden in the middle of the lecture room... For her to express interest in my little college freshman essay, write her email address in my notebooklet, and hug me??? I can't believe she hugged us. Hugged each of us, and asked our names.

It felt amazing to me to belong to that group, the two writers and two artists talking to a poet. I'm really glad that you came with me... I don't think I would have done it without you.

This sounds melodramatic, but that's just what was going on in my mind.  
 
When I email her, I've got to remember to tell her how helpful her advice was, too. I've thought about things from my parents' perspective plenty of times, but I think because of that I've started leaning toward complacency. It was good to be reminded, and I've started looking deeper.

I think this had the most powerful effect on me out of everything she said. I wanted to write it down, but didn't, and I'm glad I managed to remember it:

"You are my father,
I love you,
I'm not going anywhere." 

I almost cried when she said that. She spoke a little about her father beating her, about his struggles with illness, and I was awed just by imagining the incredible strength she has. That she could feel such a powerful love for him, for someone who hurt her so much, and at such a terrifying, painful moment... that she could stand strong and say that to him, asserting her love even in the presence of that anger.

And to write about that... even after talking to her, it's hard to imagine how she sent her manuscript to her family. It's incredible.

I also really liked what her father wrote... I think it was... "This is my daughter's truth, not my truth, but I honor her telling." So beautiful. Such a powerful thing for both of them to do.

So she got me thinking about my father. I make an effort to see things from as many sides as I can, and this is far from the first time I've considered my father's point of view, but I thought it was worth looking at again.

He's caused me a lot of pain. But can I imagine with my 18 years how much he has suffered? How little he's talked about any of it, how painful it must be to let that compress inside and fester over the years... And now he's watching his mother die, watching his children drift away from him. What do I know about that? And me, the things I've suffered in my little span of life to now, what does he know about that? Very little. How can we know when we don't talk?

I'm not a talker. I'm trying to learn, because talking is important. As much as I wish I could, there just isn't time for me to write an essay every time I want to express something. Still, I can't talk to my father.

But I can write.

Letters are amazing. I believe writing letters to my father is the perfect idea, but I've been thinking of it the wrong way. I've been taking everything too fast. There's no reason I should resolve everything as quickly as I can, trying to fit all this in a semester.

What I need to do is write my father conversational letters, letters that have nothing to do with the state of our family. Right now, I don't have a relationship with him at all. My relationship is with the character I've created in my mind. I don't know my father.

Letters are perfect because my only connection to my father, the real man, exists in our books. He loves to read, and often reads what I read... he used to leave books he thought I'd like on my desk for me. If we talked about anything that wasn't business, it was about a new Koontz novel, the next Maximum Ride or Paolini book. We didn't discuss them. It went about this far:

"Have you read that book Inkheart?" he asked when the movie previews were circulating. "Yeah," I said. "It's good. You would probably like it." Then we went on with whatever we were up to.

We didn't discuss them, but we had a connection through them. Just a thread... but I believe it's real. When I read those books, I had a vague sense that I was talking to him, and I wondered if he thought anything like that. Like maybe we were trying to tell each other that we're good characters in the end.

I've edited some writing for him before on applications he put in for work. He used to want to be a writer when he was younger. I can see it.

He read a couple of ridiculous autobiographies I had to write for school and a couple of my ready writing essays... he always had really kind things to say about them. When he read one of those autobiographies I wrote at 16, he said he was really surprised by how "mature" I sounded. In the months after all that ready writing business, which I still don't really believe happened, he persisted in calling me Champ... and before I left for Tech, in the midst of the conflicts over my choice of emphasis, he told me he thought I could write novels. I still have no idea what to think of that.

This is where our relationship must begin. He works in security, but he is a writer. So I will connect to him that way. I'll give him the opportunity to speak his mind without having to worry about time. I'll get to know my father, and he'll get to know me. I don't want to change him, and I won't use letters as an attempt to do that. 

This is the right way. I need to do this with Mom, too. If I can do this, I believe there is a chance we could all become more like people to each other, instead of perceived characters in each others' minds. People, instead of strangers we have obligations to.

I know what would mean the most to my father out of anything I could do. Someday, if I can learn so much and grow so much, I would hug him and say "I love you." I haven't hugged him back in years, and I can't remember the last time I said I love you. Probably before I learned how not to love. One of the saddest things to learn...

I'm not going to commit to that, but I think I'll call it a goal.

And All at Once the Crowd Begins to Sing...

I'm not so sure I can write a song right now. I do know I would love to sing one, with the full force of my lungs, to a large crowd.

It would be even better if the crowd sang with me.

Defense Against the Dark Arts

A quick note: All the quotes of my instructor are paraphrased. It drives me crazy, but I can't have my notebooklet on the mat, so all of this is from memory.

I love my Aikido instructor. He's a modern knight, full of chivalry but with more respect for the strength of women. He's old Japanese wisdom mixed with modern volunteer fireman. 

Sometimes he gives us "speeches." We all sit on the floor in two long rows, the way we sit when learning a new technique. He paces in front of us. Today he asked if we had heard about what happened at Fort Hood. Most of us said yes, but only a couple of people knew details. Collectively, we filled each other in.

I'm not going to attempt to describe what happened at Fort Hood, because I wasn't there, I haven't been watching the news or reading the newspaper, and I don't think I'm qualified to write about it. I think people mostly get the general idea at least, so this should be enough context.

After we finished comparing details and settled on the story, he posed a question. "If someone walked in the door with a gun right now, what would you do?"

Silence.

Then one of us said "Run toward him."

My instructor nodded. "That's absolutely right. That's our army guy. He's a soldier. Part time, but he's a soldier."

I don't know about everyone else, but I was thoroughly confused. He explained, though, that if everyone in the large, open room turned and ran away from the gunman, dropped to the floor, or jumped behind something, nothing would be stopping him from killing all of us at his leisure. Hopefully at least a few people would make it out the back door, but most would die. If four or five of the people closest to the gunman ran toward him and the rest ran for the back door, there is a chance one of them would stop him and even if they didn't, only those four or five would die.

He said the reason he asked, the reason he was talking about it, is because death is real. Often we're really removed from it, but things like what happened at Fort Hood remind us. Usually it happens to someone else, but not always. Someone has to be that someone else. He talked about the odds of assault, especially for women.

"What are you gonna do?"

"Start crying," one girl said. We all laughed, but then he continued.

"If a man attacked you, what would you do? How far would you be willing to go to stop him? If you were pinned, and had a clear shot, would you be willing to pop his eye out?" We cringed. He continued.

"Now I'm not sayin' you should go around attacking people for looking at you the wrong way, or that fighting is always the best idea. My Japanese sensei, who was about 60 years old when I met him, five foot two, a black belt and general badass, was asked "What would you do if a man pointed a gun at you and asked for your wallet?"" He pantomimed pulling out his wallet. "The point is to be prepared to do whatever you need to do to survive. If he takes your wallet and leaves, great. If you have the opportunity to run, great."

When he paused for a moment, another girl raised her hand. She asked, "So how do you take a guy's eye out?" We all laughed, especially my instructor. He quickly grew serious again, though.

"The way to gouge someone's eye out is to decide within yourself that you will stop at nothing to stop him."

This idea that life, including one's own, is worth defending... worth living...

"This is universal. Regardless of nationality, race, color, creed, or religion, parents will do anything to protect their children, including die. Do that for yourself, too."

My survival instinct is incredibly weak. I know I would die for someone else, but I don't know how much I would do to defend myself. I'm more likely to do nothing and make my peace with dying. This idea is so strange to me... that my life is worth defending, too. 

"Now I'm old. I come from the old days, and I believe when you see something wrong happening, you don't just sit there. You stop it. Don't hesitate. Today we sit back and worry about causing a scene, and try to reconcile it later. Don't hesitate. The scene is already started. This is just my opinion, but if a person tries to take the lives of others, he forfeits his own life. He has made that decision, and I would not hesitate to take his life to save the others."

"Don't hold back."

Whenever he talks to us this way, he always adds disclaimers. "Yes, I know this is just a one hour P.E. class. No big deal. I know it's just one class in your four years here..." I sit there and think, No it isn't. Of course it isn't just a class. Of course it's important. This is right up there with Caswell. The last time he spoke about something similar, I wanted to tell him I appreciated everything he said, but I didn't do it because I wasn't sure that I should. Today I resolved to thank him after class for his "speech."

He said that he just wanted us to think about it. He wanted us to be aware of it. "If someone attacks you, and you're prepared mentally, you can handle it. If you're not, you're struggling to keep up. If you're smarter, stronger, he's struggling to keep up."

He told us to keep all of this in mind when we warmed up today. Sometimes, when we do the various exercises, we let our feet drop to the floor or do our push-ups higher at the end because it hurts and we're tired. Today we were thinking about gunmen, about carrying people, about defending ourselves. My feet never touched the floor. I did every push-up. I kept myself above the ground for the full minute. I ran with Meredith on my back and didn't cut corners.

I thought about what it means to be a soldier. The guy in my class who answered that first question is a soldier of the U.S. Army, but all the rest of us are soldiers, too. Any of us is capable of throwing someone, breaking and dislocating joints, even killing someone. But we are all soldiers. College students are soldiers. Mothers are soldiers. Handicapped people are soldiers. Old people are soldiers. Children are soldiers.

At some time, we are all fighting something. We are all defending something. We are all soldiers. I am a soldier.

I'm so small. I'm so aware of it, especially in Aikido. We did an exercise once where instead of rolling normally, we rolled over weighted bags, and then over people. I was one of the ones on the ground, and I was smaller than the bags. I can't lift a person on my shoulder--the muscle strength is simply not there. But I can carry someone on my back. 

I'm so glad I chose Aikido instead of Jui Jitsu. I'm sure Jui Jitsu is awesome, too, but Aikido is perfect for me. No matter how strong someone is, if he loses his balance, he falls. No matter how strong someone is, he has the same bone structure and placement of joints. No matter how strong someone is, I can defend myself against him. When you use Aikido, you fight with something instead of against it. Your opponent's strength is your strength.

After class, I thanked my instructor for his speech. I told him it meant a lot to me, and Aikido does, too. I didn't say anything about depression, lacking a will to live, or beginning to see a way to find it through his class. I can see boundaries, and I don't want to seem too weird. Regardless, he was really happy, and thanked me for saying something. He said he hesitates to get too serious and doesn't want to take the fun out of the class, but thinks it's important.

I talked to him for several minutes, and he told me something else interesting. A man who is roughly the same size, same age, and exercises the same amount as a woman will have more upper body strength. However, lower body strength is roughly the same. I didn't know that second thing.

"You don't have to be stronger. You just have to be smarter."

I've been thinking about taking Aikido again next semester. I need another P.E. credit, and I was hoping I might be able to get it by taking Aikido twice. When I asked him about it, he said he didn't know, but encouraged me to keep coming to Aikido at the rec if I wanted to regardless of the class. If I wanted to get ranked, I would have to join the federation, but I could still come whether I did that or not.

He said something else that shocked me. "We have all kinds of people who come to Aikido at the rec. Some of them just come a few times, others join and stop at a brown belt, but some stay longer and think about trying for a black belt someday. I don't know what I'm gonna do when Mario graduates, though. Maybe you'll step up and be my assistant in a year or two."

I thought he was joking, but he was really serious. I'm sure there are other people more qualified who will probably be his next assistant, but it amazes me that he thinks I could do that. To think that a small, timid female could assist teaching an Aikido class. I doubt it will happen, but I love the idea that something like that is possible.

And I love that I'll be able to keep doing Aikido.

I felt so good when I left. Only once have I ever gone to Aikido in low spirits and not felt better afterward. Today I felt amazing. I felt so strong and clean and capable. I rode Schwinny back to campus, and then I decided to walk to lunch because it was so beautiful outside.

I looked at everything, the sky, the buildings, the sidewalk, the trees and their colorful falling leaves, and I found that even biking is too fast for appreciating the world I'm passing through. I believe if I spent a day sitting outside, I would find that walking is too fast, too. Even sitting may be too fast.

I loved walking. I loved the motion, and I thought of Caswell's book, An Inside Passage. Walking is good for the soul. I said hello to everyone I passed whether they looked at me or not.

I had a nice lunch, and sat comfortably with two strangers. I usually eat alone, either to think or out of laziness. When I left, I meandered around campus for a while just to watch the world.

My face is working. It's slow, but I don't feel so frozen. Normally I feel stuck and have to think about smiling, laughing, or anything else. But today I've been able to react to things almost easily for the first time in months. I think about a year, actually. Or maybe longer.

When I went with everyone on the art trail, I felt able to talk to everyone. That isn't to say I did a very good job of it, but it was amazing to feel that way. I was so happy. I wanted someone to ask "How are you?" so that I could say "Absolutely fantastic," but I didn't feel that I had to. I was so happy. I still felt a fundamental separation from humanity, but I felt much, much closer than I have in such a long time.

I also got Dr. Smith's message of appreciation today. He's so incredibly kind, to send us a message just to say he's proud of us and to hang in there.

This was the best day I've had in months. Usually I feel I'm made more of thoughts than physical substance. I'm usually more like a ghost. Today I was human.

So here it is. Proof. It's possible.

I just want you to know. The world is incredibly beautiful. Your life is worth living, and worth defending. It doesn't matter how strong your attacker is, human or otherwise. Move with it. It doesn't matter if you are small. You are strong.

Don't hold back. Live.

The Trick of It

Today was a good day.

I made it to Spanish class on time. On a Tuesday. That means 8:30. That's right. 8:30 found me sitting in the right section of the room, ready to be assailed by another language.

In Caswell's class, I performed my first warrior exam, and survived just fine. I just so happened to get the story about depression, so I had plenty to talk about, and several people said during the feedback time that they were glad I got that quote. It was a really nice class today. Someone even remarked about how happy I was. If other people notice, that's a good sign.

I got my essay back from Caswell---the highlight of the day. I tried not to sound too eager when I asked him at the end of class, but when he said "Oh! I almost forgot..." and opened a folder full of loose paper, I thought--yes!

I spent every day since turning in that paper anticipating getting it back, hoping for those words in friendly blue ink... Bliss is getting an essay back from Caswell.

Physics... I was more prepared for the quiz than I usually am. Much more than usual. Yesterday I went to the library, put myself in a little cubicle, and read the chapter. I made a start on the homework, but I didn't have time to get all the way through it. But it's a good start.

Sadly, almost the entire quiz revolved around a bunch of math I'm not very good at. I don't think I did very well. But I certainly tried. Maybe next time I'll work on the homework on several different occasions, have it finished in advance, and really be prepared for a quiz.

I was a little sad about that.

Then I made this ridiculous decision to eat lunch. That's a healthy thing to do, but I had my honors advising at 1:30, and I didn't have my schedule planned out. I think it's good, actually, that I ate lunch, because I don't think I would have figured out my schedule in time anyway. I ended up having to reschedule the advising.

That's okay. I'll have time to do it tomorrow, because Wednesdays are good days as long as I don't fall asleep. 

But at the time I was very upset. It was a good day so far, but all it takes sometimes is a bad feeling about a physics quiz and a lot of anxiety about talking to the honors college people. Telling them, no, I'm most likely not in good standing with the honors college right now. Planning my schedule is just an overwhelming thought. I need to talk to Suzie, too, and one thing this semester has taught me is that scheduling is extremely important.

So I rode back to Gordon, sat on the sidewalk, and started crying. There's something about crying on a sidewalk that is profoundly sad.

I was very aware that this was irrational. I know everything will be okay. So logical, and so ineffectual against my stubborn heart, or neurotransmitters as it were. Who knows? But I could see it, and it was quite obvious to me that crying on the sidewalk and thinking about how sad that is was not a constructive thing to do. I couldn't stop. So I called Terri. I felt bad about calling her... isn't it awful to call someone because you're sad? It seems like such a selfish thing to do. I try not to call people or otherwise let them know when I'm that upset. I don't want to spread my misery.

I think it was selfish of me to call Terri, because I know my negativity must have been draining for her, and I made her worry, but she helped me a lot. She told me to go for a bike ride. I rejected it at first. There's so much to do... but I had to shock myself out of my irrational misery, so I went.

I rode to Tech Terrace and explored until I found Caswell's house. I didn't stop, of course. He probably wasn't there, and it would have been ridiculous anyway. But I did walk down the alley behind his house, and it was incredibly beautiful.

I came back feeling much better, and I got a few things done. I scheduled my follow-up doctor visit, did my Spanish homework, and took a shower. Then I lay down in my bed and talked to Jacob, and read the beautiful words written in friendly blue ink again.

And now it's time for sleep. I will sleep, and my heart will reset with the morning. I'll go to Spanish class on time. I won't fall asleep when I come back, and I'll get as much done as I can.

My heart will unwind like a music box as the day goes on, clicking slowly through the afternoon. I know the notes will space out in the evening, and the cogs will heave painfully against each other to force the tinny tones into the air, falling heavier with each strike. I know they will creak to a despondent stop and need to be rewound again.

But I also know the trick of it. The trick of it is not to fear the silence. Silence is music, too.