Screaming, Howling, Growing-Up

You write what you are obsessed with.

Saturdays are lonely but I need them like I need air. There is this fantasy version of myself relishing in having a day to myself. Maybe I will wake up fully rested, greet the sun, and start my favorite cycle: read, write, lounge, rinse & repeat. Most times I find I can’t quite shake the dregs of my fears away. Saturday reminds me of who I have always been which is a bit lonely, a bit restless, a bit lost in my thoughts. All of it is proof that I am here.

September, October, November, December. I eat up the chaos and appreciate the mind-numbing rhythm. This is how you quickly pass the time. I want to hurl myself into one month after the next as easy as it is to type them all together. Septemberoctobernovemberdecember. Remember, remember, remember, remember. Saturdays are a pause but me? I want to go.

One Saturday I pass the time by cutting off the bottom of every shirt. One Saturday I pass the hours with tabs and tabs stacked across the computer screen. One Saturday I wake late and agree to stay lost to the day. I sink into another episode. One saturday I drive around the island discovering areas new to me. More than once I exclaim “this is fucking beautiful,” to no one but myself. Because it really is.

Saturday reminds me of who I have always been which is a bit lonely, a bit restless, a bit lost in my thoughts. All of it is proof that I am here.

I am writing a book. With each utterance of this simple phrase I feel closer to my true self. They say you write what you’re obsessed with and I am obsessed with friendship & love. I am obsessed with how experience is shaped by time and how time is marked by experience. I am obsessed with the untangling and cataloging of the past. I am obsessed with the stories of the people who raised me and held me close. I am obsessed with the idea of laying out the long history of secrets, patterns, heartache, and resilience. I am obsessed with the stories that live within each of us.

I am here writing the first draft of my book. Did you know it is my very first time? I am on the cusp of a dream becoming reality. I am here at the beginning, meditating on before & after. Here in the before, I have nothing to lose. No outside voices, no direction, no opinions to hold on to. It is just me and this window, me and this desk. I am here with my blue ink and my keyboard. The only thing that matters is what I have promised myself I would do.

I am writing a book, but I am not published and I am not an author and I don’t have an agent. I am saving the list of things I am not for the seasons to come. Right now, I am focused on it being my first time, on being at the beginning, breathing deeply into the deep rooted magic in the land of before. Today I am here writing my book. It doesn’t matter if my words are messy or unclear. It doesn’t matter if what I have to say is funny, brilliant, or strange. It is the first time and everything after will simply follow as it should.

They say you write what you’re obsessed with and I am obsessed with friendship & love. I am obsessed with how experience is shaped by time and how time is marked by experience.

If Saturday is a pause, then February is a full-stop. I am back home in Tulsa, sitting on the bed I had as a teenager. This bed holds many tears, first times, and yearnings for more. This bed was once in a different room. I remember the pattern of the sheets. I remember the books I devoured and the stories I wrote. I remember the stacks of canvas waiting for me. I remember how long it felt like I had been waiting for it to be my time. How it felt to pack-up my life one weekend when I was in college. How it felt to close the door to a room I would never see again. I never imagined after all these years this bed would still be a place to come home to. How even now, all my big heartaches have been spent right here.

We got matching nose piercings one August. You helped me fulfill a desire I’ve had since the pop celebrity sensation of the early aughts. Three months ago I didn’t even know there was a word to describe that period in my life. I still don’t know what the word is for us.

I’ve been on the path of resentment with you lately. When you filter into my mind, I quickly bring up all my anger to throw against our good. I’ve been using my resentment to avoid how embarrassing that day was. Avoiding it because if I think too long, I will start crying and I have this nose ring. It’s been a year since we last talked and what I want to know is does crying with this ring annoy you too?

I never imagined after all these years this bed would still be a place to come home to. How even now, all my big heartaches have been spent right here.

I am avoiding how embarrassing it was to have you stop being my friend over a text. I am avoiding how embarrassing it was to push you for more. Give me details, give me examples because I need an explanation as to why you don’t trust me to be your friend anymore. I am avoiding how embarrassing it was to leave work with red eyes and hiccuping breaths. I’m avoiding how embarrassing it was to nearly collapse to the ground when my husband opened the front door. I am avoiding how embarrassing it was to reassure everyone that nothing tragic has happened, this was just a friendship thing. As if friendship was ever just. I am avoiding how embarrassing it was to say I am here, once again, crying over losing you. I am here in my teenage bed, crying with our matching nose rings. To this day I find it embarrassing to have you so determined to let me go.

January, February, March, April. I feel myself stretching out in this expanse of time. Saturdays are lonely but I need them like I need air. In this season I follow through on a fantasy of mine. I wake up fully rested and greet the rising sun. It is just me and this window, me and this desk. They say we write what we are obsessed with and I am obsessed with feeling my way through. I am obsessed with remembering that this life of mine is fucking beautiful. Because it really is.