End of an Era

The summer between third and fourth grade I discovered something amazing. I was taken to this brand new world, and when school started back up, I made new friends in that world. That world was Harry Potter, and the friends I made were with characters in the books, but also with people who I met in real life, who I might not ever have talked to otherwise. It was Harry Potter that introduced me to the two people who are the closest things to soul mates that exist. My best friend Chelsea, and my fiance Jeffrey. I've probably told this story a hundred times. I'm such a sap.

I met Chelsea in September when school started. Over the summer she had moved to my town. For my 10th birthday, in November, she gave me a copy of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. How did she know me so well, so soon? My sister spilled a cup of fruit punch on the table, turning the last 30 pages pink on the edges, and I was so angry. She spoiled my most important book. I got over it, and somehow, over the years, I lost that book. I still hate that I lost that book. I treasured it, and then it was gone. At some point, years ago, I managed to steal Chelsea's copy of it, and only recently mailed it back to her.

The first movie came out the day before my 11th birthday, and a trip to the movie theatre and for pizza afterwards was my party that year. Chelsea then spent the night at my house after. The second movie came out around my 12th birthday, and again I had a Harry Potter Movie birthday. Before the third movie came out, Chelsea and I were at her house, and decided to watch the trailer for the movie, which neither of us had seen. She had dial up and it took forever to load. We would watch a few seconds, and then when a few more had loaded, start back at the beginning and watch it again. It took a good hour, maybe more, but it was amazing. Chelsea and I wrote fan-fiction together and separately, and read our stories to each other over the phone. We also posted them online, but we always were reading ahead in each others stories. We went to the midnight releases of the 5th, 6th together at Barnes and Noble. For the 7th book, I managed to talk another friend into rescheduling her sweet sixteen, because I had already made plans with Chelsea to go to the midnight release. When the 7th movie (part one) came out, Chelsea and I were 800 miles apart, but that didn't prevent midnight phone calls, discussing mutual tears. The three of us, Chelsea, Harry and I, have been a unit for most of my life. The 8th movie, or the 7th part 2, comes out as soon as it turns into Friday.

Chelsea will be in Ireland, I will be in the US. We don't have the money for international phone calls, and our midnights are at different times. Everything is all backwards and messed up and I miss my best friend. I'm sad. And yet, I can't be sad. She's going on an amazing trip - I'm supposed to be happy for her. And I am. But I can't help but wish this trip was at any other time. A part of me would rather have her here for this than even have her at my wedding. How stupid is that? She's my best friend. But this is the close, the end of an era, and while I know this really wont change anything between us, it is going to change everything.

I keep telling myself that it isn't the end - there is still Pottermore which hasn't even opened yet. And I try to tell myself that this is te same way that I felt when the final book was released. But when the 7th book was released I was with Chelsea. We started this journey together, and I wanted us to finish it together.

I think back to a time, in 6th grade, when Chelsea and I planned an impossible road trip, when a mutual friend said that we wouldn't be friends by the time we finished 8th grade, nevermind when we were old enough to drive. And I look back - it's been 6 years since we finished 8th grade and she's still my best friend. And we still can't drive.

And now I'm just babbling, but I feel better now. Still sad, still missing Chelsea, still upset that we wont be pottering together tomorrow night and in the wee hours of Friday, but its okay. We'll be okay. And Harry Potter will live on in my heart forever.

M is for Mumma

I've been back in touch with my mother for the past..... little while. I dunno how long. Not very, but weirdly, it feels like a long time. I guess because she's my mother, and I've known her my whole life.


It's awkward talking about her. A part of me can't forgive her. After all that time, and all that stuff that I have forgiven her for, I guess I'm just worn out. I'm not really still angry, so much as afraid to build a relationship with her.

But she's my mom. I want to. I love her. I miss her. Secret Life of the American Teenager (yes, I watch that show. No, you aren't allowed to laugh at me. I watch a lot of TV that I don't usually admit to watching) said something on it's last episode about how abused children still want to love their parents. I relate. I love my mother, and I want a relationship with her. But I'm so scared. And I'm still so hurt. Not angry, but offended. I guess I'm taking it personally.

No one else wants to hear about her, or about how I'm trying to fix things. Everyone else I talk to is either like "she's bad news" or else "so what? it's your mom. of course you talk. it's not worth mentioning that you talked to your mother today."

I guess no one gets it. I expected Jeffrey to, because he and his dad had an issue too at one point. But he doesn't. He doesn't forgive my mother, want to hear about her, want anything to do with her. Fine. But I do. He doesn't understand. I expected Chelsea to understant too, but I think she's too busy. I don't even know if I've tried to talk to her about it. She's go-go-go-go-go maybe even more than I am. I guess I don't want to bother her with my lukewarm ness.

I don't know what I want to do. I'm really digging this phone-relationship that we have. We talk once in a while, and that's that. No pressure because that's all there is: phone calls. and they aren't scheduled. She can't let me down. But as much as I really like the lack-of-pressure of this arrangement, as part of me really wants a mom-hug. And phones just don't allow it.

She comes home this weekend. She's out of rehab right now, and in a sober house, which I guess is some sort of halfway-house for sobriety. Then this weekend, she moves home. I'm excited for her. I'm scared. I miss her. I don't forgive her.

I don't even know what I feel right now. I'm glad she's coming home, but I don't trust her to take care of herself at home, and I'd really rather her take care of herself than try and do something she's not ready for. But maybe she is ready. I can't see her. I don't know. I'm so confused. I definitely want her in my life, but I don't know what role I want her in. I don't think I'll ever be able to respect her as a parent again. But I do love her and want her in my life. I just..... don't know.

I is for Internal Dialogue

This post is hard for me to write. It means admitting things about myself that I'd rather just sweep under the rug. But I started this blog as a place for me to just get some things off my chest. A place to cry to when I needed to cry. So this is... that. And because this is so personal, there will be a rather liberal use of swears.

Lately, I've really been hating myself, and I don't want to say it, because then what? Is everyone supposed to tell me "oh you're so great"? Will that help? No, not really. Not even a little. People say that crap to me all the time. That's not it.

It's hard to explain, really. I hate myself because I've never DONE anything. Nothing worth being proud of, or at least, nothing I'm supposed to be proud of. Nothing anyone else is proud of. Everyone reminds me how I'm "overcoming" my situation. No. Stop it. That's TOTAL CRAP. Everyone has shit to deal with. I don't want to be "better than expected, given the life I had" I want to be actually, real "good." Good at something, compared to anyone, everyone. Does that make sense?

Children of alcoholics are more likely to become alcoholics themselves. Fine, whatever. BUT I DON'T WANT people to praise me for NOT BEING AN ALCOHOLIC. Lots of people aren't drinkers. I want people to compliment me for doing a good job, rather than for not doing a bad job. And I don't want people to compliment me for doing a mediocre job either. That's shit. If I do average when you expect me to do badly, well yeah, it's good I didn't do badly, but it's not worth complimenting me on either. You're either really good, in which case you deserve a compliment, or else you aren't. There are no "you're maybe sorta good."

So, I tried to be a super hero. I want so badly to be a super hero, for someone. Turns out, I am just average. I'm not cut out for super-herodom. I wanted to be that girl who was a full-time straight-A college student, working 40 hours a week, running her own household, paying her own way through school and keeping up with her own bills, and I wanted all that while still having time to spend with my fiance.

I tried it. I gave it my best.

And I failed. Right now, I'm the girl whose only working 30 hours a week instead fo 40, and still can't get straight As. I'm looking like a B+ student right now. My bills are paid, but I needed help paying for college. I haven't spent quality time with Jeffrey in FOREVER, and if it weren't for him, it would be a mess too. I haven't done the dishes or the laundry in ages.

I hate myself for it. I can look at it logically, and see that, while I'm not being amazing, I'm still doing pretty good, still doing alright, not failing, but it feels like failure. I'm not doing what I want. I'm not doing anything worth being proud of. LOTS of people go to college. Lots of people work and get decent grades. A degree doesn't even mean anything anymore. It doesn't mean you're smart; I've met a lot of dumb people with degrees. It doesn't mean you're hard-working; if all you do is school, it's not hard at all. It doesn't even mean you're going to get a good job.

I'm so damn tired of being not good enough. What the hell. I've given up on doing the things that mean the most to me (time with Jeffrey and writing my book) so that I could have this. So that I could go to school and have my job and be something special that everyone can look at. And now, I have nothing.

"I wanna go 'ome"

Last night at work I was vacuuming.

About 4 years ago, I was in the car with my mom, heading back from somewhere. I can't even remember where.

Last night, I was tired.

That night years ago, my mother was sober, but tired.

At work, I said to myself "I wanna go home" and I was struck with a 4 year old memory.

Wherever we had been, we had been there all day. It was lateish, nighttime. We both got a case of the giggles coming down the high-way, but we hit traffic and our giggles faded off. "I wanna go home," my mother said in a bit of a sing-song voice. I repeated it, note-for-note. She sang it again, but even sillier, and she kept going. "I wanna go 'ome.... let me go home, 'cause that's where I live, and...." she paused, couldn't come up with another line. I filled in "and that's why I call it home."  We both laughed, and sang that silly-stupid song several times on our way home.

I started crying, while I vacuumed. Despite the bad times my mother and I have had, we also had some good times. Mostly when she was sober, but even one or two times when she was drunk. We were pretty close, despite it all.

I haven't heard from her at all since I saw her at Christmas. No phone calls. Nothing at all. not even a "Mumma says hi" from anyone else that I know has talked to her.

Last night, I would have given anything for a mom-hug, or a silly song. I miss her so much. I miss the her that I loved. Where is she? How is she? I wish I could call her. She's my mom. I miss her.

Three

3 warrants.

Three outstanding warrants for my mothers arrest.

And she was arrested

Drunk

Custody seized

not one freaking phone call. Not from my mother, not from my father, not from either sister, not from the cops, not from DCF

From my aunt. From my aunt, who my sister called in tears. From my aunt, apologizing for not being able to take my sisters.

I don’t blame my aunt. I only blame my mother. But I can’t believe that after all this no one called me.

I can’t fix it. I know that’s why no one called me.

I’m so freaking disappointed in my mother.

I hurt for my sisters.

And I hurt for my aunt.

And my pride is a little sore

But mostly, I hurt for my sisters, and I’m angry with my mother.

And curious, as to what those three warrants were for.

Three
Freaking
Warrants

And some awful, guilty part of me hopes my mother stays where she is for a long time. Because my sisters deserve better than that, and if she isn't in jail, she's not going to give them up. How twisted is that? That I hope my mother stays in jail. I must be an awful person, and yet..... I don't really see it. I wish I could help my mother. That's what I feel guilty for. Hoping to pass the burden on to someone else. But at this point, she's beyond any help I can give, and I don't feel guilty, not really, for hoping she stays away.

Leap of Faith?

It's a long story, but if you don't want to read it, there's a tl;dr version on the bottom. Just scroll.

I started cheerleading when I was 8, for a local rec-football team. I loved it, but it was only a few months a year. Outside of cheer season, I'd constantly be talking about it, practicing old cheers, and trying to talk the neighbor kids into practicing stunting with me (which looking back on, I'm glad they refused, since they had no idea what they were doing and we were all kids with no supervision)

When I was 11, an All-Star team (competitive team, for those who don't know anthing about cheerleading) opened up nearby, and I joined it. It was 3 practices a week, year round. It became my everything (second only to my love of writing) We were good. Not great, but good. We had two teams, a junior and a senior team. I was on the Junior team. Our seniors won first place at their first competition. The first competition any of our teams had. They continued doing just as well at all the regional competitions, but always came in last at Nationals. That was okay, we figured. That's still better than a lot of other teams in the country. Our junior team wasn't as great, but we did well enough. We made it to Nationals, finally, in our third year, and everything fell apart. One girl called us just before our flight and said she changed her mind about coming. Another girl, our best tumbler, broke her wrist in the pool at the hotel. A third girl (and her mother) got food poisoning and couldn't compete because she couldn't stop puking. We had to re-arrange our routine, we all messed up at least once, and we came in last. That's fine. Our performance was really terrible.

None of us knew, at the time, that it would be our last competition. A month or so later, our coach sat us all down at the end of practice. She had lost the lease on our gym. She was having a hard time finding us a new practice space, because we needed it three times a week. She asked what we wanted to do. We wanted to stay together, even if that meant only one practice a week. We'd just practice more at home.

We tried. Our coach couldn't handle it.  Our team dissolved. There were no other All-Star teams in the area. I was starting high school, but my school didn't have a team. I had no other options. Cheerleading was over for me.

It's 6 years later, and I still miss the sport more than anything. I'm in college now, but there's no way I can cheer. For one, my school doesn't have cheerleaders, and more importantly, I'm out of practice, and out of shape. I doubt I can even do a decent cartwheel right now.

But since I'm in college, I just moved. And the town I'm in has an All-Star gym. I'm tempted to send them an email, saying..... I don't even know what. I can't cheer, I'm not certified to coach, I've never choreographed anything half-way decent, and I can't even answer phones for them, because talking on the phone sends me into a crazy anxiety attack in which I'm likely to throw up or pass out. And their team is internationally ranked. Mine was only barely nationally anything, and I was one of the least-skillful girls on the team. But I want, maybe need, to get back into my sport. I'd happily vacuum their spring floors (THEY HAVE 2! TWO COMPETITION SIZED SPRING FLOORS! HOW FREAKING AWESOME IS THAT!? ) for free. But how do I say that without seeming like a desperate wanna-be, or a total creeper?

But on the other hand, it would break my heart if they turned me away. I hurt enough for Cheerleading. I don't want to hurt more.

Irrelevant, but  we've set the date for our wedding. May 31, 2012.

Boston Red Sox

I went to my first Boston Red Sox game when I was 3 years old. I still have the ticket stub. My dad has taken me to at least one game a season, every year since then. He and I have never been to a losing game together.

This year, I moved back to Virginia before I got the chance to go to a game. I probably wont be able to see them Sox play this year. I can't even watch them on TV, because the games don't air around here.

This breaks my heart more than I can reasonably explain. These games mean a lot to me.

It means spending an awesome day with my dad, without worrying about work. I love spending time with my dad.

It means spending a great day at a place that is magical. Anyone who has been to Fenway Park knows it. That place is just..... you can't be unhappy at Fenway. It just doesn't happen.

It means connecting with strangers. The love of a team turns the strangers sitting beside you into your best friends for a few hours. As someone who has a hard time talking to people I don't know, this is wonderful.

It means watching baseball. I just really enjoy the sport. I've never been good at playing it, but I love watching it. Give me any teams, and I'll watch. In person or on TV.

It means watching my team win. Cheering when whoever is pitching strikes someone out. Jumping up out of my seat and leaning forward, trying to see through the crowd, wondering if whoever is running will make it home. It means being a little anxious when the opposing team gets a few runs ahead (because this happens in every game I go to). It means breathing that sigh of relief when we finally catch back up (in the 7th inning. Always in the 7th.) It means singing Sweet Caroline in the 8th, and listening to Dirty Water after they win.

It's tradition. I'm a sentimental fool and love traditions.

Typing this out helped me. I'm not crying anymore.