Snippet--Fall Into Me

I followed him into the house; Simon didn’t bother turning on any lights as we passed through each dark room. I was looking forward to a few hours of solace even though I was unsure if I’d ever find it. Too much had been moved, the memories swirling around like dust motes in my brain. My dreams were sure to be vivid and heartbreakingly real.
But I was so tired; I only hoped my mind would give out along with my body.
And I wouldn’t allow myself to think of what tomorrow would bring; that wouldn’t help the night to pass any easier either.
Wordlessly, I made my way up the stairs, Simon moving silently behind me. I heard him stop at his door as I continued up the hall.
“Emily,” he whispered. I was stopped by the ache in his voice, cringing with the knowledge of what he was going to ask. I braced myself against the railing.
“Can I sleep with you tonight?”
I started to tell him ‘no’, but it was too tempting. I was unsettled from the events of the evening and truth be told, I was lonely. Simon was leaving tomorrow; there would be no repercussions to letting him share my bed just this once.
“Okay.” The volume of my voice was unsettling in the quiet. Simon moved like a ghost past me, eagerly and quickly in case I changed my mind. I stood in the hallway for a second longer, listening to the squeak of my mattress springs as Simon sat on the edge of the bed, the double thunk of his shoes hitting the hard, wooden floors and the familiar sigh of comfort as he settled in on his side. His voice was layered with questions but he only asked one, “Are you coming to bed?”
I answered him wordlessly by shutting the bedroom door. It was so dark Simon couldn’t see me, only hearing my grumbles and complaints as I navigated around the messy obstructions that surrounded the bed. I kicked off my shoes and climbed into my side, leaving a wide space between us in the middle of the bed.
Simon didn’t hesitate as he closed the gap, snuggling up against me so that his breath was moist on the back of my neck. I let him hold me, surrendering to the physical comfort I would never know again.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” I whispered into the darkness.
His answer was the delicate touch of his lips to the back of my neck. I held very still, unnerved, hoping that his show of affection would end there. But as his lips pressed against my hairline, his hands took hold of my waist, and he rolled me over so that I was forced to look at him, his face obscured by darkness; I was frightened by the silhouette that touched me.
“What are you doing?” I gasped, my body trembling from the unexpected fright. It was a bizarre reaction, to be scared of Simon, especially when I was so comfortable with anger. But the tenderness of his kiss was disarming—I was reduced to tears as his lips found my own.
“Please stop,” I requested weakly, clearing the lump from my throat. He held my hand in his, he felt my trembling, but misinterpreted it.
“Please, please,” He pleaded breathlessly, his voice surprisingly stern; he wasn’t begging, his words hiding his intentions, “Can’t you love me, just tonight? One last night for goodbye?”
I shook my head, hot tears streaming down my face, “I can’t, I can’t,” I repeated over and over. Even though it was dark, I could feel the change in him; his sudden intensity was shocking. His lips moved down my face, to my neck. I pushed against him weakly, I was incapable of stopping him, and I knew it. I was too weak to try, to hurt to cry out.
Simon’s hand moved to my neck, gently but firmly. He grabbed my face and pulled me towards him, smashing his lips into mine, kissing me violently, desperately. My stomach lurched at the contact, at the reminder of intimacy, at the smell of his skin, the familiar touch of his fingertips.
The tears dried up and the fear passed like a wind-whipped storm; I was trapped but I wasn’t scared. Really, what could scare me anymore? What held any true consequences? I had nothing left to lose.
My eyes adjusted to the dark and I could begin to make out his face in the dim light; his eyes were tight, his face a frowning grimace. He was angry and arrogant, taking what rightfully belonged to him. I could see the belittlement, the pain I caused him, the grief from everything we lost, pooling around the corners of his closed eyes. Pent up anger, burning, deep, sprouting from months of verbal abuse and emotional neglect, from circumstances that crippled our marriage, from my eagerness to leave him, for never asking him to stay; his grip was tight with anger.
There was something else I could hardly read in the dark shadows of his face, something that reeked of him, that held his shape together, a recognizable piece in his fuzzy form. Fear, the only emotion that ever owned Simon, was puppet master to his strings. I became more at ease as I recognized the fear, a familiar face in a crowd of strangers.
Fear of losing me, of being unable to convince me to stay. Fear of life without me, when he loved me so, loved me the best way he could. Fear that, for once, gave way to anger, fed the anger.
It was the anger that made him a stranger to me, distorting his face so that I didn’t recognize this man who lay on top of me. Every bit of anger Simon should have felt in his entire life—in our entire relationship—was readable in him now. Every bit of hostility he subdued with passiveness was seeping from his furious, determined expression; it was the sharpness to his words, the hard grip of his hands that left deep whelps in my skin.
Simon’s lips lingered briefly, his face hovering above mine. He kissed the tip of my nose tenderly, finally igniting what I searched for within. He might as well have doused me with gasoline, I was angry and alive and strong. His tenderness was a slap in the face, his love a false pretense covering darker motives. I bucked against him, knowing he would fold under any resistance.
But instead of letting go, he held me tighter, speaking through gritted teeth into the curve of my neck, begging in a voice that wasn’t his, “Please, don’t fight me. Can’t you give me one last night after all you’ve put me through? After how I’ve taken care of you? You owe me at least that.”
It felt as if he had hit me, spitting the words out, salt in my open wounds. Like before, I felt an obligation, a need to pacify him. I fought against the instinct, unknowing if I could perform the task he asked of me.
The only thing I knew for sure was that I didn’t have a choice.
Simon was kissing my neck again, holding me tightly, removing my clothes. I left my body and became numb, going into the safe haven of my mind. I wondered if he noticed my body going limp as he laid me against the bed. If he noticed the blank, vacant stare in my eyes as he kissed my face.
We weren’t making love. No, this was animalistic, based on desperate need, not desire or passion or love.
I tried to be sorry for the dissension of our marriage, for the hateful person I had become, for the misery I had caused him, but I couldn’t. He saved my life once, regardless of how unnecessary, and I could feel his regret for that mistake in the way his body moved around mine. Simon was wishing I had died; I was dying now—I could feel his mourning through the palpable heat of his touch.
I closed my eyes and thought of Simon. Not as my lover, not as my friend, but as the father of my child. Our child. The father of our child that died. Our four month old child that died in our car, sinking to the bottom of the lake.
I could respect him and love him based on that role alone. I could pretend for a brief moment because I loved him once; I could pretend for a moment, but not for a lifetime. And when the moment passed, I would hate him. Hate him for making me remember, hate him for his regret, hate him for ever loving me in the first place.
But for the moment, I let go of my mind and became exactly what he needed me to be—the only thing this shell of a woman could really offer—a release. I wasn’t Emily, his Emily or this Emily. And it wasn’t Simon either who held me unmercifully in his arms; it wasn’t Simon who ravaged my remains, a coyote pillaging scraps. He wasn’t him and I wasn’t me; it was the first time we ever saw each other so clearly.
When Simon rolled over to resume his usual place in the bed, we didn’t speak or touch or even acknowledge each other.
And when I awoke the next morning, the sun gleaning in through the slight shift of the curtains, he was gone.

WTF?

I got my period this morning, a day late.

Why was I ever so slightly dissapointed?

I'm a glutton for punishment.

Don't get too excited, dear loved ones. The brief moment of insanity passed.

Life can be ugly.

I woke up this morning and was running late for work. I'm always late for work--I'm glad I don't work with someone who minds or even notices. It was freezing but I never notice when I run outside, still hot from the house and the chaos of being a person who is perpetually late. It's why I never wear a jacket--because I always think, 'it's not that cold...'.
The end blip of news on the radio was that a water main break burst in Fairburn and Hwy 29 was closed. Great--the street I have to cross to get to work. Then I decided it wasn't such a bad thing--after all, it gave me a reason to be late.
But as I drew close to the little white bride, I noticed the gray smoke, the movement of water squirting in the air, the ashed, burn edges of buildings that have stood in the center of town for all of my life, for all of my Mother's life and for all my Grandmother's life.
Our town burned last night--OZ, Casablanca, the antique mall. It was a shock to see my city so wounded, crippled.
I looked at pictures later--blurry snapshots posted on a news website, the flames licking the night sky, demon eyes of swirling, orange fire feasting on my town, on my memories.
With tears in my eyes, I walked through two blistering cold parking lots, too shocked to feel the 26 degree weather or to remember my breakfast in the car. The backs of the buildings were horrific shells, reminders of how ugly life can be. How beautiful, how powerful, how warm and how cold--it can be all those things simultaneously.
So I don't know where to direct this post--whether I should dwell on the spring nights, when warmer whether draws us out, when me, Anth, Robert and Amanda would get the same idea to go for a meandering walks, the echo of our laughter, of our banter, disappear like the smoke rising from the burning embers of those evenings. Or whether I should remind everyone that life can change in an instant, that destruction doesn't come without the chance at new life. Or maybe I should be hopeful, rallying for my town--this will make us stronger, we will persevere (!) But mostly, I can't help but think about my childhood--the old buildings, the familiar musty smell of the antique shop, Linda's friendly face making me a deal, the over-priced food at Casablanca and the upstairs where I always dreamed of throwing my parent's an anniversary party. My mind is swirling with the past, the background to my memories, the touchstone of my reality--hell, even my book is set in that building--in the glass of Oz Pizza, on the worn, wooden floors of Casablanca's upstairs.
I took my last ride through Fairburn last night and I didn't even know it--the Fairburn as it will always be remembered, at least. Anth was driving and I was sleepy, my focus on the future, pouty-lipped and sleeping in the back seat. Little did I know, that in three short hours, it would all go up in a blaze of beautiful wonder, not knowing that when I woke up, life would be different.
I'm mourning the loss of those buildings like the death of a loved one. I keep realizing I have a catch in my throat, swollen, and I push it away, try to remember that others will probably think I'm being a teensy bit dramatic.
Why couldn't the rotting areas, with used furniture and decaying buildings and sprinkler systems, burn to the ground? The foreclosed houses or even the dry cleaners? Places that could be rebuilt without thinking about the ghosts of the history that were sent up in smoke?
Life doesn't work that way--it's ugly and unfair, captivating, mesmorizing.

Snippet from 'Fall Into Me'

“There she goes again. The martyr.” Marilyn sneered. She met everyone’s eyes for confirmation, only to find herself alone in her opinion. Their sympathetic attempt at understanding unnerved me—I felt the threads come loose as everything I tried to hide overflowed.
Unlike Marilyn, each one of my family could see in their own way how much her accusation was unfounded. It was clear to Claire in my vacant eyes that held no hope; Jack couldn’t get past the rail thin bones of my wrists. Gordy heard my unintentional calls of distress clearly—I could see his vow to help me in the determined squint of his eye.
Simon was the only one who could give first hand testament to the meanings behind my behavior. He understood that I was no claimless victim vying for attention. It was clear to him in the most obvious way; in the way that he ignored because it frightened his pragmatic nature, causing him to question everything he ever believed.
He saw the frightening truth behind my sorrow in the way I yearned to die.

One Year.

I want to be happy; I should be cursed for crying. My baby is one. One year old.

I never thought I'd feel this way; the bittersweet division of two wants. I want him to grow, flourish, develop. Yet.

I want him to stay one forever.

I keep telling myself the best is yet to come. That I have 4 more years of 'baby' (6 is my cut-off point; that is when they stop being cute and start being annoying).

We went for a walk yesterday. It was the first time the weather has been nice enough to go out since Oliver became a pro at walking in shoes. I set him down at the top of the driveway and encouraged him to follow me. He took one wide-eyed look at the 'big, outside place' and immediately whined.

But, being the trooper that he is, he reluctantly walked down the driveway, clutching one of my fingers with his fat little hand. Then he saw his Daddy at the bottom of the driveway and he was a little braver.

We walked a small section of our little street. When he had Mommy on one side and Daddy on the other, clutching each of our fingers, he was brave, stomping and humming, so proud of himself, excited to be out in the sunshine.

But as soon as we let him go, he was a leach around my leg.

I'm not going to say I didn't enjoy this show of dependency; Oliver is the type of boy who would rather be free than cuddle. I take what I can get from him.

In moments like these, I'm sad knowing that one day he'll be too big to grab my legs and hide. Even though I'm just in the beginning of his life, I can't stop myself from thinking about him as an adult. Some people miss their lives by rushing through them; I think I miss mine by thinking too hard about it. I try to enjoy the moment too much--and I end up feeling sad.

We had a nice weekend--it is utterly heartwarming to see a community of people gather to celebrate the life of my son, to honor him. I see genuine smiles and laughter from people that aren't his biological family when he dances with one shoulder and my heart is warm and full; to know that people love him who don't have to love him is my own secret victory.

I often tell Ollie that he is perhaps the most loved boy in the world. It's been my mission this year to build for Oliver a community of family; so that he will never be able to question whether he was loved or not. His biological family alone adores him, worships him in a way I hope isn't reserved for the first born.

But, that love is something familiar to me. I am special to my family and therefore my children are special.

There is nothing that stitches up the wounds of a family like a new child. I've seen it first hand. The love of a child cleanses the bitterness; heals old, festering wounds; unites us in a way that before would have been impossible. I, too, have been changed. I can't help but love the people who love my child.

So as we sang happy birthday to my sweet little boy, I couldn't help but be taken back a year. 365 days before, I was lying in a hospital bed, ripped open and stitched up; sore and exhausted; about 65lbs heavier with a tiny, squirming newborn to call my own. He was sturdy and advanced--that certainly hasn't changed--in fact, it's been his defining characteristic.

Now he can call the dogs and ask for Dada and dance to the opening music to the 'Office'. He can walk across the room to give you a kiss when you ask for one and throw his bottle out of the highchair on purpose; he can do wrong and know he's doing wrong; he can miss you when you leave; he is happy when you return.

One year.

By the end of our walk, we stood at the open mouth of our driveway. Oliver relaxed as soon as we were in our yard, his yard. I remember the first time we tried to play outside--he could barely stand in the grass with shoes on. Now he can navigate over the uneven stones of the path with ease; pulling himself up when he stumbles.

We watched with amused and amazed eyes as Oliver caught a glance of his kitties. He rounded the corner of the house and went out of view. We waited to hear his cry when he realized he was alone. After a few moments of silence, we peeked around the house. We laughed at our one year old chasing the cats up the driveway, completely alone, without a care in the world.

When we finally snuck up behind him, he was shaking the fence and saying his hello to Boo on the other side. He didn't even acknowledge that we suddenly appeared; maybe he knew we were near the entire time. Or maybe he considers the cats the comfort equivalent of his parents.

Either way, it was so Oliver we couldn't help but beam with pride.

What we leave behind.

There is a plaid Tommy Hilfiger dress that I wore once on the day I graduated from high school. It is stored in an air-tight bag taking up much needed space on the rack of my tiny closet. Why do I even bother to keep it?
My initial response is that I hope to some day wear it again; I hold on to some foolish dream that I will one day be able to get it past my thighs. The reality is I’m still carrying the freshman 15 (and then some) from college; my body stretched and changed from carrying a child; my hips are wider, my stomach round and soft. I don’t mourn for the firmer, thinner body of my youth—the body that was never loved by a man or delighted from the kick of a child from very deep inside. To hold on to it for vanity’s sake is such a waste— of time, of energy and of closet space.
Part of me clings to the dress simply as a token of my youth; to be able to marvel at how thin I used to be—a piece of evidence that I really existed. I loved that dress—it represents so much to me. Graduation, beauty, heartbreak, renewal, becoming a woman. To be able to feel the fabric between my thumb and forefinger is physical evidence that I truly existed. That wonderful time in my life—the end of one thing, on the verge of another, anticipation so sweet and thick in the air—with nothing but success and dreams in your future—was so brief, so short; I often wonder if I truly lived it.
So much meaning stored in that tiny bit of picnic plaid fabric.
I was talking about this very concept the other night with a group of women in my family; all of whom have clothes they keep with hope and wistfulness. One has already given up the ghost and tossed them; another can still wear hers from middle school. The last, my cousin, still clings feverishly to hers with hope as I do. The words came out of my mouth, speaking out of turn as I usually do, declaring that I hoped my daughter would one day want to wear the clothes I kept.
The reason took me off guard even as I uttered the words. I realized then that this dress was just one of the many relics I’ve saved and stored away with hopes that my kids will want them one day—or at least get a kick out of.
There are many times when I am flipping through the pages of my own Mother’s life—I see an outfit that I wish she had saved for me. She is full of regret of her wastefulness, describing wistfully in full detail each item in her wardrobe that she loved; some relic from her youth that made it real. I wished she had saved them for me—so that I too could relive a part of her life with her—while sporting a ‘vintage’ outfit.
The regret my Mother feels has been passed down to me, turning me into a pack rat of remnants of my own life that will inevitably be pushed on to my children. I looked around my bedroom, through my jewelry box and on the shelves in my home; counting the things I have collected to pass on.
This is all her—my Mother’s—fault, you know. My name is even a hand-me-down (Mollie is my Mema’s name and Elizabeth “Libby” is her Mother’s name; I can’t help the insanity—it runs through my blood like rabies).
My Mom and I talk—we talk about this all the time—about the accumulated clutter she’ll leave behind and most importantly, who will get what. My husband, Anthony, always tunes us out when the subject of our deaths becomes the topic of conversation—as it inevitably does. My brother calls me greedy as I walk about with post-it notes declaring that everything is mine, mine and mine (I can’t bare to imagine parting with the objects that are the sentimental background of my childhood). My Mother and I defend our stance with practicality. Death is such a chore; besides being devastated, you have to deal with the funeral, the burial and the house-full of stuff you’re supposed to divvy out amongst your siblings. So won’t it make it that much easier if we already have dibs on what will be ours to keep and cherish? My brother says no, my Dad frowns and my husband turns up the television.
What is it about these sentimental relics that provide me with so much comfort? When my Mother dies, she will no longer be here, yet I feel as though I will be closer to her when clutching the feathered necklace that she adores and never wears. I worry that I will turn into a junkyard dog, pacing the length of her house, growling at whomever tries to move a piece of Gouda to sell (which I hate by the way…). I fear I may become one of those emotional hoarders, living in my own filth, surrounded by a tower of boxes full of things I will never use or even look at again.
And if at 25 I have already accumulated a houseful of things to pass on to my children, not to mention the boxes and boxes of things from my parents—how will my children have room for a life of their own? The photo albums alone will need their own designated storage building.
And doesn’t an over-accumulation of things diminish the value of those few pieces that are truly significant?
How do you even begin to pick what to save as a physical, immortal relic of yourself for your children to figuratively hold on to when you pass?
OK—so I know I’m being a little dramatic here—but I truly believe that the possessions of my loved ones will help keep them alive in my heart. I can’t possibly know this—as I have been fortunate enough to have never lost someone near and dear—but it seems logical to me.
I suppose it will be up to my children to decide. The Tommy Hilfiger dress is completely out of fashion even now and my daughter (I only have one child, a son by the way) will most likely hate it and mock me mercilessly for ever donning it. I will be seven hundred pounds by then (it’s hard to exercise when you’re living in your own filth behind a tower of boxes…) and the dress won’t even fit over my leg, if moths haven’t eaten it to pieces by then.
My children probably won’t be capable of deciding as I will have emotionally crippled them as my parents have done me—instilling life and memories in objects that will hardly stand up to the test of time (things aren’t made as well anymore—that alone will solve part of my problem…). I can hear my Dad’s sad voice in my head as he carefully replaces the maudlin, Christmas ornaments back in their perfectly preserved boxes, “I can’t stand the thought of the kids selling the Hallmark ornaments for $.25 at a yard sale…we’ve collected them for years”
You don’t even want to know how many of my closets will be taken-over by boxes of ornaments I don’t even like…all because I can’t stand the thought of hurting their already-dead feelings…
And to a degree, I understand how my Dad feels. I, too, can’t imagine the objects that are my parents selling for pennies at a garage sell; the apron my Mom used to wear as a little girl growing moldy in someone’s garage; my Grandmother’s white hutch being sold for nothing at an auction, only to be stripped and painted some god-awful version of fuchsia!
These are our heirlooms, for crying out loud! These things are my family! These things are our history!
I’ll be the first to tell you I need to take a step back, calm it down a bit and look at this personal crisis from a more objective point. I know I should let go of my possessions and not feel the need to be immortalized in the box of outdated clothes and jewelry I pass down to my children.
Like this crazy obsession, there are pieces and traits of me and Anthony that will trickle down into our children, grand-children and great-grand-children—we all live through those who come after us, who would never be if it wasn’t for us.
Shouldn't that be enough?
I myself have characteristics whose origins I wonder about: what great-great relative is living through me now—right now—as I peck away on my computer? Whoever it was, I thank them—the delight and pleasure of gifted gab is much more useful than a feathered necklace or a piece of pottery I don’t even like.
I’m not saying I’m going to throw away everything tomorrow; but I am going to start the general process of distancing myself from the things I have deep, meaningful connections with and concentrate more on the people in my life; not the objects that remind me of them. I am going to strive to save less for the long run—at least for my children’s sake—letting them choose what they want to remember me by.
The necklace that I have replicated on my foot, I believe, is timeless—and it’s one of things I hope will be passed on one day as it is now literally a part of me. I suppose whatever survives the test of time will really be worth saving—like my wedding band, the photographs, scrapbooks and journals as well as the videos of our son giggling and cooing into the camera. And I hope, sincerely hope, that my children have enough happy memories of their parents, with tons of wacky, off-the-wall stories and remarkable pictures to capture us through time—that they will be secure enough in their own hearts to let go of the physical possessions that are meaningless without the stories behind them…
But I have to say the only truly amazing piece of my self that I’ve contributed to this world is my son, Oliver; with my smile and his Daddy’s profile—he is the best possible thing we could ever leave behind…in the end, he’s the only thing we leave behind…
…that and a dozen boxes of junk that his crazy Mother will guilt him into keeping…
Maybe I’ve been looking at this all wrong; perhaps I shouldn't be concentrating on the things we abscond. Instead, I should focus on what we take with us. The memories, the love, the friendships—the truly good stuff in life. I believe those things leave with us and are the fabric of our very souls.
I’ll leave everything else for our kids to sort out. Anthony and I will only take the good stuff with us; the only thing really worth cherishing in the end.
The rest of the stuff—a dozen boxes of junk his crazy Mother will guilt him into keeping will hopefully be offset by a good chunk of inheritance to pay for the storage complex large enough to amass several generations worth of crap his vain, pack-rat of a family found meaningful enough to leave behind.
Oliver can dump my ashes in with my Mom’s—in that ancient piece of Gouda she will inevitably force me to store her remains in.
I may hate the atrocious brown and green patterned pottery, but at least it’ll free up a little space on his mantel for his own personal relics…or even maybe a picture of his dear old Mother?
I’m nothing if not practical, right?

Dear Me.

Dear Me.

I'm writing from a place far in your future. 10 years may seem like a lifetime away; I know you feel as though you are molding in loneliness waiting for the 'best' part of your life to begin. Right now, you've never driven a car, never loved a boy, never had a true best friend and never been left broken-hearted. You have so much in your future just in the year that stretches eagerly before you that I have to pause to even consider where to begin.
I think we all have regrets; for the most part, I try not to. What's the point? But since the purpose of this is to give you advice, I suppose for the moment I can divulge a few things that bite at my heels.

First of all, dump your current boyfriend. He is of no use to you and your future; only scarring you and succeeding at making you feel small like him. You are loud, rambunctious and spirited; revel in every second of that energy and life. Becoming an adult tames that spirit; and while that blue flame ignites in me every once in a while, for the most part it's shelved in my past. So don't let him make you feel ashamed for being the loudest person in the room; it's what draws them all to you--like a moth to a flame.
You will find in your life that people want to be your friend, because you are a good one. Hold dear to that cluster of girls that you have accumulated; they will be your life-raft in rough waters, even after you graduate. Sure, one day you will move on and up in the world, either geographically or into distant phases of unparalleled lives, but you will always have the memories and the pictures that you made. Those girls, that friendship, made you who I am today.

Stop wasting moments in your life by longing for your one great love. It will happen in it's own time--you will fall in love and it will be great, for a while. But like most things, great loves are more satisfying in the movies. Instead, realize that great loves can come in all shapes in sizes--from the dog whose life you saved to the girlfriends who get you through times that are not so great. It is so hard to see for the anticipation clouds your vision--but enjoy your life as it is, without the complication and responsibility that love brings. You have plenty of time for complication in the future; enjoy the simplicity of the moment--because it too will quickly pass.
And when you meet him, you will be blindsided. He will be nothing you thought you wanted and everything you needed. And just when you find yourself completely dependant on him and your future is dangling by a thread, he leaves you. Some days I would warn you to avoid him at all costs; to not allow yourself to believe that you have a lifelong future with him. When he leaves, you will be destroyed. But, but, you will also be left with a valuable life lesson. You may not love as all-encompassing anymore, but you will love logically, healthily and in the end, more genuinely. You will find power in a love that makes you independent--love shouldn't cripple you, shouldn't make you feel inadequate.
But I want you to love him--to feel the unique joy of a first love. Your heart is open and pure; it's the only time in your life you'll be that away, aside for the love you feel for your own child. Enjoy that slow dance at prom and those first glorious days during spring where you soared with the heightened transformation of new love. It's an amazing time in your life. Feel the wind in your hair of those great heights--don't rush through it--because soon enough the gravity of love and growing up will force you back down again.
You will learn so much from him that I will risk the devastating pain in order for you to learn those lessons. I believe we are who we are from the circumstances before us and how we overcome them. Your heart will still be open--it remains so even today--you will bounce back quickly.
You will find that when life gets hard--you get stronger. Knowing that about yourself is half the battle.
On that note--I do want to advise you to listen to that small voice. Know yourself enough to know when it's time to say goodbye. I believe you missed out on a lot senior year of high school as you grasped on to a future that wasn't meant to be. As impossible as it may seem, let him go. You know, it your heart, it's over--trust yourself and watch the boys fall out of the woodwork--there will be one in particular you will always wonder about.

Relish every moment on stage. Audition for Crimson despite what anyone tells you. When you sing without fear, you're not half bad. Don't let any one's doubt crack a hole in your self-esteem. Become OK with disagreeing with your parents; just because they believe something differently doesn't make you wrong or them right. Once you over-come the obstacle of their acceptance--it's when they will truly accept you.

Stand in a mirror and really see yourself. You will look back at photographs and marvel at how beautiful you were. Cut your hair short, I mean really short, but only after homecoming senior year.

When you graduate, take all that money and put it in a savings account--don't blow it decorating your apartment. Apply to Oglethorpe but go to Georgia State your first year--regardless of what your boyfriend's plans are. Go into the City and get lost; over come your fears. Your directional sense and independence in that regard will be a huge chunk of your identity when you get older.

Don't live at home--live in the dorms. Never tell Mom where your really going--it's all part of being in college. You are responsible and mature; trust, trust, trust yourself.

No matter how foolish it sounds--write, write and then write some more. Forget psychology (still double major in sociology though--those classes speak to the very core of who you are and validate you as a person). Don't be so concerned with making money; instead, be concerned with being content. Major in something like creative writing. It's our belief that life will work out that makes it so. Believe, write and keep skipping those classes. Your college days pass in an unbelievable blur.

Of all the regrets I stew over in my mind, marrying Anth at such a young age is not one of them. Sure, life would have been easier; I could have lived pretty much carefree from my apartment under my parents--but what kind of life is that? It's the hardships and the challenges that sharpen you, that transform you, whether for better or for worse. That, well, that is what you choose--whether these things will make you best version of yourself or the worst.

But of all the advise I've just given you, you must take this one piece to heart: ignore most of what I've told you. Don't change one step in a different direction; otherwise I may be writing you from a very different place right now. Life with a different perspective may not have led me to Anthony and then inevitably to Oliver--and that is not something I would ever risk. And no matter what I preach--you will never be able to get to where I am without passing through those treacherous woods of adolescence. Sure, I look back with regret because I didn't know better. Now I do--it's the seemingly unfair contradiction of growing up.

Just know that your life in the future is small but meaningful. The plans we felt so sure about scattered to the wind but our life is a charmed one. Just plan to be surprised. Plan to be happy.

I'm sure I'll write you again in another ten years. Have fun in high school and trust me--things will get easier.

Love always,
Me.