Old home videos show me laughing and dancing
This is how my father still thinks of me
When he worries out loud that I don't understand the real meaning of the financial impact of student loans
When he thinks that I don't truly appreciate the the glory of not paying rent and simply suffocating under the weight of living half in/half out of another family
He sees the freckles that appear amusingly quickly at the mere mention of sunlight and dark curls bouncing just above a tiny waist
He imagines the carefree daughter that tucked a doll into her bed as a child before going to a sleepover party so he would not feel sad at the sight of her empty bed after returning home from a long day of work
But I don't recall ever being all that carefree
I worried about my dolls being lonely or disliking me behind my back
I fretted over ways to spend more time with my brothers
And I vividly recall running and jumping into bed at night, positive that if I didn't make it by the count of three than the monsters would be allowed to creep in
I remember sitting huddled under the covers, shaking and terrified of the shadows
Cowering until I could conjure up images of my mother's comforting shape sitting with me in the dark
I have always been good at putting my fears and anxieties aside and living in the moment for an hour or so while in the company of others
But when left alone to sit and think, my worries always etch away at my calm exterior
Causing others to point sympathetic sighs my way and ask me whats wrong
"Nothing." I always reply. "This is just my thinking face."
These days, my mind feels like a kept rodent, running some in a race on a stationary wheel that no one will ever win
It turns circles of questions about money and the future and occasionally the past
Can I afford the choices I've made? Are they the right choices? Can I keep my sanity and my jobs? Did I make a mistake? A misstep? Was I too quick to bring my belonging back East? Is a happier me living in some dimension out West right now? Why am I still here when I want desperately to be somewhere else? Why am I so ashamed when I run into people I went to Hight School with? Is this all fruitless? Pointless? Too expensive? Inevitably something to regret?
You would think that after having these questions as a constant white noise in my head literally. All. Day. Long. that at night, I would be silenced into exhaustion
But the noise raises to a deafening volume.
When I cannot drown it out with NPR or my Sleepytime Mix, I drag myself out of bed and stumble around searching for my journal and a pen
And I write.
I write this.
And the scratching of the pen is a new soundtrack to listen to
And the letters become droopier as my eyelids finally, finally start to feel heavy
Is this being an adult?
Still afraid of the dark and wishing for my mother to come to the rescue
But rather than huddling in the dark afraid of the emptiness and unanswered questions, I turn on the light and make something
I dont feel any less scared or any more sure
But if writing is what gets me to sleep
And finally, finally slows my heart to a normal pace
And makes it feel stronger and more whole
And even as a child, I knew that there was a reason that so many people suggest that a main character just follow their heart
