Venting

It would seem that lately, I've been suppressing some feelings. Outwardly, I'm expressing frustration at my circumstances. However, for fear of  being dramatic, I've been containing the rest. This is not okay with me. Historically, holding back my emotions has resulted in worse turmoil then letting it out. 

Discussing it, releases me of the negativity.  I feel better once I've complained. I no longer carry it around, as it expands inside me. This is especially true for things that I know don't matter, and that's the point. Why let it fester inside of me? Why let a little thing grow?

This emotional load I've been bearing is one of these things. It doesn't matter. In the grand scheme of things, it's miniscule. In the end, I know where I'm going, and not much will change that. However, I'm here now, and I need to deal with it.

I'm a careful person. I plan and prepare in order to set up best case scenarios. That makes it especially aggravating, when it doesn't work. When I squeeze every ounce of myself out, to make sure my decision is supportive for all those it effects, only to learn it was pointless, it makes me want to scream. I feel jaded, unappreciated, and bitter.

Don't feel the need to console, commiserate, or empathize. I don't want any of that. Nor should you tell me to get over it. That's just what I'm trying to do. I know that this issue, like all others, shall pass. I'll get over it. In time, I'll forget I ever felt this way. But for right now, I'm getting this toxic time bomb out of my mind before it explodes.

My Own Personal Undertoad

There's something that happens to young skiers as they learn to descend a mountainside on the planks attached to their feet.

They fall down.

A lot.

Sometimes they fall because they are new to the sport, and they have yet to master it. Sometimes they fall because they are relatively new to the world, and are still rather clumsy.  Other times the snow is sticky, or hard, or the hill is uncharacteristically bumpy.  Then, there's the inexplicable fall.  This occurs when everything is going great.  You're on your skis. You're making all the right turns. Conditions are good. You feel like a pro. When all of a sudden....Bam! Yard sale. You're ear deep in a mound of powder, one of your skis is twisted beneath your legs, and the other one is 2 feet up the hill between you and your poles.

As a child, I found this type of fall especially troubling. See, I hate falling. I hate it so much, that I rarely took risks on the hill.  Sure, I could get up a good speed, and do relatively well on the more advanced runs. However, if I perceived even the slightest loss of control, I'd pull back.

So, as you can imagine, it was particularly hard for me to cope with falling when I felt that I was completely in control. "I don't know what happened?" I'd cry. I didn't understand, and that was aggravating.

However, my parents, in their infinite wisdom, always had the answer: It was snow snakes.

According to them, snow snakes were just that: snakes, that live in the snow.  They lived where it was cold. Slithering around within ice patches, and freshly frosted hillsides. I couldn't see them because they were white, and dwell within the snow. But nevertheless, snow snakes were there.  They were mischievous little creatures that found amusement in gliding beneath the skis of inexperienced humans. As my parents explained, snow snakes liked to trip people.

I can't even explain to you how much I latched on to this explanation. In my youthful eyes, snow snakes were real.  They had to be! Why else would I fall over?  I went so far as to look for them when I rode the chair lift, or sat at the bottom of the hill contemplating the next run.  I never saw any, but I always knew they were out there. Waiting to get me when I least expected it.

As an adult, I reflect on this memory and I'm not amused by my innocent acceptance of this inane theory. I'm blown away at how unknowingly accurate I was.

Snow snakes are absolutely real. They are out there, invisible to the human eye, and waiting for the perfect moment to trip you when you least expect it.  However, my parents were misinformed about one thing. Snow snakes live in every climate.

Mom's Turn

There are very few good pictures of me and my mom. This surprises me. I spend a great deal of time with her. She's an amazing person.

When I think of my her, I think of my youth. I remember being carried at bike races. I recall resting my head against her chest, and listening to her voice as she bellowed about incorrect number placement or announced the on-deck rider without a megaphone. The sound was loud, but for me it was reassuring. No matter what was going on, my mom would pick me up if I needed it.

My mom is always trying to make things easier on me. She's there to assist me, whether I need it or not. I know I can call her for anything, whether it's what aisle the Texas Toast is in, or how to do my taxes. She listens when I complain about things that don't matter, and she indulges my dork-moments.

There are times when I wish I could shrink back into my 5-year old body, and crawl into her arms, because I know she'd make the bad world go away for a little bit. I'd listen to her voice echo in her chest, and know that everything will be alright. I think letting go of my mom's hand is the part of growing up that's been hardest for me.

She's the first person I think of whenever I need help, and I'm most excited to share my stories with her. She's my greatest advocate, and I'd be lost without her.

Essay on my Father

As we once were.

My dad regularly mourns the loss of his children.

This is not to say that I have siblings who have passed. My father simply explains child rearing as akin to making a friend who slowly dies.

That sounds exceptionally bleak. Maybe it is. Maybe I don't fully understand. What I think is: my dad thoroughly enjoyed raising the three of us. We were fun little kids to have around. And while he loves us individually as adults, we no longer are who we once were.  Sometimes I feel bad about that. I worry that my inevitable maturation is distressing for him.

Then, I reflect on the times we spend together, and marvel at our conversations. I'm amused by our mutual sense of humor, and I appreciate my ability to understand him on a new, more grown up, level.


It's pretty cool that we get two chances to develop a relationship, and learn about one another in entirely different ways.

Dad and I after a ceremony symbolizing my entry into adulthood.

My Anonymous Childhood Boyfriend

I used to believe that there was one person for everyone. This was not so much a hopeless romantic thought as it is an innocent yet irrational child pondering.

When I was little, I honestly believed that people were somehow assigned to one another by a higher power (FYI: I'm not religious at all). I used to think that there was a boy out there that was literally my counterpart. To me, this meant that a young man existed, somewhere in the world, who was exactly like me. Not only did this boy think like me, act like me, and want the same things as I did, but we had simultaneous actions.

I gave this a great deal of thought. From early on, I have memories of exploring parks while my parents participated in a bike race. As I climbed trees, spun on the merry-go-round, and pumped my legs in the swings I envisioned that somewhere, someone special was doing the same thing. Sometimes I'd argue with my brother, and then run to my room. Once there, I'd console myself with the idea that someone knew how I felt because he had just fought with his brother (or would it be sister?). Also, I would harbor immature amusement, and then subsequent bewilderment at the idea that he used the restroom at the same time as I did.

I no longer think this particular man exists. He's not out there writing a blog contemplating my existence. Nor, do I believe that people are arbitrarily assigned to one another by some magical power. However, I do think some people are meant to be together. Those connections present themselves differently, and at different times, but they are always clear.