February. I got drunk for the first time and spent the evening with humans I intuitively trusted. I was undecided and not worried about it. I hit a wall regarding being away from home and pushed through it. I wrote often and well, and I understood why I felt good about the vodka and not about the gin.
March. I did my best to uncross my arms and be hesitantly, not reluctantly, vulnerable. The alcohol helped. Speaking up was nerve-wracking but I was never afraid; I was only ever wary of myself. I wanted the snow to melt. Philosophy was the worst. I had to tell a boy more than once my body does not belong to him. Audra visited and I missed it. I missed fall. I decided on feminism, for sure. Conchordance wanted me after all.
April. It was still snowing. I was still writing a lot. Andrea Gibson hugged me and told me to never stop. I realized the extent of my damage and sometimes couldn't say how I felt for long minutes. I stopped feeling guilty about that and realized that people will wait for me to figure out what I need to say. I stopped keeping track of my almost list. I stopped myself from leaning in, but didn't stop thinking about it. The War Requiem made me a different human in ways I couldn't explain.
May. I sat down to talk about something I thought was important, and when I realized it apparently was not, I stood up and walked away. The snow melted. Most nights, I walked under the sky and felt unbelievably alive. I loved my body. The Let Everything solo was a matter of course. One night, I walked through town in the wee hours with a human who trusts me in way I didn't know I deserved to be trusted. It was sense that prevailed over daring and perhaps reckless emotion, but I would be lying through my teeth if I said I never thought it was something wrong with me, that if I was hotter or thinner or more clever. I lost my necklace. I saw Gatsby with a friend and no one believed me when I said that's all it was.
June. I walked with a woman in the warm evenings and kept my hands in my pockets, saving the emotional faltering for intermission bathroom breaks and the darkness of performance halls. I realized how important Cantala is to me. Tenth week whooped my ass. My card was declined three times. I spent the last night curled into the couch, feeling completely devastated by the way time passes, close to tears without understanding why. I left Wisconsin not knowing if I'd be back.
July. I decided on more tattoos. Early mornings found me swimming for the sole purpose of feeling my body move. My family encouraged me to turn off my feminism. I started submitting my writing, and I was published. It was a letdown. I slept naked every night and loved myself more every day. No one wanted seasonal work, and I didn't want to admit that I might be stuck in California past the summer. I am nothing like Arizona, I finally realized.
August. I grew to resent the prospect of being stuck at home. Being hired for another orchestra reminded me what it felt like to feel awful about music. I was proud of myself for trying. Anger was something I felt more and more often. I wasn't over it and I felt awful about that, too. I lived in a state of low-level disappointment in the system and in myself. Most days, I felt financial worry like a physical weight. My kid brother proved himself to be a real person. I threw the word 'love' around in my head and told myself I was stupid more often than I'd like to admit. Teresita healed a lot of wounds I didn't know I had.
September. I went to Chicago and saw humans I love, and I started the term missing them. The Thing reared its ugly head and I all but ignored it. I rewrote myself a little and realized that I could stop feeling bad about the gin. I let myself be distracted by charming women.
October. I drank a lot. I worried a lot. My grandmother died, and I didn't cry. I felt bad because that's not what I wanted to cry about. The party was less than exciting, but I felt more at home drunkenly explaining my short temper than I had in weeks of not being questioned at all. I got my ear pierced again. The Flaubert made me want to give up the academic struggle, and my very late racial identity crisis began in view of twenty-odd women who have always had to know themselves. I felt like I had been done a disservice. I had. Someone hit a nerve about money one night and I wanted to shout at her about her privilege, but I almost cried instead. I drank my way through reading period. I almost let myself be talked out of a new-old friendship and then realized I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks.
November. I thought I could write a novel. I realized my classes were going to be a battle yet again. I was bold with people I wanted to know. One night, we gave blanket consent and did nothing with it. I pulled all-nighters with reckless abandon that by four in the morning were less about the work and more about the color of the night sky and the devastating nature of passing time. I understood June much better. And I understood myself much better. The Thing slinked away quietly, without a fight. I filled my language with feminism and spoke with professors candidly. I ran out of money more than once and ignored the dread of having to miss winter term. My writing dried up. An endearing woman charmed me to a surprising extent. I stopped feeling guilty about asking personal questions and taking my time with my own answers. I sang well. I stopped caring that my feelings write themselves into my physical presence. I flew home and felt unimportant, but not unwelcome.
December. I resented being in a place where I was all but told to shut up on a regular basis. I dipped out for my birthday because I wanted no expectations and no disappointment. I planned a recital and gave a recital and made myself both proud and a little closer to Wisconsin. I snuck out one night and didn't feel guilty at all. My resentment toward being at home grew little by little. Christmas day was unremarkable at best. I told my dad his presumptuousness was not only unreasonable but harmful to the family. My church eagerly scrambled to help me get back to Lawrence.
....................................
1. Swim more often.
3. Listen to my body when it doesn't like something or someone.
6. Make time to read more.
7. Plus one piercing, plus one tattoo.
*Fever, C.S. Giscombe
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