January. I was ready to be moving forward. I felt surprising disdain toward most of Romanticism, but Fem Theory lit up my week with something I can only describe as fire. I met a girl and figured I could tie up my loose ends with a few conversations. Some dramatic words: "I wouldn't be good for you." "...I don't care." Holding hands took everything in me.
February. 'Girlfriend' was what we decided. The Yule Ball was cute and awkward, and we didn't dance and it wasn't a bad thing. Romanticism became less irritating and more toxic. My dorm became less irritating and more home. In Fem Theory I burned. I stopped writing without realizing it.
March. I ditched the toxicity as much as I could. I humiliated myself in front a a professor I realized I didn't care much about. ACDA was a good thing. I let her kiss me, finally. I had no idea how to pay for spring term and that scared me.
April. I went to Chicago for spring break and was overjoyed to see people I love. I almost cried in the car and felt weird and exhausted when I came back. We watched Hannibal and it was beautiful and terrifying and I felt safe. I had my old friend back, for sure.
May. Music and Gender suddenly felt like everything I had ever wanted to read or learn or be. One day in Cantala almost pushed me to tears. A friend told me to see a counselor. I dropped a class. Bjorklunden was weird and I was a little too honest, and dishonest, both by separate omissions, in a text. For the first time, I felt that sick fear of the 'We Need to Talk' Talk. It sat in my gut for hours after we turned the light out. I hated realizing it mattered. At least it wasn't just me, I thought. I took a risk and decided to room with three other people.
June. I turned in a disappointment of a paper in my literature class. I bought jeans and didn't hate them. I worked graduation. I didn't know how to say goodbye to more people. The suspenders barely fit my apparently very short frame, but I felt at home in them and a button down. I was relieved that the year was over, but summer hung in the air like smoke from a nearby fire.
July. I wrote good work I was proud of. Vacation Bible School was maybe the best thing for me. I spent a long time on the phone blushing and ignoring my feelings. A necklace and a letter came in the mail for six months, and I conveniently didn't realize what it meant. What it would mean. I was glad to have my own room.
August. I collected my writing for publishing and didn't follow through, again. Oklahoma reminded me how much I love music and how much pride and shame sit in my lap with my cello. I reread gross letters and texts and still didn't realize the continuity problems. I played the race card, apparently, and it was a mistake. I spent a lot of time with Grandma.
September. I had three new roommates and I was very excited. 8:30 German was full of friends. I started in a new choir and felt conflicted, but good. It was strange without my friends. I felt weird at Bjorklunden again and I spent a lot of time talking down that same sick fear. We started Shonda night and it was beautiful. Lux Cantores started rehearsing. My literature class felt safe and healthy. I fought an ignorant boy about poetry.
October. My professor offered my a summer research position and I felt proud of myself for the first time. I turned in good work and contributed to the discussion and felt like I was learning. Conchordance started rehearsing and I felt like I was leading. I realized what good friends I have. Another Conversation happened, and thus ensued lots of smiling in spite of it. I woke up one night with the overwhelming understanding only one of us wanted to be there. I knew I was settling, but I didn't know I shouldn't have been. One night, we stood in front of the chapel and for a little while, I believed everything would get better from there. I decided to change my major. I decided to change my career. I decided on grad school plans. I have never felt as sick and hurt as I did on Halloween.
November. Grandma died in the early hours of the first. I researched 'queer platonic' and a friend sent me an article I did not want to read. I cried at school. Two times. Lux rehearsal became less strained, finally, and we decided to make a Christmas album to raise money. It was snowing already. I spent two solid weeks negotiating in my head, shaming myself for wanting any single thing more than what I was offered, what I was allowed, deciding on conditions for myself, deciding on boundaries for myself, deciding to settle. Deciding that it was better to put off the worst of it until later, not knowing I was in the middle of it. And then that all was trashed and I occupied a space of anger I didn't know I could before then. I had nothing I could write. I had nothing reasonable or constructive to say. I pulled only one all-nighter and cried again. The paper was my first decent paper in a long time. I took up too much space and I hated myself for it again. The country fucking failed us, again.
December. I spent days at a time alone, sleeping naked, touching my body to remind myself it's mine. I finished my notebook and put it away with letters and notes and pictures from a time which needed to be over. I started reading seriously again. I wrote a good poem. I realized approximately zero of my loose ends were ever tied up to begin with. My church recruited me to sing. They changed the Christmas Eve service, but the Long Night was a good thing for me. The Christmas candy party gave me hindsight and family. Feminism became frustrating and annoying to everyone around me, and I had to remember how to take care of myself in the face of that. I turned twenty-one. Drunkenness and flirting became a theoretical plan, which became a hope, and then a want, and then, inevitably, a worry and fear. I booked a flight to Chicago anyway. I got a smartphone, finally. Christmas night was really, really good. I realized I might have enough for myself and enough to go around. I have no idea how this year will end, which is scary and exciting both. I have no reliable way to gauge my emotions. Everything will change now.
2015
1. No milk, no real ice cream.
2. Journal more.
3. Long hair.
4. Pass jury and qualifying exams.
5. Work on sincerity.
6. Work on apologizing for the right things.
7. Stop romanticizing and performing apathy as a defense mechanism. (Quit frying.)
8. Read more.
9. Swim more.
10. Ask for help.
*Fever, C.S. Giscombe
I recognize I used this quote last year, but it is exponentially more relevant now than it was then.
