You're Not in a Cage

Oh, my. Do I ever have some energy to move.

And lately, I've been taking whatever minor toxins I have inside of me and vaporizing them into song, as I do. It has been marvelous. 

Makes it hard to leave, really.

Like, how much of a masochist do I have to be in order to stay, or leave? It's time. I know it's time. It's time, it's time, it's time. My level of "over it" is steadily increasing by the minute. My restlessness makes it difficult to hold a conversation or eye contact or keep myself grounded.

Grounded. The scariest thing.

I'm not sure if most people have foundations or roots; all I know is that I don't. And it doesn't always have to be a thing that makes me sad. In fact, it seldom does; having reached an unprecedented level of closeness while living here has actually weirded me out a little bit. It means that I'm unafraid to go exploring and adventuring and I have the opportunity to meet new people, try new things, learn. 

And there are many, many things to learn.

Reality is a lot like quantum physics, which is an interesting thing to say, but I think it's accurate in more ways than one. Feynman once noted that when a person thinks he or she has a firm grasp on the subject, the person is farther away than ever before. He, of course, was speaking of quantum physics; but he had a marvelous gift for driving the subject matter home. And once I think I know what I'm talking about, I get too comfortable. For somebody who tries to keep her privilege in perspective (and has legitimately never figured out how to spell 'privilege' correctly on the first try; there's no 'd'...why is there a 'd' in 'knowledge' but not 'privilege') and for somebody who dearly loves to learn and to open her mind to all kinds of different angles and perspectives, I can be pretty judgmental. And the worst part about that is, I get judgmental when I'm feeling well.

I don't think that my confidence is in the right spot.

Rather, I wish I could move it to other aspects of my life. I am overwhelmingly self confident in some areas, but detrimentally self deprecating in others. And most likely, to everyone a few years my senior, I seem to be endowed with a millennial's dose of self entitlement. 

But, that doesn't make any sense. Just six months ago I felt like less than a vapor stuck in a pocket of dark instability, but now that I'm feeling better, I confidently and happily own that instability as my home. How is that entitlement? I just want to stay alive and sustain. That's it. That's all. If that looks like entitlement to you, then shame on you. A thousand times, shame on your lack of perspective and compassion. Get out of here with your abrasive energy, and leave me to my own devices. If you wish to approach me, then approach me as a human being with an individual identity; not as a member of a demographic which you choose to scrutinize.

Or, was that wording too pompous and pretentious for you? Am I simply proving your point?

Whatever. Go away. I want to be around good energy, not this.

The whole world has gone mad, and I know it. Of course, my heart is heavy. But there aren't enough bytes of data in the world to post all of my irritation on the good ol' FB, nor would I ever want to. And besides, my silence is a recognition that I am not entitled to own an opinion on many of the goings on. My silence has never been consent. Ever. On the contrary, it's my refusal to own issues that are not mine to own. For example, I can have lots of feelings about the Charleston massacre, or Ferguson, or Baltimore, or Texas, or Rachel What's-her-face...but I can't own it. I don't know what it's like to be a black American. I don't, and I never will, and to try would be an act of ignorance and violence in itself. 

And even at this point, I'm almost ready to abandon (abandon is the wrong word. Vacate, maybe? Retire? Move on?) the issues that absolutely are mine to own. 

I just can't anymore. Maybe it's burnout, but more likely than that, it's my longing to move on. Keep moving forward. It takes a significant amount of energy to convince myself that I'm not in a cage. I have to keep going. There is nothing more that I can do for this healing process. I've been open, I've found community, I've found healing, I've come to terms with the fact that this does not ever go away. There is peace that comes with that. It doesn't even really hurt anymore. Not terribly, I mean. Not enough to die over. That's what happens when wounds turn into scabs. I'm not ignoring it; I'm letting it be.

Let me be.

I'll figure it out, but I won't know the right thing to do. I don't ever know. Nobody ever knows, for certain, what will turn out well and what will end up completely falling apart in some glorious, explosive way. So, of course I'm scared of my life. Who wouldn't be? It's a healthy fear! It's the kind of fear that will prevent me from plunging into the Grand Canyon without any rock climbing gear. It's a fear that just might save my life.

But I'm excited. I'll keep it exciting and progressive and as fun as I can. All I have to do is remind myself that I'm free to do all of these crazy things that I want to do, but to be smart about it.

I'm free. I'm not in a cage.

An Open Letter to Anyone Who Has Pissed Me Off, Ever

You know who you are.

Or, perhaps, you do not. Possibly, probably, you are blissfully unaware of your status on my list of severed ties. Not because I never tried to stand up for myself, but more likely because I have a tendency to self-direct my anger, finding it easier to identify fault in myself rather than others.

Usually, I am much more discerning than all of that. I can address anybody else with all of the clarity of grace in the world, but when it comes to addressing myself, I am as graceless as all of you have been. If possible, even worse.

That ends. Today.

How dare you. You ignorant, entitled, uneducated, narrow-minded buffoons. How dare you address me without the slightest regard for my most basic human rights? Who do you think you are? What entitles you to invade my personal space and my spirit and the spirits of those whom I love? Just what, exactly, makes you an expert on my process and my immediate needs and my growth? 

Oh, pretentious ones: I am done listening to your empty promises and your empty threats and your empty ideas. Your perspective, if any, is embarrassingly one-dimensional. Open your eyes, turn your heads; our observable universe extends far beyond your capacity of thought. Really, it baffles me as to how your heads have swollen to the sizes that they are. Who allowed that space, or is it that you've pushed and shoved and manipulated your way to occupy it? 

You should know that your attempts to isolate and alienate me have failed. You should know that your slammed doors have opened all of my windows and escape hatches. You should know that your mission to tame and normalize me has not made me like you. You should know that your abandonment and your blind eyes have made me more vigilant and more aware. You should know that even though you've shattered my sense of security, I have found safe spaces. And you should absolutely know that while you took away my idea of what a home should feel like, I broke free and I metamorphosed into a seasoned wanderer who has traveled many miles and met incredible people and who has woven herself an infallible network of genuine soulmates, always standing at the ready to advocate for one another.

To me, you are as meaningless and irrelevant as you tried to make me feel. No more. There is always a breaking point; a point at which I can decide that enough is enough. You have no say in my journey. If you are not here to grow me, then you're here to show me exactly who I do not need in my way. So, enjoy the sight of my fabulous backside as I walk away from you, for good. 

Did you really think that you could turn tables on somebody as wide-eyed and open-hearted as I am? Sneakily warning me against seeds of bitterness in order to validate your own guilty conscience did not deny me of my righteous anger. And, more importantly, these years have not made me bitter. These years have made me beautiful.  They have widened my gaze and opened my arms and delivered me into good, good hands. They have afforded me experience and collaboration and community and intellect and growth; I have taken all of it in my stride. All of it.

I have fallen and I have gotten back up, never any thanks to you. Never.

You graceless simpletons. You had no idea with whom you were dealing.

You still don't, but I do. I finally do.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Becca: shaped and molded and used and invaded and bound and released and glittering with the sweat necessary for survival. I've been told, by people with stronger backbones than you, that there are good things for me; finally, I accept that. In fact, I accept that at the very minimum. Great things for me, for today and for every tomorrow.

I almost feel sorry that you won't be along for this marvelous ride. But then again, you've done your part. You've made your opinions known. You've been very clear about how unacceptable I am, and I do not accept that. There is no space left for you in my life; I've made plans and I'm going to new places and I'll meet new people and we'll invest in each other the way we were meant to, and you? You'll remain stagnant.

You don't even have to stick around to watch me grow. You wouldn't recognize growth if it were thriving and overflowing right in front of you.

And it is.

(mic drop)

Dancing and Staying Alive

I wanted to tell you that I'm okay. 

I think it's worth saying. More importantly, I think it's worth believing this time. I know that I've used this space as an avenue through which I could channel my negative energy so as not to hold it inside of me, so I just figure that most of you probably siphon through my words, guarding your spirits from the heaviness but offering quiet support nonetheless. And I'm grateful for that.

Recently, I noted that I thought I had royally fucked up. I thought that I had come down to Florida and spun myself a web instead of freeing myself from the one that already existed. I thought that my masochism was taking over and that even though my intentions were fine, I wouldn't allow myself to receive the help that I need. I pretty much figured that I'd die pretty soon.

I wish I could tell you what changed. Last time the darkness was this tangible, I knew exactly what had happened to change it back into lightness. And the lightness was almost ridiculous, because I hadn't known that I could simply invite it back and it would come, until I did. And that was a miracle. I knew it. I slept for 14 hours and regenerated into something new, brushing ashes off of my brand new Phoenix feathers and continuing to live. 

But this time, I don't really get it. I knew from the get-go that this one was far less spiritual and far more chemical, situational, whatever-al. Maybe I just needed to get out of South Carolina. Maybe I just needed to chase the wind for a while. Maybe I just needed to work my ass off for a while, pulling the same hours as I pulled while getting my degrees but filling my time with something far less meaty and difficult. Maybe I needed to remember that I like challenges and intellectual stimulus, but that I can be okay with relatively simple tasks for now. Because it's not everything. Because everything will be okay, and if it's not okay, it's not everything.

So I'll just tell you a couple of the things that have changed. Like I said before, I booked a flight to Iceland as an incentive to stay alive; update: it's working. And now, that trip has become an entire November full of thanks and community because I'll have the opportunity to spend some time with a subset of my favorite people in the world, sprinkled around Belgium, Germany, and Ireland, and potentially find some more favorite people. I don't know. It doesn't matter...I'm adventuring and I'm following my wandering heart and isn't that enough? It is, for me.

On that note, I've pretty much given up listening to any of y'all who want me to stick around, stay in one place, calm down, or be safe in general. Safety, as it is colloquially recognized, is the opposite of safety for me. You know this. I go where I feel safe, and sometimes, that's sleeping outside in my car in the middle of the prairie. I'll wander, when I want to wander. I'll stay, when I want to stay. But I'll always come back.

Recently, I learned a little bit more about vitamins and the things that can happen when there is a deficiency for whatever reason. Unsurprisingly enough, the symptoms of deficiency sounded awfully familiar to me, so I stocked up and I've flooded myself and I've felt so much better. Maybe it was just me, not taking care of me in the most basic sense.

I know that's what it is.

Something else that I've noticed lately, as a pleasant surprise, is my natural reaction to myself in the mirror. While sometimes it's a nit-picky self-destruction, lately it's been me looking straight into my own eyes and thinking to myself what a pretty girl I am. What deep, watchful, and lovely eyes I've been given. I'm a spacious, voluptuous, wild-haired gale. And it is well.

So, more than likely, I'm headed out West pretty soon. Then Nordic, then Eastern, then Northwestern Europe. Then Midwest. And maybe, if things settle in the direction of my heart's current arrow, back out West eventually. 

I'm only 24. It's just life. It doesn't need direction or stability or anything like that; it just needs to continue until it doesn't. And I just need the things that I have now; I just need this. Almost every aspect of my being has been ripped wide open, raw and exposed, in the best possible way because I've found community instead of alienation. I've found support instead of loneliness. I've found togetherness and honesty, and that's all I want. I miss the people that I don't have right now, but out of the same vein, I only want the people that I have now. This time was meant for us. It was designed for our specific investments into each other's lives, and we won't be the same for it. I won't be the same.

I'm never content, but I'm happy. I'm not the same. I love the fact that I am here right now. I love it.

Life is a Bucket of Dirt

On my morning off, I am frying up some plantains and daydreaming like a normal person. 

It is my absolute favorite thing in my world, passing by the Tampa International Airport on my commute. Not because I am one addicted to travel, but because the interstate runs perpendicular to the landing strips and, if the timing is right, my car passes directly underneath a landing plane. It always makes me feel like we're living in the future, regardless of the relatively dated technology passing above me, but mostly because I have a tremendous gift for extracting wonder out of mundane situations.

I never, ever want that gift to go away. I hope to never grow out of it, and more than that, I hope it doesn't end up being medicated out of me.

And since I'm on an upswing and being a little over-analytical, I wanted to reflect and admit and announce a couple of things. Except, that sounded really dramatic. Nothing super huge. Just standard me.

Recently I had an interesting pregnancy dream, due to what I assumed was my incessant baby fever. But something interesting happened during this dream. Something that I think stems from something far more relevant to my immediate existence.

During the dream, when I found out I was pregnant, I was given a bucket of dirt.

Yep. A bucket of dirt.

But inside the bucket of dirt, there was an assortment of buried things. There were roughly rounded stones, and little spiny bouncy balls. I was told that I had to reach into the bucket of dirt, without looking, and pull out one of the items. If I picked out a bouncy ball, it meant that I could keep the baby. But if I picked up a stone, I couldn't.

In the dream, I knew I wanted to keep the baby. Now, I'm assuming that I wasn't meant to be able to distinguish between the two options while my hand was in the dirt, and it was meant to be a completely random decision. But I didn't want it to be. With my fingers in the bucket, I felt around for the spines on the bouncy ball, because I had a life to save. I pulled it out, and held it in my hands with bits of dirt falling from the spines. I'd won.

Waking up, as most of you have already read, I was a tad disappointed to find that I wasn't expecting. It took a few hours of waking up to realize what I think all of that meant.

What if the life I saved was my own?

In the dream, I had made a choice. A conscious decision to keep somebody alive. In my waking life, it's a decision that I have to make every day. There have been some very, very bad days; days during which I have had no interest in seeing another one. And I'm not particularly sure why. It comes with the season, I guess.

But something clicked and instigated this upswing, and I realized that I need to make a calculated decision to keep myself around, by whatever means necessary.

So obviously, I booked a flight to Iceland.

I'm not kidding.

Being surrounded by people who practice militant self care, I see lots of beautiful things being done for the people around me. And this is my version. My insane, impulsive version. I'm 24 years old, and at this point, 24 is being spent to prepare for marvelous things in 25. I'll spend a few weeks gallivanting around Europe and visiting the people to whom I've been promising visits, but I'll kick it off in Iceland. 

Because I can, because I found a deal, and because I've always wanted to. Because my heart dances to the same tune as the Northern Lights do. Because I want to sleep in a room full of strangers until they become friends on a glacier hike. Because.

But mostly, because it's my incentive to stay alive until November.

And with that, I'll leave you with the words of the great philosopher Ani DiFranco:

"Self-preservation is a full-time occupation; I'm determined to survive on these shores."