I have so many new things that I wish I could write about, but feel as if to say any of it out loud would somehow jinx it. Make it not real. Or make it all too real. So I will wait. But there are things going on in my life right now that are so positive and progressive, things I never dreamed possible until recently, and it’s in making these things happen that creates my sense of surreality, that feeling that I’m living in the dream I haven’t had since a child.
There have been a flood of memories washing over me. Things I haven’t thought about since I was a little girl, or a young teen, ambitions, goals, hopes, and it’s astounding how all it takes is the subtraction of alcohol and drugs to be aware enough to remember the memory. So many things have been pushed down inside. Sorry, I know it feels like I’m speaking in code, suppose I am a bit, but here are some memories that have recently come up, and these are the things that have weighed, albeit light as a feather, on my mind.
I remember living in Wyoming when I was about 7 years old, and every night before I’d go to bed, I would watch my mother turn on the dishwasher so there would be fresh clean dishes in the morning. After a couple nights of this awareness, I would go to bed, in my king size waterbed complete with princess canopy, and wait for the dishwasher to beep its finished cycle. Then, to the kitchen, sneaky as a mouse, I would put away the dishes trying to make as little sound possible, always struggling with the pots and pans-the typical clang and bang of a 7 year old in the dark placing metal on metal. My mother and father never noticed, or perhaps never mentioned that the dishes were magically put away in the morning, possibly assuming one or the other had already done it. One night, I made such a ruckus with those damn pots my mom came out to see who was robbing the house. She found me in footy pajamas, sitting on the kitchen counter with all the cabinets open, and a guilty as charged look on my face. I remember that moment right where she turned on the lights. The feeling of being caught. And then her shooing me off to bed.
I remember my barbies, and their beautiful home and fantastic car. This pink corvette, convertible, the best way for barbie to drive around my basement. The house was huge, tons of rooms, and as I had tons of barbies, I started placing them strategically in the rooms before I’d leave the house each day. Brunette in the kitchen, with the redhead at the table, blond in bed with Ken, being naughty. Every day I would come home, they would be rearranged, and there was a time in my life where I thought my barbies were alive and they moved about when I was gone. I began to resent them for not being alive when I was around, although it’s common knowledge toys only come to life once the child leaves them. I would sit up late night waiting for those barbies to move. Nothing. I asked my mother about this a while back, telling her this exact story. Turns out she knew I was fascinated by how they moved and it was she that would move them. The things we learn of our parents as adults…
In middle school, I remember not receiving a candy gram on Valentines Day, and being destroyed. Also no balloons on my birthday, and utter destruction. I remember a girl in my English class always smelled like the Victoria Secret’s Pear Glace, and all the boys loved her because of it, and her long shiny hair. I wanted to wear overalls like hers, and when I got some, they just didn’t fit the same. I remember the first time I kissed this boy named Aaron, and how he said my lips were soft. I used the same brand chapstick for the rest of the year.
I remember singing. In a christian rock band, choirs, concert, chamber, in voice lessons with a woman named Roxanne who had bright red hair. I took piano lessons from her as well, but because I didn’t like to read music and preferred to play by ear, she would scold me-or what felt like scolding to a 12 year old girl- and I quit playing piano. In High School, I remember being on a concert choir class trip, and sneaking away with a buddy to smoke a cigarette. At 17, it was the fun naughty thing to do. When we got back to the bus, the choir teacher, a young new teacher straight out of Chapman University told me on the bus, in front of the entire 67 person choir, that cigarettes would ruin my beautiful voice and it’s a shame I would do something so self destructive. I hated him from that day forth, calling him Abu, and trying to put similar shame into his heart. I quit singing in front of people, and eventually quit telling people I can sing. Now I only sing quietly in the shower, or in my car, or around Bleeze-because he knew the whole time and he’s the only one I trust to listen.
Funny the things we forget.
I booked a ticket to New York City, leaving in two weeks for a short 4 day vacation. I realized that I’ve never travelled sober. I haven’t been in an airport as an adult not drunk, on an airplane not wasted. Every flight I’ve taken in the past 8 years, I’ve started off in the airport bar, at least 3 double jack and cokes, then 2 drinks on the plane to properly pass me out. It was like time travel. I would eat a pot brownie before entering the security checkpoint and then check out mentally from there. When I flew to Europe, I ate a cinnamon rice crispy treat on the way to the airport while smoking a blunt, downed 6 double jack and cokes, had three more on the plane and then two glasses of wine with dinner followed by half a xanax bar. I don’t remember any of this, I read it in my journal from the trip. I could barely write. I fell asleep somewhere over a lake, near the grand canyon, and woke up landing in Amsterdam. Time travel.
I don’t know why I’m writing this all down, but there are feelings here that I want to remember, and if I don’t document it, it may pass with the lesson unlearned. I want to always be a student of life, and the only way to do that is to remember it.