Wondering on wandering

I must confess, sometimes my heart gets restless and begs to wander. It whispers, wildly, "let's run away and be young together forever." It isn't an altogether unwelcome idea...I have always been drawn to the idea of  roaming, living freely and going wherever the wind blows me. But that type of life clashes terribly with my reality. I am rooted. I always have been. I sink myself into what surrounds me and I grow up around it. But everything I love about my hometown and the people that inhabit it is also everything I hate: it's smallness, it's familiarity, the people I've known my entire life. I cherish these things, but they can sometimes make me feel stifled.
I was mulling over these very things the other day when my sister called and said that her wedding invitations had come in and they needed to be addressed and sent out. It's funny isn't it, the way the little moments are the ones that end up being the most important...We had been addressing wedding invitations and singing loudly over the din of six children playing with my cousin and a few friends when my eldest nephew came to stand next to my chair. He started to sing along in the way that 2 and a half year old's do, sort of humming along to the melody and punctuating it with the occasional known word, all smiles and wiggling limbs. I scooped him up into my lap facing me as the song changed to Phillip Phillips "Home" and sang it with him. I am no singer by any stretch of the imagination, but bouncing that tiny little universe of a human on my knee, seeing his eyes alight with the kind of awe and pure glee that only a child can know...for a moment, I felt like I was something special. In the space of a heart beat I knew that I could travel the entire world over, see every breathtaking vista and indescribable sunrise; every awe inspiring habitat and national landmark, and nothing would ever be as beautiful as that smile. This is not to say that I don't want to see the world, I do. And one day, I will. But sometimes, what is right in front of you is more than enough.

This is me, today. (What I have to Offer )

What I have to Offer from Eliot Rausch on Vimeo.

Listen to this video. It is an excerpt from a speech given by Charlie Kaufman. Watch it also, if you'd like. But listen to it first. Really listen. That's what I've been doing for the last few days. I lost track of the number of times I listened to it, actually.

I've been staring at this computer screen on and off for two weeks trying to write my annual New Year note. Trying to make lists and tie things up in summation with a pretty little bow. And I couldn't. Because it all felt fake. I felt fake. And then I watched this video.

So you are here, and I am here, spending our time as we must. I am trying not to spend this time, as I spend most of my time, trying to get you to like me; trying to control your thoughts, to use my voodoo at the speed of light, the speed of sound, the speed of thought.

It is an ancient pattern of time usage for me, and I’m trying to move deeper, hoping to be helpful. This pattern of time usage paints over an ancient wound, and paints it with bright colors. It’s a sleight of hand, a distraction, so to attempt to change the pattern, let me expose the wound. I do know that it is old. I do know that it is a hole in my being. I do know it is tender. I do believe that it is unknowable, or at least inarticulable.

I do believe you have a wound too. I do believe it is both specific to you and common to everyone. I do believe it is the thing about you that must be hidden and protected, it is the thing that is tap danced over five shows a day, it is the thing that won’t be interesting to other people if revealed. It is the thing that makes you weak and pathetic. It is the thing that truly, truly, truly makes loving you impossible. It is your secret, even from yourself. But it is the thing that wants to live.

 I am here and you are here and I am done hiding. This is my wound. It is wide and dark and vast and deep. It is comprised of many different chasms that have run together and sometimes, they consume.

To say that I am in a rut is an understatement. I am in valley. A hole. The bottom of the sea. But I am choosing to be honest. I am imperfect. An imperfect daughter, an imperfect sister, an imperfect friend. An imperfect person. I make mistakes. They do not define me, but they are there; always reminding me that I have fallen short. There are days when I somehow convince myself that I am bold and brave. I say what I think, even if it isn't how I feel, and I am perhaps not scared for a moment. Other times, I make myself small. Quiet. I blend myself into the wallpaper. And other times still, I allow other people to do that for me...or to me. I let myself be painted over. I become whatever is needed: Confidant. Enabler. Scapegoat. Drinking Buddy. Sympathizer. Punching bag. A would-be self sacrificing lamb. But I am not a martyr. It is simply easier to be what is needed for you, than to be what I need for me. I don't reach out, I don't ask for help, I don't admit that I am sad. I push the ugliness into a corner and I ignore it's screaming until it is all that I can hear. Until it grows big enough to grab my heart and threaten to squeeze. Because its what I'm conditioned to do. Darkness is scary and ugly and should be hidden away and never talked about. For almost 4 years, I thought I had beaten this into submission. There were days that I would still wrestle with my demons, but it felt for a while as though it was their last hurrah. Their final stand. For the past few months, I have come to realize I was wrong. I struggle with depression. Not past tense, struggled. I have since middle school. I do believe that medication does help some people. I do not believe I am one of them. On medication, I don't feel anxiety or sadness. But I don't feel anything else either. I become a zombie. And I decided long ago that I would rather feel everything, the whole spectrum, than nothing at all.

Sharing this with the world is not easy for me. It goes against everything that is in my nature. But after a recent conversation with a few very dear friends (whose struggles I can so deeply relate too), I decided that perhaps this isn't my secret to keep. Perhaps it is as Charlie Kaufman says: specific to me, and common to everyone. We all have things we hide that we believe make us ugly and inhuman and vulnerable. They make us feel alone, and lesser, and unlovable. But here is the secret: We are none of those things. We are all a part of this whirling universe of stars, connected in unknowable and tenuous ways. Jamie Tworkowski once referenced Donald Miller and wrote "we are called to hold our hands against the wounds of a broken world, to stop the bleeding...we were made to be lovers; bold in broken places, pouring ourselves out again and again until we are called home." This is me unwrapping my hands from myself and holding them out to you. I am going to start being honest and offering up sincerity in the hopes that maybe it will let you know that you are not alone. In your pain, in your happiness, in this life. I think that through being genuine with one another, we can help cure the disease of loneliness. By being real, we can bring light to the dark.

My name is Monica and what I have to offer is me. I am an incurable romantic. Tina Fey, Lena Dunham, and Chelsea Handler have a direct line to my funny bone. I'm the clumsiest person you will ever meet. I'm sarcastic, I believe all cats hate me, and I can't walk in heels to save my life. I like sushi, and dancing in my kitchen, and I think I can communicate with my dog via telepathy. My nephews are my favorite people in the world and I think elephants are my spirit animal. Sometimes, I wear the same sweat pants for 2 days and don't wash my hair for a week straight. I own too many nail polishes and I probably judge you based on your taste in music. I suffer from depression. But I believe I am getting better day by day. And I think you can too. I am a walking contradiction and I am ever changing. But this is me, today.

Caution Tape

I am messy
clutter covers
my floor
And my
memory
its all fuzzy
Feel me
I'm stubbly
As I mumble
tiny teardrops
bubble
and I stumble
over words
This should be
easy
Please me
tell me
gentle
little
lies- they always
Catch me
fastly falling
furiously
I tend to be
simple enough
to forget
You
loved me
once
upon a time
I was somebody
You used up
the best of me
and now
the rest of me
Is a shadow
of who
I used to be
so clean
And tidy
up
this mess
of me.

Things we should have said

I swore at my sister today. In an angry text. My thumbs shot over those four keys with wreckless certainty. It wasn't until hours later that I thought about what I had said. REALLY thought about it. And I was left with the heaviest sinking feeling. What if those were the last words I ever said to my sister? What if, (Lord forbid) something happened to one of us and we never had the chance to say our "I'm sorry"s? It would be like erasing all the years of laughing, and screaming, and playing with Barbies. All the arguing, and chess games, and late nights spent in twin beds seeing who could name the most Harry Potter characters, the things only a sister can possibly understand...gone. Replaced by a single horrible set of words. We so often take for granted the fact that the people we love know how we feel. Do we say it enough? I know I don't. I don't look at my sister and tell her I love her. We say it in passing as one leaves the other, but I never pause and say it with full force. I sometimes think it as I watch her make my nephews laugh. Their little up-turned faces are such clear reflections of hers. And I tell them daily. I never hesitate to squeeze them close to me and tell them they are perfect. That they are beautiful, wonderful, amazing creations and I love them endlessly. The same is true for many adults in my life, so what is it that I find so difficult to say? And perhaps more than that, what would their reaction to such a declaration be? Why are we so programmed to deny that we are special? We were uniquely created from the act of loving. What could possibly make us more remarkable and worthy of love? Man-made insecurities creep in and tell us we should care what other people think of us and we should keep our feelings hidden. Showing our true feelings makes us vulnerable and vulnerability is seen as weakness. Being vulnerable though...it is the most courageous thing you can do. Being vulnerable means you are brave enough to let yourself be known. We so rarely say what we mean. Or what we think. Or what we feel. And we should, every day. Because we never expect the last conversation to be the last...but one day it will be.

In these quiet moments, these little wonders...

There are days like today, when I get lost in the quiet moments. All of the lights and televisions and telephones turned off, skies gray, and no one but the wind to keep me company. I very rarely allow myself the excruciating luxury of silence and stillness. I prefer to fill my days with rabble and rumbles and gravelly voices. With music and madness and the trumpeting sound of children at play. It is easier that way, to be surrounded by the outwardly loud. It stops me from listening too closely to the thundering shudder of my own heart beat. Or the nasally whisper of breath dancing in and out of my lungs. They always cause me to wonder at the sheer absurdity of my own being: I am here. And there are so many things I will never understand, my own willful and wistful thoughts not least of all. I've given up so much of me in pursuit of so many things...

But in these quiet moments, I can hear God more clearly. I feel His urging and reassurance like the gentle leading of a friend. My constant stream of endless worries are silenced, if only momentarily, and I am ushered into the embrace of a loving Father who knows my faults and fears. It is comforting in a way I cannot describe, but it is also terrifying. You see, when I allow myself to hear Jesus loudly, I am forced to accept that He is asking me to be different. To go where I may not be comfortable. To push myself outside of what I know and what I am used to. I feel a yearning so deep, so foreign, and so uniquely perfect that it must be divine. I know that I am called to do more. To be more. And I am promising now, in this quiet moment, to acquiesce. I will give up the things I am being asked to give up, but I will do so knowing that I do not walk this road alone. This past weekend, I heard someone speak about the dead sea. That it is dead because it is the lowest point on earth, so while the Jordan River flows into it, nothing can flow out of it. I do not want to be a dead sea. I want to give more of myself, to constantly have an outward flow. And while so much can be said about living for yourself, I am happy my life has never been my own. I am a garbled collection (a patchwork, so to speak) of the people and places; the dying dreams and unspoken wishes; the countless lapses in judgement and sleepy smiles; the roaring laughter and the feather light tear drops; they have been poured into me every single day of my life. Stories and paths that intersect, weave, tangle, separate...they have grown me. And I never want to stop growing.

There are those that believe differently that I do, that the voice inside is their conscience or perhaps their soul. I believe it is my maker and my savior. The difference, though, matters not. We all have the little voice inside of us. It will comfort and calm us. It will tear us down and then rebuild us. And when we are at our lowest, in a valley or the depths of a dead sea, it will direct us where we need to go. We need only stop our incessant cacophonous running and hear it.

Dedicated to...you.

"Dedicated to everyone who wonders if I'm writing about them.

I am."

I saw this quote on Pinterest and I was immediately in love with it. It's true, after all. But then I really began to think about it...I wonder how often I have told the stories of other people in my writing? Laid out facts about their lives the way I saw them. I've stolen bits and pieces of other people and wrapped them up in pretty words. I've made them mine because I witnessed them. They've woven in and out of my own, but were their stories mine to tell?

I write a lot about the human condition: Loneliness. Loss. Love. The silence between heartbeats. The things we should have said. And I write a lot about people. I know people. I've always had this innate ability to sense someone's character...I feel as though I know them before they let me. It's intrusive and unfair. But this is how I was made.

How are we made? 

It's in me to wonder this. Instinctively, out of the blue. Why are some of us hardwired to wonder and wander and always, always, always be consumed? It's in my blood to never be satisfied. Which, I suppose, is why I write outside myself. I could tell you every emotion I've ever felt--the overflowing happiness, the deep, roiling passion, the bitter and solid emptiness--but would it cause you to know me any better? Would it make you understand? I can promise you it wouldn't. I am in a constant state of flux. Everything is tenuous. As soon as I find the words for my feelings, they've already changed twice. This is who I am and I'm used to it. Instead of boring you with myself, I'll write about you. You; the nameless, faceless vestiges of my sanity. I can see inside you. I know about numbers and the counting. The tiny scratches on your inner thigh. Scars that line the insides of upper arms. Little white pills  wrapped in cellophane. Stolen kisses on a race car bed. Broken Christmas lights. Selfishness hiding behind sweet words. The way you pause before you kiss her. Dark circles hidden under too much makeup. Wondering if you settled. That hidden playlist. 

40°46′31.48″N 73°58′28.59″W. The way she never looks at you, not really, not the way I did. The way I do. 13 different people. Stories not my own. So if ever you wonder if I'm writing about you....rest assured, I am.

Oh, we dreamed of life.

Heavy.

Everything about this morning is heavy. 

I woke up with tears leaking out of the corners of my still-closed eyelids. Aren't dreams supposed to be pleasant and warm? Comforting? Kindred? Otherwise, aren't they nightmares? What if they're neither? 

I didn't dream she was alive and well. She was still gone. But maybe that dream would have been easier to deal with...her absence is so ingrained in me that I think even in my sleeping state, I would have known I was dreaming. And it would have been nice to see her face. I miss it so much, so very much more than I ever thought possible. Pictures are lovely things, but they can only go so far in capturing a person. One dimension distortion almost feels inappropriate; like staring at a ghost.

I dreamed that I was going through her old vanity the way I did when I was a child. Pulling out lipsticks that I wish I remembered the exact name of, gently sniffing the perfumed powder I loved to feel between my fingertips. That scent haunts me. To this day, whenever I'm in a new department store, I will undoubtedly wander around the fragrance department absently searching for it. I never mean to wind up there, but I always do.

I pulled out her hairbrush. Ran the soft bristles over the skin of my arm. Still felt the same little-girl wonder I always felt about her hair. So abundant and midnight shadow dark. Always perfectly placed. I reached farther into the drawer and came back with a folded piece of paper. I unfolded it and read. It was a note to us, her family. It contained $35. I don't remember exactly what it said, but it was something about using the money in case anything ever happened to her. And it said she loved us..."Bigger than the moon and farther than the stars." It felt so unbelievably real. Not because the amount of money holds any significance, it doesn't. Not because she had ever said those words, she hadn't. Not because it was written in her handwriting. It may well have been, but I don't consciously know what her script looked like. I wish I did. No, I believe it felt so real to me because it is something I have wished for and wanted for the last 4 years. It seems like such a small and trivial thing, but I would love to have something she had written. A letter. A memo. A grocery list. Some little piece of paper her hands had touched. I cried tears of joy in my dream. And then an over-full bladder caused the pitbull laying next to me to whine loud enough to bring me back to reality. It was the rudest awakening. Harsher than the streaming sunlight in my sleep filled eyes, my hope filled heart broke.

I don't know where to go with the rest of my day. If I'm being honest, the rest of my life. There is so much I wish I could talk to her about. I feel like she knew me best. Her skinny arms always enveloped me more fully than anyone else. I miss that sense of safety. Everything feels precariously balanced, like a gust from either direction will send me toppling. I'm still trying to become that person she believed I would be. Something. Someone. And I don't know how. I want to be happy. I want to be fulfilled. I believe it's possible, but I'm constantly feeling shoved into obligations. I'm stuck in this weird in-between...an adult, but stunted. When did I become this scared person? I used to have so much fight. I want her to hold me and tell me I'm beautiful again. Just one more time. Because maybe then, I could face a world that so often makes me feel so ugly inside.