Ills of the apologetic.

Most days I don't attempt words. I almost don't desire them, I'm so tired; blurred emotions, like static, rub me raw as the inevitable draws closer. In less than a month I move some three hundred miles away. Should I be excited? I am, maybe, but I also feel guilty. For leaving. It doesn't feel fair that I am allowed the freedom to chase happiness when my brethren are stuck here. It could be much worse, but it also isn't to be forgotten that my familial situation has long been a special sort of hell.

More than anything, I feel sorry. I feel sorry for leaving. I feel sorry that I can't be the answer to anyone's problems.

This is the best thing for me, the leaving. I'm not happy here. I can't be happy here, no matter how I might try. It's right that I'm leaving.

I still can't make myself believe these words.

I feel sorry for that, too.

An open, ill-formed letter to those I push away.

I sit in an armchair facing sliding glass windows as late afternoon slides into evening. As darkness becomes more prevalent my view of the backyard shrinks until everything is suddenly black and I am left staring at my own reflection, the book I have been reading for the past two hours now abandoned at my side. The romantic sense that I have words to say rushes back, back, back. I grasp them, knowing they may very well be fleeting. I want, especially now, to find the right ones. In the reflection of the glass I can now see my mother sitting on the couch, the lamp beside her glowing a pleasant orange as she reads. My limbs are tucked close together, something in me working on the logic that condensing myself into a smaller space might make life easier to handle. It almost does.

I am a quiet person. Last winter I lost my voice for almost a month; few noticed. The simple fact that I am quiet does not bother me, for I like a fair helping of silence. Beyond the noise level, a legitimate problem lies in the fact that I am apt to take the adage "if you can't say anything nice, don’t say anything at all" to a dangerous extreme. I am so used to measuring words, a master at wringing them until they have lost any possible controversy.

I lied to myself for years, placing a filter on emotion as to cut out access to my own thoughts on difficult matters.

Still now, when I am upset with someone or feel especially useless, I keep quiet. The unsavory thoughts pile up, a wish-wash of what’s true and what may not be, with no outlet. I will be angry with someone and have no palpable reason why, nor the rationale to tell them. I stew.

Those I allow close to me occasionally take a sideways glance and shake me for words, looking to help or state their frustration at my lackluster skills in the field of in-the-moment communication, yet still all I know to do is pull away. I worry so deeply that others have made me periphery in their lives while at the same time I push them back to the fringes of my existence out of fear.

Surely it isn't fair of me to be angry with people, especially for reasons I could never find logic for or fully express to those involved. Maybe I want to find a way to say:

“It feels safest to keep my silence today; my heart hurts and I lack the means to express it with any accuracy. Maybe you said something or didn't say something, nothing blatant enough to warrant a legitimate complaint but a matter enough to pluck a nerve somewhere, and I have no way to tell you.

“I say nothing and hope you will somehow pick up on the fact that this particular distance, this once in a while blankness is inherently different from the tens of other silences we have shared.

“I want to make it your fault. It isn't. But because I cannot make it your fault, I must make it mine, and to amend this requires neutrality I cannot manufacture without making myself blank. I would cry, if I could. I would yell, if I could. I can’t.

“It isn't that you bother me terribly. You don’t. You never do. It has more to do, I think, with my envy of your words. Sometimes you will say simplest of things and I sit here wanting dearly to tell you, without logic or niceties, to please shut up and understand that I am aching with the fact that I cannot find words or, when I do, allow myself the luxury of letting them free.

“I cannot rationalize outwardly expressed anger for myself; somehow silence crept in as the acceptable, only, choice of action available to me.

“The fact of my silence becomes a problem in and of itself, draws questions I am helpless to answer. I don’t know how to say things, period, without risking tremendous guilt. I hold a double standard for myself—maybe I welcome others' complaints and stories so wholeheartedly because I feel so completely useless at putting forward my own.

“I am silent for reasons I am still struggling to bring to the surface. I hope against hope that, in some small way, you will understand.”

The words, stacked as they are now, slightly sicken me; I blot them until the built up anger loses its greasy sheen. They make some sense here, tucked neatly within paragraphs and freed of rough edges.

I don’t know what to make of them.

Final goodbyes.

Friday, June 3rd, 2011

The goodbyes I face on my last day of work are some of the most difficult things I have ever encountered. My first, deaf boss says goodbye with a "be careful" and "come back and see me"; the sweet English teacher I've grown to know offers her phone number; Ye Old Initials, my English teacher, says "good luck, kid" and we hug. The teacher who coordinates the work program stops by the library to say goodbye; I want to cry. The minutes march past as I shred papers and count change. Another boss, another hug, another promise to keep in touch.

Soon it's time to leave. Goodbye to my last boss, then the head librarian as words I will not remember later jumble together.

I leave the library in tears.

I may repeat and repeat these words until they lose meaning, but working in my school's library for the past nine months has been one of the best things to ever happen to me.

There aren't words enough to express my gratitude.

In which Katherine graduates.

Saturday, May 28th, 2011

Home, 12 am.
I wake up at midnight. Then two, four, five, six. I stare at the clock and fitfully doze until my mother comes in to get me up.

Graduation practice, 9 am.
As I enter the football stadium it is quickly apparent that I am the only one in at all formal attire. Most are in shorts or pajamas, while I show up in my favorite skirt--a good choice, in the end, as the heat will be a major talking point throughout the day. A friend, Courtney, is standing at the back entrance of the stadium. "Oh hello, Katherine!" she says, pointing a camera my way. "Smile!"

I stick my tongue out.

My name is called ominously out over the loud, loud, loud speaker along with several others. When I make my way up to the stage, however, the fuss is merely that there is a copy of my last paycheck from the school district for me.

I find John/cohorts and stand with them. We wait. When the production finally gets started, we sit in the assembled chairs before the stage as the principal gives instruction. Soon we're in small groups sorted by alphabet and congregating in the street outside the stadium in two separate aisles. The boys directly in front and back of me appear to be good friends and jabber incessantly through the charade. The girl who leads our group is nice; we lament the logic of the proceedings as the day grows warmer, the practice begins and we are forced to start from scratch as three graduates arrive late.

When our procession around the track is finally deemed up to snuff we sit alphabetically by last name in the perfectly placed plastic chairs as the principal lectures us on our behavior for the night. The people directly surrounding me decide that breaking the rules will be okay so long as we all do it; they can't arrest us all.

"Do you think I could come to graduation high?" someone asks seriously.

"If they can't tell."

"It's okay, man, I have eyedrops."

Graduation Lunch, 1 pm.
My father, paternal aunt and uncle, and paternal grandparents meet us in the lobby of an attraction that sits 750 feet in the air in a nearby city and hosts (among other things) a revolving restaurant. They have all traveled hours to get here. For me. The elevator doesn't arrive for something like fifteen minutes; as we finally take our seats and peruse the menu, my father jokes that he'll just have me choose a meal for him. "I mean, you're so good at deciding."

"I've already chosen what I'm getting."

"You're joking."

"No."

"I bet you've been agonizing over the menu online for days, right?"

"No, I haven't."

I don't know what he thinks he knows about me, but I have long been known for making very slow and careful decisions. This may be a joke on the outside, but it goes much deeper than that. I have not seen this man in five months, since Christmas, but he makes comments like this without fail every time we meet. My rebuttal may be simple, but it represents an astounding amount of progress on my part. I am not paralyzed.

This is his first and last snide comment. He tells me he's proud of me. I chose a lunch and he's unbearably, gushingly proud. I feel sick.

I am not accustomed to (or comfortable with) being the center of attention. Luckily, however, the lunch is not a disaster by any means. Not much is required of me, honestly. Towards the end of the meal I move to the other side of the table, where my aunt and uncle sit. They are hilarious and charming; my spirits are quickly lifted and I ride back to tinytowntexas in their vehicle to "help" navigate.

I get us almost-lost. My uncle corrects this. He's only been to tinytowntexas once.

Transition, 5:45 pm.
My aunt and uncle, mother, sister and I stand over the kitchen counter in order to consume cake and ice-cream. I have to report at the school for graduation prep soon. My grandparents and father arrive at my house just as I'm leaving, hideous cap and gown in hand.

I enter the high school through the back door.

"Do you have any contraband?"

"No."

"A phone?"

"No."

"Okay, you can go."

I do have my phone hidden on my person, but then so does everyone else.

Again we are separated by alphabet, one group of about twenty to each empty classroom where we don our glorious robes and bemoan the heat as we wait to take our senior panoramic cap and gown photo. When we do, the photographer has to rearrange us twice to fit everyone in the rickety, too-narrow frame. A boy behind me complains loudly and freely, catcalling the aged photographer as he gives instruction. I wish dearly to slap him, but we are positioned perilously like dominoes and I can't picture it going well under the circumstances. Breathing is risky as it is.

Again we wait in our assigned classrooms. I know none of the girls I chat with, but there is a sense of solidarity in the fact that we are all certain that we will faint, vomit and trip across the stage in the course of the evening. My chest seizes as we line up and wait to be called to the stadium.

Graduation, 7:30 pm.
Green polyester catches the light as we parade out into the parking lot and wait to be called again, this time all two hundred of us in our respective lines. One line will walk in on the visitors' side of the track, while the other (and my) line will walk in on the home side.

Despite the many warnings we have been given, our spacing is still slightly off as we walk onto the track and make our way to our seats. The bleachers on either side are packed. I scan the home side for my mother and in my frenzy state forget what color she was wearing earlier. The first face I find, almost immediately, is that of my ex-boyfriend.

He is either completely and utterly conspicuous (possible) or I have magic powers (possible). We find our seats; I find myself incredibly pissed off.

Heat and anxiety mix freely. We are all miserable until the sun finally sets completely and a breeze catches us. While it is still warm, the waiting is less agony. From our spot in the middle of the football stadium, a stage erected directly in front of us, we cannot really hear what the speakers are saying. If we're lucky we can catch every other word or so, and none of us are particularly interested. Instead we make snide comments and complain about our uncomfortable headwear.

Between speeches and scholarship listings it is a good two hours before they begin divvying diplomas, at which point absolutely everyone is completely over this idiocy and ready to graduate already.

I am oddly calm when it is, after all this time, my "moment." A science teacher rehearses the handshake with me one last time; the school counselor smiles and congratulates me; I step up onto the stage. I take my diploma holder, shake a hand, smile as a camera flashes, shake more hands, smile as I come off the stage and another camera flashes. I am handed a bouquet of flowers my mother ordered for me and make my way back through the middle aisle to my seat. I spend the rest of the ceremony numb.

When it's over the field quickly floods with people, immediate bedlam. Dobbin passes by several times and stares at me awkwardly. I cannot find anyone I know. Eventually I manage to extricate my phone from my person as it buzzes and locate my mother, who arrives with my father and sister close behind. Pictures are taken with each parent. I am too out of it to feel much of anything.

Home, 10 pm.
I don't like this part.

Project Graduation, 11 pm.
It's casino night (shock!) at the school sponsored grad party. The cafeteria is decorated with fairy lights; country music blares. I find Courtney, who welcomes me to follow her around and generally makes life better. I am consistently socially awkward, yet she has always seemed to get it.

Someone informs me that Dobbin was "looking for" me after graduation earlier. I almost die laughing, choking on curse words. Just get out of my head, man. Just get out.

I play blackjack with John and a group of others I don't know for while, which is as close to comfort as I'm likely to get in this moneymaking scenario. John tells me he loves me and makes a grotesque face. "What is that even, man," I say. "You love me, but I'm gross?"

Don't Stop Believing comes on over the speakers and the room proceeds to explode with voices, oddly connecting me to a group of people I will likely never see again and did not like for the majority of my time here. Auction items fill the cafeteria's stage as the night goes on; I win a door prize, fancy shampoo I stare at cluelessly.

"Want to go outside?" John asks. There is a bouncy castle slide erected in the parking lot, along with a climbing wall, jousting area and a few other entertainments. I agree to the bouncy castle and refuse the rest despite his pleas for me to pursue acts of daring.

As we return indoors it is something like three in the morning; people wait in line to receive a full cash value for their play money. John and I sit on the sidelines as a teacher and his partner dance wildly and with mad skill across a makeshift dance floor denoted by columns wrapped in fairy lights and faux ivy.

"Come on," John says, "you can't have an ass like that and not expect little gay boys not to fantasize about you."

I can't help but agree with him.

Soon John joins in on one last contest: karaoke. My phone battery is finally dwindling as I watch the contestants converse near the stage; the line for cash redemption thins out and it becomes apparent that we are vastly short on seating.

John isn't well received. We slip out the back door again to sit against a wall and watch as the bouncy castle and entertainments are disassembled. Only the dim light from the cafeteria remains. He looks as if he might cry, though he doesn't, and rejects my offer of a hug.

"I think I'll tweet about it," he says, retrieving his phone from a pocket. He types something and puts it back. I pull out my own phone to read what he's said.

I can't say I honestly understand what John goes through. I may accept him, but I cannot fully imagine what it's like to live in this tiny, conservative town where his very makeup is oft correlated with the pronouncement that he is destined to go to hell.

We return to the cafeteria and find a table near some friends. Courtney arrives soon after, saying she had been for looking for me. I apologize. Though she managed to make nearly double what the rest of us have, it is quite apparent as the auction begins that none of us are destined for glory. The big items quickly go to those with much, much more "crazy cash" at hand and those surrounding me are awash in frustration.

I am long past hilarity and well into delirium as I make my way through my twenty-third hour of being awake. Noises swish and crunch as they pass through me; I blink frequently in confusion and decide to be as quiet as possible as to not make too much of a fool of myself. The end of the event is completely anticlimactic. My thoughts are a haze as Courtney hugs me goodbye, then George, my NIT (Nerdfighter-In-Training).

John and I walk outside together. He looks unbelievably down as I make my way to my mother's car and shifts things in his arms so we can hug goodbye.

"I'm holding you to that movie date," I say.

"Harry Potter 7 Part II?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

Sunday, May 29th, 2011
Home, 5:30 am.
My mom tucks me into bed. My poor phone communes with the wall charger just in time for me to say a few more sleeplessly crazed things to the internet and good morning to future roommate and partner in crazy Laurel, who is up obscenely early to drive some humans to the airport.

I hope in vain that sleep will bring consistency to these moments.

In conclusion.

I was, as you may recall, romantically entangled something like a year ago. It was all very dramatic and ended terribly, with my (loser, ahem) boyfriend dumping me in a text message and refusing to tell me why our supposedly flawless relationship had suddenly gone to hell in a handbasket. This, in the long run, is what broke me. I had to live with the fact that I did not (and in all likelihood would never) know what went wrong.

I have had months to get through this. I have gotten through this, just, and arrived at a much better place than I started from.

Thousands upon thousands of words and countless pep talks following the ordeal, I have learned why my (one and only, slime ball, etc.) boyfriend took it upon himself to break up with me in such an erroneous and disgusting matter. One reason is that he is an idiot.

The other reason is that he is gay.

My first reaction to this news, of course, was something along the lines of "Are you kidding?" Someone should really write a guide to dealing with freaking weird news, as the last few days have been a whirlwind of emotions that have made little to no sense to me. Following the initial shock I deluded myself, briefly, into the idea that I was totally fine with this new information.

I have many friends-who-are-not-straight. It is apparent, in fact, that they somewhat outnumber me. This is hardly a problem, with the exception of the few (quite amusing) moments where I feel alone in my undying heterosexuality. I am highly in favor of queer people existing and leading happy lives.

But I am not okay with this. My ex-boyfriend is homosexual. Why the (excuse my language) fuck was he dating me? That is not okay. While this knowledge has its good points (at least it didn't go on for longer, I clearly have magic gay-making powers, now I know), at this moment I am caught between cursing everything ever and finding the news hilarious yet tragic.

I am positive that I will be fine. I really will. Upon worrying the issue for nearly a year, I feel entitled to this temporary state of unrest.

If I can draw one positive from this experience, it is that I have written some hilarious poetry to go with the situation. For instance: "Life is quite odd / when your ex-boyfriend likes boys / you're such a clod, Dobbin / catapult, ahoy!"

That is, I will admit, one of the less graphic ones. Healing can be fun, no?

Moving forward.

FutureMe is a website that allows you to compose emails and have them sent to you at a predetermined point in the future. I can't recall how exactly I discovered it (such is the rabbit hole that is the internet), but I got on a slight kick last year in the midst of chaos and as host of worries morphed into a funhouse mirror reality.

I received this letter in my inbox today and felt compelled to share. It is, oddly, these words more than most that warm the cockles of my weatherworn heart as I stagnate in the space of time before I graduate* and separate myself from this (irony of ironies) godforsaken tiny Texas town. I may be broken. I may always be broken, but I am truly, truly at the best place emotionally and as a person that I have ever been in my life right now.

I made it.

Saturday, May 22, 2010

This evening I'm meant to go to a high school graduation, and it gets me thinking about what could happen in the next year. It gets me thinking that... so much happens, so quickly, and that in a year I will be graduating, hopefully, and things like that. It gets me thinking that so much is going to happen so fast and stress takes over so easily.

So I hope that this next year is wonderful. I hope that things get BETTER and that you have more hope and things don't fall apart so easily. Crazy may be defined in one case as "full of cracks and flaws," but being a little crazy means you're at least THINKING, right? Normalcy is stupid. You--I, whatever--aren't normal. You--I, whatever--are wonderful.

I hope to work on living that way.

Congratulations on graduating. If you could send me lovely assuring psychic waves from the future it would be helpful.

Yours,
Me, you, I, whatever.

*I will be graduating from tinytowntexas high school on the 28th of this month. Newfound wisdom and funny hat pictures will follow.

Cataloging moments.

Monday.
A senior class meeting takes place in what is deemed the Old Gym—a newer version sits across the street, but this one is still in use. The room radiates decades of sweat; we collect paper after paper from an assembly line of people and fit ourselves into one half of a bleacher. An almost-friend rushes over to sit with me; we puzzle over the forms with slight disdain.

Photo order forms, immunization record information, graduation ceremony code of conduct, senior quotes... all I can think, as our principal booms that this will be one of the "last times we will be together as a class," is that I dearly wish I could skip the rigmarole.

Too bad.

Memory.
The cowboy hat clad boy to my right counts out change for gas money on his shrunken desk. His voice is thick and defiant: "It's either gas or beer, and there's not enough for beer."

Thursday.
I present a PowerPoint on holograms. I’m too annoyed by this class to care that my demeanor is completely unenthusiastic. The end result is adequate, a state I have never really allowed myself before this moment.

I am numb.

Wednesday.
The moments turn to fuzz. I don’t want it to end. I do want it to end. I don’t want it to end…

Thursday.
I am deemed our school's "Outstanding Senior" for English. My mother kvells; John breaks away from his table in the cafeteria to escape parents and sit with me. He tells snide stories on the elite who collect award after award.

Soon after this the moments will collide until all I can think to do is sleep. The morning, when it comes, is only part-comfort.

Memory.
The thin-faced boy in cowboy boots leans back in his desk, pushing away pages of math to say: "Yeah, I'll definitely need this to become a porn star."

Thursday.
I don’t deserve this award. I don’t deserve this award. I don’t deserve this award.

Memory.
I don’t know what you see in me, John texts me, but thank you.

The feeling is mutual.

Thursday.
The school shelters in place due to severe weather. My Physics class disregards this, teacher and students alike popping out the side door to watch the sky spin as water threatens to break loose from the darkness.

“Oh my god, I’ve never seen rain in south Texas before! It’s new!”

Memory.
"Where are you going for the break?"

"Cancun. You can come with us, but we won't talk to you."

Monday.
Students funnel into the cafeteria to collect numbers. Numbers are divided off into tables where we will sit. The girl across from me is, as the alphabet and irony would have it, an enemy. I am hyperbolizing, but she and I have never quite seen eye to eye, and I steer clear of her as a matter of principle. We avert our gazes.

Fifteen minutes into the test a delinquent at the other end of our table feigns crying. The tension is cut; my table-mates and I giggle through layered anxiety. I, for one, am not at all prepared for the standardized test we are meant to complete. Curses run through my head as I think, uncharacteristically, “Well. Four is a good number. Let’s choose that one.”

Wednesday.
“Tell me—” says my boss as I give her my final evaluation sheet, “and you can be honest—have you enjoyed working here this year?”

“I’ve loved working here,” I say, and I mean it. I haven’t the words to express my gratitude.

Memory.

My father laughs. "She can't choose a sandwich, how can she choose a college?"

Friday.
For several weeks the library has attempted to get seniors to fill in cards briefly describing what they plan to do after graduation. Entries have been sparse until now, but today there is a rush.

And all I can think, pinning my peers’ hopes and dreams to a bulletin board outside the library, is that we are all falling apart.

Memory.
"Are you singing Rebecca Black? Don't ever talk again. You've lost that privilege."

Silence.

Friday.
“Thank you for thinking of me, BR,” I tell Ye Old Initials as I pass him in the hallway. “I appreciate it.”

This is not a man to give superfluous compliments.

He nods. “You’re welcome. You deserved it.”

Wednesday.
The principal walks in on my advisory class. Keys jingle too late for us to shuffle, but he simply ignores the number of us clearly finding companionship in our phones.

Rules slip as the end draws near.

Friday.
I’m sorry.

Thursday.
The moments collide, a train wreck I muffle inappropriately.

I have never met my best friend in person. Circumstances make it impossible to meet without conniving. I want, I want, I want… but I can’t.

Thursday.
“Why,” says the boy who talks too fast, “are the people on the news right now not hot? It doesn’t make sense.” He continues for several minutes as I beat questions back at him.

“Stop while you’re ahead,” says the teacher.

“Stop while you’re still alive,” I say.

Friday.
This is the last normally scheduled school day of the year. It will never be the same again.

It will never be the same again.

Friday.
I find John in a hallway to return something to him. Caught in the moving tide of people, I drift as away as words stream from my lips. He follows me. “May I escort you?” he asks.

We link arms and move forward.