So right off the bat, I have a confession to make. I cheated. I wrote a blog, put it up here and took it down before anyone could see it, keeping no traceable evidence that it ever even existed. I guess I knew cheating would at one point be inevitable, but I was so proud of myself for not having done it, and so upset that I caved. Since taking it down, I have attempted to rewrite the post 5 times with no success. Between being afraid, living in two places at one time that are nowhere near each other, and having internet in neither of those places, getting it done has been a challenge. I finally forced myself to write it all down in my journal for this piece, under the assumption that I would freely write knowing it was meant for no one's eyes, and it worked...but I don't have my journal with me today and honestly, I probably would have edited that entry as I typed it into the computer.
It's the strangest thing too. What I wrote was good, but it made me so uncomfortable, much more so than anything I'd written before. I think it was the prospect that what had happened hadn't actually happened or hadn't honestly happened. I didn't want someone to see it and have the satisfaction of knowing they'd gotten to me, or worse someone else to see it and think less of me...but the point is someone got through to me, whether or not it was real. Even if I made it up in my own head with fictional friends and one huge conversation with myself, I still felt something. That's all that really matters. Who cares what you think? But then, she said something at work that day, and my defense shattered. I went on my phone and deleted it without even blinking.
I do remember the title of the entry. I was extremely proud of it. It was called "Long walks, dirty sombreros and a rose."
And now, enough beating around the bush, here's what's been going on.
Nearly a week ago a friend visited, surprising all of us. It was a wonderful two days. I forgot responsibilities (not all of them, just the kind that I would create for myself instead of allowing time to hang out with friends, or sit on the couch, or go to sit in the park and actually end up walking all over the world) and was just a person again. It brought me to the wonderfully awful realization that I have forgotten what it means to be a human being who interacts with other human beings in a way that has nothing to do with dance or work. There is actually something else to this world. One extremely intoxicated night later, I found myself in ballet the next morning, sluggish and slightly irritated that I'd allowed myself to be so irresponsible and sacrifice feeling well for class, but at the same time, renewed. Memories of the previous few hours continued to seep through my brick wall, and I was smiling and happy despite how much I was pretty sure I just wanted to throw up.
A few hours later, the text to come people watch threw away any and all attempts I'd made at convincing myself I had imagined everything. Then the awful anticipation sitting in the park, waiting for my companion to join...and then the calm once he did. The ease and flow of conversation, no matter the subject. I found myself opening up and saying all kinds of things that in retrospect I realize I never would have said were I my normal, stoic self. The sight of a rose. The giggles at a dirty sombrero. Being upset to say goodbye? What is that?
The feeling remained with me for a solid few days. It was amazing. I have not felt like that in over a year, and I knew that if any one thing could bring me back fully, it would be this. And now? No answers. No laughs. No smiles...although it did bring me to tears in rehearsal today. I feel foolish again, which is an all too familiar thing for me. I cannot tell you how much I don't want to talk about it...but I have to because I promised I would, for the sake of this piece.
So, for now, the wall is back up. A little more chinked this time though. Ready to fall down, and that is such a good thing.
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