Positively Scarred

[Note: I started this 30 day challenge last year. It was so simple to get through the first 15 but then I got stumped and distracted. But since I’m now in a different place, I suppose I’ll finish the last 15. This one had me stumped for a while, but it hit me like a ton of bricks. Also, I don’t *hate* this song, necessarily, but it’s not one of my favorites anymore.]

When we first met, I hadn’t been sure what to expect. He’d been my friend’s boyfriend—for whatever that’s worth when you’re a 7th grader. But that’s often what happens when we end up meeting someone who later ends up meaning so much to us, right? The first couple years of friendship flew by… There were spurts of us talking, not talking, mad, not mad… But we swore we’d always be close and we’d always be there for each other. Our phone conversations lasted for hours… sometimes leading into the wee hours of the morning, making us both groggy the next day at school.

I’d like to say he was my best friend, but there were times I didn’t know what to call us. I didn’t want to date him, because if we had a rough break up, how would I deal with losing my best friend, too? So we remained in this perpetual state of friendship, for years. He’d tell me about new girls in his life, I’d tell him about the boring woes of coffeehouse employment and about my latest boyfriend. We’d talk about old times; we’d tell each other when we ran into old friends; we’d gossip. His senior year—my first year of college—we’d spent majority of our time together. I’d just broke up with my first real boyfriend, and started dating another guy that summer. For that year, he and I spent a lot of time together, both in and out of the presence of our significant others, with and without our group of friends.

That next summer, my boyfriend cheated on me. My best friend was the first person I went to, because who better to go to than to someone who has been there for all your heartbreaking moments? He’d gotten his own apartment with another friend, and I was there constantly. Everyday. When I didn’t have work or school, and when he was home, we were together.

And then he moved. He promised to call and come visit often. But we both knew that this would be a change. I wouldn’t have him there anymore. I cried.

When we didtalk, I always started the conversation with “I miss you” and it was true. I was left with few people to count on, and no one could replace the kind of relationship we had, the balance we brought to the others life. As fucked up as our relationship may have seemed from the outside looking in…it worked for us. And that’s all that really mattered.

Girlfriends and boyfriends came and went, time passed, he moved farther. Our conversations became fewer & far in between. When we did talk, it was like we never parted ways.

After my accident, I’d reached out and told him what had happened. He was immediately there by my side. He spent entire days with me at the hospital. And then… I’m not sure what happened. But I feel abandoned. I was offered no explanation or reasoning for his disappearance from my daily life…

At first this song was just about trying to grow up and live without him being nearby… now it’s about moving away from him entirely.

I’ve got to get a move on with my life
It’s time to be a big girl now
And big girls don’t cry

I’m on the verge of being 24 and I have already been through so much. More than I let on and a lot of it still effects me to this day, whether it be predominant in my current life or not. I don’t know if I could sum it up in a blog post. Maybe a series.

I have mentioned before that I struggle with social situations and relationships, and that I have suffered from anxiety and depression for many years. I’ve also mentioned my battle with self mutilation and my coinciding downward spiral when I was in my early teens. And if you follow me at all on Twitter or have read previous posts, you know I beat myself up a lot and self-loathing is second nature to me.

I have been ridiculed, hurt, mentally and emotionally abused… I have had countless panic attacks and have been depressed for many years. I was picked on and teased and taunted growing up all through til my sophomore year (when I transferred schools).

I don’t show it but I still hurt inside. But that’s the thing about me… No matter how badly I’m hurting, I always rise above and overcome it. I have come a long way from the self-mutilating teen I once was. People still want to say things and assume things about me and my life, but I push it aside as best as I can because they don’t know. They never will. I’m a strong capable human being. No matter how many times I get knocked down, I always rise up and stand tall.

Like a skyscraper.

If you’ve been keeping up, then you know that many of my posts have been about my accident, my recovery, and my personal struggles. If you don’t know that, then take a moment to go read this first post and then come back.

Music has been a very big part of my life for as far back as I can remember. I’ve always related songs, lyrics, artists to a particular person, experience, or time in my life. When a song hits me in just the right way, I can’t help but ignore it. I admit, I do listen to a lot of artists more than some others, but I love all music equally. I don’t let genres be a barrier to what strikes me as appealing and beautiful.

One night, I was up late, per usual, and I was watching music videos on Fuse (or some such channel). They were playing the top hits (or weekly hits, whatever) and I heard a song and immediately fell in love. The chorus described exactly what I’ve been feeling since this entire process with surgeries, therapy, and starting over began.

The lyrics spoke to me as though the song were created with just me in mind. It’s a song about rising above adversity, about breaking free from the boxes you’re placed in, about conquering.

It’s a song that makes me want to fly.

(Note: I don’t “hate” any bands, but there are bands I refuse to listen to or rarely ever listen to… this is one of them.)

I was 17 when I had my first real relationship. I remember when we first met: It was a sunny April day and my friend and I decided to hit up the mall, as teenagers do. We entered in from the food court and the first stop we made was in the arcade. In this period of time, the game Dance Dance Revolution was insanely huge. My friend played it, and I’d play a game every once in a while, on easy, to the same songs every time.

Anyway, so we walked in to the arcade and were almost immediately approached by someone my friend knew. We got introduced and hung out a bit, then we went on our way. The guy who worked at the arcade (met him, too) later friend requested me on MySpace (that should tell you how long ago this was), and I accepted. We made plans to hang out, at the mall, that following weekend. He was nice, but I wasn’t attracted to him. I decided to just go anyway. He said he had to get a ride so he was bringing his friend… Cool, no problem.

So I showed up and lo and behold, the friend that the arcade guy brought with him was the same guy I was introduced to by my friend in the arcade. Later, he friend requested me on MySpace as well and we began chatting. We really got to know each other the first couple of weeks and then one day we went to Jamba Juice. We got our drinks and before we sat down he said, “I’ll be right back” and dashed off to the restroom… with his drink. I was baffled but let it go. When he came back, he sat across from me and we just chatted.

He kept motioning to the bottom of his cup, and after several moments I came out of my oblivious state and looked at the bottom of his cup to see he had written, “will you be my girlfriend” with red Sharpie.

It was the cutest way I’d ever been asked out.

The one thing I grew to love about him was his passion for a band that I absolutely couldn’t stand.

Metallica. Ugh.

Earlier this year I spent three weeks in the hospital due to an injury I obtained at the end of April. In the time I spent in that hospital room I mostly watched TV, did sudoku puzzles (my fave!), crossword puzzles, received shots of heparin to my stomach, pushed the black button that gave me a dose of Dilaudid, and thought. I thought a lot, actually. About my accident, my injury, how my life was and is forever changed, about how I got a second chance. Most of the time, I fell asleep with the tv on. But one day when I was without visitors, I browsed some music on my smart phone.

It was a sunny day and I had been facing the window. I’d taken photos of my view. I’d like to think that that’s why I remained so optimistic: the view of a San Francisco neighborhood, surrounded by trees. Dogs played in the park across the street. The song I’d come across was one I’d heard before, and loved because the mixture of voices was perfect.

I listened to the lyrics, as I would for several more times until the present day. It’s comforting to me. The music lulls me to a serene calmness that I can’t quite put into words.

It’s become my lullaby, my definition for life and living, my perfect nap time music.

And it reminds me that my life is a blessing, that this obstacle that’s been placed in front of me is a blessing, that I’m alive… and well.

“…I’m not tired.”

“Neither am I.”

There was a long pause. We were laying in bed next to each other, the time on the clock read well past 2:00 A.M.

“Ugh, we’re going to be miserable on the drive down there at this rate.”

“This is ridiculous. Okay, I’m going to shower, pick some oranges from outside, and we’re leaving.”

“Seriously?!”

“Yes, get ready!”

By 3:00 A.M. my best friend and I set out on the road leading to San Diego. It was Spring Break and by some miracle we had both gotten the time off work. The trip was a belated birthday gift for me; my parents had rented a house on the boardwalk at Mission Beach for the week. They had already been down there a few days and were expecting us in the early evening.

To make a long story short, we ended up at our rental house twelve hours later. We talked, stopped frequently for breaks and photos, food, and listened to music. We car danced all the way to San Diego. We danced while we were there. We car danced on the way home. There was not a lack of music on our trip, that’s for sure.

And when I hear the songs we listened to, I just wanna move. I wanna throw my hands up in the air. I wanna gyrate my hips. I wanna sing along. I grin from ear to ear and I can’t control myself!

When you feel the need to dance, YOU JUST GOTTA DANCE.

(Note: I took a long time to get to this day in the 30 Day Challenge because I want these posts to be well thought out and meaningful. I know all the words to a lot of songs so it was hard to choose just one. At any rate, here we go…)

I wish someone would have taught me that love hurts. That it’s an internal pain that only time heals when it’s lost. That it is not sunshine and rainbows and flowers and kisses. It is hard work, and times get tough, especially when you (or your partner) are not mentally or emotionally ready to be in a relationship. I wish someone would have told me that. I wish there was an indicator. Something to say, “This person says they’re ready, but they’re not really.”

I wish someone would have told me that before I invested time, energy, and emotion into someone who failed me. Someone who ended up not being the picturesque person I thought he was. Someone who shattered the lifestyle I wanted. I wish I could say he felt remorse, that he begged at my feet, that he called and text messaged me incessantly asking for forgiveness, but the truth is… it just ended. Abruptly. And we went our separate ways, like the other never existed.

The hardest part of letting him go was knowing I should have left him a lot sooner than I did. I ignored my gut feelings, again, when I should have been listening to them.

I have a more realistic outlook on love now.

Love is not a fairytale. There is no knight in shining armor. There is no white horse.

Once upon a time, I got high. Multiple times. Frequently. My best friend at the time and myself would spend multiple days flirting with ganja. We’d float on clouds, giggle at everything, and eat Swedish Fish. (Sidenote: Being high is the only time I was ever and will ever be able to eat Swedish Fish.) Nowadays, marijuana isn’t a part of my world. But back then, it absolutely was… I lived for those moments of feeling high and not having a care in the world.

So when the opportunity arose to go with my best friend and another friend to a festival that would be full of ganja smokers and weed tokers, I went. It was Power to the Peaceful 2008.

The moment we were dropped off in Golden Gate Park, we lit a joint. When we got inside the festival and found a spot for us, we lit another. We got drinks. We listened to awesome music. We danced. We smoked. We were high that entire weekend, for almost a full 48 hours (minus when we slept). I danced with a guy whose name I don’t remember now, only that he was a wonderful dancer and a great kisser.

Our hotel was on the beach. The three of us girls walked down there on the first night and smoked as the waves crashed against our feet. It was blissful… That entire weekend was blissful.

Ganja Babe, you were so good to me that weekend…

Very few times have I met someone spontaneously. The connections and friends I do have, I’ve met via mutual friends or social networking sites or school. There have only been two times where I’ve met someone randomly, without being introduced by someone. The first time was when I was 19 years old, working at a coffee shop. A guy had been by earlier in the evening and had come back just to ask for my number. It was cute, but that’s an entirely different story. The second time takes place a couple years later, after my 21st birthday. I was dating someone long distance and as a result, I fell into his crowd of friends, who had also been high school friends of mine.

On one of the girls’ 21st birthday, we went out along with her boyfriend at the time. It was, I believe on a Thursday night. The first bar we went to was pretty bare; there was just the three of us, the bartender, and two other guys who were on the other pool table. My friend went to the bathroom, so I took the opportunity to sit on one of the bar stools next to her boyfriend. As I tried to push my short self up, I faltered and almost fell off the stool. One of the other guys had been standing at the bar; he looked back in time to see my clumsy moment and smiled. I was embarrassed.

Fast forward, we switched locations. As my friend and her boyfriend played beer pong inside the bar, I went to the front to have a smoke and enjoy the cool night air. (It was so stuffy & hot inside the bar!) As I’m standing there, who should walk up but my pal from the first bar… As he walked past I smiled, and he smiled back and said, “hey.” A while later, as I was standing with friends, he came up to me and asked if I wanted to talk. We headed to the back of the bar, made small talk, and I was generally having a good time. At the end of the night, we’d swapped numbers. I felt bad, considering I’d had a boyfriend at the time, but what harm was I really doing?

The next time I’d see him would be over my epic Spring Break trip of 2009. Shortly after that trip, I’d split with my long distance beau. After that, he’d come to town and we’d meet for drinks after my shifts. The one prominent thing I remember about him is his voice… He had a distinct voice and he could really sing.

I remember during one of his visits, we were at a bar. I’d showed up after work to meet him and his friends. It was full of the usual people: older crowd who was desperately trying to be 21 years old again, people in my age range, pool players, and the dancers. He started to sing as the song played… I swayed with him to the music and grinned. I loved his voice… I hear it now and go back to that night, at that bar. I remember the nights I had there, both with him and with other friends.

[note: a vast majority of songs remind me of any given person, sometimes a song reminds me of multiple people, as seen with the previous songs I’ve written about. This one in particular is special, so pay attention.]

My dad has always been my music mentor; he introduced me to my favorite bands, to new artists, to songs that have moved my soul… He’s still the one I go to when I hear of a new band, or want to share an old find. I trust his musical tastes. I mean, you can’t go wrong with a guy who used to kick it with Dino Cazares in high school, right?

Growing up, I listened to whatever he listened to: rock, metal, pop… He’d put in a different CD every time we had to drive somewhere. Sometimes I’d ask about the lyrics… “Daddy? What does Wyclef mean when he says ‘I can’t work a 9 to 5’?” And he’d give me an explanation. Sometimes it was the correct answer, like telling me a ‘9 to 5’ is a metaphor for a legal job, but other times I think he just made things up.

My parents divorced when I was six years old, and I didn’t live with my dad full-time until I transferred schools my sophomore year. So any time I got to spend with him was the highlight of my week. We had regular Friday night dates: We’d either go out to eat at a nice restaurant, or order pizza. On Saturday mornings, he’d cook me breakfast and we would watch cartoons. I lived for those days.

As I got older, and music became more prominent to me, it became the bond that kept us together. It’s still the common ground we share. We’ve been to so many concerts together, shared so many songs, introduced each other to so many artists. I can’t imagine anyone else being my musical maven. A thousand and one songs rush to my head when I think of my dad… This one in particular is a favorite, because my dad used to drive a blue Ford Ranger, and I still love the lyrics today. (Even more so now, because I actually comprehend the meaning of the song.)

Even still to this day, I catch myself literally counting blue cars…

This one is for you, Daddy…