The Moth: Hope

I was 16 years old and I was completely enamored with M, but had never spoken a single word to him. I spent countless hours on the local basketball court, because that's where M spent all of his time. He could handle the basketball better than anyone I had ever seen, but also appeared kind. Everyone liked him. Of course, this was all observation as I NEVER spoke to him. For nearly 2 years. In the meantime, I became pretty good at basketball. Finally... the ice broke. And it's funny, because I have no idea how it happened or why it happened but he asked me for my number and we started dating. A "romance" that lasted for nearly 6 years.

Let me tell you about M. He came from the worst situation of anyone I had ever met. His father was dying of AIDS, his mother incredibly abusive, and this has been his life since he could remember. And yet, here he was. The most creative, sweetest person I had ever met. He was excited about everything. He was ambitious and a big dreamer.

I went away to college, and surprising everyone except me, he enrolled in a local college. Not only would he be the first person to formally finish high school in his family, but he was in college and he was thriving. He loved his art classes and was really good. We stayed together, but things began to change when he transferred to my campus.

He became so easily irritated. A joke among my friends, he threw his lunch tray off the of the table and stormed out of the cafeteria when I asked "How was film class?" He started having trouble holding down a job and when he did he would spend his entire paycheck to buy me something ridiculous, like a pair of diamond earrings. And then he would ask to borrow money. I didn't understand and I couldn't talk to him anymore without him flying into a rage. I started dating other people and he didn't seem to mind as long as I gave him a lot of attention. This seemed odd to me, but I felt too guilty cutting him out of my life. I felt responsible for him.

Things got progressively weirder. He was an incredible artist and on a whim he decided to apply to art school. Although he had some great stuff, he showed me what he was sending in for his portfolio: it was a drawing of palm trees, on notebook paper, done with a highlighter. I thought it was a joke. It wasn't.

And then he started to scare me. Late at night he would call me in my dorm room and tell me his new theories about other worlds, time travel and the great conspiracy to keep it all a secret. I was barely 21 and perhaps naive, but I just thought he was trying to get a reaction from me, so I would play along. It seems so stupid now. I continually held out hope for him, if he could just catch a break.

I left to study abroad. I heard nothing from him and nothing about him. Until I got back and  the first thing my mom said after not seeing me for 3 months was "we need to talk about M." Okay, I thought. What stupid thing did he do now? "Well, he is being charged for kidnapping." What? I still don't know the real story. His account was that he had started to date this girl and they were living together. They were out one night and he got out of the car to buy cigarettes. When he came back to the car, there police were ready to arrest him. Apparently, while he was in the store, the girl had called and told the police that she was being held against her will. They arrested him. My response: what a crazy girl. Poor M, can't catch a break.

My family got him a lawyer and was paying his legal fees. We all had so much hope for him. He met with the family lawyer and the lawyer was astounded. Nothing M said made any sense. Then M never showed up in court. Luckily, his charges were dropped on some technicality. With deep pangs of guilt, I cut my ties with him.

A couple of years later, I was at my parents' house visiting for the weekend. The phone rang and I answered. I heard his voice. It was haunting, and terrified me. I was silent for a few moments, trying to decide whether I should just hang up or pretend he has the wrong number. But I didn't.  He was calling from a local mental health clinic after a recent arrest. They made a mistake and were treating him for Schizophrenia. It was all a part of the conspiracy because the government was afraid he would tell people the truth about the other worlds.

Infinite Boredom to finite boredom

I went to bed last night feeling infinitely bored. It was the type of boredom that forces you to send random "just wanted to say hi" text messages and to sign into Facebook to see if there's anyone there with whom you can connect.

In these situations, the answer is always "No." Your best friend may be available to talk, but nothing actually satisfies this type of boredom. It's a deeper boredom. It makes you feel restless and in this digital age it makes you mindlessly surf the internet with  "peace of mind" and "art class" key phrases. You find a few self-help blogs and a drawing class that is way out of your price range. This gets you thinking, "oh, if I could only pack up right now and go on some adventure--that would bring excitement." And you're right, it will. But then after you return, the same feelings will creep back into your mind. So what's a girl to do?


Well, an idea from a movie (which will remain unnamed out of fear of reproach and judgement) struck me. People feel a nagging discontent because they haven't found a way to express themselves. Should we all write, at best, mediocre haiku? No, I don't think so. Should we find an outlet. Yes. But, I think one of my biggest mistakes in the past when looking for this proverbial outlet is that I searched for a distraction.  I poured myself into my work, or signed up for a marathon. While torturing your body for 20 weeks in preparing for a marathon can be a good way to sleep through a break up, it's not physically sustainable for me. I'm convinced that an outlet must be yours and a reflection of your emotional state and if it is these things, then it will consume your mind.

I spent most of teenage years consumed in athletics. I played basketball and soccer nearly nonstop. I realize now, that it was my art class, my dance, my poetry. But it no longer suffices.

Hence, this rambling concludes with a resolution of sorts: to find a medium to express myself, something that allows me to be emotional and gives me nourishment.

Left to Right... this blog represents my jump from the over used left side of my brain to my highly under used and often abandoned right side of my brain. It's meant for no one but me.

Luke-warm, stagnant.

Collision or sun-scorch, to breathe

The puddle to life.

Drank red wine and drove

To the store to forget you.

Wrote this on the way.

Spinning is slower.

Or I'm faster? No matter.

Better, still dizzy.

Haiku to my soul:
red paint on the white canvas
of numbing affairs.