The power to choose is a right. As a 23 year-old woman living in America raised by a traditional family, I am given this privilege. I say what I feel and do as I please. I lose track of how many choices I make in a day; of course some are heavier than others. The choice of what outfit to wear, the choice to send an alcohol-induced text message or not make my bed. These decisions are up to me. I can decide all on my own, without unwanted feedback from anyone – some of the time.
But what I never seem to have a say in is who retreats from his designated pedestal in my reality. A comfortable seat with no permanent ties while the rope does not dare to leave my back pocket. An arrangement with benefits that never leave me fully satisfied. I sit back and say everything is okay when it is not. I hand out apologies like they are a “two for one” special to those who do not deserve them. I continue this effort until my rope disintegrates and I have no way to transform our non-commitment into something lasting, something more meaningful – and more importantly, something I deserve. Separation ensues. People choose to walk out of my life and most of the time they do not come back. I guess if they leave then they were not meant to be there long-term anyway. If someone leaves, there is an open space for another that may actually have the desire to stick around. But that’s the thing; they get to choose – not my mind or my heart. They make the first move while my brain screams at my feet to stay firmly planted. The words he will come around are stuck on repeat in my head. They get the last word, the “checkmate” maneuver on the game board. Not because I am scared or unsure, but simply because I enjoy the view. As my index finger reaches for the fast forward button, I am intercepted once again. He hits pause. I am led blindly, my vision clouded by giddiness, seemingly on a path to where I want to be. Boys like to tease that way. Life likes to tease that way. I am not the volunteer. I do not carry the weight of choosing to walk away. I am the one engulfed in confusion as to why people want to leave when I would give everything I am capable of offering on a silver platter crafted specifically for the character I admire. My prerogative is regularly snatched out from under me. I never want to believe what is about to happen next. I feel weight of the departure coming from miles away. A “goodbye” that I crave to mean “see you later”. Decisions are not my strong suit. I question whether what I do is right, if what I think is normal. I attempt to compare my situations to those of others but it is quite a wasted effort because I am not like everyone else. My anxious mind and passionate heart are constantly at war. Weapons are drawn on the daily. The two come to an inevitable face off and blood is shed as the heart takes what some would call yet another victory. This horrific scene does not faze me as my wounded heart desperately clings to my sleeve. Nearly flatlined. I do not battle on the outside. I am not a fighter – my fists are tightly clenched but never raised. My heart is on guard – ready to stop them, ready to change their minds. They just never seem to care, or at least not enough. Why would I want to force someone to stay? It is the burning question that flashes in front of my face and haunts me as I take every shot to reel them back in. If they want to be here, they would not leave. The concept is not overly complicated, but I am accustomed to my defense during this repetitive procedure. I am addicted to the high of having the seat next to me filled. My hand grasps the doorknob, holding the stubborn piece of wood wide open, as if it does not have the capability to slam shut. Intensity flowing from my chest keeps it from closing. I watch them exit without flaw, while I am left behind emotionally banged up and bruised. So here I stand, wishing and deeply dreaming that some day, just maybe a familiar face that chose to leave will choose to turn around, full of regret. A face begging to return to the reserved seat he once had. I would be a fool to think that type of pleading would be necessary to re-enter such an embarrassingly susceptible door. I close my eyes and I can picture them coming back to what they once knew. My twisted mind takes me on a first class flight of imagination that I cannot escape. At first, a string of hopeful, light-hearted scenarios about our future. Soon enough I am soaring through a world of darkness and fog, dissecting our last spoken words on the operating table in my head. Each syllable is ripped apart attempting to find the complication. Infinitely perplexed if I should have done anything differently. As I walk over to the entryway, my most cherished and injured organ effortlessly falls off the sleeve of my black, cotton dress -- Shattered.
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A couple of weeks ago I mentioned to a few of my family members that I wanted to start drinking coffee. I don't think this is something that is spoken often. Its not like "I want to eat healthier". Either you're a coffee drinker or you're not. You like it or you don't. Even with all of the addicts I've come across, only drinks consisting of mostly chocolate or caramel have passed through my lips. I remember walking into Starbucks with my grandma when I was younger and hating the strong stench that met me at the door. I lived in Italy for months and only bought one cappuccino (just to say I tasted this supposedly heavenly, authentic Italian liquid). I was not impressed, probably even disgusted. I've been told by my friends that a cup will help get my day started and will almost magically make me a happier person in the morning. Going on a coffee date or hanging out at a coffee shop always seemed like such a cute idea, but the actual partaking in consuming the bitter substance was never appealing. I'm actually surprised I didn't repeat to myself that Lorelai Gilmore is a coffee lover so I should be one too. I was determined to keep the child-on-a-snow-day in me alive by ordering hot chocolate and no one could convince me otherwise -- until recently. I work at a college library so I am surrounded by these addicts. Some are students and some are faculty. I could not give you much information about the lives of these people other than that their hands must be permanently cramped in a position perfectly fitting to their favorite cups of coffee. A delicious jolt to help them survive the tiresome and stressful obstacle course of life. The other day I was talking to one of my coworkers about my lack of coffee beans and this is how she responded, "OMG. I'm going to buy you a coffee! We're going right now!" So, I didn't have much of a choice...but everyone could use a little push sometimes. Also, being that every swipe or insert of my debit card makes my stomach flip, I was thankful someone offered to pay. To my surprise I emptied the cup with ease and was already looking forward to my next. At this point in time I can now say I've successfully savored 3 cups of coffee. Don't get me wrong, I am nowhere near ready to fully express my feelings for coffee to the world. We're only just getting to know each other. I don't know if or how much cream and/or sugar I should use, what my favorite flavor is, or even how to make it myself. Our relationship is not even close to love-at-first-sight. But coffee, I'm having a good time flirting with you. |
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