"Okay."

Dear Three-Years-Ago Tara,

So you just got fired from work at the hotel, huh? That job sucked anyway. I know it hurts right now and everything feels weird, but you will be okay. I know that saying you will be okay will not be the thing that ultimately makes you okay, but know that I know you will be okay.

Still emailing your professor about that “bug that you just can’t kick”? That is also okay. I mean, it’s not exactly okay that you’re sleeping through your classes and every time your mom calls when you’re supposed to be in school you send her to voicemail so she, like you, can be convinced that you’re doing your best and that you’re above water. 

In a couple days you’ll go to Meijer at 10pm because you can’t fall asleep even with the Benadryl and the Lord of the Rings movie marathon you’ve had going all day instead of going to work at the other job, and waiting for Andy to get home like the good little wifey you are. You’ll wander the aisles of the store, ponder over some veggies you know you should buy, but settle for the Velveeta mac and cheese for the third time this week. You’ll somehow end up with an empty cart, less the mac and cheese, some Vernors, and some of that fancy chocolate that isn’t on sale, but that you put in the cart anyway.

With a foggy head, you’ll be in the cosmetics area, not really seeing anything you want or like, but you’re just kind of looking at things. Revlon. Covergirl. That Baby Lips stuff from Maybelline you’ve wanted to try, but it’s toward the bottom of the shelf and that’s just way too far and too much effort. (Still haven’t tried the stuff to this day, by the way).

Then you’ll end up in the aisle with the nail polish. You were just here the other day, doing this same nothing dance, wandering the aisles of Meijer at midnight, and you bought some purple nail polish with a glitter top coat. You even took a picture of your finished nails and posted it to Facebook, not really expecting the 10 likes you got for that dumb photo.

Anyway, there’s this blue polish that you’ll see. It’s not that cheap shit, the Meijer brand that always chips after a day. It’s the second-to-cheapest brand and the blue will catch your eye. It’s a good blue, you’ll know what I’m talking about. Anyway, buy that nail polish. It’s called “Fly Away”.

Your mom will hate the color when you go home for Thanksgiving and you tell her about your crippling depression and about how you’re starting the meds. You guys will cry on the couch and Nick will be there too. He’ll actually feed you your Thanksgiving dinner that year, one bite at a time, because you are literally too sad to pick up a fucking fork. You’ll sit at that table for hours until you’re done crying in the mashed potatoes.

Mom will take that chipped polish off your nails and paint them a pretty fall color to match her own.

I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. But this is what I remember from that time in life. This time you’re in right now. I know it’s hard, and I know things are not good.

I shouldn’t tell you this, but soon you’ll be on your own. And since you already bought your plane ticket you know you’re going to Spain soon. This trip will literally save your life. Trust that. 

I wish this letter were real and that you could have read this to prepare, but everything is about to get really awful and then really amazing. You won’t leave bed for a few weeks, and then a month will pass. Then two. You’ll move out of that stupid apartment, and I know you can’t see it now, but it’s better that way. You will leave a broken relationship, one that should have ended a long time ago, but you were too afraid and too weak to see that and admit it.

I understand this is hard to hear right now, but you will be alone for a while. That is okay, because that is what you need. You know it, I know it. 

Once you've had that alone time, you will find love again. You will fight it, you will avoid it, you will destroy anything resembling or potentially what could be love, and then one day, you will find it again and it will fit perfectly. 

Three-years-ago Tara, you are going to be okay. You will feel like you can’t move, and most days you won’t. You won’t be hungry, so you don’t eat. And you will fall back into old habits that are self-destructive and harmful and painful and that suck really, really bad.

This is all okay. Because today, I, Present-day Tara, am okay. I shouldn’t spoil the surprise, but I’m about to graduate this weekend. With my Master’s degree. Your Masters Degree, can you even believe what I’m saying right now?

I have already been to Spain, to tons of countries, meet so many amazing people there, and I’ve moved to Chicago (WHAT???) and went back to school.

Mom and Nick and Nana are coming to see me in a few days to celebrate my big day with me.

I know you can’t see it now, but things are going to turn around and be so amazing and so great and your life is so different now. Please remember this when you leave that lonely apartment and move into a hotel in Grand Rapids for a month or so. Take a dip in the hot tub on the especially hard days- it really does help. I know you’re going to do it anyway, but don’t bring Teddy to stay will you in the hotel. He’ll meow and whine all night and it will drive you even more insane than you feel at that moment.

Anyway, I’m saying all this because these are the weird memories that I have looking back three years ago on my life. These are the days that I remember were especially tough. These are the days when you will literally feel like nothing is worth it and like you are crumbling.
Remember when both Abbie and Jonathan told you about how sad the movie “Blue Valentine” is?

Go ahead, watch that movie right now. It really is gut-wrenching. But you won’t shed a single tear.

I dare you to watch a scary movie.

Go to the Redbox by Walgreens and pick the worst one.

You won’t even blink.

So after you’re done feeling sorry for yourself and feeling for months like your world is crashing down, you won’t feel anything at all. 

Complete apathy.

 Just go with it.

The nights will be long, this I won’t lie about, but it will all pass.

These will soon just be little glimmers, short, odd memories of a time in your life when nothing was okay and when you didn’t think you’d make it out alive. The darkness will not consume you, Tara.

You WILL get out of bed. I promise you.

I promise.

You will get out of bed. You will graduate undergrad in December, and everyone will be there cheering you on, the loudest in the crowd, when you walk across that stage.

Just as they will this weekend when I do it all again.

So go ahead, I know you will, buy those obnoxious gold glitter heels you’ll never wear, dye your hair pink, and for the love of God, get on that fucking plane and go to Spain. You will be okay. Keep saying your mantra, don't drink as much as you've been. Go to bed at a reasonable time. 

You will be okay three years ago, and I will be okay this weekend, Present-Day Tara.

You did it when it was impossible, and you made it when you didn't think you would. You are amazing and I am so proud of you.

Congratulations and I’ll be seeing you,
 Tara

I write as though I have more to say

To be honest, I'm aware that this blog has fizzled out since I have arrived back into my regular habit of life and goings-on since Spain (2 years ago). I still write when I am overflowing with emotions (the result of stress, lack of sleep, or hormonal changes due to yet another change in my medicine). 

So here (to no one) are some ramblings and nonsense that sit in my brain as I try to sleep before a long day or as I sit in the same clothes I've had on since 6 this morning (jeans unbuttoned, of course), unable to unravel from the day's happenings. 

Despite letting go of guilt and anger and fear and angst from my past experiences over a long and painful regrowth process, of course I know these parts of me existed and were real in my life at one point. I also know that without what I've gone through and the events of my life- good, bad, or otherwise- I wouldn't be where I am today. So, I think about and write about things have have come and gone, not because they are still functioning aspects of my life or represent my current feelings or experiences, but because I have lived some great stories and I love to share them. I write about heartbreak and loss and exes and learning and growing because those pieces have shaped me into a new person, a greater person. I write about the past because I  will not be ashamed of it and because I love it the way I love my childhood swingset- it's gone now, or being used by other kids, or overgrown with weeds and uncut grass, but I can still remember trying to drag my dog up the ladder somehow and getting stung by that fucking bee on the slide.

It's one of those "it'll all work out in the end" things or whatever. 

Thus:

9/1/14

I loved him and then I didn't. And probably by some cosmic joke of the Universe, immediately after this, I dove into the arms of another, who incidentally (and not funny, by the way, Universe) fell out of love with me in the end. 

Until I figure out this "love" thing, as I challenge my current views of it and what I have been taught it means, I vow to stay out of it. Holding aside any dramatic flashbacks of a tragic childhood or of watching relationships fall apart around me, it is suffice to say that I have yet to understand what it is to be in love. Despite this, I am fine with not ever having experienced love the way it is described in the movies. I am not a dysfunctional person because of it, I am not held back or handicapped. Really, at the end of the day, I am happy with knowing I have a lot of learning ahead of me on my path. Learning about love. 

So, just as I am preparing for my last first day of school in the foreseeable future: setting out my outfit for tomorrow, gathering my color-coded folders, and equipping my backpack, I am also readying myself for an emotional schooling of sorts. I am opening myself (back) up to the idea of love, and this is my story. 

***

2/15/15

There were a lot of those "almosts" and "could have beens" in my life. A heaping handful of opportunities that suddenly weren't. There were a few flings and plenty of crushes, but it wasn't until he came along that I ever thought a possibility could grow from a "may have been". 

And really, it wasn't until well over a year with him that I even put it together that perhaps there was no end, and interestingly enough, perhaps there didn't have to be. Up until that point in my life, as my mom finalized a second divorce that left us on our asses, and in the midst of my last year of high school, all my small town brain knew of relationships was that they don't last. And that it is probably for the better that they don't. 

I wasn't especially torn up about this knowledge, about this truth that I did hold to be self-evident, until around that one year mark. It was fine, because that is life. 

I guess I was sort of wise even then with my limited view of everything, as it turns out. 

Anyway, going into the relationship was different for me than any other before- I leapt and he said "okay, gotcha." The whole "gotcha" part was what was different with him. God knows I had leapt many times before then without being caught. 

So that was new. It was weird. It was unexpected. And it was scary. 

I thought I had to come up with a deadline. I figured one was coming, so I prepared for it. 

I packed the beginning of that little relationship up the way one prepares a bag for a mini vacation. I grabbed the shit I needed, I skipped the stuff I didn't, and I brought one cute outfit (just in case). I packed for just that many days, knowing I would have to come home to do the laundry after the trip. 

So, in accordance with this metaphor, I put in the amount of effort and care that I 1)expected to be returned to me, and 2) I knew it wouldn't last. 

It wasn't until 3, 4, and 5 years later that things did end. As I'm speaking about this In the present, it can be assumed by you, dear reader, that we are not together any longer. But eventually I did stop packing for those mini vacations, and forgot what I needed, and just sort of packed a shirt and some (probably) clean undies and hoped for the best. 

I gave a lot to that relationship. I pushed. I pulled. We fought, we loved. It was a whirlwind I suppose, whatever the hell that means. And as with any storm, it was destructive and scary, and exciting, and then devastating in the end. 

***

3/2/15

One time when I was about 5 or 6 years old I went to the drug store with my mom and while she was in the next isle over, I looked around to make sure the coast was clear, and committed my first crime. I pocketed one single stick of Bazooka bubble gum—you know, the kind that turns to flavorless stone after about 15 seconds, and has that stupid comic on the inside of the wrapper. We left the store and didn’t even make it to the car before this overwhelming guilt and impending doom of being caught by the police and getting hauled away to prison forever became too much to handle for my fragile and dramatic brain. I cracked in the most pathetic way, and babbled some incoherent and slobbery words at my mother about the gum and shoved “Exhibit A” into her direction, unable to meet her gaze. I’m sure my mother wanted to coddle her stupid child for this fantastic display of human emotion, but she put on the face of a concerned and angry parent and made me walk back into the store, admit my offense, and offer to pay for the gum. I felt like a crumpled piece of paper and sort of threw a dime at the lady behind the counter before taking off to the car, sobbing. 

If this story tells you anything about the person I am today, it is that I make an awful partner in crime, and that I experience emotions in extreme ways. I almost always ruin the punch line of jokes and I'm always hungry.

My year revolves around summertime- its slow arrival, its short stay, its goodbye party, and the time when I am absolutely, and with conviction, convinced it will never, ever return. 

My roommate has orange hair. His official name is Lord Miles of the Manor, but many commoners know him as Miles. Most nights he trains for the kitty Olympics until 3 or 4am, which is less than fantastic, considering I am not a morning person. 

I have an insatiable appetite for learning, which has lead me to explore many incredible places in the world and eat a lot of odd things.

There needs to be a good reason for me to leave my apartment when it is below 50 degrees, and I spend most of my time knitting and crocheting useless things that turn out weird and re-reading Alice in Wonderland. 

***

5/5/15

Metaphors that aren’t really true but the stuff they represent is:

There’s a dream I keep having. It has something to do with lost love I think- but that’s in this psychodynamic, uncovering the unconscious interpretation thing.

It involves pizza, diet coke, and a glass of chocolate almond milk (it’s no secret that I’m obsessed with food- although, on that thought, what living thing isn’t?... I digress). In the dream a very tall man pours a perfect glass of chocolate almond milk into a mason jar. There isn’t that weird chugging sound or those fart bubbles when you pour too quickly and the liquid comes out in squashes, it really is the perfect pour and the perfect amount of this wonderfully sweet drink. Just then, there’s a knock at the door, a patient one. It’s the type of knock of someone who isn’t sure if they got the correct apartment number and is running slightly ahead of schedule. It’s a gorgeous man holding a hot pizza box and a 2-liter of diet coke. My first thought was, “How do people drink that crap?” And then I close the door slowly. Meaning I left that stunning man standing outside the door holding that stupid pizza box in one hand and the diet coke in the other.

He probably knows now that he did, in fact, have the wrong door.

But he didn’t.

He was the guy and I was the girl and we were supposed to meet.

Without hesitation, despite being hungry and knowing that my chocolate almond milk would only satisfy some of my thirst, I shut the door on that eager guy and carried on about my business. I’m not sure what my dream self was even doing alone in her apartment- which really isn’t too far from reality, given that some evenings will go by and I won’t even have left the couch or bed and I couldn’t tell you what I was even up to for hours.

Anyway, being a Freud person myself, I can deduce what this dream represents: The chocolate almond milk symbolizes my (relatively) new taking to vegetarianism and wanting a “healthy lifestyle” and to “eat clean” and “take care of my body”, etc. etc.

Then the tall guy, I’m assuming has something to do with looming stress and towering anxiety (get it, towering?), but the stress pours my delicious milk- I don’t know, I haven’t really sorted that part out yet.

Then there’s the patient knock- the gorgeous guy at the door- that’s B. He’s holding a pizza (his favorite) and diet coke (A’s favorite).

I closed the door without even thinking twice because that is who I am. I make quick decisions after mulling over the choices for weeks and not ever coming to a conclusion, and then carry on and hope for the best- actually, I convince myself that it is the best (I’m quite confident in my decisions).

Anyway, it may be lost love because I love B and he loves me. He is my person and I’m his unicorn or whatever the fuck. But he can’t be in a committed relationship even though we’ve been “together” for over a year and that truly is fine with me because it is good and great and everything is awesome, but what does it mean to have a sort-of-future-fiancé who won’t be your boyfriend?

And because of A, my best friend, my soulmate, and how we’ve drifted apart and barely know each other anymore even after 12 years of friendship and love. It really is one of those unfortunate situations where things are fast and good and fine until they aren’t- and that really is the saddest part.

But then again, this dream isn't real, the symbols are just that, and I am an active participant in my life. 

Also, things that are lost can be found or things that wander aren't lost or being lost is fine because you find yourself that way or lost is not forever and it's always in the last place you look because why would you keep looking once you've found it? 

Trees.

Infatuation is the leaves. Surface level. Leaves come and go, in a patterned chaos; when they're green and lush it creates a beautiful picture painted time and time again. When the frost comes, a hopeful wish lingers in the frigid air, all but counting down the days before the next leaf buds. Leaves, just as Infatuation, go away after a while, but surely they will be back again someday, grown anew forgetting those left behind. Leaves and Infatuation are not entities that last through weathering and wear. They sure are pretty, though. Lovely, even. Sometimes this up and down, to and fro, temporary promise of charm and aesthetic pleasure is preferred. You can easily transport Infatuation, just as leaves fall and grow and are carried by the wind.

Adoration is the branches. This is merely a piece of Love, attached to Love, will forever be simply a veering off, further removed. This is not a vital piece of the tree, but it is a sign of growth and determination. Adoration, just as branches on a tree, grow from the base of something stronger, it makes connections and flirts with other branches. Though branches sway in the dance of gusts, and sometimes crack and buckle under pressure, Adoration in this way is also resilient, growing where the branches need mending, swinging back to its comfortable place. A tree can be a tree even with small branches, long branches, two, or 100. 

Love is the roots and Love is the trunk of the tree. A significant piece, a necessary component. Without these parts, though, a tree wouldn't be a tree. It would merely be a flower or a weed. 

Without everyone else.

it was a soft and ginger touch, one that might otherwise have been mistaken for a quick and brisk breeze, or brushing past someone on the train. The touch lingered, left a phantom of a touch behind, one that reappeared just before the warmth and calm of sleep took the place of anxious and fleeting thoughts. One time while sitting in class, the touch crept up, a spider with 100 legs.
The smell remained too. the smell was solid and tangible, it was familiar and sweet. The juicy smell, the strawberries on a summer evening smell, the first day of school after staying up all night choosing the perfect outfit smell. It lingered and danced, it waltzed and tangoed, and probably break-danced too, colliding and combating and wrestling all the hopeful smells, the desperate to be smelled smells, and the ones that tickled the nostrils, smells. The cologne, and the soap, and the dog's late-night walk across dirty streets and strangers who petted. The elegant and light smell, it whispered and sang, its hair trailing behind.
The taste was not good, admittedly. It was sweaty and raw, and mean. It shed black hairs onto the tongue, it flossed between the teeth, and even spilled out from beyond the lips. The taste was quick, though, never outstanding its visit or knocking too loudly. But the scratchy and grey taste was right and it was perfect and it is left merely for the mind to remember and the senses to forget.
The sounds screamed and shouted, they radiated and bounced, and tantrumed on the floor of the grocery store. Hearing with ears gives these sounds injustice- they were felt and swallowed and digested. The slippery sounds caressed and bled, and stained the walls and carpet too.
And the view was jagged and purple, it was on the ceiling and an odd, tangled mess of limbs and joints, and of perspiring skin and lucky lines. The view was an understatement, it reeked of envy and cursed and refused to listen to the pleas around it. The sights that the eyes drank quenched a thirst, wetted a parched throat, and the view from here filled a gap that wasn't previously there, and drowned near the end of the night.

Irrelevant Sense of Time

This is my picking-up-as-though-it-hasn't-been-a-month-since-my-last-post.......

I went to Malta the second week of April.
I always have a watch on or keep my phone nearby strictly for time-checking purposes. I am generally always aware of what time it is, and I have made it an unconscious habit of maintaining this just about everyday. I told myself and my travel buddies that while we were in Malta, I didn't want to know the time..at all.
I stole this brilliant, and amazingly satisfying trick from a friend of mine whose father also has an obsession with knowing the time and budgeting every minute. My friend's dad is the type that has a distinct watch tan line on his left wrist, and only when they are on family vacations, does he make it a point to remove the watch that is his unconditional companion any other time. It serves as a symbol of letting go, being in the moment, and also as a way to even out those awful tan lines.

Anyway, I wanted to treat the three days in Malta like a vacation within my study abroad "vacation". I made the decision to remove myself from the very obvious constraints that always knowing the time puts on me, and I allowed myself to really let go.

Truly, it was a very liberating few days, and annoying to the others I'm sure. Anytime someone would mention being here at this time or catching the bus at so and so time, I would "LALALA" and ignore the conversation. I made no plans, arranged nothing (which included not only my time, but my money as well...oops) and I felt great. We spent an entire day (really, I have no idea how long) on the beach, looking out into the bluest, clearest water I had ever seen up until then. I also took three naps and drank several beers to my satisfaction.The redness of the backs of my legs and my back were testament to my time spent on the beach that day and the itching and burning did not cease to remind me to slap on the SPF 50 the next day.

We took a fast boat out to another island that makes up the Malta trio and hopped into another, less stable-looking one with bright stripes painted on the sides. We toured the various caves and grottoes and drifted around the island.
Now, THAT water was the bluest and clearest I have ever seen- ever. It was as though only the most brilliant shades of blues and greens were chosen, and they transformed and melted into one another, creating a new color from every different angle. 'Incredible' doesn't even touch how beautiful it was.

Post-boat tour, we set off to hike the island, which is made up of unstable rocks that are extremely difficult to navigate up and around, especially so in flip flops and with the sun unforgivingly smacking my already burnt skin.

Randy, a fellow world traveler extraordinaire, jumped in the water to test the depth so he and I could cliff dive. Turns out he should have checked for jellyfish first, not doing so resulted in a few stings and having to be rescued by a Crocodile Dundee-looking fellow in a boat with a sputtering engine who just happened to be cruising by. He noticed our obvious struggle and inexperience with things such as jumping in water, climbing out of water, climbing out of water while being stung by swarms of jellies, and the knowledge that jellies are defensive animals who flock to signs of disorder. That information would have been helpful even before Randy got into the water, but even more so before we threw rocks and sticks in attempts to scare the jellyfish away. You live and learn, right? Anyway, selfish or not, I'm glad Randy jumped in first so I didn't have to get stung.
And by "we" trying to help Randy out of the impossible water, I mean that Tanner was trying to pull Randy up by the arm, Becky was doing the rock and stick throwing, and I was a few feet away so as to not get Tanner's camera wet. I documented the entire travesty.

We discovered the castle that was in the movie "The Count of Monte Cristo", bought vodka slushies, and waded around in the sand of private beaches before heading back to the main island and catching the sunset just in time. It wasn't as breathtaking as the night before, but I'm only biased because I have seen some pretty wicked sunsets in my time in Europe.


I don't even need to conclude that Malta provided the perfect ingredients for relaxing and satisfying three days and laugh-until-my-stomach-hurts moments. That and some of the most awesome photos that should be in galleries and sold for millions.

And I did it- I made it three full days without knowing the time. Sunsets were my only way deciphering night from day, and that was awesome.

Pink

I was sitting. The living room light from the neighbor's house cast a shadow across my floor. That shadow blanketed over my shoulders, made my blonde hair dark again.
I had been alone for quite a while, but I had stopped keeping count of the minutes, the hours.
My staccato thoughts were scattered and disconnected from one another.
Melancholy left when he realized his effects stopped doing damage; lately it had just been an empty space that surrounded me in a very dry, windless bubble.

Then a noise.

A car pulling in the driveway?
The neighbors sharing a joke and swapping gossip stories?

No, it was in the same room. It was behind me.
A shuffling? Someone walking toward me?

But they weren't footsteps. No, it was a swift, kind of deep-sounding rustling, maybe coming from the kitchen? Or the hallway around the corner?

Then it was sudden. The shuffling's velocity erupted until it was right behind my head.
I was too drained to turn around, I didn't want to look. But I shook in fear, goosebumps making my skin crawl all at once.
I remained still. Maybe if I was a piece of furniture I would go unnoticed.
Maybe if I stopping doing, it would creep past.

I was afraid.
A breath slithered down my back. A drip of sweat formed under my tangled bangs.
My fear didn't subside even when I recognized the hissing voice that spoke to me in a different tongue.
Of course I knew it. Of course I could place exactly the last time I was unpleasantly visited by it.

Never had it been this sudden or intense.
Usually he was standing outside my window, looking in at a girl crumpled in a shameful ball of disappointment and sadness.
Usually he at least knocked first; it was never him giving me an option, but rather not being completely rude.

But that day, his skinny fingers, one by one, hastened a grip on my shoulder.
I tried to fight it.
I didn't go easy this time, I whipped my hair around, the sweat beads finding new homes on the wall and cold floor.
Another hand tied a stale-smelling, itchy fabric over my eyes. It was just slightly too tight.
Everything was moving quickly, limbs flying in every direction. My shouts turning to growls, bouncing off each of the four walls.
My flailing arms were bound with barbed wire by a third abductor. Cuts never quite surfaced.
I tried to scream, but a clammy left hand pressed and pressed on my strained neck.

Then I gave in. I knew my efforts would be nothing short of fruitless. That any attempts would only lead to my own demise and pain. Vulnerability and my Shame pulled me into a small closet. Depression look on, his minions doing the grunt work.

My captors removed all paraphernalia.
They wiped the door and walls of fingerprints.

Vulnerability, Shame, and Depression stomped into my kitchen. I heard the freezer open, the oven turn on.
They helped themselves to my frozen pizzas and my chocolate milk. I heard their stupid lips smacking. My food being devoured.
They taunted me with insults in their harsh-sounding language and laughed at me through the door.

Realizing worse things were beyond this door than I was willing to deal with, I sat up and reached for the knob.
I locked that door myself. With my own key hanging from my neck on a rusty chain.
I could feel the weight of that key matching my breathing always.

Upon awakening once, I realized that key had come loose and fallen from it's home on my chest.
I didn't look for it, though.

Time was not of importance. Seconds did not exist.

Day was night, and night meant nothing to me.

My eyes adjusted to the shadows. The only ones visible, might have been imagined now that I think about it.

But
Suddenly, a light.
I hadn't noticed the noises from within my own house were non-existent.
The sliver that wandered in from under my door hurt my eyes to look at.
Was this a trick of the mind? Had I gone crazy?

But it was real.

This light was one December afternoon as my chair swiveled around to face what was allegedly a mirror.
"Well, what do you think?!"

The girl in the mirror and I had an uncomfortable introduction.
Similar to when that person you pass each day on campus but never speak to sits next to you on the bus. You both obviously knew the other existed, and only until now was there a pressure to at least say hello.

So, to the Pink-Haired Tara, I mumbled a "Hey."
She smiled. She was cheerful. She was confident and strong.
Of course everyone has a story, but she held herself well.
"My mom is going to kill me," she responded with a short laugh, talking about her new hair color.

A giggle escaped my mouth.
We shook hands finally, very awkwardly, of course.

Her hands touched my hair.
Her hair was my hair.
Her face was mine too.

Then I stared at myself. Pink hair and all.

Of course this new hair didn't keep my enemies off my lawn, or from them watching me sleep.

It did help me see again, though.
I saw that I was worth pretty things.
That I could be who I wanted to be.
That coloring my hair pink meant I had control, a fact I had lost sight of while sitting in that shadow-casted corner.

Lights like this have continued to show their faces. It is lovely to require sunglasses so as to not have to squint from all the happiness and hope.

Also, the pink is gone now.

Completely faded out.

Nostalgia and Hemingway

Way back in January, the city our program started in was Madrid. This concrete-filled, fast-paced city was my first taste of anything European and was full of splendor and excitement.

Way back then, every aspect of my life was new and just blossoming. Seeing a bidet in the hotel bathroom was something of amazement. Hearing Spanish being spoken was weird and made me a bit uncomfortable. I was nervous beyond belief. I was scared in the way a child is the moment they look up from admiring the Lucky Charms and realize Mom isn't standing nearby with the cart anymore.
Every sense in my body was heightened and my head grew tired as I tried to pack it with as many memories and sights and sounds as possible.

When we were in Madrid, we learned that Ernest Hemingway loved the city. He came quite often for inspiration and to admire the Spanish culture. We stopped our tour in front of a large white building; it was the hotel that he had stayed in during one of his vacations there.
I remember it being one of the first "celebrity sighting" moments, where something or someone important had happened or been to the very spot I was standing. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what the tour guide was describing: horses pulling carriages, people pulling wagons of produce and bread, markets bustling with crowds, and children playing in the square.

I learned in one of my psychology classes that in order to remember something very well, it is best to look at as many aspects of whatever it is as you can. Take in each word of the poem, each tree of the landscape, every window of the building. Then close your eyes and attempt to recreate that very scene in your mind. Once the picture is painted to the best of your ability, open your eyes again and compare reality to the carbon copy you've drawn. The more times you do this, the better and easier it will be to remember it later.
I began doing this at this hotel in Madrid. After that, at each important and beautiful sight that I didn't dare forget, I went through this process. Mind you, it's not easy to paint mind pictures in crowds of people and when a tour group has left without you, but it really is worth the time.

Anyway, the other day, Tanner and I were sitting at a Burger King in Granada, a beautiful city not too far from Sevilla. I just wanted a Coke that I could refill as many times as I wanted, and he needed cheap food that he knew would both satisfy his hunger and his picky taste.
He demanded I talk about getting ready to go home, something I have been avoiding all discussion of. When the topic is brought up among the others in our program, I physically remove myself from the crowd. When someone at our table or in our intimate group of friends brings it up, I try to find ways to quickly change the subject.
Leaving Spain is not something I am ready to or want to talk about.

"It's time, Tara."

And I did, at least a little bit. And by that I mean that I at least acknowledged that the end is, in fact, a reality, and that this reality is fast approaching.
The realization was like a physical pain to me. Why would I want to re-cut open the wound that is just now beginning to heal? Why would I want to admit that the end of the greatest thing to happen in my life thus far is very near?

I know that it isn't exactly considered healthy to not only avoid, but to actually deny the very existence of aversive things, but this has been my way of coping for a very long time. I am also aware that I should change my ways to even further my healing/growing process. But, like a stubborn teenager, I will hold on to bad and insane habits if only just to spite the opposition.

Once we got back to Sevilla from Granada, I got to thinking further about my time abroad. I really started my "end of the semester reflection stuff" and began to do some research like the little studious one I am.
I reread testimonies of people who had been abroad, did time in the Peace Corps. I looked back on my old journal entires and blog posts. And I Googled quotes about traveling and being abroad.

I was thinking about all that "full circle" stuff, bringing it all back around from how I felt when I first arrived compared to how I am feeling now.
I thought about my mom standing at the front door, waving, and me telling Abbie to, "Go, Go!"
I thought about the feeling I had, sitting by myself on the plane from New York to Madrid, about how I realized that it was too late to turn back now.
I thought about the fear, the anxiety, the excitement, the loneliness, the fulfillment, and the real, pure, stupid bouts of happiness I get each day here.

I also thought about going home. About seeing my mom for the first time in months. What it will be like to hug my dog. To spend time with my brothers.
I thought about how excited I am to see my soulmate after so long.
I thought about how I don't remember how to drive my car or how to use a stove.
Mostly, I thought about how all I want to do is share with everyone my stories and my photos.

I thought about how different my life is now and how different it will be to go back.

Tanner and his dad had a long talk last night that he told me about today over coffee (He had coffee, I drank tap water- it's free).
His dad told him that he might not have cherished the time here as much if there wasn't a deadline, no matter how bittersweet that is to accept.
This also made me wonder about how this might actually be true.

So last night when I was feeling nostalgic and reading about other people's time abroad, I found a quote that stuck out among the many. 

It was by none other than my old friend Ernest, who I became familiar with all the way back on my first day in Madrid. 

On my first day in Spain. 

My first day in Europe.
The first day of my journey.

“It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.” 

**Updated about 4 minutes later: As I posted the link to this on my facebook, someone on my newsfeed just below my status update had a Hemingway quote as her status. 

The Universe is full of signs. 

Like a Berber Rug

I'm not sure why I was thinking about death during my Flamenco class today. Maybe because that class is so boring and awful that I could die sometimes.
I had many profound and life-changing thoughts.

Not really, but they were super cool to me.
Like about energy. And where people's souls/spirits go when they pass on.
I'm not too sure yet if I entirely buy into the whole Heaven thing. I love, though, the idea of energy.
I love thinking that energy moves around within this huge thing. The universe.
I like the idea that energy is constantly flowing. That my energy is within my physical body, and also in my abstract thoughts, in my wishes, and also in my past as well.

Despite my denial of it, my body will die one day.
But what I like to think is that my spirit, my energy and my stories will be what remains.
So this means that I am not focused entirely on living my life in order to see some shiny gates, or not having regrets so I don't end up as a limbo-lingering ghost, or even not being a shitty person so as to end up in this really hot place called Hell.
My greatest concern, instead, is assuring that the stories people will hear will be good ones, and that the energy I leave behind will be transfered into something great.

I only hope the stories will be ones that are admired. That someone will say, "Wow, she had an awesome life."

I also wish that they will provide inspiration to one, only one, person to continue my legacy.
To do what I didn't have the time and/or means to do.

And finally, I hope my energy can be a sensed and felt presence.
I hope it will be a part of the love that someone in France feels. Or the sadness a tree feels as it drops yet another leaf in the fall.

In Morocco, the Berbers said that a rug tells a story. Each ring that extends outward from the center is representative of a piece of someone's life. Zigzags symbolize the ups and downs of life. Triangles represent a home or a house. The four star symbol represents navigation through life and struggles.

Anyway, according to Berber tradition, fringes are left purposely uncut at the end of the rug. This represents the urge to continue the story.
This represents the hope that the story will continue on, that more children will be born, that more up and down roads will be traveled on.

The thing that I hope for the most is for my energy to be like the loose fringes on a Berber rug.

Loose Ends

I always knew he would never leave me. That was the kind of relationship we had; he told me things, and I believed him unquestioningly, even unsurely. For the most part, he was right and we pushed and pulled on each other for that sick and hungry self-reliance we both so desperately needed from someone. The desperation and thirst for the other person melted in the air like wax dripping freely onto the floor. So, naturally he was there to pick me up when my body felt too heavy and when too many pressures were stacked uneasily on my plate.

Looking back on that long, passionate, and hungry relationship, I can see why the pieces never quite fell into place correctly. There was always one jigsaw cut that stuck up above the rest and wasn’t exactly the right color or pattern. From there, none of these metaphorical pieces seemed to be able to free-fall into place and there was always one empty spot where a piece probably fell to the floor somewhere along the winding road of arranging this puzzle. Now, that’s not to say that this potentially completed picture couldn’t have been a beautiful and inspiring work of art, but I suppose it’s that way with many things in life—there will always be a “what if” factor.

It also is very interesting how I can come to these realizations about something that had been a part of my life throughout some of the most difficult and trying times, but only after I have removed myself completely from it. Of course, in the moment, while I had my head dunked completely under the water, I had no vision to see anything beyond what was directly in front of me; most aspirations seemed too blurred out of sight or would just take too much effort to swim to reach.

Looking back into what I was so consumed with for so many years is such an odd sensation. It’s like being entirely engulfed by a scent or a sensation not experienced for many years; that sense evoking a memory long forgotten about until that very bizarre and unpredictable moment. 

It’s funny in a not-so funny kind of way that some of my fondest and happiest moments with him are also intermixed with very painful and upsetting ones.

I remember the day after I had to paint plain white over the bright and wonderful colors on my bedroom walls. The stupid boxes messily strewn about in uneven piles and suffocating my doorway and overflowing from my closet in an unfair way. That was the night that we turned up the radio in his truck and swayed slowly, arm in arm in my driveway. Mosquitoes were nipping our exposed ankles and the sun was slipping below the horizon. It was cheesy and stupid and it was kids trying on the role of adults for an evening, just to see how it looked. 

I don’t remember the exact tune or even who sang it on that brisk night in my driveway, but I do remember it being a sad song- one with a good beat that made it easy to dance to. 

Snippets from Rome

I saw the Colosseum from the plane. From above the clouds, I watched the sun rise too. This is when I first fell in love
I went into the Vatican. The love here was so rich, it could have been touched.
I accidentally cried at the main alter. The love caressed me while my tears fell.
I couldn't stop crying for about a half hour. Love did not let go.
I don't know why I was crying, but the church was just unbelievably gorgeous. The love for Rome was gorgeous too.
I climbed 551 windy, worn down steps through claustrophobic, anxiety attack-provoking slanted hallways. I sacrificed a lot of sweat and tears for the love of Rome.
I saw Rome from on top of St. Peter's Basilica. The love could be felt from all the way up there.
I waited in line for 2 hours in the rain to walk through brilliant museums of ancient Egyptian relics, old maps, famous marble statues, and beautifully painted hallways. I loved Rome so much then, despite being disappointed in the weather.
I illegally took pictures of the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel through the holes of my scarf. The love laughed at me then.
I went into the Colosseum just before the sun was setting and as clouds were clearing from the blue sky. I didn't think I could love Rome any more than I did at that time.
I took the metro and literally ran through the Piazza de Espana and up the stairs to get the best view of the entire city. Then I saw this and the love only grew.
I stood patiently as the bright orange sun sank below Rome and reflected off the red roofs. The love swelled so much at that moment. It could have overflowed.
I found a favorite sandwich. I loved that sandwich as much as I loved Rome.
I ate about 100 of those sandwiches. Rome's love was so real I tasted it.
I ate one of them at 1 am on the steps of a fountain in front of the Pantheon. I loved that too.
I visited the place a friend recommended to me. He said it was where Julius Caesar had died. After a bit of research later, I found out this rumor was true. Even in the light of death, my love was visible.
I watched the changing of the guard ceremony at the Roman tomb of the unknown soldier. It was a sad kind of love then when I understood the significance of that tomb.
I ate the best gelato in Rome. (Literally it was voted this by other visitors online). The man who scooped it talked forever and gave me samples of his favorite flavor combinations. I loved the gelato. I loved Rome.
I took a picture with this gelato man. I loved that man too.
I asked someone sitting at Trevi Fountain to take a picture of me throwing a coin in the water. My heart was so happy in love.
I forgot to make a wish. Rome understood that I was so in love that I forgot to wish.
I thought for about thirty minutes to come up with my real wish. I won't tell you what my wish was directly, but I will say that I could not have loved Rome any more than I did then.
I threw that wish coin in the water with purpose that time. Rome loved me too then.
I dodged cars in order to get the perfect pictures in front of St. Peter's Square. It is a risky kind of love that I have for Rome.
I almost got hit a few times. This things I would do for the love of Rome.
I fell in love with Rome a thousand times over. Over and over and over.
I slept on a train to Florence instead of getting a hostel that night.
I made a promise to Rome just before I drifted off to sleep that I would see her again some day.

Morocco- مغربي

A few weeks ago I went to Morocco.

After traveling a thousand hours by bus and making pee-stops literally in the middle of nowhere we finally landed in a gorgeous city called Fes. 

While wandering through only few of the thousands (actually thousands) of windy, twisty roads of the Medina, I was struck with familiarity by this market place. Obviously having never been to Africa (OMG, I was on an entirely different continent!!), it was odd to feel as though I had see this place before. 

There were endless stands where locals came to sell strawberries and tomatoes and beans. There were bakers putting out piles of freshly made bread and sweets covered in sugar (the flies liked those). We all held our noses as we passed piles and piles of fish, sting rays, and crabs that were dead, and snails that were still alive. We cringed as camel and goat and lamb heads swayed and bumped into one an other on their ropes hung from shop awnings. We watched our step as stray cats weaved in and out between our feet, and as we stepped over poo and other mini-mounds of disgusting things. And the hecklers and shop owners- Oh. My. Gosh. 

When you merely linger at a piece of jewelry for more than 30 seconds, someone would approach you, hounding you with questions, messing with your mind. You're not even certain you want it, but just want to know the price.

"How much is it?"

"I give you best price. Hand-made/painted/crafted/carved/woven. Real Silver/gold/leather. The best in Morocco."

"Yes, but how much is it?"

"400 Dirhams."

[Do the math in your head... 400 Dirhams... that's like 40 euros...which is around 60 bucks...]

"No, sorry. I can't pay that". You turn to walk away. 

"I make you good price. How much you want to pay?"

"Ummmm...uhhh.." By this point, you still aren't even sure if you want the damn bracelet, but if it's real silver, hand made, he seems nice enough... "I can pay 15 euros. It is literally all that I have in my purse."

"WHAT? You crazy. I never see that price in my life. This is real silver. You be crazy, girl." 

He snatches the bracelet from your hand and turns to walk away. Now you think you really want it. He has successfully convinced you that it truly is the last legitimate silver bracelet of its kind you will see ever again. And, on top of that, this generous man is giving you the deal of a lifetime. At a price 3 times what you would pay normally for something similar under normal circumstances. 

"Ok. I can pay 30 euros. That's it."
"35?"
"30." 

"Ok. Shake my hand. It's a deal." 

It makes my head hurt just remembering how stressful it was to barter with those people in the Medina. 

It was weird to me how attracted to the Arabic culture I was. I loved the sounds, the feel, the environment. I loved seeing written Arabic, I loved the roads, the houses, the landscape. I was mesmerized by the colors, the decorations, the architecture. Everything about it was so beautiful to me. I would love to go to other Arabic-like places and experience those cultures as well. I have also decided to learn how to read and write Arabic as well.

Our tour guide in Fes was amazing. He helped us sad-looking folk who were too nice to barter with the proper force necessary to make a good deal. He was extremely informative and I learned a lot about Moroccan and Muslim culture from him.
He also told us something really awesome that sparked a long, intense conversation between Tanner and I and also got me thinking about many big and tough stuff as well. 

He was answering questions about the robe he was wearing, one that many men in the city were seen wearing as well. Then he got to talking about being Muslim, because the robes were related to Islam in a way I can't remember, and I will never forget what he said:

"Even though you have your God, and I have mine, and I might not like that you take a different path to get to him, He is still the same God. He loves everyone. Islam teaches us to love everyone that God loves. To accept everyone as brothers. We are all brothers."

Anyway, I just thought that was super awesome and I had to share. 

Soooooo,

After we left Fes, we traveled another 100 million hours on the bus to get to the Sahara. We drove through snowy mountains, passed by a Switzerland-looking city, and discovered the Grand Canyon's long, lost twin. 

After bumping our heads on the ceiling and holding on as though the car doors would fall off, we hopped out of the 4x4's, surprised to be in one piece and glad to be alive. We had made it to our camp. In the middle (ish) of the desert. Of the Sahara Desert. Like, with sand and stuff. 

Omg. 

It was literally like nothing I had ever seen in my life. I mean, who can say they looked out Westward and saw nothing but sand. Sand literally for miles. And miles. and miles ... 

We arrived just in time for the sunset over the snow-capped mountains WAYYYYY in the distance. It looked like a sunset out of Lion King. 

And in the morning... The sunrise. 

It was like the sun just crept and crept. Obviously it was coming to make its appearance, as the sky's colors were transforming and bleeding into one an other. They were on fire, colors so vivid there was no way they could be real. The oranges and the reds were blazing. The dunes were illuminated. And still, with each long, stretched minute, the shades grew even more pronounced, even more brilliant. Finally as though bursting through an unseen barrier with extreme force, the sun's head exploded in the sky. 

BOOOOOOM. 

And suddenly it was day. 

To this day, after other travels and seeing even more amazing things, that was one of the best experiences of my life. To witness that sunrise- just wow. It still gives me shivers to think about it. 

I had woken up that morning feeling like straight up ass. I wore about 65 layers that night, but the desert's frigid night was no match to my fruitless attempts at staying warm. It was damn cold. Anyway, I woke up to a sore throat, a nose that wouldn't stop running, a fever, and a blaring headache. My sore throat faded and was later replaced by an emphysema-like cough and the worst sinus pressure of my life. I am just now finishing up this awful monstrosity of a cold. What an awful place in the world to get sick. 

But, continuing on:

Then we rode on camels. We climbed a giant dune bigger than the tallest building ever. 

Well, that's what it felt like trying to climb the damn thing. 

I named my camel, the one with the nose ring, Doug. Then I rode a different one after we stopped, whose name was Jimi Hendrix. 

Our camel guy tried to sell things. (As expected). 

He had these awesome desert fossils, those nautical ones that look like the Fossil Pokemon. Anyway, he pulled one out of his bag and then was like, "Oh, wait," reached back in and unwrapped another one. He put one on top of the other and said, "They are brothers, see?" They fit together perfectly. 

I didn't buy one, but it really made me smile to see that. 

When we got back and after we ate lunch, the girls and I wandered around the dunes. We took corny pictures, wrote awesome things in the sand. Then a desert man approached us and offered to take pictures of us so we could all be in them together. Gladly we accepted the generous offer. Then we sat with us and told us stories about the healing properties of the desert sand. About how ungodly hot it gets there in the summer. He wrote our names in Arabic in the sand. He tied our turbans for us so we could look like "Jasmine", as requested. He wrapped us in his turban, making us beautiful dresses. 

Then he realized by the sun's position that it was about to set. He all but dragged us up and down and through dunes, teaching us how to place our feet (by digging our toes in as we climbed) until finally we arrived on a very tall dune that overlooked many others. He said it was the best to see the sunset. Habib told us about his family. His wife and two kids- Fatima and he had a son whose name I can't recall at the moment. He lit us a fire and walked us back to camp. 

Back at camp, a man from town came in to sell us jewelry. I had been very curious about one of the necklaces with some odd shape on it. Olivia bought one the day before, and we had found out it was the compass that the Berber people use to align with the stars in order to find their way if/when they get lost. I am currently working on trying to find more information about this symbol online. 

Anyway, just to be sure of what I was about to buy, I asked the man what the symbol meant. He said, "It will help you when you are lost. This is the Berber Compass." 

I bought that necklace and I wear it all the time now. It's one of those, 'I went halfway across the world to find myself, symbolism  things, I found my way in Africa, blah, blah, blah.' But, I really do like what it represents, and maybe someday when I return to Morocco or to another desert where the Berbers live, one of them can teach me how to use the damn thing.

Also, I found it super cool to learn what the hand symbol seen everywhere meant. A Berber man selling us things near our camp said when you wear it, "Nothing bad will happen." It is a symbol of great protection and of good luck and fortune. I love that idea and the bracelet I got harassed into buying has the Hand of Fatima on it. 

Anyway, seeing and experiencing the way that Moroccans live their daily lives in the cities, i.e. in the Medina of Fes and out in the desert as the Berbers do, was extremely eye-opening. I think every person should get a glimpse of a culture different from his/her own. To see how other people live their lives, work, make money, spend free time, raise families, etc is so interesting and it also provides insight into our own lives as well. Especially coming from place of privilege (Being white. Being part of the middle class. Being an American.). I am extremely appreciative of my life and the things I have and the opportunities I am given. I can appreciate these things more and more each time I compare them to other ways of life. 

So back to what I was saying before, Morocco was a familiar place to me because it reminded me a lot of Nicaragua and the experiences I had while there. The market places, the bartering in the streets, the rich culture. And even the other, not-so-pleasant things such as the extreme poverty, the stray animals, the harsh signs of starvation and homelessness. With each scene and person I encountered, I was bombarded with memories of my time in Nicaragua and it brought a giant smile to my face. I was happy to be reminded of such an amazing part of my life and of rich experiences I have been able to be a part of. But, I also felt very lucky and very humbled, because while there, we were forced to realize how much of an advantage it is to be white. to be American. And so in Morocco, that appreciation only grew. It only became more apparent to me. And it was enhanced and made stronger. 

While I want to always remember the two trips separately, it is exciting to make connections between my undertakings. 

I can't wait for more of these associations to be made. I am so excited for my network of adventures to grow and grow and never stop growing. 

Americanization- Moroccan Style

Fes 

He smiled for the camera :) 

Berber Carpets. Sold for thousands of dollars. 

No biggie- Just seeing snow on our way to the desert

Oh Hey, Mountains. 

Are we in Wyoming?

Sunset on the first night. Wearing my awesome turban, of course

Last picture taken before my camera died while in the desert.  Hey, girl, hey!

I've shared this picture before. This is the AMAZING sunrise I was gushing about. 

I've also already shown this picture as well. Anyway, this is Jimi Hendrix.

One of our last stops before popping over the Strait of Gibraltar. Feeding a wild monkey. It's funny, because I had ripped off a piece of bread from my tuna sandwich. He grabbed it from my hand, sniffed it, then furiously threw it on the ground. Tough love, monkey friend.