Tuesday, July 28, 2015
Dear Diary,
Why am I always the one apologizing in my relationships?
The one with the girls, I get. That's been going on since January. I'll just have to wait and see how that one goes during this stupid OTH con next week.
But I've noticed it here too. With Zoe. Yesterday, Marianna asked me to do her hair for the day, and Zoe basically jumped down both our throats for me "encouraging her". I get that she wants to leave at a certain time, but Marianna still had time. I checked for that specific reason. But here comes Zoe, stomping in at 8:27am, claws out, ready to rip a new one--And somehow, I'm the one apologizing at breakfast.
I don't understand why she's so protective of her kids. I know that Marianna spends a lot of time with Priya and Indie (or with a couple other of mine). I know that she hangs out with me, but that's just because she knows Shannon. They have inside jokes that I relay to either side. And it's not like I hide them from Zoe. I let her in on the whole crocodile thing. It's not like I'm trying to steal her kids. I even mentioned it to Alex, and she's on my side.
I don't get it. I don't get the need to be so damn possessive. And I've noticed it before. When Zoe gets mad, she gets mad. Even little ticks and she's fuming. It's nuts. No wonder her kids come running to me. She scares the shit out of everybody. But it's not just with her. And it's not just with the girls. It's with everybody.
Skip Wells died.
He was shot in Chattanooga last week. Or two weeks ago. It was the day before I left. Everyone's taking it hard. I'm taking it hard. I can't help but remember the conversation we had when I was in Valdosta and I'm pretty sure he was completely drunk. I wish I still had it. It was on my old phone. The one I lost in Rome. But I can still feel him around. I miss him. Because I've been here these last weeks, I haven't really had time to mourn. I have moments like this where I remember and shut off. It's not what he would've wanted. But I'm not sure he would've wanted the big memorial service everyone did for him either.
I think that's why I like this book. One I picked up at Barnes&Noble the other day. It's about a girl who's father has PTSD and she's trying to navigate her grounded life for the first time. I've had no motivation to read for months. A lot of that had to do with the high school girls. My brain was too busy trying to protect me from them to translate the words on the pages. I couldn't write either. Not really. Though, I can't write now either. I blame the kids, but I don't think it's them at all.
I think it's Skip's death. And I hear the similarities between how I deal with it all and how the girl in the story deals. It's too alike. Then I remember Skip in my "The Girl With Wings" stories. And I wish I could've been talking to him recently. I wish I could've heard his take on what was happening with the high school girls. Somehow, I think he'd understand better than everyone else. But I also know that's the last of how he'd want me to be feeling right now.
I miss him. I can hear him in the back of my mind. I think that's why I'm fighting the apologies now. I noticed them before. And probably shouldn't have in front of Mom, but I can feel him still. Being at home is going to hurt. I know I'll only be back for a couple days before I have to leave for this con, but being at home is going to hurt. And being at this con is going to hurt.
I want to dye my hair.
Part of that, I'm sure, is the camp. These kids are so open about who they are and what they like. It makes me jealous. I was never that kid. I was always so self-conscious. I wouldn't even wear specific jewelry in fear of judgment. London made that better, but I reverted as soon as I was back. I texted Mary Hand earlier asking about what dyed hair would do for Rush. She said don't do it. Something in me doesn't care. I want to do it. I'm tired of being a chicken about it. Somewhere inside, I don't care what the sororities think.
I think that's Skip, too. Between my kids and Skip's death, I'm finding myself. But I can still hear my chicken-self inside. What if I damage my hair? What if they hate me? What if I regret sabotaging my chances? What if? I do that dance all the time. I do it for everything. Every outfit, every audition, every choice and decision and question. I like to cover my bases. I like to have all the information. That's why I texted Mary. And even though I stretched the truth about how the dye would get into place, I asked Mary what it would do to my chances of getting in a sorority. (It's not high.)
But I want to surprise her too. I want to walk into school with dip-dyed ends or streaks of purple or red and be new. I'm a theatre kid. I'm twenty. I'm losing my chance and I'm letting it be taken and I hate it. I want to do this right. I want to dye my hair. I want to be free. I want my life.
-- KGratiaM
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