I haven’t been sleeping well since I got back from Alaska. The time change was easy heading west: All I had to do was stay up late. Coming east wasn’t as easy–it feels like midnight at four in the morning. So today’s fiasco actually began last night: I didn’t get to sleep till five. In the morning.
So waking up at nine? Didn’t happen. Ten? Not even then.
Take Robin Thicke. He’s a handsome dude. Very pretty. Nice to look at. And though I’m saddened he can’t think of anything to rhyme with “hug me,” when his song hits the airwaves, my shoulders start rocking, my head starts bopping, and when that ubiquitous “Hey-hey-hey” comes up, it comes out of my mouth, too.
But I’m conflicted. I like the song, but I can’t stand for what it says.
More importantly, let me introduce you to their rapists.
One of my friends at Guilford Tech was raped by his father. One of the guys I worked alongside was raped by his older brother’s best friend. One of the guys I’ve met at N.C. State was raped by his first boyfriend. I have a friend who was raped by her ex-husband, and another friend who was raped by her boyfriend. One of my very best friends was raped twice–by people she didn’t even know.
And people say there’s no such thing as rape culture.
I like to think all things begin with chaos. It is order of the most profound nature. Order so precise, the slightest variation at the start can lead to endings worlds apart. I like to think, the further from this primordial chaos we become, the more distilled is the order around us. We begin to detect patterns. We begin to feel the rhythms of the world, the rise and fall of our breathing, the beating of our hearts. We gain the order upon which we can build our lives, upon which we can foster freedom for ourselves, moving forward toward the future.
Other times we get lost in that chaos. We lose ourselves.
This is not a story about that. Instead it’s a story about much more.
This week I had such plans–and this isn’t the first time you’ve heard this, you say? I’ve said this before, you say? How many times, you say–a hundred? You can’t be serious. It’s not possible. On the contrary, it’s hyperbole–but it feels serious to me. Talking last week about missed opportunities has made me keenly aware of all the missed opportunities I’ve had, the meager and the massive, and has made me wonder of all those times if I had just held my tongue a moment longer, how many other options would’ve opened up.
Today I’m not writing a story. Today I’m not doing a another writing exercise. Instead I’m reflecting on those moments I had meant to write about before.
Death. Lead my hand across the keyboard. It’s only the beginning.