scroll to after the baby picture if you want to read the *juicy* part of the post
Clearly, there is NO "Brave New Elise" to gawk at; there is no drastic transformation to marvel over. In fact, I might've reverted a few years to my former self; I'm eating poorly; I'm procrastinating both the things that bring me joy and the things that once held joy but now, only an impending due date; I'm watching Friends again (is this my 3rd time through the series? My 4th?); and I'm finally getting the recommended amount of sleep again.
One thing that has changed, though, is my blog. Over the course of this self-exploratory journey manifested in a web domain and clacking keyboard keys late at night, quite a few of my posts have diverged from my "Netflix" theme. That's because, by tying myself to such creative restrictions, my theme topic—something I typically hold nothing but enamorment for—began to feel like more of a chore than a way of expressing myself. So instead, I figured I'd make this blog about what it makes me love it so much: pushing myself to blur the lines between segregated topics, to learn more about myself and the world I interact with. Because, in the end, my blog represents my intellectual curiosity. So why complicate things by garnishing it with gimmicks?
As I began to muse over how I wanted to reemerge in the blogger world, I thought about some of my recent experiences. I'm not going to lie...I even began to psychoanalyze myself before I realized that is a door I prefer to remain closed (or, at most, slightly ajar) for now. Some of the discoveries I made were helpful in lending me understanding myself, though.
This is a girl. She had so much to learn back then. She's changed since then; the only thing that's remained over 16 years is her laugh. You see, back then, she had all the love and affection in the world (or, at least her world: 653 Seabury). As she grew up, she took two-hour road trips every Friday to see her brothers and father. She saw chairs thrown through streaming tears. She felt summertime auctions (where will be my home for the next year?). She heard divorce threats. She saw sunsets as she drove back on Sunday night to an empty house. A house unlived, a house with the lights and heat turned off. A thought struck her as she lugged her belongings—perpetually in a suitcase—up those thin steps, through that metal storm door (which was sometimes a wooden or garage one) into her rented home. In stark juxtaposition to all the noise she heard in her home, her house was quiet; it was tired.
The House was a con man; he went under many aliases. Meet 1609 Brentwood, 70 Cloveridge, 653 Seabury, 88 Main, and fragments of names she can barely remember: Elizabeth, 18, and Heightsborough. He fooled her many times. She kept trying to reach a larger square footage, or a better neighborhood, in hopes of making everything feel whole again. But the truth was that the House could never be filled. It would always have moving boxes in the basement, just in case. It would always have plastic wrap on its appliances. Sometimes, slapping on a "just bought" sticker on the real estate sign was no more meaningful than signing a month-to-month lease. Her time was borrowed, just like her eerily vacant House.
Despite all of this, she fell in love with him anyways. She believed that he would keep her safe for as long as she needed. She would try to meet new people in her new school, wearing the newest trends, and became dependent on their approval. She craved love. She wanted to be noticed and was terrified of becoming forgotten. She never stayed in one place more than one consecutive year. And no matter how much she hated it somewhere, she hated leaving even more.
But what the hell did she know about love, anyway? She's witnessed one peck and a handful of hugs between her resentful parents; she has heard raised voices as her brothers got in trouble with a girl once again; she had never been noticed before. She was never really funny, or pretty, or smart. That's what she told herself. That's why she covered herself up with forced jokes and desperate attempts for attention. She never really knew when—or if—any of it ever became real. Maybe when it was when she finally lived in one place long enough to memorize the roads. Maybe it was when she learned that there are other ways to lose touch with friends besides changing zip codes. Or even still, maybe it was when she saw her mother continue to buy property after property, regardless of her employment status. This is when she realized that overcompensating for her insecurities only worked to delude herself.
As she walks down memory lane, all of this hurt resurfaces. But she also feels triumphant. Yes, this is my story. These are my experiences; these are my words; this is my picture. But these lessons, these desires to be loved, are ours.
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