It doesn't take an MD to see that you're OPENLY judging me...

When possible, I've started checking Dr. As a prefix for my mail. Do you know how rewarding it is to receive mail to Dr. Rachael M Weaver? ESPECIALLY when your really attractive mailbox neighbor is kind of curiously eyeballing your... Wait, okay, wow, that’s actually strange. WHY are you looking at my mail?

Do I not LOOK like I could be a doctor? Why, cause I’m not wearing scrubs? Well maybe I’m not a resident or a dentist! Huh? What about that? Maybe I wear business casual clothes only to don a white coat and stethogra--scope(?) when I walk into the office of my very OWN private practice?! That's fine I don't even have to be an MD. How insultingly presumptuous do you plan on being over a piece of my mail which so obviously states that I have a doctorate? Truth, maybe I'm not old enough to have graduated medical school, but that doesn't mean I don't have some totally valid doctorate in something deliciously absurd, like, Poultry or Epic Winning. How about that, Debra McDoubterson?!

Alright, well, as fleetingly “attractive” as I thought you WERE, the fact that you’re so openly judging me and completely violating my privacy at the mailbox is a rather clear indication that you’re definitely not in THIS doctor’s league, okay? And no, the fact that I'm holding a copy of Maxim magazine is definitely NOT why you're scrutinizing me. Cause, yeah hate to break it to you, but according to them (them being Maxim address people. Very respectable. Don't argue.) I am, in fact, a doctor. Gah, the nerve of some people.

You're killin' me, Smalls!

Why is it that so many high school and college athletes feel the need to work that into practically every conversation? I get it, I really do, it was a huge part of your life, but ya know what? I’m not relating. In fact, I stopped listening as soon as the word “ball” came out of your mouth. And by the way, do you see this book that I'm holding in front of my face? My eyes aren't just going back and forth because I'm pretending to read, I'm actually attempting to READ this BOOK! You boasting about the fact that you were gonna be the next Alex Rodriguez before that unfortunate groin(vomit) injury is not impressing me. This means you have to cease incessantly reminding me that you “played ball” in college.

For the love of Pete Rose, remove Sandlot from your instant queue and then retire your college baseball apparel. Because your beer belly? Yeah, it’s preventing you from tucking in that shirt that fit your 18 year old body. And you know what that means? You're assaulting my retinas because I can definitely see the bottom of your baby bump. Finally, please, for health code reasons, WASH your HAT, because it smells like decade old unwashed dreads and that is in no way shape or form “lucky”. It is quite possible the reason you have not “gotten lucky” (as you so eloquently put it) SINCE you “played ball” which was roughly fifteen years and 3.2 million beers ago.

Two Steps Backward and Sixteen Forward

I turn to walk away because I am waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because this much wisdom and good nature can't be bestowed upon me without some horrific end. All the bravery and clarity thrust upon me can't just be grace, it has to be the means to a terrible end that's closing in on me and that I'm trying desperately to determine. Straining my eyes, heart and mind to predetermine so I can keep from falling. This is my feeble attempt to place more distance between myself and my fate. Your fate. The fate that you've chosen for me and the one I'm so paralyzingly fearful of.

Finally, the clarity comes back and with it you allow this tiny seed that has me wondering, hoping, that all this preparation, all these gifts are not for something terrible afterall. These gifts will be called upon and not by some horrific and dastardly event, but by the trials that I face daily. The words, the disappointments, my truths, me. Maybe you're molding me into someone and something that I'm to carry out daily through Your words, Your breath, Your hands. You taking over me because I'm tired of fighting you yet again. So here I am, falling again. Falling so quickly to my knees in my tears and handing you my truths, my heartache and troubles. Because no matter how many steps I take away, no matter how many times I trip and collapse I'll always be righted. Because your hand is there and that hand has helped me and shaped me into precisely what you've ordained. Through your grace, no matter how much distance I put between us, I'll always come crawling, running, sprinting back to you because I know you'll be waiting with an open hand. There's nothing to turn from, because I'm not mine, I'm yours.

I'm just so damn tired...

When people form opinions based solely on emotion it's called passion, when people base opinions on irrefutable facts it's called logic, and when people base opinions on their emotional attachment to conveying cohesive facts it's called passionate logic. How is it that someone can justify in their own mind and then aloud their emotional attachment to non-existent facts? Bush caused Katrina, 2Pac is alive, Al Gore invented the internet, lose 20 pounds in a day, Lady Gaga is a hermaphrodite, "I did not have sexual relations with that woman", Miley Cyrus can sing, Sarah Palin would've made a great Vice President, gay marriage is wrong, Obama isn't a socialist, etc.


Listen up people, I know you fulfill a need in American society but I certainly don't need to hear you speak of anything that doesn't directly involve what I want from the Chick-fil-a menu (Gawd, I love Chick-fil-a...). Politics are a sham, America is a disgrace and the citizens are cowards. We don't want to fight for our rights in wars, we don't want to pay for the things we buy, we don't want to earn the money we make and we certainly don't want to play fair. Give us a leg up and we'll forget whose hands our feet stood upon as soon as we reach the top. We're more proud of being Celtics fans than we are of being Americans. Nothing comes from the heart because no one seems to have one. It's constantly about us. People actually pay other people to listen to them talk about themselves. There wasn't any TIME for that a hundred years ago. Most people were too busy wondering if they were going to eat dinner. People earned what they had and they died for their freedom. Feeling convicted? Feeling as if you're part of the problem? Feeling victimized?

Because there's a difference, and you should see it

I watch people, and please don’t confuse “people watching” with what I’ve just confessed. I sit, stand, hover, crouch, lie and watch people. What draws my attention to them is unknown to me. It’s clearly some kind of attraction but the formula that connects me is never the same. The only fact that remains constant, is that I’m addicted to watching. I’m consistently evaluating who will ultimately receive my full attention. And please don’t confuse “full attention” with ignoring the people who are engaging me in conversation. I am completely invested in each and every one of you in a group, but am most definitely watching one of you effortlessly. If you aren’t speaking, I’m analyzing each movement you make because I’m fabricating your story. A story that I begin to weave in my head. I ponder what your mannerisms mean. Why do you have a small scar on your cheek? Do you look more like your mother or father? You bounce your leg incessantly which means you have other nervous behaviors. Cracking your knuckles? Playing with your necklace, earrings or the ring on your finger? Tapping on the table? I’ll keep an eye out. What will your order to drink? Will it contain alcohol? Why or why not, and if it does, what attaches you to that drink? Is this the first time you’ve ordered it, your favorite or just a security blanket drink. Why didn’t you order something alcoholic? Are you straight edge, Mormon, a recovering alcoholic out with your friends for the first time trying to show them your sobering progress? How do you know these people and how well do you know each of them individually? Are you wearing a guise right now, and if you are how ensconced in it are you? What types of music do you listen to? And do you use the poetry of the lyrics and enchantment of melody to immerse yourself into your emotions? Are you happy? Do you love yourself? Do you know how to love? Was your childhood pet a parrot, gerbil, cat, dog, horse? Did parents read you bed-time stories? When you revealed to them that you wanted to be a Ninja Turtle when you grew up did they scoff disdainfully and painfully remind you that was, of course, impossible? Or did they gently take your hand and softly kiss the top of your head while encouraging you to be absolutely anything you wanted. Do you sleep well? Reoccurring nightmares? Are you Christian? Do you even believe in a God? What drove you away and why? Have you ever experienced profound loss? More, more, more I need more. Which is why I’m still watching, placing, remembering. I have to know, I have to see and understand so that I will know. I have to see.

I’m enthralled with your complexity. These things, these details, your pieces are important to me because I need to study them. Turn them over and over in my hand til I’ve memorized their jagged shape and soft edges. All these varying sizes and shapes placed together to form what is. It’s important that I know where to place each detail in the disassembled masterpiece that is you. Getting it right the first time means not having to own up to my wild presumptions. I place some recklessly due to impatience and others carefully with truth. It’s in this way that I’m gently, violently, avidly constructing. Desperate to unravel the intricate design, flip the puzzle and finally reveal the picture, thereby destroying the very conundrum that motivated me to
start this, to continue this until...

Eventually I lose interest. It’s inevitability and it’s one of my truths. It may be 3 minutes, 10, a few hours, days, a late night phone chat I’m anxious to disconnect, weeks, years a lifetime. I move on to the next enigma. There’s an undetermined amount of time that will elapse until my eyes and brain have decided that they know you and you’re no longer a mystery to solve. Your habits and stories, their origin is known and there’s nothing left to learn, because I’ve seen you, ya know? You’re a wreck, just as I am. But that doesn’t stop me from wishing you weren’t. Wishing that you were the one human being on this miserable earth who locks eyes with me and convey that you saw me, even briefly, fleetingly. Because you’ve been watching too and you see me.

A Night I Just Can't Quite Remember

It was dark outside and we were huddled by their front door. I say "we" because I can't remember their names. A boy and girl. I don't remember our age differences or which sibling was older. Funny that I can't. It must've been a one day play date. Not because it went badly, from what I can remember, just that I didn't see them often enough to retain their names. Or perhaps it was just one of those times that your parents take you to a friend of their's and what was supposed to be "just running in" turns into "come in for a beer". They have kids as well, and soon you're acquainted and playing with their Ninja Turtles as if you've known them your entire life. I remember their Turtle Blimp and explaining that I had the Turtle Van (my most prized possession at that point) but this Turtle Blimp was quite obviously the coolest thing I'd ever seen in my entire life. I'm sure I asked a thousand questions about how they'd acquired such fabulous accessory to find that they'd had no idea. Apparently a Christmas or Birthday present. I remember holding it up to my dad and exclaiming something like,

"LOOK DAD! IT'S THE TURTLE BLIMP!!!"

I can guarantee he wasn't nearly as impressed as I was. Though I'm sure I held it long enough to burn in both of our memories to ensure that the very first opportunity we had we MUST get one. We because I made all the money during that time too...

Seriously? It's clearly the most badass thing the Turtles have ever driven...

I know I talked about it the whole way home and I'm sure quite animately. I wonder what he thought about my excitement, how fleeting my fascination with it actually was and how used he was to me falling in love with things and forgetting about them the next day. I wonder if those kids appreciated their rad Turtle Blimp even more when I left, or if they were perhaps just as enthralled with the knowledge that I had a Turtle Van and how amazing it would be if they had one as well. Memories like these are important, I suppose. I've held onto it for a reason, right? Maybe I just really need that damn blimp...

Breakage

The thing about inevitability is, simply, that your best efforts to resist are futile. So I grit my teeth, steel my nerves, and take deep breaths. I convince myself that emotions are something I can keep at bay. Breaking is out of the question and I refuse. But the more I keep it away, the closer it draws. I fight it and I suppress the urge to give in. My fists clench and I’m constantly looking over my shoulder trying to stave off the sneak attacks that feelings often try. The most unfortunate thing about pain is that it always comes when I’m at my weakest. Like a deep horrible sinking wasteland that invades my heart, mind and finally my soul. My earth shatters violently and without warning. All that resolve, all of that strength I possess is depleted and though I veraciously attempt, I can’t draw on it anymore.

Perhaps the most horrific part about breaking is that the first crack is just a prelude of the hurt to come. That first crack is just a reminder of how human, fragile and vulnerable I am. Sobs wrack my body and slowly, reassuringly the pain begins to subside. That last shuddering deep breath and small sniffles that follow afterward. The eye of the storm is above me. A bird chirps, a deep breath, the breeze ruffles my hair and I feel it through my clothes. I extend my arms to lose myself in the clarity of this moment because I’ll need its strength to face what’s to come. There’s still work to be done. Ever so gently, bit by miserable bit, I’m meant to feel the breakage until finally I’m shattered. My very being lie on the ground scattered in a myriad of pieces. I’m finding that my mistake has been that I’m always reaching for the pieces, hoping to catch them before they fall, forever attempting to cram them back together to rebuild what was lost. That strength, that resolve! I need it back! This is my realization and my discovered truth about pain; it’s not about restoration, it’s about creation. The pieces that fall to floor are not to be reattached in the form they once composed. I am broken. Now all of my pieces form a new shape entirely. I can’t go back, I am not to be restored and through this realization, through the pain and destruction, I am created.