Saturday, October 16, 2010

Lou Lou Letdown

I started this week at the top of the endless staircase in Super Mario 64. I tripped, I rolled, I bashed my head against the wall a few times, and I landed, spread-eagle, in a pool of blood and bitter tears. Who would have thought a week with only three school days could hurt my heart and tear ducts so much?

Forgive me if I'm not too eloquent, I just don't have the energy this evening.

It started Wednesday in AP Lit. We were getting back our timed writings from the time before, and yours truly--having received a 6 on the past two--was rather looking forward to this new score for the fridge. And, reminiscent perhaps of the monologue from A Chorus Line I used to audition for Musical two years ago, they gave me a 3.

I blinked back childish tears and wished in vain for Mrs. Drake to stop hissing her T's about the essay. I wanted to wad it up and leave the room. I couldn't stand something I'm so good at, something I'm so proud of, ending so wretchedly.

By the end of that day I was in Musical, a wondrous place of happy forgetfulness that normally makes me wish my life was on stage and only onstage, because life their is so much more fulfilling to me. But I stood on stage for my longest scene of the three I'm in, and my character wouldn't come. I couldn't even locate her voice enough to fake it. I felt myself shut down and began rambling off my lines so I stop embarrassing myself, get off stage, and rub myself raw in search of my hiding character. I exited not even delivering my final line, ready to go pout in the back of the room, when Angela beckoned me over.

"You need to make that bigger. Even that last line. Make it big. There are no small parts."

And it slipped through me like poison. I felt the sludge of my worthlessness; that I'd preformed so shoddily was one thing, but that Angela had to confront me about it, telling me to fix it, perhaps even entertaining the fancy that this was how I intended to play that part, was death to my heart in and of itself.

I have something I commonly refer to as "The Guilt", which results from my do-gooder nature in wrong-doer circumstances. I tend to dwell on the instant that brought "The Guilt" and replay how it should have gone over and over again until the wound has heeled, I've forgiven myself, and "The Guilt" has subsided. The average case lasts about two months, depending on the severity of the mistake, and how often my daily life reminds me of it.

I explained to Angela that I intended to do the part big and bold, but I could not find my character in that instance. I stood and began walking away from her, promising fervently it would be better next time, tears biting my pathetic eyes.

And today. Today was fine. Today was, actually, stupendous, until I came home in an elated manner to happily hug my mother who wouldn't hug me back. She told me she was disappointed I had done what a cousin of mine usually is scoffed at for. Then they proceeded to tell me how much I really should have stayed at my aunts wedding. How much fun my cousins had dancing, and how much fun I would have had with them. How we never see Sydney and it would have been a good idea to stay, if not for my newly wedded aunt, but for my Floridian cousin. How no one left the reception until after ten thirty, and how when it comes to family, things like that should be considered over meager friends surprise parties.

I went through half a box of tissues, sitting there in a ball on the couch, already replaying over and over images contrived from my imagination of me and my dear cousins hopping about the dim lit ballroom. I saw the DJ in the corner, I saw my aunt in her wedding dress, but as I blew my nose and whipped my eyes "The Guilt" slowly subsided. I kept the biting pain in the back of my conscience, the knowledge that, though my subconscious attitude had been "I'll stay longer at the next one", there would be no "next one" no one that close to me would get married with those same guests their and have that same dance party.

But the wound was scabbing over and I gave my father a hug before turning into a tear-free bed.

"And I could have had a daddy-daughter dance with you." He said.

I am a wretched being! I am the worst scum to have ever cursed this planet. I... I cry for nothing because it is all my fault. I cry for nothing because it was my selfish, worldly decision to go. Did I have fun with my friends? Yes, I made memories I won't soon replace.

But did I miss a reason to smile at the yearly Christmas Eve gathering, the Easter shindig, my own future wedding?!

Yes. I'm afraid I terribly did.

And "The Guilt" has me believing no amount of somber repentance will meand the wholes in the hearts I've ripped. If only I'd consider the after affect to my actions before my actions!

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