Hope Dies Last

I’ve got a number of post saved up in my drafts folder to share with all of you. There are posts about a revelation, boys, strength, love and a half kiss!

But I’m far too busy working, eating, streaming missed episodes of The Gilmore Girls and spending time with friends in town for the holidays to actually edit those posts into coherent, inspiring, semi-vague  Hope Dies Last kind of posts.

Instead, I wanted to drop by and let you know that I’ve been nominated for a 20SB Bootlegger Award. Thank you so much for all those who put my name up for Best Across The Pond Blogger. I have a feeling (it could be my unconquerable, delusional hope)  that this could be the year that I actually win one of these babies!

So I IMPLORE you–members of 20SB–vote for me! Choose me! Love me!

In the first hours of 2000, I spun around a dance floor in South Africa. I was blond. I would line my eyes with kohl black. I was in love. Later that year,  I learned that men lie, sometimes out of fear; sometimes out of guilt and sometimes just because they can. After a successful interview (where the course leader suggested I study English Lit instead of psychology) I was accepted into a good university. I saw Germany for the first time. I wasn’t impressed. I made tons of new friends. I don’t speak to any of them now. I tried pot and sex for the first time. Was left completely indifferent to one of those, I’ll let you decide which one.

In 2001, I broke up with a man for the first time because no matter what anyone tells you LONG DISTANCE RELATIONSHIPS are hard and don’t usually work out. I lived it up. I drank far too much and ate far too little. I was thin! I kissed a couple of frogs; they did not turn into princes. I met two of my closest friends. We would coffee it up all the time. With about a year of general psychology courses under my belt I was that annoying 20 year old that thought she knew all about the human psyche. I was an idiot.

Much of 2002 was about falling in love. He was kind and gentle and quirky and fun. He hated buttons and was a writer. I was inspired. I lived with my best friends.  I wore the coolest black and white PUMAS. My hair was still blond. And long. And dry. I smoked Muratti cigarettes because their filters were white. Even though I had payed a six month gym membership, I never stepped through those doors. Addicted to chimichangas.

In 2003, I chopped off my hair and went back to my natural colour. I learned the importance of backing up all my files; after I lost most of my final year dissertation two weeks before the deadline. I loved Barcelona! I graduated from university. I began learning how to teach. Beyonce’s ‘Crazy in Love’ turned out to be damn addictive. I was a girlfriend. It didn’t make me as happy as I thought it would. But, balance. I had that.

2004 began so quietly and unobtrusively that I had no inkling that this would be a year that would forever be ingrained in my memory as the beginning of most of my woes. The good? I became a teacher. I began to write. ATHENS OLYMPIC GAMES. I lived in the same country as my best friend. I bought my first pair of black leggings.
The bad? I was dumped. I had surgery. Sex and the City and Friends ended. I wore a short, dusty pink faux fur. A terrible fashion moment.

The first few days of 2005, I was in denial. I had residual anger and sadness from the year before. Then, I began to make decisions. I’ll be happy! I’ll learn French! (It worked  for a little. I speak no French today.) London was bombed. I started my masters there a month later. (I was paranoid.) Walked the streets of Brussels. Panic attacks began. I fell in love with Michael Scofield. My sister got married.

In the first six months of 2006, I studied harder than all the previous years combined. I discovered Grey’s Anatomy and Snow Patrol.  I tried Belgian Beer. It was awesome.I graduated with distinction with a useless postgraduate degree and became a shop girl instead. And an aunt. I learned that rich people can be extraordinarily cheap. And that friendships change. I wore black a lot. Shoes became less pointy. I stopped wearing heels. I joined Facebook.

In 2007, I started this blog. I wrote a screenplay. I got on a plane for the last time. I thought that I would never, ever meet another man I would want to date. At this point, I’d been single for three years. My lips had not kissed another set of lips for the same amount of time. I was desperate and lonely and petrified that nothing would ever change. Then, I met The Man and had an intense, one month affair into…

…2008. This year was marked by a wee nervous breakdown and a diagnosis of Crohn’s. Lost hope. Began therapy. I examined my life. I ate well. I quit smoking for awhile. I got paid for writing. I spent far too many hours watching Jon Stewart. Became single, cat lady. My new bangs changed my look from average girl to cute girl. I still had a hard time calling myself a woman.

In 2009, I met and then almost immediately lost a soul mate. It was tragic. But not as tragic as disappointing all the people closest to me. But even more tragic than that was that I began wearing leggings as pants. My sister from another mother got engaged! I missed it and still cringe at the way fear has set limitations on my life.  Still committed to flats, I ironically became a contributing writer for Running In Heels. I met a new friend whose poetry leaves me weak at the knees. I began writing my first novella. I found hope again.

I wish for me–and for you–that  the next decade is as equally varied and fun, educational and inspiring. I acknowledge that there will be some inevitable pain; but please Universe, easy on the heart-break.

How have you changed over the last decade?

As a professional writer, I have quickly had to learn not to take negative feedback personally. I openly ask my clients to tell me whether the tone I have used, whether the words I have chosen are the right ones for their needs. In our correspondence, I usually say: “Tell me what you hate and I’ll change it.” It works well. They’re happy and my ego remains intact.

As a personal blogger, the same learning curve has been steeper. It’s a challenge not to take comments personally. After all, these aren’t about style but rather about content. And when the content is gut wrenching personal, well, it takes a certain type of backbone not to care. But I have learned that when it comes to spilling my truths; sometimes I get it wrong. I don’t express it clearly enough. I am misunderstood. Or rather because I choose to expose a narrow version of my life, I misrepresent myself.

The letter I wrote in the post below was not received in the spirit I had intended. Hope’s comeback post to the blogosphere was an epic failure.

Besides the crickets that reverberated across my blog’s walls I also received two comments that first confused me and then hurt me.

My intentions were to show a fleeting moment of emotion. In my first hand experience (and second hard experience) of relationships, I have observed that there are some past flames that months, even years later still manage to unnerve us. We run into them on an arbitrary day that has been pleasantly wonderful. We run into them and without any warning our minds flood with old emotions; as if not a single day has passed.They are different yet they are the same. That grip they had on you is not there anymore but if you wanted to, you could dream. You could fall in love with them again. For they are still the same and because they are still the same you think, ‘I could be with this person’. It is night and it is cold and you are wearing your favourite jeans and reality and practicality are slaves to the day.

My intentions were to show what that short emotional journey could look and sound like; a completely private inner turmoil between head and heart.  I had hoped that someone out there could relate to that.

In the absence of that, I keep having to remind myself that the fact that I need to explain all of this now only means that I failed as a writer; I did not fail as a human being.

Dearest Anon,

It was lovely seeing you again too.

When we sparred–my ice tinged words piercing our truths with humor; your words grazing old wounds with freshly familiar vagueness–I yearned for night to stand still. I longed for your words to desert you; for me to remain silent; a mime on pause dripping tar soaked tears.

You are but one tear that slides–no, that tears mercilessly–across the blemished face of time.

And I am time; a constant second hand reminder. A tick tocking record keeper of all we were; all we could have been.

But the night, it couldn’t stand still–even for time. And when we parted, when we said goodbye, when we stood face to face it occurred to me that you’re shorter than I remember. Yet, your eyes still wrinkle when you smile. Your lips still smirk when you evade.You haven’t changed at all.

In sad fact, while it was lovely seeing you too, time seems to have changed nothing.

I still want to be your record keeper.

E