I Can't Make Him Love Me --Riely--

Five texts. Four Facebook messages.Three Snapchats. Two hand-delivered notes and one young girl admitting her love. All un-returned. All seen, read, felt and. . .one sided.

Maybe it was his cologne that I inhaled too much of, causing my brain to endure the same cloud I saw him dousing himself with before class. Before he thought he'd see me. Maybe it was the way his effortless smile was reserved for me, or the way I'd never felt safer than in his arms. . . .Or maybe it was him.

Maybe he was the first boy I fell for, and maybe he broke my heart without even knowing. So I write this to him, knowing he'll never read this confession of how he never felt.

Let's allocate blame where blame is do. Nowhere. Unto no one can these tears be directed. Not onto me, the girl with the wanderlust heart that aches for the brooding boy I'll never see again. Not onto society for creating these inescapable confines that require me to send five messages before he needs to send one. And not onto him, for if anything, I owe him a thank you.

I owe him a thank you for holding my heart, for holding my hand and my bag alongside it. For being teased about being "domesticated" and laughing it off with a punch to his friend. He deserves at least a smile for being kind to the broken  girl, for daring to dream that maybe one day they could be. He deserves what we all deserve--true love and happiness.

What a shame it is that he couldn't find it with me.

I can't make myself stop loving him. I can't make him love me. But I can stop for a moment, dry the tears and put down the chocolate ice cream long enough to say thank you. For if I know what love is, it's because of you.

--Riely--

Baby

And I should've ignored you tonight like I did back then. I shouldn't have picked up the phone just to hear the sound of your voice so effortlessly call me baby. Baby. That one word that symbolizes everything you thought I was--needy, emotional and impossible to understand. If only I had thrown my phone at the sound of your voice, at hearing that word. . .at hearing the truth. How I wish I could say that your desperate cries of loneliness and regret fell upon deaf ears, but we both know I've heard it all before and I'll always be willing to hear it again.

You were young, I was younger. We were a series of opposites grasping at the one thing we had keeping us together--a love of adventure; you were quite a trip. It was as if we couldn't back down from a dare, never refusing a challenge. Maybe it's the reason we tried long distance, thought we could beat the odds of a game that's yet to be won. Old enough to know we'd never succeed, yet young enough to try. We were young, stupid and it was absolutely beautiful. You were beautiful to me, a dream come true.

 

But this dream has become a nightmare. . .and it's just getting a bit too much for this living witness to bear. Oh how I wish you'd find a different muse. You call me up, forgetting time differences, forgetting the tears I cried on your shoulder and the rage you rained down on me. Funny how you don't remember the nightmare I'll never forget. I never told you I loved you. I feared loving you, I feared everything it had to offer. I feared the thought of losing you, yet I realize now that allowing you to keep coming and going from my life as you damn well please is what's killing me slowly.

Please don't call me anymore. Don't Snapchat me, text, Facetime or friend and unfriend me again just to make sure you're on my mind. You had control of me once, and I loved basking in the presence of your glory. You've never left me for long, and I don't think you ever will. But my  mind needs a breather, time to go back to the solace of ignoring you before my individual strength met my biggest weakness. . .I wish it wasn't you. This "baby" you speak of needs to grow up--grow up without the shadow of self doubt and dependence your hurricane of a presence always brings about. I left you once to protect us both--its your turn now, baby.

Chasing

It seems as though the message of this week for me is chasing. Chasing the grade, chasing down my mile time and chasing after you. It's funny how when you're busy chasing your imagination, you happen to be simultaneously running from what matters most.

I've made a promise to myself in a decalogue I wrote a few months back that I wouldn't be afraid to say goodbye. So as of today, I'm saying goodbye. Goodbye to endless nights sitting by my phone, goodbye to two word answers and your endless supply of sorry's and excuses. . . .goodbye to you. In the words of Taylor Swift, "I bet it never even occurred to you. . .that I can't say hello to you. . .and risk another goodbye. . . ."

At seventeen, maybe it's time to stop chasing and start breathing. What will be will be, and the more I realize I don't control it all, the less I'll let you control me. So the next time you miss me at odd hours, remember that you won't find me by running far into the abyss--you'll find me right where you left me, at the brink of insanity, just shy of losing myself. It'll only be then, at the corner of too late and broken promises, that you'll realize I never ran away, I didn't even walk--you let me go. So now, I'm letting go of uncertainty, doubt and confusion--I'm chasing the path to loving myself. Like you said, we've always been walking different paths. Go ahead and chase your tail as your head spins, wondering just what went wrong. There's no need for a chase any longer, I've caught onto the one thing you never thought truly mattered--me.

Can I Be A Jew?

I lit the candles last night, though I'm not sure why. Something deep down just compelled me to do it, as if the rituals of my childhood came out to play. Mom didn't light the candles last night. They've lost their meaning for the brother who went over to his friend's house on Friday night for pork chops. But they still mean something to me.

For even as I type this on the Holy Sabbath, I'm doing arguably more than most would--I'm thinking. I'm questioning and struggling with this religion that just doesn't yet make sense to me. I am bold, I am courageous and I am. . .absolutely confused. Confused beyond all doubt. When people ask me what I am, I reply that I'm Jewish--as if nothing more needs to be said. But there is always more that needs to be said.

I should say that I am not Jewish overnight camp, or a flunked Hebrew school class that my transcript will never show. I am not teen Israel trips in which you tell your rabbi that the highlight was climbing Masada when we know the real highlight was climbing the Israeli soldier. There are so many things that I'm not, though it's hard to say exactly what I am.

My parents are Jewish, so by default I am too. I am a Bat Mitzvah, I am engaged in my Jewish community, but when people speak of this Jewish identity--I stare blankly back. Can a Jewish identity be comprised of broken puzzle pieces that may or may not fit together? How is a girl in the North Shore suburbs of Chicago supposed to feel a connection to Israel when the country itself is struggling to make that claim for themselves?

I'm a sea of what ifs, a sea of doubts and insecurities. But if my Jewish community has taught me one thing--that sea is Jewish. And it may not mean much, but it'll mean I'll never be alone.

Right Now

It's been a while. Been a while since I've seen the once familiar orange icon at the top of my screen light up as it awaits a new blog post. I could sound off a laundry list of excuses, each more valid than the last--but I'll spare you that. It's time for me to write once more, to dust off the keyboard and delve into the ideas that have long since been rattling my brain.

It's you. Because it's always you. And it always has to be you. Because you have no name, though as I write this I have one in mind. Yet when I read this almost time capsule of a piece in months to come, I might just remember who it is my wanderlust heart decided to follow in the moment my the publish button was pressed. The post might be published, but it's far from over.

Far from anywhere near comprehending all that you are to me, and all that I wish I could say. All the times I've come so close to a hug, but instead backed away.

This is a toast to you, the boy so different than me. The one that's making me dream that maybe one day we won't be. For I once chose boys I could fall apart with, so at least misery wouldn't have company. But I'm on an uphill swing, and it's obvious you are two. Our pasts don't align, maybe our futures don't either. But we have today.

We have tonight, so let's not waste it on words we know we'll never say. Just hold me close, and I promise we'll be okay.

Forget the future, ignore the past--because all we have is right now, and I want you here, with me. . .right now.

Crazy

Written Winter of newly 2013

Crazy

                “You’re crazy,” they jokingly retort.

                I nod along, as if being crazy is anything to joke about. Spend a few days with my best friend’s family at Thanksgiving and you’ll know what crazy is. But is crazy such a bad thing? Isn’t crazy the name we give to things that we ourselves are not able to understand? We once called going to the moon “crazy”, yet look what it’s become—reality. It’s the fear of failing that enables us to label things. That boy must be a “player” because he’s much more attractive than I am and I happen to have feelings for him. I’m “crazy” to like him . . . yet he just might be crazy enough to like me back.

                “What’s so wrong with crazy,” I finally respond.

                “It’s crazy I mean, pretty self-explanatory,” I hear back as an eye roll is shot my way.

                Crazy is self-explanatory—it’s doing what you feel without thinking twice. There are few things in life we look back on and say, “I’m so glad I did that—it was so tame.” Those are the stories we tell our parents, and Lord knows those are watered down at best. Life is all about the crazy moments, and the moments you’re just crazy enough to take.

                “You there,” they question, “ugh, I knew I should’ve gone to the mall today instead . . . .”

                “I’m going to go save the world,” I reply unemotionally, “I’ll drop you off at the mall on my way.”

                As confusion and pure annoyance set in, I get up, grab my keys and walk to my car. Two honks of the horn later, and she finally decides to grace me with her presence.

                “What do you mean you’re going to go save the world,” she inquires, equally concerned as she is curious.

                “Put your seatbelt on, the GPS says I’ll have you there in 6 minutes,” I respond, maintaining my composure and focus.

                As I drive through the eerily picturesque suburban jungle, I begin to ponder what changing the world really means. By changing one life, that is changing the world. Hm . . . yes, I very much so like that. If I can change one person, then that means that another person can change a person’s life. Maybe not force them to change, but allow them the opportunity to change--should they choose to take it. Crazy, right? What about the chain reaction, or the movie Pay It Forward or Groundhog Day, what about those? Exactly!

                And as my heart and mind combine into a brainstorming frenzy, my hands and feet manage to do quite well on autopilot. Six minutes later, I am pulling up to the front entrance of the mall, yet my friend doesn’t flinch.

                “Is there a problem, I thought this is where you wanted to go,” I asked.

                “This isn’t where I should be . . . I kind of want to change the world too,” she meekly replies.

                “But that’s crazy,” I respond, keeping my eyes locked on the entity that is my ex-boyfriend walking 20 feet in front of my car.

                “Well, yeah, it is crazy I guess,” I hear her softly ponder aloud “but then again, what’s wrong with being crazy?”

                “Exactly.”

Empty Boy Apartment

Written 8/17/13

            And I see you, through the corner of my eye. In a mall, in a hallway or in a crowded parking lot. You are any and everywhere. You are momentary flirtation, a boy I will never see again, a man just trying to have a little fun. The cute guy at the mall kiosk, the older gentleman who catches my breath—the face and name of a constantly changing illusion of love.

            It’s the daydreams hours later that will leave me wishing there was more. It’s the times that I’m caught off guard by someone so true, so genuine and so different. By someone I’ll never see again, though I secretly and not so secretly hope to. He’s the story I’ll tell my friends, and the joke they’ll laugh at me for years to come. We’re all constantly searching for him, for her, for it—for love.

            And it’s never love, but it can be lust. Lusting after that which we don’t think we deserve. Is happiness in our cards? Was that ever truly an option? Who could bear to love us, when the burden is one we haven’t yet been able to bear? If only we could stop questioning the lies and admit the truth: we deserve to be loved, we deserved to be happy . . . I deserve to feel loved and to be happy.

            It’s funny, because I never thought I’d be able to say these words. But I guess you have to fake it until you make it. And isn’t it that one moment of doubt that helps us to see the beauty in the world? We tell ourselves that they could never love us, so we lust after them because we know it’s safe. That they’ll never get close enough to hurt us, so hurting ourselves a little in the process won’t hurt nearly as much as if we let them in enough to break our hearts that have long been held together with duct tape.

            And I’m kind of okay with that. At 16, I’m fine with believing that I am going to fall in love with some random guy I see in the mall. I’m okay with daydreaming about my friend’s new boyfriend, or questioning if a guy I saw running down the street would make a good father. Because that’s what my life is about now. Trying to figure things out, that maybe love is in the cards for me, or maybe I’m condemned to a life of Facebook stalking and listening at the gossip mill.

            It’s a crazy world, the world of a girl who just wants to be loved. The world of a girl who refuses to let love in. It’s messed up and convoluted, but I enjoy the insanity to be honest. Who else can say that they’ve pictured themselves with over hundreds of people? For these fantasies and illusions never come real, it’s the ones that you don’t play over a million times in your head that turn into reality. As Nev from Catfish said, “If we don't hope, if we don't stay positive - at least about love, or finding love - then the rest of life becomes really just painful to think about, because for the most part, you know, day-to-day stuff is monotonous.”

            And I’ll believe in the insane, let guys think me the “crazy girl” I often label myself as. But I guess I’m better than that. In fact, I know I am. I’m wild and free and boy crazy and I’m ready to have fun. For time was stolen from me, and I’m ready to not reclaim it, but to make the most of the time that I’ve still got when I’m at this age. I love life, and nothing is going to stop me from continuing to love what the big man up there wants to bring me.