Testing Theories.

They say there's linings made of silver
Folded inside each raining cloud
Well we need someone to deliver
Our silver lining now

I’m on my fourth cup of burning hot coffee, willing myself to return to my graduate work.  I can't seem to focus after all that has and is about to occur.  I'm scatterbrained, distracted, jumpy, and hardly able to sleep.

This is not  a result of watching Paranormal Activity II recently, despite that fact that it seriously disturbed/scared the hell out of me.

No, the reality of my life is coming into full circle after so much drama. 

It’s the realization of moving on entirely that keeps me awake. I keep moving.  I keep busy.  I've made new friends, embarked on new journeys inside and out of the country, and I don't spend my evenings sitting home alone waiting for someone to call. 

Can you imagine your significant other checking your phone records, questioning everyone you talk to and text?  I’ve been there.

Then there was a series of horrible, degrading voicemails and emails criticizing my character and berating every aspect of who I am which caused me to seriously reconsider all of this.  All of my decisions, all of my commitments, quite literally everything I’ve considered to be mine, ours, always.

It was an emotional rollercoaster.  I finally responded, demanding that he quit the nasty emails because quite frankly, the abusive language must stop- or I’m walking. For good.

And then he called prepared with a symphony of apologies and love- the complete opposite of the spectrum.  I'm not going to lie. I broke down completely.  and not in a I’m so sorry I shouldn't be doing what I’ve been doing it's all my fault kind of way. 

but in a ohmygod I can't believe you expect me to live like this forever kind of way. 

It’s frightening. 


So I keep drinking coffee, and listening to [my] old, old music this morning.  You know the stuff I used to be made of.  I’m actually surprised it was all still there, hiding in the midst of soundclick.com- ready to be heard.  Surprising to be reminded that I used to sing.

Finally, I was tired of not being heard.  I prefer to have an answer that doesn't judge, or make me feel guilty for who I was, who I am, and who I’m going to become.

"Well, you'll never find anyone who can love you, take care of you, and stay committed to you the way that I am."

 I dared to test that theory.  He was wrong.

Like father, Like daughter?

Hopefully, not.  The promises we choose to keep are important ones.  One particular promise lingers in my memory.  In my childlike hope, I made a very specific promise to myself, and to my father.

Is it possible to feel less educated after achieving a degree?  Dedicating myself to education certainly has its ups and downs, but Sometimes I am convinced I’ve failed.  Overwhelmed and outnumbered by concepts and numbers and equations that appear inapplicable to my life.  Many hours of brain cells spent on drinking caffeine and wishing to understand theoretical theory as applied to the philosophy of music education. 

Once in awhile, there is inquiry and discovery as to the origin of my musical propensity.  I would like to say it derives from both parents, equal in musical knowledge and as brilliant educators.  The following question always enters my mind in consideration of parental relationships:  Are you most like mother or father?  For me, it’s my father- and this horrifies me more than you can imagine.

Absent for so many years due to my own will to kick his ass out of my life, once in awhile he manages to reappear.  He is brimming with interest in his sudden discovery in personal commonalities: our shared passion for musical knowledge, dry sarcasm, and realistic view of the world.  “I know you”, he says, wanting another chance.  Somewhere between 12 years, two new daughters, a missed daughter's wedding, and a girl lost in the middle, he decided he felt like building a bridge. 

Too bad he was too late.

 I’m still trying to find my escape from the gravity of the word daughter he uses to describe me.  In fact, I never heard such a label until I refused to acknowledge it.  I've been a disappointment, a shadow, an enigma, the bookworm, the awkward inarticulate bore of a child.  And at this point I thought, why should he take interest now?

I remember one day when I was four years old.  We were in the car, and he was driving while chain smoking cigarettes with closed windows (as usual).  He asked me who I wanted to be when I grew up.  That was when I boldly informed him I would never be like him.  That I would not make his choices, refusing to repeat his history.  Miserable, destroying my dreams and those I claim I love.  I told him I would not be him when I grew up. 

He chuckled. Flicked his cigarette through a crack in the window.  And said, “You just wait.”
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