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A post composed listening to the aforementioned playlist…

January 2, 2009

I’m taking down our tree this weekend. It’s gorgeous and beautiful… and dead. Every night when I turn the lights off, I’m convinced it’s gonna go up in flames, but I am sucha Christmas nut that I can’t resist going to sleep, bathed in the fushia glow of the mulit-colored lights.

I’ve been thinking way too much about the past this week. I’m sure it’s just the contagious elements of the New Year, but I can’t stop reflecting on the distant past and wondering if the things I left in the shadows of past places will stay put. I can hope so, but sometimes I feel like I’ve been cut off from who I used to be seven different times. I have no way of recalling every place I used to be, or every type of person I’ve ever been… I’ve been so many by now and I’m just 27. It just feels overwhelming on weeks when I’m stuck at home for the holidays, nothing to occupy my mind per se, and memory seizes upon the opportunity to take me down millions of miles of nostalgic byways.

Will the past stay in the past? Will I ever knee-jerk and fall back into an old mindset, and old version of myself, who I thought I’d killed and buried along one of those byways? Will the few people and things I feared enough to run from ever re-appear? Or am I safe from some things?

These thoughts tend to scare me when I let them float up to the surface. I tell myself I won’t run into some people and some things ever again, but I know better than that. You can’t guarantee against the scary things. And maybe accepting that is the only way to ever possibly prepare for meeting them one day.

Hrmg….

My ability to live this long is due to only one thing: the ability to claim reinvention. Every year, every January 1st, to look back and distance myself from the person the last year made me to be. My ability to believe I CAN be different, over and over, is what has given me hope to persist and endure. The downside to this is, on a day like today, I feel like I’ve moved on from so many versions of myself, looking back at the roads I’ve traveled to get here is like looking at a maze stretching behind me.

“What have I become, my sweetest friend?”

Regardless of my convoluted self-archive, I am blessed to be here tonight, writing with a clear mind, ruminating on how lucky I am that a girl who was suicidal since age 11 has made it to be a woman of 27, happily married, with a bright artistic future in front of her. I’m not much, but I’m at least that, and I’m grateful for it.

***

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