Because It Makes It More Real

I'm not sure if I went through most of my life doing this. If it's something I've done since childhood or not. But I do know that I'm starting to realize it now, and that realizing it is an important part of my life.



And I'm not talking about the fear of holding a snake, or holding that bearded dragon in the pet store across the street. I'm not talking about the time in third grade when I saw the picture of a bee in the science text book and shivered when I put my hand on that page.

Because maybe it isn't really touching things in general that has me bothered. Maybe it has to do with the deeper meaning touching things has.

And maybe that's why I felt bad, for not holding the stiff, cold bodies of Cinnamon and Vanilla.

I remember coming home from school and finding Cinnamon in her favorite little porcelain cup. The one her previous owner -a friend I knew- had given to me because the little critter loved it so much.The one she always curled up in, even after I'd pour food into it.

Cinnamon would eat and then move her small chubby body into the cup, curling up into a small ball of fur. And I'd laugh with my sister. . . but this time it wasn't something to laugh about.

Cinnamon had been sick. . . she was old. . . and it was cold. . . and hamsters don't handle the breath of winter well. Not only that but she was in the same place she had been when I had left to school early that morning.

I reached into the cage and touched her. . .

. . .I wasn't the one who threw her out. . . We couldn't really give her a proper burial. . . not when you live in apartments. . .

And I promised myself that I would not let another hamster go, that I would fight to keep them alive. . . and so I got Vanilla, with my own money. And she was an adorable little brown fluff ball. I changed her name maybe six time before my sister and I agreed that Vanilla was suitable for her.

I remember moving her cage next to my bed at night because the huge glass windows would expose them to too much cold and for some reason she wasn't use to sleeping in that little white plastic house with a purple roof I'd bought for her. So Vanilla would hoard all the wood shavings into one little corner, and I'd tear up toilet paper and cover her to help keep her warm.

I was really getting attached to her. . . but then one morning I woke up and dragged the big plush blanket my grandpa had given me for Christmas to the couch. I thought to myself "Maybe I should check on Vanilla." but I shrugged it off and just continued to watch Netflix.

But Vanilla didn't come out of her little house that day, or the next day. And the third day I knew. . .

My sister threw her out that time. . .

And now I still see their little curled up bodies. . . so small. . . once so warm but then turned cold. . .

I regret not putting their bodies away, because I feel like I didn't really deal with the losses. But at that time I just couldn't do it because it makes it more real. . .

And when things are real and you feel just how real they are, your emotions come into play. And I guess I've always tried to keep a front, and not let my feelings show through because then I'll feel weak. . .I doubt myself when I'm weak. . .

Maybe that's why I feared grabbing that microphone from the music teacher.

I wanted to try out for the Spring Talent show, I wanted to sing, because I never performed in front and audience singing what I wanted to sing. It was always for my mother or for theater, but never something straight out for me.

I wanted the chance to give a message, and touch base with the fact that no one is perfect, and loving someone who is just as imperfect as you is a beautiful thing.

I was hoping not to sing with a hand held microphone, at least not during the audition because I wasn't use to it. But when the music teacher asked if I had ever sang with a mic, I said no and so she made me sing with the hand held. But that was a lie because I've sang with a clip-on mic before. . .

And I got nervous. . . and I didn't sing the way I should have. . . I wasn't in tune with the guitar. . .

I didn't make it. . . but I knew why. . . because holding that mic would have made it more real, and I was afraid of taking control.

. . . I was afraid of failing. . .

And maybe that's why I'm so angry for never holding onto him like I want to.

He is amazing, sweet, and talented. He's everything I've wanted, and he's been there for me for so long and some times I feel like I am so stone-faced towards him. . . I feel like the affection I give isn't enough, he deserves so much more. . .

I need to let myself go a bit around him, and not be afraid to trust him, because I know he would never do anything to make me unhappy.

I want to look at him, really look at him when I kiss him and make sure that he knows without a doubt that he means so much to me.

I need to take control of my life and accept it for what it is. No one said growing up was easy. . . but no one ever said it was impossible either.

So next time I'll do my best not to let someone down, or let my shyness get the best of me.

And next time I'll kiss him like I want to and enjoy it, because it makes it more real.