Pretend

As if on a scavenger hunt, one Google search led to another, until I found myself watching Neil Gaiman giving a commencement speech (to a seemingly under-appreciative lot of 2012 art graduates, if I may say so). It was one of those rare Youtube finds - the kind that make you wonder if somebody uploaded it just for you.

I felt like a koala bear in an enchanted eucalyptus forest as I giggled along with the insight of the 20 minute speech. But then, just as I was preparing for it to wind down, Gaiman threw in a quip at minute 18:43 that made me laugh so suddenly, then quickly burst into tears, that I had to pause it and rewatch it several times to know what had hit me.

"Someone asked me recently how to do something she thought was going to be difficult... and I suggested she pretend that she was someone who could do it -- not pretend to do it, but pretend she was someone who could."

Within those 17 seconds was a secret I figured out when I was 10, but had long since forgotten: the power of playing pretend.

Fifth grade was the first year that I had been assigned a significant load of nightly homework, and I knew that it would be a sink or swim sort of challenge. Not wanting to sink, but not knowing how to deal with so much daily tedium, I decided to get creative. My imagination jumped at the opportunity and before I knew it, I had concocted an elaborate story: between the hours of 4pm and 6pm, Monday-Thursday, I was to become Hermione Granger. I would be entrusted to do all of her assignments and to do them PERFECTLY.

In the game, I would be rewarded for aced assignments by promises of early graduation from Hogwarts and advanced honors at top wizarding universities. And this absolutely delighted and enchanted me... somehow. With this game of pretend (plus a little Aqua playing in the background), I began to utterly ENJOY homework time. Even when I grew older and was no longer playing, I still had that bubbly bit of excitement each time I'd sit down to study.

So when I heard Gaiman's words, my laugh was at remembering 10 year old Chelsea/Hermione and how ridiculous the whole thing seemed to 24 year old Chelsea, but how successful it had actually been. And my tears that quickly followed were in response to how raw and exposed it made me feel, hearing a fear I've been trying to ignore so desperately stated so bluntly.

I can just imagine the field day some of my friends would have with the notion of pretending to be somebody I'm not to deal with my problems. "Avoidance" and "cowardly" would probably be some adjectives they'd use to describe the idea. But I, personally, am a firm believer in the "fake it 'til you make it" model. My personal record isn't too shabby when it comes to it, either. Faked being just about anything I've turned out to be good at at the beginning, when I think about it.

So, I've decided to give it a try. From tonight on, I will fake being somebody who can still enjoy her life while preparing for all of the changes that are coming. I will fake somebody who can be present rather than driven underground by fear. I will fake somebody who can spend all the time in the world with herself and love it. I will fake somebody who can be excited about the future unknown and know that it will all work out even better than the best I could dream of. I will fake being that person until either I can't anymore, or I become that person. Let's hope the end result is the latter...!

Ditch

I've spent the week in a ditch.
An underground ditch.
D
e
e
p
.
Submerged and marinating
in surface runoff --
Contaminated with equal parts
avoidance,
  dread,
       depression.

A lot of changes are on the horizon again.
A lot of my time is going to spent alonely again.
A lot of fear is flooding my eyes again.

But there are those moments,
whentheditchbecomestoostifling
(even for me),
and I s n e a k to the surface for ^AIR.

The Things That Make Me Smile

wave 'hallo,' gaily, but quietly,

Politely disregarding tear-stained cheeks.

And then littlest Thing gently takes my hand,

looking up at me with wide eyes and a curious grin,

and leads me towards a brief encounter with a Smile.

Upon instinct I resist --

(the black ditch makes light white hot)

but its grip is strong.

Attention diverted,

the miasma begins to d i   s   s    i     p      a       t        e,

floating away like a forgotten ^balloon.

With that, the other Things run over to me,

hugging me and reminding me,

while Learning tips its top-hat to me and winks.

A lot of opportunities are on the horizon again.
A lot of my time is going to be all mine again.
A lot of sanguinity is bubbling up inside me again.

As the Things That Make Me Smile celebrate,
I look over at the manhole cover,
knowing that I'll be back _down there soon.

But the marinade will be less potent,
the ditch less deep, each time,
until, one day, I simply forget to return.

Adrift

It depends on the moment.

When it's menacingly overcast, I look out over the vast, drab blueness from my tiny spot atop the flotsam and tremble uncontrollably. My lips, chapped to a crisp, are too sore to let the churning thoughts escape their cranial prison. And they're multiplying in there - angry and loud. Angry that we're back on this piece of flotsam. Loud because the volume masks their fear.

And when the sunshine prances back into the sky, I see warm, beckoning islands in every direction. There's a brand new, amazing treasure that's been buried for me out here; that's why They sent me out on the waves again. It's merely a matter of finding where it's hidden this time. And I feel like a kid on Easter morning, knowing that a great big basket filled with elegant chocolate eggs and sugary marshmallow chicks is waiting mischievously, just for me, somewhere out in my grandmother's garden.