The long, grueling, nocturnal life as a college girl is done, and I don’t even know how to go on through life without crying and smiling from ear to ear simultaneously. The past three years felt like an old, broken down bateau was steadily pulling me through a thick, gator invested marsh while bystanders stood along the bayou and shot BB guns in my direction.
For real.
I could use a week or two in a lock down intensive care unit with a constant flow of fluids and vitamins pushing through my veins.
Or botox.
Will botox take away the damage three years of sleepless nights left on my face?
Summa Cum Laude, y’all.Deciding to go back to school was one of the scariest decisions of my life. For whatever reason, I didn’t think I was worthy. I had this notion that school required an elite level of tenacity, talent and smarts. I didn’t realize an education is what gives you that. I remember driving to enroll back in school three years ago. The vivid image of me pulling over on the side of the road because I was too intimidated will forever haunt me. Who was I?
I barely recognize that girl.
Going back to school was the first endeavor I’ve ever seen all the way through. It was the first time in my life I said, “this is what I want” and got it.
An education has taught me more than I ever thought I could learn, which suddenly makes the thought of my $60,000 in student loans seem like the most frugal and vital investment of my life. It taught me that I have a voice, even if no one ever wants to listen. School taught me to live for myself, It taught me to dream, and it made me realize I never want to stop learning.
I never want to think I peaked.
A productive life is like running a steady incline. Sometimes your legs feel like jello, and walking down hill would be the easiest 180 degree turn you’d ever make… But I hope to never reach a top. Because where else do you go? Hopefully I can learn how to slow down and enjoy the parts of the road that level off a bit before the next hurtle. Hopefully I learn to push through so the incline keeps growing into something bigger than we’ve ever dreamed.
Because isn’t the alternative so much more daunting?
Sometimes I wonder if I see this place a little differently. I’ll spare you all the existential questions…only because I’m too tired to relay them properly. But the basics that you may or may not be interested in is this:
Do we get a say?
I’ve always joked that each passing day only serves as a small step, or jolt, into life as my mother. (not that that’s a bad thing) I’ve laughed at how I pretend listen to people and how I’ve genuinely developed a passion for silence. Oh, and gardening. Growing shit gets me #turnt.
Did I use that word properly?
But what I’ve never really contemplated before were all of the habits in life I’d sworn off. I can’t deny that I have traits of my mother and father hiding somewhere behind all of the bits that make me – me, but I actively believe that we get to choose who we become. We aren’t subjected to nature’s plan.
I’ve seen a lot of heartache in my family. I’ve accepted a long time ago that people cannot always be who we wish they could be. Not everyone wants something more. Sometimes they just want for now, and you’re not always a part of that now. I’ve become okay with that over the years.
Don’t get me wrong. I still have my random breakdowns.
Like on a long flight from Baton Rouge to Charleston… somewhere around the 11C row. (Hypothetically speaking, of course)
Seeing the way addiction has taken control over so many of my loved ones is the hardest thing I’ve ever gone through in life. Especially witnessing that addiction destroy someone I admire more than words can express. Someone I know has something to live for.
I wish he knew he had a say.
When I see people I love struggle with addiction, I want to scream at them. Not in anger, but in a desperate attempt to wake them. How do they not see their life the way I see it? I want them to know this world is beautiful at times. I want them to see the joys in the little things. I want them to use the bad times merely as a juxtaposition of how effing awesome the good times are.
Occasionally, I think I just got lucky in what I had a say in… but then I remember I’ve never won anything in my life.
I have to choose to be happy on a daily basis. Sometimes I smile when I don’t want to, and laughing is harder than letting the vices of this world overcome me. Still, every now and then, there is something that lets me know I was meant to experience all this so that I can be whole. So that I am forced to know myself, and I’m forced to appreciate the little things and the people around me who make them not so little.
I know I’ve been on this cheesy, insufferable kick about following your dreams, becoming the person you know you can be, running through a field of sunflowers, eating pudding first and all those other instagram clichés…
But life man, it’s been good lately.
So, to the poor sir who attempted to sway me in my career path yesterday – consider this my public apology.
Unlike yourself, I realize I was way off base.
I wish I had something significant and heartfelt to tell you. Something that acknowledged your attempt to be forewarning, but also justified my urging desire to tell that bus you’ve been driving through kid’s dreams to eff off. But all I can seem to conjure up is a damn hashtag, and that would only aid in your statement that us “youngsters” don’t think things through.
And you’re right.
Cap’s list of 25 things. (Circa 2009)
Because if I thought about how hard life was going to be trying to get a job as a writer, I’d probably decide to get the guarantee in publicity and off myself right before something really phenomenal made it through publishing.
Think Bradley Nowell from Sublime or John Kennedy Toole (author of Confederacy of Dunces)
That would be easier than this unnerving feeling – this rushing flow of emotions that consumes you right when things in life finally start to bloom.
Because that shit is scary.
What if you’re wrong? What if this isn’t what you thought you wanted? What if everyone (stranger included) was right?
I think we experience this rush of fear because we aren’t used to seeing things through. We’re accustomed to adjusting our goals and falling trap to the larger, pessimistic norm in society. People have taught us to dream big, but they never expected we would.
I know I’ll be broke. I know ramen noodles will be #lyfe. I realize 600 square feet could be cashed in for a mansion on a farm. But I don’t think about those things. I have an end game in mind and however I get there works.
With the exception of turning full on Julia Roberts in “Pretty Woman”. (NYC isn’t even worth those safety pin boots)
I’m sorry for laughing when you offered me a job in technical writing. I realize a job is better than my current options, but you caught me on good day, Sir. You caught me on the one day when my lifelong dreams were actually coming to fruition, and the ability to throw you under the dream crusher bus just felt too good.
So if you ask me what I go to school for, and I answer you directly. If you ask me what I want to write, and I respond with specifics. If you ask me my plan, and I respond passionately. Don’t be offended when my snide rejection feels like a direct kick in the gut.
It was meant to. Lastly, for the sake of all that is good and holy (aka JEANNIE) – don’t tell me how hard my life is going to be.
You wanna know what’s great about being in school? No one expects anything of you. No one expects you to know what you want to do. I mean, don’t get me wrong… everyone will ask you what you plan on doing with the rest of your life, but no one honestly thinks you’re going to guess right.
The world should be envious of you.
You get to take obnoxious spring breaks to Mexico, you get to empty out your savings in an attempt to support your fun fund in the midst of unpaid internships, and it’s totally acceptable for you to have a shit job as a barista.
One day, after you’ve been pretty down in the dumps about some mess with living or dying – you’ll wake up and discover that you’ve got a pretty sweet deal going. You’ll wake up and realize you had it right all along.
I’ve spent a decent number of years fearful of what my behavior meant to other people. Fearful of how my thoughts and beliefs affected the people I love, and wondered if that was something I’d change for their happiness. For a long time, I thought I would. I spent years trying to fit into a form that was never really formed. I spent 23 years of life trying to see meaning in something that never felt real to me.
I stressed about death. I thought about where my soul goes after life to the point of hyperventilation and full on SPM (sweaty palms mode). I was so focused on what the next life held that I stopped worrying about what this life had in store. Worst of all – I was so determined to let a higher being lead the way that I’d forgotten which way I even wanted to go. From the looks of it, some guy had long ago determined my future and I just had to sit back and enjoy the ride. I got cozy in this depressing, cruise control life, and I was sitting back for the long haul. Because, as it turned out in that small circle… probability said they’re right. It didn’t matter if I saw what they saw. ALL THESE PEOPLE SAW THE SAME EFFING THING.
and to them it was beautiful.
But it wasn’t beautiful to me. To get right down to it, it was terrifying and mind numbing. Dying was scary, but eternity scared me more. The thought of never being over haunted me, but maybe that’s because I’ve always been a sucker for a good ending.
Life, as you may have guessed, is uncertain. We get older, we get sick, we have to learn to say goodbye.
I don’t mean to sound harsh, I mean to encourage you to live. Live the one you have, because the next one is still a guessing game.
-Cap
P.S.
In honor of 2 year old, Pentecostal Cap… I leave you with this:
I know it’s almost February, but I’m still getting my Christmas movie fix in… So just bare that in mind when I use a Love Actually reference in…
Three
Two
One
👉 If you believe in the film Love Actually, you believe love is all around… which is a pretty sweet concept. But sometimes – it doesn’t feel like that. Sometimes you feel alone, and you feel completely separate from everyone, and you think you’re weird, and you think you’re a little too into that whole GIRLS series, and you think the fact you relate to the whack jobs makes you whack, and you really, truly think two-thirds of your friends have wondered why they chose you… because now they’re stuck with you.
Basically, without love you begin to question every aspect of yourself that you once had total faith in.
And I don’t just mean love from someone else.. I mean the hard stuff.
Love for yourself.
But when you feel that kind of real love. That kind of …
I know you, and I still love you love.
When you really know that you can be yourself (puppy rap and all), that you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, and you can wear yoga pants even if you don’t plan on working out all day, and you can cry over the disease you don’t have but think you do, and you can bitch about needing to lose weight while you order an Iced Venti Green Tea Latte with Soy and a Vanilla Bean Scone, and you can span through your mind the thousands of possible life scenarios like:
What if I decide I don’t like water?
What if one day I forget how to use my ears?
What if I get in a car crash, suffer from severe memory loss, go into a drug induced coma, and wake up a republican?
What if Ryan Gosling and Joseph Gordon Levitt both confess their love for me on the same day… WHO WOULD I CHOOSE?!
What if people laughed at my dances moves??
Oh wait….
You see, that’s the tricking thing about love. IT’S REALLY EFFING ANNOYING.
And impossible to live without.
For me, falling in love with others is easy. I can almost love by default. I can love someone so much that I learn how to conveniently distort their true selves in my mind. I can look over your shitty-ness and your naivety, and I can totally see the good in you. I can act like legit, life changing events didn’t go down… Just because I’d rather us all go along being happy. (I still haven’t discovered whether this is a flaw or value)
When it comes to me, though…When I have to freaking like who I am – you’d think Hitler had just asked me to be the birth mother of the next race obliterator.
Which only aids in the frustration.
I don’t mean to group everyone together on this… But I will. Why are we like this? Why can we accept the flaws in others, but not ourselves? I realize this is considered narcissistic, but shouldn’t we love ourselves more than that?
***Insert real life story that corresponds with new life goal here 👇***
I was going through old moleskin notepads and came across something my sister said to me once.
Yea, I take notes on awesome things amazing people say to me. What of it?
Leah and I were walking around a H&M and I was bitching about my ass being huge or something along those lines when she said…
“Why do women sit around and talk about how fat they are? That’s not conversation.”
She’s pretty perfect and kick ass all around… So, the fact that she’s also crazy smart makes her frustratingly beautiful.
But really…
Why did I think that was ok? Why do any of us? No man would ever tell me they were frustrated with their side boob.. Or the way spandex clings to their ass. But how annoying would it be if they did?! I hate to get all feminist here, but I can’t help but think that I need to hone this shit down if I ever expect to be the next Anthony Bourdain. I mean, no ones going to trust a skinny bitch’s opinion about good food anyway. (ie: Giada De Laurentiis)
So.. Here’s to dropping that.
Here’s to seeing the beauty in every little flaw.
Here’s to fighting the urge to make the same “weight loss/healthy living” resolution the rest of the world makes.
Well, let me be truthful…
Here’s to more pistachio ice cream and less guilt.
Writing about home is something I find myself doing quite frequently. I often fear that I am boring readers because after all… home is really only special to the person who calls it that. I told myself this Southern Wild blog would not be personal. I told myself I would stay on the surface with all matters that directly affect the people I love, but that’s hard to do. Because the people I love make me who I am, and I can’t very well write about any one else.
Every time I visit home I realize I’m not the Cap that left. There is an ache in my heart for all of the wonderful things I’m missing in the daily routine at home, but there is a love for the obliviousness in being away. There is something so painful about going home. I won’t go into detail, because I’m saving the juicy stuff for my big New York Times bestseller (kidding), but there is a heartache so deep that only seems to surface when I cross over Louisiana territory.
Youth seems to grant each individual the convenience of moving forward – something I’ve always found charming. But adult life, especially at the root of the pain, is a constant tug-a-war with progression. You see, I believe we are all allowed to make our own futures, but sometimes the things we hoped our futures would cover up make up too much of our foundation and the battle between growth and personal substance is too much to overcome.
Getting to my point..
I was a caring kid, but between my mother guarding me from the harsh reality of our life and my father lying about every aspect of daily interactions – it was hard to get a real grip on the interpersonal relationships within my family unit. For a large part of my life, I thought my mother was too saddened by her past to focus on the future. I grew up thinking my father, when sober, was the glue that held my family together.
How wrong I was.
Over the holidays, I watched as my mother set out every single item from my niece’s Christmas list under her tree. I watched her stress about the barbies and the books she purchased. I helped her mark off each item, and I even signed Santa’s name on Addie’s list. For the first time, I understood the magic in Christmas. It was like a spotlight suddenly beamed on my little heart, and I was no longer a Grinch. I’d venture to say my heart even grew a few sizes that day.
Yet, after the warm, fuzzy feeling came over me and covered my body in goose bumps, I wondered why my mom was in charge of playing Santa. So I asked her, because that’s what adulthood has taught me. I asked why she did the shopping, and why she arranged the gifts, and why she sprinkled glitter streamers all over the house.
“Well, who else was going to?”, was her response.
My body nearly doubled over from the realization. My mother had been covering up everyone else’s screw ups her entire adulthood, and she’d done it quite successfully.
Here I am, nearing Senior Citizen discounts, and I’ve only just been able to grasp the amount of roles she plays on a daily basis. I left shortly after Santa’s workshop exploded in her living room in a desperate attempt to hide the waterworks that were about to flow from my tear ducts. I think loads of people attempt to put into words the love and respect they have for their mothers, but I’ve never felt as though I understood that depth prior to her uttering, “who else was?”.
She’s been my everything even when I didn’t see it. She’s the foundation that makes looking back not quite so hard. She’s the reason I still call Louisiana home.
The people of Ferguson are fighting a fight I didn’t even know needed fighting, and I’m feeling more and more naïve with every picture of smoke and flames that covers my social media threads this evening. I keep seeing these images of law enforcement that look closer to military, and I can’t help but wonder what the other options for Ferguson could be. I’m not saying this fight is right, but I am asking – how else do you take a stand? How do you fight against a nation that seems to be against your community – against your race? I can’t condone the looting. The images of fires and the groups of activists fighting for their place in this world bring fear… and I’m miles away from the riots. But I do support their fight. What you may find shocking, and I don’t care if you do, is that I’m not concerned with the material aspects that will be lost throughout all of this. I don’t care about your corner store, or the local Walgreens. What makes me fearful is that this country, this place I thought I valued, has let me down. These riots and this legal system make me realize I’m living in an age I thought I was far past, and I’m finding myself emerged in a violent, unjust country that I’d mistakenly thought was free.
I’ve debated writing this confession for a few minutes now (because that’s about how much thought I put into things these days), and while the side of me that wants people to think I’m pretty level headed didn’t approve of the binge sharing, I figured everyone I care about already knows my crazy, irrational side.
So here it is… The newest addition of Cap’s biggest, most embarrassing food confessions in prose form:
I think it all started when I was about 7 years old. I was always frail looking as a child. My mom said it was due to my large amounts of meds, but I think it had more to do with my love for ice cream and popcorn, and the lack of interest I felt toward any other food groups. In any case, my sister and mother were working out to Richard Simmons’ “Sweating to the Oldies”, and I wanted to join in.
I remember thinking Richard could help me build some quick muscle and forgo my skanky Courtney Love vibe, but there was one MAJOR issue.
You see, I had a huge tin of popcorn in my grip and I was never one to abandon a perfectly good batch of popcorn. The popcorn tin was adorned with Christmas bears, and housed three separate sections of cheddar, caramel, and butter flavors. Despite the epic trifecta of popcorn variety, I was a fan of the basic butter. However, I occasionally slipped into the caramel triangle when I felt a little spicy.
Here I was, seven, eager to have abs, and in a trance with this wild man’s tight shorts and fro. Yet, I felt this deep, uneasy feeling with the thought of leaving my beloved popcorn tin behind. I also had a magic handful of butter popcorn with three random caramel specs already prepared and ready to be indulged.
I liked eating them with my eyes closed and being surprised at which flavor snuck in.
So, I did what any rational person would do in the face of such a life altering dilemma.
I worked out while one hand remained wrapped around the large teddy bear tin, and snuck handfuls of butter in my mouth when Richard declared water breaks.
That one moment in time pretty much sums up my view on life… or at least my mantra for a healthy lifestyle.
Eat what you want. Work out to balance it all out.
Also, I can never see Richard Simmons, teddy bears, or popcorn tins without immediately being emerged in that day on Hodges Lane with my sister and mother dancing in spandex in our living room.
I still see the Saint’s fleur di lis wallpaper, the only valid stance my father ever made, as if I’m looking at a still depiction or photo from that very day.
These days though, I do things a little differently. The most frustrating part about this whole inner fat kid bit is that I actually really pride myself in being healthy. For instance, I really do love KALE and find its recent hype totally valid. I don’t eat much red meat, I never drink carbonated drinks, I love running, and yoga, and ugly, green smoothies, I don’t eat processed foods, and I think hormones are the scariest things to ever be injected into poultry.
BEYONCÉ, BITCH!I mean, for the most part – I keep myself in check.
But when you throw me a pan of seven layer bars, or a homemade chicken pot pie…
THINGS START TO GET CRAY CRAY.
And once I’ve broken the seal of unhealthy eating for the day, ALL HOPE IS LOST.
Perfect example, a few days ago I decided I wanted to pair my normal bourbon with a coke. But not just any coke. I wanted the Christmas one, because Santa and his fluffy white beard were practically begging for me to indulge, and urging me to remember cold nights at my Uncle Eugene’s playing video games and telling ghost stories in the creepy upstairs apartment. So, I bought a pack of cokes, but not just any normal size pack of cokes. I bought the massive 24-pack. The one that only people who are edging the line of diabetes buy. The one people purchase for house parties.
THE ONES THAT MAKES 32 OZ FOUNTAIN DRINKS LOOK LIKE A RAIN DROP.
I’ve got no boundaries man!
Now, I’m stuck staring at these little beasts everyday. I keep grabbing one from the bottom drawer in my fridge, popping the top with a powerful “CLICK”, taking a sip, and hating myself the whole while the acidic liquid burns down my esophagus and into the top of my belly. Then, as soon as the glorious realization of the sweet burn registers to my brain cells… I immediately pour the whole can down the sink in a desperate effort to control my raging desire to chug.
Yes, I realize my actions are oddly similar to that of a drug addict.
But I’ll keep confessing…
Yesterday, a wonderful woman and friend made homemade chicken pot pie.
For me, chicken pot pie is bae heaven.
When someone cooks pot pie and invites me to join in… I feel like they are indirectly professing their love for me.
It is as if they are encouraging me to reminisce on my childhood in Louisiana, and those days after school when I used to cut a little slit in the top crust of frozen pot pies, and patiently wait until the described “golden brown” on the package was reached. They want me to go into my old TV room, turn on Saved by the Bell, and eat the crust from around the gooey center.
AND I TOTALLY DIG THAT.
I think that’s where my weird love for food stems from. It’s not about specific tastes or smells or cravings. It is about the past that comes barreling through my kitchen when I fix a bowl of pistachio ice cream or make a fresh cup of Community Coffee. I relate everything to my family, and the people I love. Which is obviously crazy unhealthy and ridiculous.
Because I cannot very well eat in hopes of bringing those moments back.
Still, I will continue to try like hell.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a cup of PG tips and thoughts of my Uncle Jim’s Scottish dialect waiting for me.
Southern Wild 