Well it’s been a long while and I suppose there probably aren’t many of you out there still checking this, if any at all. I don’t think I mind. The thought that I’m writing for the first time in months without an audience is somehow, liberating.

I’ve been a bit of a recluse lately, not just from here, though this certainly wins the medal for most ignored, but from myself really. It’s been eating away at me for awhile now and as I ignore it I just become more withdrawn. More apathetic.

Oh, I’ve had my moments. In a lot of ways it’s been a fabulous five months. I’ve been accepted to graduate school and will be moving to Massachusetts in August. I’ll leave almost all my family and friends and hand myself over to an entirely new world with one cousin as my only safety net. I’m not afraid. I will be lonely, and I will miss everyone and most likely, at least once, I’ll have a good heart-wrenching cry. But it’s time.

It seems like I’ve started countless posts only to delete them before they ever really get going. Wouldn’t you know it would take another obsession with a story to bring me back out again. I don’t think I’ll share what story because I don’t feel that is important, but I do feel I need to get my thoughts out there. Even if they’re only for me.

It’s odd this love thing. I’ve remarked on it many times in the past. Sometimes with, what I hope could be called a little insight, and sometimes like a bloody fool. I’ve ranted in anger. I’ve ranted in pain. But I don’t think I’ve ever really told the truth. The truth is something more than scary—the truth is frightening as hell.

The truth is I’m afraid.

I know what love is, you understand. And I know that true love, the love that shakes the mountains and boils the seas…well, you don’t get to keep that kind of love. People sometimes scoff romance novels; they say it’s all a lie and life isn’t like that. They’re right, but not in the way they know. True love does exist, and it is absolutely the most beautiful thing in the universe. But we don’t get to keep it. True love requires sacrifice and I suppose it would be easy to say we’ve all heard the cliché let’s move on with the story, but the reason this thought is worth hearing out—the reason this thought is anything new at all—is because you never have true love, not really, until you’ve made the sacrifice.

That’s the trick you see. We can love with all our hearts, we can fully believe we are willing to die for the ones we love, but that’s easy. Loving with all your heart is easy. Dying for the one you love is easy. When you die you don’t have to worry about going on. If you’re dead, what’s to worry about? But what if it’s not your job to die, but to kill? What if, you have to let go of the one you love—the one you love more than your own life—to do what is right?

That’s why true love doesn’t exist until that second. That’s why certain couples grow old, happy with each other. Ignorance is bliss. Love is tested and love is genuine, but true love…well, true love means loving everything. True love means loving life. True love means that even if you each want nothing more than to be with each other you just say no.

I know it sounds crazy. What scenario could I possibly be dreaming up in this twisted little head of mine? It’s not a particularly pleasant idea, even to me. But there is a difference between loving too much, and loving truly. The true lover stops when he sees what is happening. He stops when he sees the consequences. The one who loves too much just keeps going—keeps grasping at the sandcastle trying to protect it from the rising tide. Trying to change the world. And that’s the real shit of it.

The world is a living place. You can make that argument using New Age mumbo-jumbo Mother Nature garbage, or you can make that argument pointing out the cause-effect relationships of every human being, animal, and plant on this planet. It’s all alive. And it’s all connected. And sometimes, to preserve the purity of that life we have to give up that we most want.

Tragedies irritate me so because they miss the point. It isn’t about dying for one another. In Romeo and Juliet there was no reason for Romeo to kill himself when he thought her dead. Nothing to be gained from it, no lesson to be learned. Not for him anyway. Relieving yourself, running away from the pain isn’t true love. That’s loving too much. And yes, you can love too much, just like you can eat too much, smoke too much, or sleep too much. Love is not a pure ideal. Not the way it exists for us anyway.

And therein lies the second thought tonight. I once refused to tell a high-school boyfriend I loved him because at the tender age of fourteen I knew I would never marry him and thus thought I couldn’t possibly love him. If I could live without him it couldn’t be love could it? I didn’t understand how people could say "love isn’t enough" or not choose to be with someone they cared about. But love is a malleable thing; when have human hearts ever felt clearly about anything? Even parents don’t always like their children. I loved my high-school sweatheart and sometimes love isn’t enough, because love is only one part of the equation.

True love implies pure love. And there are very few things in our world that, in their pure state, aren’t deadly. Why should love be any different? And, with all the different types of love in the human heart, why do we think true love exists only between a romantic couple? What of true love between friends? What of true love between a parent and a child?

Love is a chemistry equation. Lust + Compromise + Humor + Adrenaline + Hope + Stubbornness = Romantic Love. Take out the lust and you’ve flipped over into Friendship. Take out the Adrenaline and you’ve got what exists between a parent and the child.

But true love, that is something altogether different. On some level I think we all know this. That’s why we hide it behind religion, "You can’t understand God’s plan" and Hollywood. We create vehicles to express what we know is out there and are afraid to grasp.

Most likely no one will agree with me on this. I could explain it further, but…it’s not my place to do that. It’s possible I’ve said too much, but perhaps I’ve said just enough. It’s also possible no one will ever read this and thus I needn’t worry.
But if you should stumble across these words think about what I’ve said. They mean nothing by themselves—their power comes only from how it relates to your life.

Are you afraid to understand the lesson of love? I still am. But I’m most afraid it’s already too late.

Now, first of all I have to say I feel a little cheated. The two lines quoted in that last comment seemed petulant and childlike by themselves. Combined with the rest of the statement I am not nearly so ashamed of them, but perhaps I am at fault for writing such lines in any context. That being said, let’s get down to business.

I have fabulous family and friends (as stated in previous blogs) and would never be so arrogant as to say I could get along easily without them. Nor would I argue that they have all been there for me through hard times. Stood by me, supported me, and ultimately helped me grow. I do not hesitate, nor have I ever, to inform all around me that I have, possibly, the best family in the world. Yes they drive me crazy, yes I want to kill a vast majority of them at times, but they are all fabulous. When it comes to friends outside the family I have had exceptional luck meeting phenomenal. I am lucky. Flat out, plain-spoken lucky. And now I should clarify.

I have never expected anyone to take care of me (except, perhaps, my mother but that doesn’t enter into this statement). When I say, “learn to lean on” I mean asking for support, help, or a swift kick in the ass. Learning to lean on others is learning to accept my emotions. Learning to lean on others means opening up and not being a crazy co-dependent. Learning to lean on others means betting my emotional health and abilities to interact with others. Perhaps I didn’t make that clear and perhaps I’m just not agreed with. I can accept that, but if so I do believe we are arguing for the same cause. Whatever words you choose to use the meaning is still the same—healthy, loving, supportive relationships. Isn’t that what the lifetime channel has been preaching all these years?

So, my response having been given, I now have a confession to make. I am quite sure if asked to craft a statement on the same topic as the mentioned blog it would read completely different. That’s the way it goes when you write with emotion as the emotion hits you. Not that I take back any of my words or step back from what I said, but I can sound significantly more whiny, petulant, and like a god damned martyr than intended when I get going on my soap box. It isn’t that I don’t believe what I’m saying, but catch me the next day after a good nights sleep and what was cause for the end of the world last night no longer makes my head turn. I guess that’s just the way it goes.

Never think I am not aware of my station up on the cross some days. If there is one thing I do well it is complain about how bad I’ve got it when the mood strikes me. And look, I’m complaining about complaining. That takes talent, I don’t care who you are.

So on to happier subjects! I am still on my Phantom kick—oh yeah. I had a brilliant description of said obsession in an email to a friend and I like it so much I’m going to quote myself now:

I am sorry to admit that the aforementioned Post-Melodramatic Stress Disorder was not my invention. I stole it from the Onion actually, but regardless of its origins, it does apply to my situation. George Carlin prefers “Shell Shock” to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder so perhaps in honor of him, I will call my malady by a truer name: pathetic. Yes, I and the legions of single women around the world sitting on their couch night after night watching lifetime original movies, feeling as if they can “sympathize” with the poor widowed, abused wife, raped by her stepfather while her mom popped pills, now on the run from her husband with her two kids, one of whom actually belongs to the man she really loves but who died tragically from an aneurysm suffered while lifting a large boulder off a small child during the freak landslide that accosted this small Kansas town are pathetic. We flock to Phantom of the Opera, oogle Gerard Butler (the actor who played Phantom) write distressing fan mail and tell every man we meet our life story, menstrual cycle and appropriate behaviors necessary for different mood swings. Then we wonder why we sit at home engaging in the aforementioned behavior and the cycle starts all over again.
And even knowing all that I can’t help but go back and see the damn movie again, and again (and again and again). It just speaks to the sap in me. Who am I to argue with beautiful, crazy, mask-wearing men proclaiming their love? For some reason I find myself more readily able to forgive the craziness I so often preach against when said crazy person is singing “Music of the Night” to me. Go figure.

So how is that for food for thought? I think I have divulged enough premenstrual thoughts to you all (fear the dark blue pills, fear them very much) and I leave now before I say something I mean, but never wanted anyone to know I mean.

Well, I suppose it’s that time again. I’ve had my vacation and as I have absolutely nothing to do at work right now there is no better thing than to blog. At least, that’s what I’m rationalizing. So the holidays are finally over. I have to say, I enjoy Christmas; I had a fabulous Christmas and New Years, but I am glad they are done. I’m just not a holiday girl anymore—the older I get the less sentimentality I seem to hold. Funny how that works.

And on a completely unrelated side note I urge you all to never, ever, eat Long John Silver’s. Sure, it tastes good, but I haven’t been quite right for two days now. There food just isn’t natural (and neither is the effect it is having on my body for that matter).

Okay, on the main event. You wouldn’t think I would wait all this time and not offer you a tirade worthy of your time? I would, but hopefully not this time—at least not intentionally. I actually have two events that are somewhat related, though not at first glance.

I offer you my thoughts on Phantom of the Opera and graduate school.

Oh Phantom, dear sweet Phantom. Has it struck anyone else’s notice you can wake up a fully functional adult, perhaps a bit nerdy but nothing overwhelmingly disturbing about your attitude and by the time you go to sleep you have devolved into a purely pathetic mass of gibbering, drooling obsessive mass? Perhaps I’m being a bit hard on myself, but I doubt it. I am preparing you, you understand, for the obsession that is about to be unleashed on this page. I am a pathetic mass of gibbering, drooling, obsessive mass you understand. I acknowledge it.

Besides, when The Phantom marries me one day it won’t matter. (Yes I know he’s a fictional character, I’m not that far gone…yet)

So—where to begin? Oh the movie is stupendous! If you do not like musicals, true musicals, you might not enjoy it as much as myself. If you aren’t a fan of well-executed melodrama you certainly won’t like it. But then again, perhaps you will. I am a huge fan of Andrew Lloyd Webber and while I have always liked the music of Phantom, not having seen the stage play I just didn’t get it. Then I saw the movie. It’s dark. It’s spectacular. It’s quite possibly the best love story ever told. Ya’all can keep Gone With The Wind. Rhett Butler’s got nothing on the Phantom.

I will grant you, Phantom is crazy. That is indisputable. But he loves Christine perfectly. He would never hurt, never cause her harm, would do anything to make her happy—and yet he is not whipped. He is not pathetic. He is regal, powerful, and still very much his own man. I’ll take a little crazy to get that. Granted, trying to keep him from killing all my friends he didn’t like would be a chore, but I think we could work through it. The point I’m trying to make is this: a few months ago I posted my thoughts on not wanting to cheapen myself with the “game”. Not wanting to fake the electricity between two people. This movie, the love in this movie is the real deal. It is a soul-binding eternal love that happens to one in every one-thousand couples (if that). That is what I’m after and that is what I won’t play the game to get. When I said I didn’t want to fake it, it was because in my heart I am still very much a hopeless romantic. I want it all or nothing at all. I am fully prepared to love someone as deeply as the Phantom loves Christine, but I will not accept Raoul instead. That was what I was attempting to communicate and perhaps didn’t get across as clearly as I hoped.

I am the Phantom. (See, told you I was a pathetic mass of gibbering, drooling, obsessive mass.) I should add when I said I was a romantic the word “twisted” should be included in there. I am a twisted human being, and perhaps that is why this story speaks so strongly to me.

Now, what does all of this have to do with graduate school you ask? How could cow-eyes over an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical possibly have a connection with my ever-shifting life plans? It all boils down to one thing—the will to live.

The Phantom was miserable—lonely and pathetic, his emotional growth stunted, but dammit he wanted to live. He wanted his life and he had a fire that was (is) undeniable. I watch that movie and I think, how can I, someone with no excuses, and no real reasons not to, neglect to live my life completely? How can I, an intelligent, virile young woman settle into oblivion with no better reason than laziness? I can get a job anywhere. I can support myself anywhere. I don’t doubt that. The thrill is in the experience. Where I live, who I’m with, what I’m doing. There is a whole wide world outside Illinois and I’m ready to jump into it. I made the move to Peoria, I liked it, but it is now time to move on. I’m going to grad school in Nevada or Massachusetts and should I not be accepted, I’ll move somewhere anyway. Come August I will no longer be an Illinois resident. I need mountains and ocean and vivacity. I need life.

Anyone who wants to come with me is more than welcome. We’ll make it work.