Rejection

I don't understand why it hurts so much.
How words on paper, that looks like any other ordinary paper: could find its way into my skin and boil to froth, and have it stream down my cheeks in the form of tears.

I don't understand why it hurts so much,
why it hurts at all
why it is even here at all.


From a young age I was told that wanting something was good enough. That wishing was good and working for that wish--- that wish would come true.

I should have learned then
that pulling out all the eyelashes in the world and wishing
and wishing
wouldn't make it true.

There is a big difference from earning something and wanting something.
To earn is to achieve.
To work hard in the endless night
not knowing the end or the way out
but still digging and digging
deeper into that mountain is to reach.
Digging until you have reached a core
a physical core
something you can hold in your hand
something that you can boil down to a science
a liquid
and drink it into your body
and possess.

You can't boil rejection.
Rejection is not a core.
Rejection is a weight.
A weight that ties you to the end of your bed
forcing your eyes open and scared
to stare at the endlessness of that tunnel
that tunnel that you were digging and digging and digging
and you're half way through that mountain
trapped under the cloth of darkness
with no direction
and no going back or forward
just---there
at the edge of that bed and a piece of paper.


There are quiet a few people in the word.
The optimist that sees the glass half full,
The pessimist that sees the glass half empty,
The opportunist that drinks the other half of the glass,
and the realist---who realizes that  a glass is a glass
and water is just water
and rejection is just rejection.


I don't know who I am.

Maybe that is the problem.
Maybe the problem is not the letter
Perhaps it is me.

I don't understand.

I don't understand and I don't understand why I don't want to understand.

What I want to know is that tub of ice cream in the freezer,
I want to know the bed sheets that I will wrap around me like the skin on my back
and the bed that I will drown in  and never emerge from....


This is a crappy poem.
Or essay, or whatever this lament
this dragging on depression is.

I don;t understand it.

I reject it.

It isn't good enough---
I don't understand why I am not good enough.


Of course life goes on.
It always goes on, I just don't know if it iwll be a good one.

after all, this paper of words is only a diction of my future.
My inevitable continuation of my education
and my education is my future
my education is all that I have.


I am afraid.
Deathly afraid  that once I leave school
Once I abandon my textbooks and classes
my teachers and my peers
that I will fade to a background
that I will work 9 to 5
and yes and no a customer
that I will not understand questions when they are asked to me
That I will not know the answer to how much that salad plate is
or what time the next bus is at
That I will not know why I do not know these answers
that an entire generation and education will wash over my skin and leave me dry.

I want to dip my feet
I want to dive in
but I am so scared---
I am so scared to look down and see that the pool is empty.


My pool is empty.



And I don't understand why.

2/17/2014 ---- 2/21/2014 BLOGS

MONDAY

OHMYGOD
Senior showcase. it actually happened. No one died, No one cried (that much), and it all went smooth-ish-ly.

I would go on and on and on, but most of you reading were there PLUS I'm really lazy and all. So ya.
SENIOR SHOWCASE IS DONE!


TUESDAY
I began my first read-through of Hannah's Freshman Showcase play; SURPRISE.

I didn't take any real notes because I want a clean blank read through--- (also because I did so in class and couldn't open it at home).
I started my "lesson plan" for what I am teaching the freshmen. (SO MUCH FUN!)
which I will share to Aladren. it is very messy but is somehow still functional to me---so ya.


WEDNESDAY
I started going over what the freshmen wrote in class--- Its not HORRIBLE----okay, it is pretty horrible---and I feel my favoritism starting to kick in. BUT I CANT LET THAT HAPPEN!

I didn't exactly do much else: so---that makes me a bad teacher I guess.....


THURSDAY

I "went" (and by went I mean drove  around NYC and got stuck in traffic for 3 HOURS) to go see a show that I only saw the last 20 minutes of----BUT IM STILL SAYING IT WAS A THING> because I went with Young Playwrights as an internship thingy---so ya. that's my blog of the day.


FRIDAY
I did another read through of SURPRISE and gave Kimani a voice lesson. I was going to stay after with Nyasia but she kinda stood me up in class---burrrnnn!

I am yet to start note-taking on the drive because I only have a PDF---trying to convert. I will probably do so on sunday.

Birthdays

Sitting in the parking lot of Toys-R-Us has never been so thrilling.

Why am I in the parking lot and not the store, you ask?
Well to be quite honest----I don't know why.
My dad went in an hour ago to get a gift for my nephew and apparently I have "issues" around toys. (LIFE LESSON #1: you are never too old to play with legos in the middle of a Toys-R-Us).

But getting back on topic: my dad went in AN HOUR AGO to get a toy for my nephew. Tomorrow he will be 10. The big 1-0.
And I will officially be old.

I remember holding him in my arms in that white hospital room thinking "Damn----you are one fat son-of-a-bitch. Welcome to the family".

I have had the pleasure of watching him grow, from a chubby little cherub---to a tall lean-mean dinosaur hunting machine. I have seen him learn how to speak, how to walk, and how to fight. I have observed him grow into his own; and now----in only a few hours---my little nephew will begin his double digits.

Tomorrow will be his day, and I'm sure it will be filled with dinosaur themed cake, and ninja fighting pinatas, and all that jazz.

Tomorrow we celebrate his birth.

See---that is something I never understood.

Birthdays.
it's not what it is that confuses me. I mean, come on, it is a literal BIRTH DAY----it's not that hard to comprehend.

What confuses me is this---- why am I celebrating your birth?
Like---what the hell did you do?

Now, I'm not a doctor or anything---but I can almost grantee that you didn't conceive yourself. You didn't think yourself into existence.

No.

Someone had to carry you around for 9 months in their belly, then push you----at the size of a watermelon---through a half-of a fist sized vagina---- and then on top of that---- they had to feed you, clothe you, and so on for the next 18 years or so.

What did you do that was so great?
It was the doctor that pulled you out, cut your chord, made sure you were living----
Your mother literally thrusted you into the world, okay?
9 MONTHS.

That is 273 days with a human being inside of your body.
Feeding off of you.
Taking parts of you---your blood--- and putting it into themselves.
That is messed up.
That's not "a little angel in your stomach"
That is a parasite.


Okay, it is a cute parasite---but it doesn't make a difference. A fetus is is solely dependent on its mother.

So in short: I don't get why we celebrate a baby's birth.
I think we should celebrate those that made your existence possible.


Next time your birthday comes around: I want you to say

"Hey mom. Hey dad. Thank you. For fucking. Because I now exist"

I want you to call up that doctor that helped you enter this world and say:

"Hello Sir and or Mam. 16 years ago you stuck your hand into my mother's vagina and pulled me out---that was really cool of you. Thanks"

I want you to get your mother an ice cream cake
and I want you to profusely love her and hug her because she made you possible.

I know we have mother's day---- but a day really isn't enough.
You can't do a lot in a day---- in 273 days----well, that's a different answer----


Now I don't want to get rid of birthday's all together.

Don't get me wrong: I love birthdays.

I still remember my 4th birthday when I woke up and found a ball-pit in my room--- and I screamed so much and I jumped in and I broke that thing within 3 minutes.

I still remember hearing my parents breathing heavily that night from blowing up each individual ball----
They did that for me.

For my birthday.

I remember they specifically made a pink butter cream barbie cake for me because they couldn't find the shade of pink I liked best at a shoprite store so they spent all afternoon slaving over an oven baking for me.

My parents did so much for me-- for something I didn't even do.

That's why I want to change birthdays....

I want to make birthdays into birthweeks.

Everyone who was a part of the process should get their own day.

Mother's day, Father's Day, Doctor's Day, and your day. Because birth---creation---- isn't a job for one person.

It takes passion, and effort, and love.

And that's what a birthday really is about: love.

Your parents love you enough to bring you into this world--- to stay up all night and blow up tiny little balls for you---- to make you a cake, and invite your snotty little friends over for a party----and buy you some really expensive gift that you will most likely break by the end of the night----


Birthdays are about love--- so let yourself be loved. Just don't forget to love them back. Let your love be known.


Happy Birthday little nephew.

Love,
Hayley Michelle Trachtenberg

"BLOGS" for this week!!!

EEEPPP

I just got the email that there were blogs this week!

So I really didn't plan on that---because well,I thought there were no blogs this week!
BUT I was at rehearsal all week  (and even this Saturday!)


SO I guess those were blogs?

I did work REALLY hard on getting my spoken word done---but I don't really have any physical proof---(except my amazing performance---which I have self dubbed amazing because I don't laugh cry when I say it out loud in front of human beings).


SO please don't give me an F for this blog!

I'm quirky.
I did things.

That's all folks.



-Hayley