A week has slipped away. I gathered the clothes I intentionally left on the floor ignoring them for several days because of my own negligence. I've been cleaning my bedroom for an hour now. Things are constantly moving, though not exactly where they should be. Many people find that cleaning is more manageable with a music on and maybe some form of motivation. I find that music actually detracts from my focus and I also have a strong aversion to loud sounds. I know that’s unfortunate.
I need to get rid of some things that are useless now because they’re obsolete and only contribute to the mess. Seeing the cluttered pile of clothes strewn about in a disorderly fashion, cables intertwined with each other and a collection of papers on the top shelves that haven’t been touched in four months since I tried sketching, which served me no purpose. I was just stressfully forcing myself just to show beyond my doubt. I've come to understand that art doesn’t appeal to me. And a pile of assorted things remaining out of order. It seems to me that I'm close to reaching a stage where I can finally organize everything. For now I prefer to see it that way. Having a pessimistic outlook won’t lead me to my objective.
“. . . I fail each day.”
Those words keep replaying in my mind, as if they’re here to stay. Dad and I managed a quick talk, but it didn’t unfold the way I had imagined. It took me years to confront him and release all the emotions I had been holding onto. I wasn’t prepared, as I’ve always found it easier to just ignore things. We both always struggled to express vulnerability or engage in open, empathetic conversations. The emotional distance between us has been a heavy burden, making it difficult to feel truly connected or understood. I can’t escape hearing him talk about his regret. His tear-streaked face and the sweat making him look damp remain clear in my mind.
I couldn’t bring myself to tell him I forgave him because I felt it wouldn’t be enough. I recognize that my experiences changed me from a once-gentle kid to someone who is now emotionally detached. It’s not something I’m particularly proud of. I find it hard to view myself through the same hopeful lens I once did, as the pain and challenges I’ve faced have altered how I see my own abilities and worth. The harsh realities I’ve faced have challenged my earlier beliefs, making me see the world as less predictable and more unforgiving.
I’m finally somewhat pleased with the results of my small cleanup. I woke up at nine and immediately thought about making some changes around. I also chose to move my bed to a different corner to avoid being greeted by the sunlight. Right now I’m in the process of finding the most basic dress I have for the event I’m attending for Laurel’s dance. I don’t want to look like I’m headed to bed, which is what Laurel mentioned to me last week. The problem is that I’ve already tried everything, but some clothes I have no longer fit and most are from my early teens. None of these look suitable for an event. I understand that my appearance doesn’t matter as long as I keep my promise to attend, but perhaps I should text her to borrow some options.
After a few hours, she showed up with a collection of clothes still hanging on garments. She was having a hard time entering my room because she was loaded down with various things. “You said options, here's your options.” She intentionally dropped all the items on the carpet, looking visibly worn out. I asked her to bring me a few options, not her entire wardrobe. I began selecting for something to wear, but all the dresses she brought are too revealing and tight for me. I’m not as well shaped as she is.
“I asked for a basic dress, not one suited for a fancy—”
“That’s everything I’ve got. Are you telling me you had me choose all these for you only to not wear any of them?”
I know I said I’d wear a dress, but she was right—I ended up in jeans and the simplest top I could find. To make her feel better, I also committed to wearing something like that in the near future. Given that she brought everything with her, Laurel chose to get ready here to guarantee that I would go as well. Once I was all dressed, I waited for her in the living room and encountered Dad preparing to head out. “Going somewhere with Laurel?” He paused just to ask me that and I responded with a nod.
“You look nice, Carilee.” He seems hesitant about whether to go or say something else. He’s making an effort to avoid expressing what he really wants to say. He’s not the type to call me by my full name for no reason. He used to call me that when I was a kid because he loved the name, however, he calls me by that name when he's about to offer valuable advice as well, just like he did when I was younger. I felt a sudden pound in my chest as I watched him leave.
“Hey, you ready?” Laurel came over and draped a light blue scarf around my neck. “Don’t look at me like that, Cari. There's nothing wrong with what you're wearing, I just think this looks cute on you and I'm right.”
She’s dressed in a mini skirt adorned with vibrant specks and a matching tank top, accented by a ribbon pinned near the collar. While the outfit is quite striking, it suits her perfectly. “Do you mind driving? I need to finish my makeup.”
As I waited for Laurel to finish loading all her stuff into the car, I noticed a picture of us hanging below her rearview mirror. If my memory serves me correctly, this was about two years ago when she managed to get me into a photobooth with her. “Is it okay if I do your makeup?” She asked after she entered and buckled up.
“I’m good, besides I'm not performing tonight.” The sky was painted with the hues of dusk, a soft gradient of oranges and purples and as I navigated through the winding roads, I found myself embracing the serenity that only a drive can offer.
