Dear brain, please sleep.

Truth: This is how I'll always be. I've fought against myself, trying to silence my loudness. I was wary of the sound of my own voice. In private conversations, I'd try to take it down a few decibels. I boomed and echoed. In a show I did, I wasn't allowed a microphone because I was naturally so much louder than the rest of the cast. My best friend was embarrassed by the loudness, the unrestrainability of my laughter. I learned to be embarrassed, too. And yes, embarrassment was something I had to learn. It didn't come naturally to me, but once I learned it, I knew it well. I banned family from my piano recitals, afraid of a wrong note, an unpleasant sound. You can cry all you want my grandfather told me but don't make no noise. And for years I've tried to discover the secret I thought everyone else knew, how to be happy with the status quo and learn to peacefully roll along, unasking. My questions are a nuissance, I assure you moreso to me than to you. I know you don't want to talk about it, but as much as I have a responsibility to you, so, too, do you have a responsibility to me. We share this space. So I'll ask all I want, loudly, rudely if I have to.
I used to sprint off from time to time like a mad woman, into the woods. Once, snow lured me out. Once, I was fleeing. Another time, an injured fawn stood and waited for me to heed her situation. I chased her out through briers and vines, no time to put on more clothing than the bikini I was already wearing. I scratched up my stomach, arms, and legs, following her. She wouldn't let me touch her, come too close. But across twisted, reaching branches, I caught her glance, beheld her dark-eyed beauty. I hope she knew at least that she was seen. I saw where the animal had gnawed her hind quarters, causing her to limp. I hope on some level she knew someone wanted to help, even though she couldn't. I came tumbling over the bank, bursting through leaves and weeds, landing back on asphalt where two friends walked. They looked at my scratched body, lightly bleeding in a couple areas, looked confused, concerned. I needed to talk to someone in charge, I informed them. A beautiful young deer, fresh white spots on her back, was injured and probably dying in the woods, and I'd been trusted to get her help. I ran across the property, still not stopping for clothes or shoes, flung open the office door. I was assured a call would be made. Two days later, as I supervised children flinging themselves off the high dive, a truck went back into the woods and left property with a dead fawn in the back. The kids were doing flips, back dives, watermelons. And I wondered, if they slipped, could I really save them? Could I really do anything more than just watch?


...this is not where I intended to take this. What I meant to say was, things made more sense when I was loud and did things like dart off into the woods. I don't do that anymore. And I need to.