There are man kinds of disappointment. Most times, an intense let down is only strong for a few fleeting moments. However, there is one kinda of disappointment that is haunting. This kind is tearful and seemingly eternal. It is white knuckled fury and a gut contorting sadness. It is not only the feeling of failure, but the feeling of self abandonment. Yes, there is nothing worse than disappointing yourself.
How could I ever lose this feeling, this moment. Moist, grey gym. Justin Timberlake screaming, his falsetto tones bouncing against the 4 poster walls. 12 years old, with my tight yellow tee shirt, jeans, and maroon clogs. The boys' hair sticks to their foreheads like wet grass on my soccer cleats. They smell like wet grass, too. The song switches to the Jonas Brothers "When You Look Me in the Eyes," and the blood is pounding in my ears. These 3 minutes will determine my night. If I get asked to dance, I will feel special and valuable and worth something. I will maybe even go over to Sam's house afterwords, and sneak out and do things that break rules. But if I am not chosen to put my arms over some kid's shoulders, wrists resting on doughy shoulder blades, I will become self deprecating, embarrassed, and will walk the 3 miles home, crying. This is 7th grade.
Please, God, I am already alone, so don't make me be alone tonight, in this gym.
I stand sideways, trying to catch glimpses of my options. Is anyone left? Shit, maybe if I had been nicer to Liam, or even Seth yesterday they'd pick me. Oh, please, please pick me. I need this. I can't ask you, you have to ask me.
The song is over. I look down at my tight, yellow tee shirt and feel funny. What's wrong with me?
Great Job Emily! You do a good job writing your thoughts down, this really feels like a slice of your life. Also, it feels very relatable. Near the end of the dance, watching everyone else slow dancing, and hoping someone will ask you to dance, then the disappointment when no one does; you really do capture the feeling well. Loved it
A flurry of thoughts comes with knowing you have let not only yourself down, but your team. It can be as little as taking a bad first touch, losing possession and having to track back and play defense, "F**k man, why'd I do that?" Or it can be as bad as ending a season for your team, instantly killing any chance of a postseason run. I would say it's worse letting 10 other teammates down, but there is nothing worse than making mistake and honestly being able to say, "I know I can do better." It is important to use this disappointment, anger, or perhaps self loathing, as motivation (Where'd you get that one, Isaac, the cliche store?)-- every day you have to remember the pain of letting yourself down, and use it to say, "I'm going to give this practice everything I've got", or "I'm going to play my hardest today." What's important about a disappointment is not that you let yourself, and perhaps others, down, and not that you wallow in self pity, but that you use that pain to better yourself.
The little house, or rather, shed, has been decorated far too elaborately. The banners over the door, the streamers draped haphazardly across the roof, and the little skeleton decorations looked ridiculous. But to my 10 year-old self, they were the most foreboding sight of the entire night. In the dark, with the bright lights and smoke coming from inside, I felt slightly sick from worry. "I guess we should go in," Darcy says, sounding far too confident. She's insane, I think. This place is way too mature for us. Only really old people, like at least 15 years old, should be here. A slight squeak sounds from next to me, echoing the terror I feel. "Don't be babies. It'll be super cool!" Darcy insists, pushing us towards the door. Man, I think, I'm never going trick-or-treating with her again.
The ride to school is full of comforting certainties. Out of Gorham, the sun rises and the 7:30 rock and roll plays in the car. I finish my Greek homework in my front-seat sanctuary. In Westbrook, we pass the nail salon with the Birth of Venus sign in a Botticelli universe, across from the park, the church, the River’s Edge Deli. In my opinion, Sandra Botticelli would greatly approve of this setting. The Birth of Venus is about the creation of something beautiful, and, although unorthodox, a nail salon does indeed portray his vision. Then we turn on one of the Holy Trinity (being Gaga, Lana, or Marina). Lately, my pump song of choice has been one of the ARTPOP snippets. “You want to pity me because we raise women to love?” The Deliverance Center is next. It’s a large brick building, shades always down, bus in the back that says “REVIVAL CRUSADES”. I think they’re conducting illegal cloning experiments or perhaps witchcraft inside. Onto Danforth Street and up to school. I face my day. WWLGD?
I'm sitting on a bench in a gym they're using for a dance. It's dark and music is playing. There are a few lights but not very exciting colors, maybe tan and red and blue, but not much variety past that. And they're really plain. There's light coming from the hallway. The light was a rude awakening to the reality of this getaway, like meeting a man in a tuxedo with a rose in his pocket but his fly is down and you can see the bottom of his dress shirt poking out and there's an odd miscolored stain. Yeah its exciting to see him, and he's got some interesting stuff with him, but the reality of it is he's a dolt and very awkward. Such was the feeling I got from looking at the white-ish green light shining from the hallway. I'm dressed in a black suit, white dress shirt, and a red clip-on tie. I should have put a bit more effort into it, what with this being a formal dance, but the clothing wasn't going to effect how I enjoyed it, I was going to meet friends there. And I thought, it doesn't matter what I wear as long as I have my friends. In a way that was true, no matter what I probably would have still had a crappy time, black suit or not.
I was so glad she did not say it. I had come home late, something I rarely ever do, but it was hours past when I said I would be back. My phone vibrated over and over again but I ignored it. I looked down eventually. 34 missed calls. But how could I possibly leave this perfection? The oxytocin in the car was lingering and I wrapped myself in it. He asked, "When do you have to be back?" I said, "Two hours ago." He looked at me with a bit of concern, and that was it. We went back. And he left. That was it. I walked upstairs to find my parents sitting upstairs, fuming. I knew they were mad, but I was terrified they would be disappointed in me. "Are you mad?" I asked. No response. They were. "Are you disappointed?" They told me of course not, just worried. I should have provided an explanation but there is only so much a girl can tell her parents.
“The ball is round, the game ninety minutes, the rest is theory.” Pass and move, pass and move, total football, keep it end to end with the overlapping run. Take a touch, look up, distribute into space. It’s the tenets of our creed, as we try to control the uncontrollable--the movement of the ball, and the result of the game. Its July 8th preseason is under way with summer soccer bringing my team to the holy land of Greater Portland Christian. Their fields are outside elaborate halls of their school. The four of us who arrived lack eagerness. The light is dim, and it is already six. The sidelined carries an abundance of fresh dew, and the pitch is muddy from days of rain. The game begins with easy passing culminating in chance after chance. Our opponents, absent of touch, jump and stab cleats up after every tackle. Ease creeps into my mind. I casually tap a ball out wide where an opposing player picks it off; however, his poor touch brings it right into vicinity of my left leg. Tired, I awkwardly stomp my foot on the muddy pitch; the ground under me sinks, and in moment I feel as though my leg has detached from my knee. I collapse to ground, thinking of the inevitable pain that will soon rotate through the joints of my fragile leg, I pray this is not end, but I already know the answer.
Disappointment is a fickle thing. However, this was not the throughout running through my head as I stood up to take the awkward bow at my piano recital. I had forgotten the piece midway through, stopped completely, abandoned the whole thing and started again. Even on the second attempt it was nothing special, I wouldn't have forgotten it the first time if it had been. I looked out into the crowd, seeing my mom and dad, my grandmother and my little sister, all awkwardly clapping. Even those in the crowd I did not know clapped for me, hoping that somehow their support could ease my pain. They were sadly mistaken however.
There are man kinds of disappointment. Most times, an intense let down is only strong for a few fleeting moments. However, there is one kinda of disappointment that is haunting. This kind is tearful and seemingly eternal. It is white knuckled fury and a gut contorting sadness.
ReplyDeleteIt is not only the feeling of failure, but the feeling of self abandonment. Yes, there is nothing worse than disappointing yourself.
How could I ever lose this feeling, this moment. Moist, grey gym. Justin Timberlake screaming, his falsetto tones bouncing against the 4 poster walls. 12 years old, with my tight yellow tee shirt, jeans, and maroon clogs. The boys' hair sticks to their foreheads like wet grass on my soccer cleats. They smell like wet grass, too. The song switches to the Jonas Brothers "When You Look Me in the Eyes," and the blood is pounding in my ears. These 3 minutes will determine my night. If I get asked to dance, I will feel special and valuable and worth something. I will maybe even go over to Sam's house afterwords, and sneak out and do things that break rules. But if I am not chosen to put my arms over some kid's shoulders, wrists resting on doughy shoulder blades, I will become self deprecating, embarrassed, and will walk the 3 miles home, crying. This is 7th grade.
ReplyDeletePlease, God, I am already alone, so don't make me be alone tonight, in this gym.
I stand sideways, trying to catch glimpses of my options. Is anyone left? Shit, maybe if I had been nicer to Liam, or even Seth yesterday they'd pick me. Oh, please, please pick me. I need this. I can't ask you, you have to ask me.
The song is over. I look down at my tight, yellow tee shirt and feel funny. What's wrong with me?
Great Job Emily! You do a good job writing your thoughts down, this really feels like a slice of your life. Also, it feels very relatable. Near the end of the dance, watching everyone else slow dancing, and hoping someone will ask you to dance, then the disappointment when no one does; you really do capture the feeling well. Loved it
DeleteA flurry of thoughts comes with knowing you have let not only yourself down, but your team. It can be as little as taking a bad first touch, losing possession and having to track back and play defense, "F**k man, why'd I do that?" Or it can be as bad as ending a season for your team, instantly killing any chance of a postseason run. I would say it's worse letting 10 other teammates down, but there is nothing worse than making mistake and honestly being able to say, "I know I can do better." It is important to use this disappointment, anger, or perhaps self loathing, as motivation (Where'd you get that one, Isaac, the cliche store?)-- every day you have to remember the pain of letting yourself down, and use it to say, "I'm going to give this practice everything I've got", or "I'm going to play my hardest today." What's important about a disappointment is not that you let yourself, and perhaps others, down, and not that you wallow in self pity, but that you use that pain to better yourself.
ReplyDeleteThe little house, or rather, shed, has been decorated far too elaborately. The banners over the door, the streamers draped haphazardly across the roof, and the little skeleton decorations looked ridiculous. But to my 10 year-old self, they were the most foreboding sight of the entire night. In the dark, with the bright lights and smoke coming from inside, I felt slightly sick from worry.
ReplyDelete"I guess we should go in," Darcy says, sounding far too confident. She's insane, I think. This place is way too mature for us. Only really old people, like at least 15 years old, should be here. A slight squeak sounds from next to me, echoing the terror I feel.
"Don't be babies. It'll be super cool!" Darcy insists, pushing us towards the door. Man, I think, I'm never going trick-or-treating with her again.
The ride to school is full of comforting certainties. Out of Gorham, the sun rises and the 7:30 rock and roll plays in the car. I finish my Greek homework in my front-seat sanctuary. In Westbrook, we pass the nail salon with the Birth of Venus sign in a Botticelli universe, across from the park, the church, the River’s Edge Deli. In my opinion, Sandra Botticelli would greatly approve of this setting. The Birth of Venus is about the creation of something beautiful, and, although unorthodox, a nail salon does indeed portray his vision. Then we turn on one of the Holy Trinity (being Gaga, Lana, or Marina). Lately, my pump song of choice has been one of the ARTPOP snippets. “You want to pity me because we raise women to love?”
ReplyDeleteThe Deliverance Center is next. It’s a large brick building, shades always down, bus in the back that says “REVIVAL CRUSADES”. I think they’re conducting illegal cloning experiments or perhaps witchcraft inside.
Onto Danforth Street and up to school. I face my day. WWLGD?
I'm sitting on a bench in a gym they're using for a dance. It's dark and music is playing. There are a few lights but not very exciting colors, maybe tan and red and blue, but not much variety past that. And they're really plain. There's light coming from the hallway. The light was a rude awakening to the reality of this getaway, like meeting a man in a tuxedo with a rose in his pocket but his fly is down and you can see the bottom of his dress shirt poking out and there's an odd miscolored stain. Yeah its exciting to see him, and he's got some interesting stuff with him, but the reality of it is he's a dolt and very awkward. Such was the feeling I got from looking at the white-ish green light shining from the hallway.
ReplyDeleteI'm dressed in a black suit, white dress shirt, and a red clip-on tie. I should have put a bit more effort into it, what with this being a formal dance, but the clothing wasn't going to effect how I enjoyed it, I was going to meet friends there. And I thought, it doesn't matter what I wear as long as I have my friends. In a way that was true, no matter what I probably would have still had a crappy time, black suit or not.
I was so glad she did not say it. I had come home late, something I rarely ever do, but it was hours past when I said I would be back. My phone vibrated over and over again but I ignored it. I looked down eventually. 34 missed calls. But how could I possibly leave this perfection? The oxytocin in the car was lingering and I wrapped myself in it. He asked, "When do you have to be back?" I said, "Two hours ago." He looked at me with a bit of concern, and that was it. We went back. And he left. That was it. I walked upstairs to find my parents sitting upstairs, fuming. I knew they were mad, but I was terrified they would be disappointed in me. "Are you mad?" I asked. No response. They were. "Are you disappointed?" They told me of course not, just worried. I should have provided an explanation but there is only so much a girl can tell her parents.
ReplyDelete“The ball is round, the game ninety minutes, the rest is theory.” Pass and move, pass and move, total football, keep it end to end with the overlapping run. Take a touch, look up, distribute into space. It’s the tenets of our creed, as we try to control the uncontrollable--the movement of the ball, and the result of the game. Its July 8th preseason is under way with summer soccer bringing my team to the holy land of Greater Portland Christian. Their fields are outside elaborate halls of their school. The four of us who arrived lack eagerness. The light is dim, and it is already six. The sidelined carries an abundance of fresh dew, and the pitch is muddy from days of rain.
ReplyDeleteThe game begins with easy passing culminating in chance after chance. Our opponents, absent of touch, jump and stab cleats up after every tackle. Ease creeps into my mind. I casually tap a ball out wide where an opposing player picks it off; however, his poor touch brings it right into vicinity of my left leg. Tired, I awkwardly stomp my foot on the muddy pitch; the ground under me sinks, and in moment I feel as though my leg has detached from my knee. I collapse to ground, thinking of the inevitable pain that will soon rotate through the joints of my fragile leg, I pray this is not end, but I already know the answer.
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteDisappointment is a fickle thing. However, this was not the throughout running through my head as I stood up to take the awkward bow at my piano recital. I had forgotten the piece midway through, stopped completely, abandoned the whole thing and started again. Even on the second attempt it was nothing special, I wouldn't have forgotten it the first time if it had been. I looked out into the crowd, seeing my mom and dad, my grandmother and my little sister, all awkwardly clapping. Even those in the crowd I did not know clapped for me, hoping that somehow their support could ease my pain. They were sadly mistaken however.
ReplyDelete