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  • Meghan Hurley

technicolor


 

Over the course of the last few months, several people have reached out thanking me for putting their silent feelings into written word. Apparently, there have been more than a few tears shed, a lot of “Oh my God she shattered PLATES!?”, and an occasional text to my mother trying to tell her I am “lost”. I am in fact, okay. I’m happy, I’m growing more and more with every passing day, I’m learning a whole lot, and I haven’t slept past noon since May (on purpose).

When I write, I’m not exaggerating emotion, or trying to tug at your heartstrings. I like to play the ball as it lies, no backspace, no delete. Some of the lessons I’ve learned and stories I’ve been telling go as far back as my sophomore year of high school, and some are more recent. 

I don’t like to cry, at all. In fact I typically can’t cry, no matter how hard I clench my jaw, no matter how long I keep a steady gaze without blinking. There have been times when I’ve been in situations where I should cry, but I simply cannot muster a single tear. Totally makes me feel like a b*tch so I’ll try and strain my voice a little bit, or turn my face away from you to make you at least think I’m crying. It’s not that I don’t get upset, because believe me I do.  

To whoever is reading this, thank you. Thank you for supporting me, believing in me, and most of all listening to me. To whoever finds comfort in my stories, or makes a home in my words. To whoever quotes me (tread lightly), or keeps my thought in the back of their mind. When I can’t cry, I’m glad you can.

 

{I have a favorite color for my husband, red.  It reminds me of our college days when we met.  I can close my eyes and still picture him wearing this red hat as a 20 year old Dayton student.  I felt like it complimented his rich brown eyes and blonde hair.  That memory always makes me smile.}

{Lavender, my childhood fuzzy Lisa Frank journal. I used to write about my crushes, or my childhood dreams. It reminds me of innocence.}

{Red. It’s resilient, courageous. It’s powerful}

{I like yellow. It reminds me of the sun,” this is the best part, “but when I’m sober. I like seeing the sun sober. Hungover sun is very different.}

{Blue… really light, calm, blue. It reminds me of everything I’ve been through, and everything I’ve healed from.}


{Pink feels feminine, pretty. It reminds me of the bows my mom used to put in my hair when I couldn’t tell left from right, let alone match my outfits. Cute little beach houses too, and how the sky dances in pink right before the sunset.}


{I’ve never thought about it, to tell you the truth meg. I guess I’m a wet blanket. I did always like your grandmother’s eyes, they were such a deep brown. Even as she faded, they never did. I sure did love her, your eyes remind me of hers.}


{Orange. When I was younger, my best friend at the time had these deep brown eyes. He used to carry a mini flashlight in his backpack and at recess we’d take turns shining it in each other’s eyes. One of his eyes has this orange goldish fleck in it but you can’t see it without the flashlight. He made me love orange so much and I didn’t even know why until I sat down to think about this. He was my first kiss, too.}

I remember the first time I ever put on a pair of glasses, I was in the 4th grade. I couldn’t see the board, so a friend lent me hers. I put ‘em on and it was like I saw Jesus in that classroom. 

When I got my own pair, I remember asking my mom if everyone could see all those leaves on the trees. I didn’t know it was possible to see anything in the sky besides blue, I didn’t know you could see the waves from the shore, I didn’t know I’d be able to pick out my little brother from the side of the ice rink.

I couldn’t believe that I had gone so long without them, it was like seeing the world in color, for the very first time.

 

A few months back I wrote about the dangers of a routine. Now, mid October, or whatever month it is for those of us who have simply failed to exist over the last several, it’s not a routine we’ve developed but rather a lifestyle. I try to stray from referring to “how it used to be”, or “when it was normal”, because I’m quite frankly unsure of what is yet to come, and I don’t want to hang my hat on reminiscing. 

I try to notice my constants. I don’t like to rely on recurrence, but I’ve grown to value consistency. Maybe the purple scrunchie I wear on my wrist every time I leave the house, the boxers I wear to bed each night, the person I look for in every crowded room.

I’m a deep thinker, but I’m no stranger to the harm in reflection. Believe me. I know it’s easier to just move on, distract yourself from the weird peace sign you held up when he said hey, or the uncomfortable singing in the background noise of your snapchat story last night. Overthinking and dissecting yourself until suddenly the scalpel nicks a nerve and anxiety floods in. It can be deadly, no doubt. I find the line between overthinking and reflecting to be so fine, and so narrow, that it becomes difficult to tell even the smallest difference. That being said, both sides of the tightrope are vulnerable. Vulnerability is scary, horrifying, even. But being vulnerable, being able to distinguish a weakness from a mistake, is necessary. Being able to remember your careful boundaries is the most important step in establishing how you should be treated both by yourself and whoever else you cross paths with. Vulnerability, noticing vulnerability, leads to accountability. 

Courage isn’t necessarily the bravery to make it to the top of the hill, but rather trusting yourself not to fall once you start running down the other side

’I'm not an optimist, but I don’t think that I’m a pessimist, either. 

It’s not so black and white, you know. 

It’s orange, and it’s blue. 

Sometimes it’s red, sometimes it’s yellow. 


There’s a special feeling around the idea of “rose colored glasses”, but I think we can do just fine without ‘em. I fell in love without rose colored glasses. My blues were brighter, my reds were harsher. My yellow was more radiant, and my orange only grew warmer. 

I think when you live in a hue of pink, you leave very little room for growth. When you idealize, or romanticize absolutely everything, there’s no leeway. Sooner or later red flags are so jaded they blend in with the green. We’ve learned to equate colors with feelings, and feelings with people. Memories are important, no matter how ugly they get. You gotta let yourself feel, and it’s not fair to beat yourself up over a gray area just because it took you longer to get to the yellow one. If you made a map of your life, color coded, I think you’d be surprised. 

There’s a certain consistency in color regardless of the shade, the hue, the saturation or the tone. Universally, we recognize meaning in colors. It can be a feeling, for example, blue is attributed to sadness, red to anger, yellow to sunshine.

Or it can be a memory.

This is not really about the importance of a favorite color, or about the urgency to separate a blue from a pink. It’s a congratulations for everyone who turned that gray crayon into green, and for those special few who can recognize a red flag when they see one. It’s the whole box of crayons, the entire paint palette. It’s zooming in on the rainbow, watching the gradient. 

More importantly, it’s a conscious stop of the clock to realize you’ve done more, and you are more, than just one defining moment. More than a blue when everyone preferred yellow. More than a bright red when he saw in black and white. More than whatever color you had to be in order to grow the nerve to stop trying to check a box that you are far too big to fit in. 

There is beauty in the vulnerability of light and dark.

After all, the sun loves the moon so much he dies each night to let her breathe. Who is more vulnerable than the moon trusting the sun to rise and set, time and time again? 



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