Dwelling. 3:03AM

The hardest thing in the world can be to forget. Possesing memory is both a beauty and a beast. I am a person who thrives on memories, to shape me into who I am. And the last thing I ever want to do is forget who I am. But dwelling on hard times, while so easy to do, is equally as difficult to avoid. Especially hard when a foreboding theme (Lonliness, Failure, Desperation, etc.) plays center stage. While, for the most part, I dwell on memories past with  sort of bittersweet fondness, there are times when Lonliness and Desperation  put their two cents in, and I am sent reeling, into an abyss where I tirelessly think about who I let down, what I should have done differently, when I should have thought twice (or stopped thinking so much), where I lost myself, why chose my path, and how I ever survived it all. Don't get me wrong, most of the time, only a strong affirmation of my life decisions comes from these obsessive tirades of memory jogs. But there are instances, no matter how few and far between, do I take these obsessive tirades to the next level. Calling up a completely unsuitable ex boyfriend, crying over the abandonment of a broken friendship, planning an escape route to a normal life.

Now, anyone who knows me on any level, or who has even read my previous posts, knows one thing for certain about me: I am not a dweller. I do not go back. I am the queen of looking into my future, which is both vividly, technicolor bright, and as shiny as a clar lake on a sunny day. but even I have bad days (see above). And I think my strong sense of purpose, and direction, in life, causes me to be a wee bit crazier  when these weak moments hit. It takes me a few extra tears, swears, or primal screams to regain the focus. But that's not the point. To say anyone is above a weak moment is to say we've become a world of plastic (which, we're well on our way, but that's a different story).  No, my point here, is to analyze what drives me to this point of near insanity.

As a person who handles change very, very well, I don't handle change very well.

Hello, contradiction, nice to meet you.

I am a person who handles change, when I am in control of it. I do very well reinventing my life, introducting new backdrops, hairstyles, relationships, etc. into the mix. I pride myself in my ability to spice up my life as I see fit, with just the right blend of sweet and savory. I can handle a new life like nobody's business, as long as it's premeditated, and as long as it as my idea to begin with. Oh, the woes of being a slight control-freak. However, what sends me into a fling backspin of agony, is when something that is just perfect, is suddenly thrown out of alignment for me. Such as someone who I've grown to love, as a confidante, partner in crime, and all-but-blood family member, being taken from me. Not in the mortal sense (no one died), but in the "I'm moving to a different country" sense. And this is something I am refusing to accept. This person is a concrete part of my life. In my special blend of herbs and spices, he is my salt. A basic, but amazingly necessary ingredient. I haven't quite figured out how I'll live my life, without him playing his integral role in it. And yes, dearest audience, I am well aware he is not dying, and I can therefore talk to him as much as I please, but it's different. A short phone convo when our schedules just happen to align is no match for meeting in the garage at 2 am for late-night chats. A quick text message about what movies we've both seen is NOTHING compared to sitting on the couch for 6 hours watching movies, before heading out to see one at the theater. A quick visit where we grab some coffee can't replace BBQing a feast for two, just for the hell of it. He has become part of my routine. A part which I enjoy very, very much. And while I can't be happier for the new direction his life is taking him, it breaks my heart just a little that I'll be missing out on it.

Ad this is the part where I wage an internal war.
Head: "It's okay, Tonya. You are young and fun and surrounded by joy and love. Things will happen for you, and they will be great!"
Heart: "But it won't be the SAME."
Head: "But that's okay, Tonya. You love your new adventures, you love welcoming new souls into your life. Look at this as a positive opportunity!"
Heart: "BUT! It won' be the SAME."
Head:  "But Tonya, you are strong, you aren't here to depend on other people for happiness, you are here to find your own hapiness!"
Heart: "Shut up head. People in general are my happiness. I love surrounding myself with joy and love, just like you said. And the best way to do that, is to love and be loved. I love myself plenty. I want to share my love wth the special people in my life."
Head: "...That can still happen, Tonya. Just think of this as a page turning in your life"

*cue emotional tailspin*


When pages turn in my life, it is a positive event. But I can't help but flip back over the pages I've passed. And sometimes, the words on those pages evoke a little instability in myself. But I think that's okay. Because I realized something big about myself tonight. I have an insight into how the reminiscing can turn to unhappiness. Reminiscing reminds me of the changes I didn't approve of, and instead of relishing how thes unexpected twists have shaped me, I get stuck think, "what would have happened if...". my change. I love playing puppetteer. Let's send Pinocchio where we want him to go, all the while knowing that I can pull this string, and bring him right back where I want him. And that's where I need to take my step back. And really, truly make the most of every new opportunity, planned or otherwise. I want to become someone who can turn each finished page with a smile on my face. There is no harm in  looking back, after all, as long as I remember to keep looking forward when I'm done.  As long as I can stay on this side of sanity whilst I do it.

I have lived on the lip of insanity, wanting to know reasons, knocking on a door. It opens. I've been knocking from the inside."
-- Rumi

Pen to Paper.

I've always been vocal. Wehther it be typing up my daily revelations, casting my vioce to an anonymous audience of laptop screens, or scratching my favorite ballpoint through the crisp pages of yet another Mead college ruled notebook. I feel that I can compose myself so much better on a piece of paper. Which isn't to say I'm not eloquent in person, because I am. I just thoroughly enjoy the ability to backspace. To cross out. To change my future with a bottle of White-out.

I've needed to write out my feelings for as long as I can remember. A few days back, when looking through an old box of nostalgia, I came across a 12 year old's version of a love letter. Scribbled on a piece of paper ripped out of my science composition book, this letter to Joey was swirly cursive and love poems, complete with hearts dotting the I's. I proclaimed my love for him in the most passionate way my gangly preteen self knew:  commenting on how I loved his new shoes, how i wanted to hold his hand, and how his new girlfriend was a "beeyotch". And yes, those were the exact words. I knew, that if I found some cute, clever way to slip this message to him, he would be mine. Unfortunately, I majored in Shy and Awakward in middle school (as did most of us, I'm sure). So instead, I folded the note up, wrote some desperado love song on the outside, and threw it in a giant plastic Rubbermaid box, swearing up and down that when the time was right, I would make sure he knew just how I felt.

It's now been eight years, long and gone. I haven't seen Joey since the day of our high school graduation, and I most certainly never proclaimed my love for him, mostly because it evaporated the moment an attractive new boy transferred into our school. But something much better, much more powerful, came from my unrequited middle school crush. And that would be my most personal love, my writing.

That same rubbermaid container is now sitting in my garage, in my brand new home, where I had vowed to leave the past behind, and start over with a fresh piece of paper.When I originally made my move, I left the box behind, saying that the memories were too old, too unimportant, too distracting from the shining sun I was driving into. I then made my way in my new life, 500 miles from the box full of memories. And I didn't give it a second thought until I went back to my hometown to visit. When I realized it was still there, tucked away just where I left it, I couldnt resist pulling it out and rummaging through. Two hours later, I was surrounded by an ocean of letters, journals, essays, secret notes and poems. It absolutely amazed me how thoroughly I had documented every event, every thought, every passing day-by-day habit. I wrote an entire journal entry on whether or not I should tell my best friend how much she had been bugging me one day. (for those curious, I did let her know :)) I wrote an overly wordy note to that same best friend detailing my feelings on every piece of choreography in our dance show. I had recorded every scandal, happiness, and heartbreak that shaped my high school years. I wrote double entede papers for my English Literature class,  which seemed to be a descriptive narrative of a trip to Carmel, but upon a closer reading,  revealed how alone and outcast I felt in my circle of friends. Without even meaning to, every word I wrote was a mini-autobiography of my day to day life.

It's been a few years since I've been locked in a classroom with nothing to do but put pen to paper. Over these last few years, I've written some, but not as much as I should. Most of my prose has been triggered by a major life event, breakup, family crisis, or a "reinvention" of my life. I've still clung to that urge to process these moments on a piece of paper. I've still had the need to scream out the things nobody needs to know, and my journal has been my savior. Luckily, these little life earthquakes have been fewer and farther between, as I've grown consistently older and wiser.  But however much that's benefitted my overall demeanor in life, it's torn away, bit by bit, from my writing. And I'm slowly realizing how much I miss this routine being in my life. So often, I feel like I don't have anything to say, anything to write about. But being an intelligent creature means I possess a whole lot of brain, of which only 10% is being used at any given time. (I'm sure at some times, 10% is being generous). But a lack of words isn't the problem. It's allowing myself the moment of peace and clarity to work through my thoughts, to find inspiration from them, to reflect on my musings and have them lead me into new directions. I have a lot to say. Like I said, I've always been vocal.

I'll miss my lemonade, Dan.

There comes a time in every young adult's life where they feel the need to change the world. We experience the parties, the romances, the friendships, and all of the landmarks of adulthood. We make bad decisions, and try to fix them all on our own, which usually leads to worse decisions. We set out with empty pockets and hearts full of dreams, hoping to leave our handprints in the cement  of society. Unfortunately, youth does not often aid to wisdom or experience, and these handprints often end up being nothing more than lines in the sand, washed away by the tide. Of course, there's always an exception, always someone who stands above the crowd, someone who turns everyone's head, and makes them think twice about everything they've accepted so far.

I strive to be this exception. I strive to pay my own road, and influence this world in some way. Not because I have a desire for fame or glory, not because I want to  have my name on everyone's lips, but because I know I can. I feel like i have an entire fountain of untapped potential, and that is so disappointing to me. There is so much i feel I'm capable of, so much I feel like I owe this world, and I haven't quite figured out how to share it. I think many of my peers share this anxiety. Struggling to find an identity in this world of 6.8 billion people. Finding out what it is that sets us on fire, and putting everything into into it. I don't know what sets me on fire; I have passions, I have skills, but what makes me a standout?

When I stop and think about it, everything that makes me Tonya, is what makes me a standout. It's my skills, my passions, my friendships, my history, it's all crafted me into a life-changing individual. I can consider myself a great friend, a sharp thinker, a comic, a free spirit, and more than anything, an adventurer. Its my refusal to let anything burst my bubble or crush my dreams. I have grown into a woman who takes everything she does seriously, and doesn't give up on her goals, no matter how far away they seem at times. My heart makes me Tonya, and being Tonya makes me a standout. Being Tonya makes me influence people, in ways I can't even imagine.

I recently lost someone who influenced my life in a small, but powerful, way. Dan Stimson was a server at my favorite local coffee shop back in Sacramento. He was there every week when I would meet my girlfriend there, and he always had a kind smile and a funny story. While never being close through high school, these weekly visits gave us a special kind of bond, that I always looked forward to. He knew what I was getting before I would walk through the door, Because he was that considerate and observant of everyone he encountered. He could always make me laugh, no matter what "crisis" I was enduring at the the time. And most of all, he never let anyone feel like a stranger. There aren't many people I can say that treat everyone like an old friend, but Dan was one of those rare breeds.

We lost Dan on Saturday, 11-13-10, to suicide. Being 500 miles away, and out of touch with most of his innermost circle, I am unaware of how or why he was driven to this harsh end. But I can understand the feeling of being lost. Sometimes, this world is overwhelming. It's unpredictable, unimaginable, and sometimes, downright cruel. But what I can't understand is why he wouldn't reach out. I know it's hard to feel alone sometimes, but It's amazing to see who's there when you actually need them. It's equally amazing to see who you've influenced, who's world you've changed, even in the slightest way. I wish I had told Dan, every time I saw him, just how much those 5 minutes we spent once in a while brightened my day. I wish everyone who loved him and thought of him had told him. But more than anything, I wish Dan had loved and trusted all of his loved ones enough to let us in on his hurt and sorrow. Because everyone who's been left behind is blaming themselves. We're all wishing we had noticed, had said something, had somehow known this was coming, and done something to stop it. We're all wishing for the hurt to go away. We're all wishing we had our crazy silly hopeful friend back. And we know it can't happen, we know he's in a better place, but we want him back.

Dan, you had so many people who loved you. So many people who remembered you, thought of you, and cherished your very presence. We know you're resting happily, away from whatever torment you faced, but we're angry and hurt. You left this world, without leaving us any answers or options. You've left behind family, friends, and a girl who's going to love you till she's with you again. We all ask ourselves, what could we have done? But you're the only one who can answer that, and you aren't here anymore. All we can do is pray that you're happy in your Paradise. I hope the pain is gone, and I hope you're looking down on everyone who's surfaced, everyone who loves you.

Always missed, never forgotten

Daniel "The Man" Stimson
7-17-91 - 11-13-10

I love you forever, I love you for always.

I'm going to start this blog with a disclaimer. It's going to be disgustingly cute, not very sarcastic, and you'll probably shed a tear or two, if you're related to me. So snuggle up close, grab a stack of tissues, and proceed.

Tonight, was the season premiere of the TV show, Grey's Anatomy. And I made myself a batch of cookies (well, half a batch, and half a batch of cookie dough), I turned off all the lights, I cuddled up under my blanket, and prepared myself for the return of my favorite show. Through the first half of the show, I had to keep answering messages on my phone, and remembering to switch the wash, and wash the dishes, and a million other things I needed to do. I kept one eye on the TV, but didn't give it the devotion I intended. And by the time the last half hour had rolled around, my roommates had come home, trying to tell me about their days, and attempting (and failing) to commandeer the television. All in all, not the ideal Grey's evening I had planned out. And I know exactly why that is.

Grey's has always, always, ALWAYS been my mom and I's show. When I lived at home, Thursday nights were our time, and we would kick the boys into the garage, and watch teary eyed, as Izzie got diagnosed with cancer, and Chrisitina got abandoned at the altar, and Mer tried to drown herself. We swooned over Karev and his bad boy swagger, and McSteamy and his, well, McSteaminess. After I moved out, I made her TiVo every SINGLE episode, and then also made her sit and watch them with me whenever I got the chance to come and catch up. This was always accompanied by some delicious snacks, gossip about the show, and gossip about life, which always took us well past the show's 10PM end time. It was our ritual. It was our thing. Watch our show, and then strike up deep conversations at inopportune times.

These conversations, those were also our thing. Random, meaningful, generally with a slight mental breakdown or two, and always ending with me feeling refreshed and comforted.Generally, these happened in inopportune places, as well. In her closet hallway, for example, or on the back patio while she was cleaning up dinner. Or in the garage when we went to let to guys back in, or over the fence between our backyards.It didn't matter where, it just mattered that I knew Mom was there when I needed some "serious mom advice". And she always seems to know the answer, although I don't always even know the question. I guess that's a mom thing.

Tonight, though, it was all wrong. I made the delicious snack, I set the mood, I turned the volume up reaaaaally loud (we're both totally TV deaf), but it didn't play out quite right. I even called Mom up before hand, and we broke down the previous season's finale, trying to remember who died, who was in love with who, and who was going to be new additions. We totally prepared ourselves, made predictions about what twists and turns were going to happen, and of course we totally called it, but it still didn't feel like Grey's night to me. And I realized, nothing can replace that time. I can't replicate it, without having Mom there. I can still love my show, and I can still love my mom, but the era has passed where that will be our thing. And that breaks my heart a little bit, because I never wanted that thing to die. But I suppose that just means a new thing is to come our way- Long-distance Grey's viewing. Grey's via Skype and texting. But no more Grey's nights.

The one thing that won't change, however, is the fact that I know, always and forever, that my Mom is there when I need some "serious mom advice". I know it for a fact, because I've called on it about 19 times in the past 3 days. "Mom, I need some serious mom advice. How soon do eggs go bad after the date?" or "Mom, I need some serious mom advice, should I quit the job I just started?" The questions go on and on. There's only one that I haven't asked, and that's cause I don't think she knows the answer either.

"Mom, when do I stop missing you guys so much?"

Home is where you are.

"Home Is Where You Are"- That sentence is a little joke between my dearest cousin and I. We found it on a picture in Urban Outfitters, and thought that it fit our lives, since we're the two drifters in the family. And I've always had the drifter personality. I've always wanted to get away from my little hometown. I grew up pretending my Barbies were in locations far, far away. I grew up studying maps of Los Angeles, New York,  Paris. I grew up packing a suitcase once every few months, wanting to run away, to escape to monotony.   And I knew, someday, it would happen. Sure enough, it did. But not exactly as I had planned.

When I was in high school, I began plotting my escape. I was going to graduate, move down to Southern California, go to cosmetology school, and change the world. Somehow. Unfortunately, cosmetology school in SoCal was more expensive, as was the living cost. So that idea fell right out the window. Determined, I started searching other options. Out of state schools. San Francisco schools. Anything that would get me out of the humdrum of Roseville. So where did I end up? 20 minutes away, in Folsom. I found the perfect little school, with leopard print carpets, and diva-esque instructors, who crafted me into the professional I am. They taught me everything about my art, in a way that I never could have experienced in a high profile school far from home. They gave me the best education I could have possibly received, and every day I am thankful for that.

But it was never enough. I always knew something was missing. At one point during my schooling, I met a man. And this man was my first love. He was a marine, and he was horrible for me. I had never been treated worse, I had never been so hurt, I had never been in a relationship so beneath me. But every time he left, I cried. Every time he talked about his deployments, I ached. Every time he called me from his base in San Diego, I was up all night, wishing I could be with him. It didn't matter about the cheating, or the lies, or the downright disrespect. Something always drew me back. There was some quality about him that I couldn't give up. Or so I thought.

It took me a long time, but I realized, finally, that that "quality" was nothing more than jealousy. I wanted what he had. Not the marine lifestyle, with the wars and deployments. But the opportunity to get away. To leave it all behind. he had nothing keeping him there, no ties to that little town, besides a girl who wanted to get away just as much as he did. We would talk for hours, about running away together, to Prague, to Tennessee, to anywhere where we could start fresh. But I never imagined a life with him. I imagined a life with no pretense, no preceding reputations, no "I know what you did last summer". I didn't want him, I wanted a chance to get away.

Needless to say, that didn't work out. I finally got smart, and decided a plane ticket and a life on a marine base wasn't how I wanted to make my escape. And not too long after that, I started getting comfortable. I found a good job, that payed well and was easy work. I was well into my schooling, and was one of the most successful students at the school, with the highest clientele base, and the most challenging cases. I had decorated my little studio apartment quite to my liking, and found myself an oh-so-devoted boyfriend. I was set.  I could finish school, get a job somewhere, move into the big, beautiful house with the rich, generous guy, and never have to worry about a thing. However, I'm a drifter, and as a whole, drifters are not okay with being "set".

About every two months, I would lose it. I would threaten to quit school, break up with the guy, sell everything I own, and move to Hawaii (or wherever sounded pleasant at the time). Someone would always talk me out of these outbursts, but they always stuck with me. I always thought, in the back of my head, that I needed to escape. Until I found my blessing at Papillon Salon.

Papillon taught me a lot about myself as a stylist. I worked there as an independent stylist, completely responsible for my own bookkeeping, scheduling, inventory, even bringing in my own clientele. I walked into this situation with arms wide open. I would be in charge of my own schedule, my own paycheck, my own life. And that's when I realized, that while I am a creature of adaptation, and I am the epitome of laissez-faire, that was more freedom and instability than I wanted. I didn't enjoy wondering if I would be able to pay rent, or put gas in the car. I didn't enjoy taking down every receipt, and analyzing every transaction, for tax purposes. I had already chosen a career path that could take me around the world. Did I really need as much freedom as I had taken on?

Over the months at Papillon, I became so involved with growing my business, that thoughts of escape fell by the wayside. I was so concerned with bringing in clientele and advancing my techniques, that I wasn't haunted by thoughts of big cities and sandy beaches. I went through many changes in this short time, not just career oriented. But along with my new career decisions, my life decisions had brought me to a place of peace. The burning desire to escape had left me. In its place was a burning desire to grow as a stylist, to become the best I can be. I poured myself into my work, from top to bottom. Every single little cell of my being was invested in the world of hair styling. And I was so, so happy.

Until one day. I took a vacation to Long Beach, with a girlfriend. And on this trip, I decided I didn't want to go back home. But this feeling I was infused with, it wasn't a need to escape. The escape mentality was desperate, and unhappy, and fierce. Now, I was feeling a desire for adventure. I was excited, and motivated, and eager for what I could turn this new adventure into. And that change in thinking, that new mindset, is the reason my adventure worked. I stopped being desperate for a out, I stopped hunting for an escape, and I stopped waiting on the change. I made it happen.

Now, I'm here. In my new home. It's still a little strange sometimes, not having my mother down the street, and not being able to drive over and visit friends, and not having the security I did back home. But this is my adventure, and I'm taking the wheel. I finally got my chance to start over, and my chance to shine. It's time to be an adult, and I am relishing this opportunity. I have an amazing support system, both in my home, with my roommates, and my cousin who lives 15 minutes away, and back in Sacramento, where my family and friends are cheering me on every step of the way. I love you all, and thank you for everything.

Day One, Living the dream.

So today is the day my life changes direction.

Less than a week ago, I packed up my home, my life, and everything I knew, and moved 437 miles from the house that built me. I had no job, little money, and no more than 3 friends in Huntington Beach. I did however, have boxes full of haute clothing (well, they looked haute), an iPhone playlist to pump me up every day, and more dreams than could fit in the back of my Pontiac. I knew that if I wanted to be somebody, if I wanted to be the hair artist I knew I could be, I needed to be down there.

Now, that was an awfully impulsive decision. I made the decision to leave, and six weeks later, I was sleeping on an air mattress in my new home. Many of my friends and family, out of love, voiced their extreme concern about the rashness of my decision. "You don't have a job down there!" "You don't know anyone down there!" What if your car explodes!" Well, me being the level headed rash-decision maker that I am, had already considered all of these instances and obstacles. And I had a game plan. I know myself, and I know that I'm a very positive, personable person. I've always had luck finding work. So as long as I could find some job, ANY job, to pay the bills, I could take the time to establish myself in the hair industry of Los Angeles.

Well, this is where I ran into my first snafu. It seems Los Angeles's hair industry is, expectably, exponentially more competitive than Sacramento's. While I was able to jump right in, and make a name for myself as an independent stylist in Sacramento, I could not do the same thing in Orange County. Apparently, the only method to successfully pave a path into the Los Angeles hair world is through an assisting program. Which, as a stylist who has made her own rules for the past year, is somewhat difficult to stomach. However, being the eternal optimist my mother raised me to be, I looked at this as an opportunity to advance my education, while getting paid. Also, working next to some of the most influential names in the industry is an almost guaranteed kick through the proverbial door. As long as I can prove myself.

So, now that the game plan has been established, and the move has been completed, the job hunt begins. I'm two days into it, with nothing more to show for it than a slightly smaller checking balance and a slightly fuller belly (what else do you do when you're unemployed?), and I realized where I wanted my hair career to take me. I consciously made the decision that I want to create fantasy hair, for runway shows, movies, theater, and for competition. And I would like to pioneer some sort of organization for training fantasy hair, and the ins and outs of the particular nice of the industry. That was my lightbulb moment, sitting on my couch, surfing craigslist, eating ice cream at 2:00PM, and watching a fantasy hair competition. I realized that was my calling within a calling. That realization took my fire for success, and coated it in aerosol hairspray. Burn, baby burn.