whitney dziurawiec

I'm sitting in my practice room by myself for the last time. The white walls are begging me to stay and I could turn the air conditioning on but something feels right about the stuffiness and the warmth. I have dreamt of this moment with the utmost of pleasure. Dear Lord, would the time ever come when I would be done with my musical obligations and be free? I could not even imagine. There are literally fireworks going off outside. And yet I'm here, and my emotions are rather blank.  Sure, they came out and made a scene after my recital when all those late nights of tears and stress came to a head as the audience clapped for me and I realized it was all over. But graduation and now: my last night at Grace, last shower in those nauseating bathrooms, last time playing this beautiful piano, there isn't much that I'm feeling. I'm ready. I've lived four years with this day in sight and I'm ready for it. I'll move home tomorrow and my love wil...

I don't have time to blog, so clearly I'm blogging. I'm sitting in my piano room, a place that I'm in more than any other place besides my bed (sometimes). And I won't sugarcoat it all. I'm spent. My recital is in two weeks and I'd just like to say that if you enjoy crying at least once a week, having no time to hang out with anyone, and don't care much about personal care issues, like eating or showering regularly, then preparing a senior piano recital is the path for you! Everyone's complaining about the snow, and I'm stuck complaining about this. This room with puke-colored carpet and depressingly blank walls that I'm sure will give me nightmares once I'm out of it for good. Part of me likes the depressing weather; at least mother Earth is on the same page as me. I've missed blogging. Writing. Words. If I didn't have a boyfriend that called me regularly, words would be almost as rare as free time. I anxiously await the da...

"You can do this," she said, determination in her eyes as a lock from her half-done bridesmaid up-do fell in her face. "You can do this, Whitney," repeated the rest of the wedding party as they curled their hair in what I had formerly only known as the Old Testament room. I nodded a thank-you to the bride whom I didn't know, and to the other bridesmaids who looked at me with sympathetic gazes. How I had found myself in the Old Testament room, spilling my sob story to a wedding party of whom I knew one member, on my sophomore year spring break, actually happened to be a long and terrible tale, most of which I do not currently have time to fully tell because I barely have time to eat, let alone write a blog. Essentially, the text conversation went like this: "Andrea. It's going horrible. I'm going to throw up." "Whitney! I'm at Grace because I'm a bridesmaid in a wedding here today. Come here. We'll help." I walked...

My heart froze as every light on my dashboard flashed on and off, Christmas-style. Which would have been fascinating, had it been Christmas, and had I not been driving 65 mph down I-80. "DAD EVERYTHING IS FLASHING. IT'S FLASHING AND I'M DRIVING 65 MILES PER HOUR." Dad told me everything would be fine, I just needed to make it home. Yes, okay. I can make it home with a Christmas light show. It will be fine. It wasn't fine. Five minutes later my car refused to go any further and I found myself on the shoulder (which was barely a shoulder as the mountains of snow took up most of the shoulder space) of the interstate, under an overpass, as semis and SUVs sped past me, ON A FRIDAY (car problems are not meant for Fridays!), shaking my car and throwing me into a full-blown emotional meltdown. The last time I was so terrified was probably when I was 7 years old, trying to fall asleep after watching scary Lifetime movies with my mom. It is a scary thing to be com...

Good morning. That phrase used to be ironic for me. Mornings were never good. They were heavy, dark, impossible. A necessary evil to get to the good parts of life. To leave the warmth and comfort that night provided. To escape enchanting dreams and face reality. That’s not me. Keep me in bed, enveloped in a blanket with the blinds shut. Don’t wake me. But something about mornings has recently grabbed me. They’re still hard. It is still a push to open my eyes, to take the first tentative steps out of bed as I test my early morning balance and tiptoe across the dark ground, trying to remember if I had left any obstacles on the floor as I head to the coffee maker (priorities). It is a (granted, small) test of bravery each morning when I wake up. Will I embrace my morning, or find myself having pressed the snooze button five times and end up simultaneously brushing my teeth, applying mascara, and sending a quick email. I hate those lazy, stressful mornings. I’ve fallen in lov...

And of all the things I should  quit, like: -caffeine -eating pickles (they are high in sodium, did you know that?) -being late -NOT responding to texts -stuffing my face with food when my hunger monster rears its ugly head daily at 10 pm I am quitting something that I love, something that I have always wanted to do, because I simply don't have time. I'm not running a marathon anymore. :( I guess I should say, I'm not training  for a marathon right now . Mark my words, as long as I'm able to run, I will run a marathon. But I have this senior recital that's kind of important and this boy that will hopefully soak up a lot of my weekends (in the best way) and I just can't right now. And I'm sad and a little disappointed but mostly COMPLETELY RELIEVED. And in the discerning words of my roommate, "Yes, you are a quitter. But sometimes that's the wisest choice." So I'm being wise, I may gain a few pounds now that I won't be ru...

I'm baking. Bet you never thought you'd hear those words coming from my mouth, eh? EH?! The reason I'm baking, at midnight, in a snuggie, has nothing to do with the fact that I have any real reason to bake. But rather, because ever since my flu virus (which is one of the three things I'm actually allowed to use the word "sucks" in reference to at my house) I have been getting copious amounts of sleep. Anyone who knew me last semester, especially my roommate (that poor girl) knew me as the girl who never slept, or who fell asleep at 9 pm and woke up for the day at 3 am. That was my life. And now, I'm the opposite. I went to bed at 11:30 last night and woke up at 9:15 this morning. This is not okay. WHERE IS THE OLD WHITNEY?! Where is my irresponsibility? There is no fun, no spontaneity in 10 hours of sleep a night! This ends tonight, starting with baking. To give myself a reason to stay up. Probably because I'm going through a quarter-life cri...