Narrative

I haven’t written since May and I’ve had no desire to do so until today.

I stopped writing when I found out my dad read my journal, for the second time. The first time, I was hurt, but deep down I believed he was doing it out of love. The second time, I was hurt, betrayed and felt absolutely devastated for the first time in a while. I stopped writing because I didn’t feel like I could trust anyone anymore, and that my words will always be used against me, and no matter how hard I try to keep those words to myself, I felt that someone was always going to be looking for them.

So, I stopped writing. I’ve kept a journal for many years. When my parents first got divorced, they took me and my sister to a counselor, which was a shit-show and I’ve been scared to go back ever since because of the worsening depression I experienced after I left. I didn’t know how to cope with all the emotions that I had never felt before, so I began writing in a journal. It started off whenever I felt like I needed to lift weight off my shoulder, but it soon became something I did every day, this was the lowest point in my life.

(It didn’t help that this was now sixth grade, where everyone is making new friends, and all the people I was spending time with, I had known for less than a couple of months, so I didn’t feel like I had anyone to talk to.)

Anyways, I was in a really bad place at this time. I was severely depressed, didn’t feel like I had anyone to talk to, couldn’t go see a counselor and had only a journal to make myself feel better.

Flash forward to freshman year. Things had settled down, only after they had gotten worse. I felt like I had good friends going into high school and I was ready for (and needed) a change. I still wrote in my journal every day, until my dad read it half way though the year. At the time, I was baffled. For four years, my journal had been the one place where I could open up to my thoughts without the fear of someone becoming scared of me or what goes on in my head. I didn’t know something so little could hurt me so bad.

I stopped writing. I didn’t want to risk getting caught again, so I just stopped. I soon realized that writing my feelings down is the only thing that keeps me sane, because I refuse to talk to anyone about what really goes on in my head, it scares even me to think about it, and I don’t want people to worry. Long story short, my depression began to get bad again, and, as I was newly introduced to the party scene, was going out every weekend and getting wasted and stoned to make myself feel better. This, too, got worse before it got better. I never talked about this with people either. I soon began to feel dependent on drinking and smoking to make myself feel better, since my head was in a bad place and it wouldn’t go away. I felt addicted to both things, so in the beginning of sophomore year, I told myself I needed to slow down, and I did. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I’ve never told anyone that before either.

After I realized that I was becoming dependent on alcohol and drugs to make myself feel better and needed to stop, I decided it was time to start writing again, because I knew if I didn’t, my thoughts would, again, get bad. So I did, and it helped, like it always has before. I trusted it, until May, when my dad read my journal for the second time.

This was the worst thing I have ever felt in my heart. My heart felt like it was sinking, and my mind went a million different directions to the point where I fainted and couldn’t recall what happened five minutes before.

I found out after my parents had an “intervention” with me, and it led to a fight and I was crying in my room when my dad stormed outside to leave, and I hear him yelling through my window “She’s lying! I told you to read her journal and you didn’t! She’s lying right to us and I read her journal as proof.” That is when I blacked out.

I didn’t spend time at his house for four months. It was weird, because before that, I spent every other week at his house. I also didn’t write for four months. My mom quickly took me under her wing and didn’t make me feel bad about myself or treat me like a disappointment. I don’t know where I would be if she didn’t do this for me.

I felt bad though, during the summer, I was mainly okay. There were some really bad days, but there were also some really good days. On the bad days, I made my moms’s life a living hell, and I felt horrible about it, and it only made things worse.

Right now, things are defiantly getting worse, which is why I’m writing this all down. Today of all days was particularly bad. There were some moments that were good, and others that were good but a disaster in my head.

Today I realized that I have no idea who I am. Or maybe I do and I’m just telling myself I’m not sure because I’m scared that this is really who I am, and I don’t want to be this person. I realized that people have all these expectations and beliefs about me, and I’m not sure which ones are true and which ones aren’t, which scares me because this is my life.

Countless times, people have told me that they thought I was a bitch before they got to know me. Others call me a prude. People have called me goody-two-shoes, teachers pet, alcoholic, slut. People are particularly surprised when they find out that I have good grades, others say I’m not challenging myself enough.

People seem to have so many opinions about me that I don’t know who I am anymore.

Today I was talking to someone who doesn’t go to school with me, but who I’ve recently become friends with through other platforms. Although, we’ve never really talked about our personal lives. When we got to talking, I felt relieved being able to talk about my life with someone who had no prior opinions on who I was, and never once made the remark “Really? I didn’t think that about you.”

This was a very good feeling because I’ve recently felt like I don’t fit in anywhere because of my confusion of who I am. I really needed this.

I don’t know why I’m still writing, I guess I’m making up for four lost months. It also could because I’m sobbing and won’t be able to fall asleep anyways, so why not keep writing. I’ve been feeling very empty lately, and if you’re reading this, I don’t want you to think that this is in any way your fault, or that there is anything you can do to help, because there isn’t. I’ve been dealing with this for six years, and the only reason I’m writing this out is because it hasn’t been this bad in a while, and I don’t want to scare or worry anyone. I just want you to be aware what is going on in my life and to understand if or why I’m distant. I don’t want anyone’s pity or to hear “I’m sorry,” I simply want you to be aware, without me having to have an emotional one-on-one with everyone I love.

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December 25, 2o16

I know this is so cliche and yet so me to turn things into a sappy mess on Christmas but the holiday has me thinking.

I woke up today to a homemade breakfast and lights strung and a wonderful dad who happened to wrap my presents in a plastic bowl and a Starbuck’s cup. I gave him a list of wants, number one being a dog, and I got none of those gifts. I got:

  1. A cup of $2o
  2. A framed poster which his friend photographed
  3. Pepperment Jojo’s from Trader Joe’s
  4. A bowl of $10

So, long story short — nothing on my list. I made a list for a reason, Dad. But honestly, I wasn’t disappointed at all because he gave me gifts he knew I would like and they were more personal. Well, I was actually only disappointed about the dog, but there’s always next year.

I continued my day by texting every person who had any significance to me at all during the year. This list includes but is not limited to: best friends, ex-best friends, ex-boyfriends, old friends, new friends and lost friends. This was a cleansing thing, making sure I left things on a good note for myself so I don’t go into the New Year with this shit hanging over my head — I already have back problems.

For the nth time, my mom, sister and I volunteered to feed the homeless for a solid three hours. That’s always a tear jerker. Because between the bussing of tables and running to get drinks and pies and the occasional conversation, my mind is to itself on the busiest day of the year. I begin to think about the homeless and how my life is such a blessing, and my friends and family who made me the person who would actually volunteer for the homeless on Christmas. Unfortunately, not many people I know would do that, and I know I’m a good person for doing so.

With that straightened out, I began to cry to myself for the second time in 12 hours. (The first time being when my boss let me off on time at work on Christmas Eve, when I should’ve stayed another hour. God bless her and allowing me to spend the night with my family.) And the second time was standing in middle of a huge dining hall in the Portland Art Museum with a lot of people staring at me because they’re probably like “Why the fuck is this privileged chick crying when it’s Christmas and she’s surrounded by a bunch of homeless people when we’re not even crying?” Well excuse me, sir, it’s because I just had a realization on how great my life is, so fuck you.

During this same time I was watching a group of five or six Chinese people sitting down and I went to offer help and they spoke to me in Spanish. I was more confused than I should’ve been and blankly said “No speak-o Español.” There’s my Spanish 3-4 for ya. Public schools.

After another two hours and fifty eight minutes of volunteering, we were off to a steakhouse for dinner. My mom doesn’t like to cook and we don’t like to eat her food so we were satisfied, beside the fact that we ate a microscopic amount of food and it only cost us $150 for all-you-can-eat.

My mom got me virtually half the things on my list, plus or minus a few. But I wasn’t any more happy with her than my dad because they both made me really happy in their own parent ways. Isabella, of course, was the one to break that rule — she definitely made me the least happy and the most happy. Let me explain:

She fucking bought me and my mom matching sweatshirts with my cats on them. She bought herself one too.

And about seven hundred words later, that about wraps up my day. But why the hell did you read this far? My day was very insignificant, despite the roller coaster I made it seem. I don’t even expect myself to read this far.

But yes!, there is actually a plot to this. I love Christmas not because of the gifts, but because of the comfort and warmth it gives you inside. It makes you realize the good and the bad and it’s a real kick in the ass if you’re trying to become a better you in the New Year — like a report card a few days before the end of the semester.

With that, I started realizing how fucking weird my 2016 was. If interested, here is a summarization:

  • My sister graduated and left for college (they grow up so fast!)
  • I turned 16 (sweet!) and got my licenses, and a car
  • I had many firsts: (a list within a list I hate myself)
    • first time smoking/being high
    • first time drinking/being drunk
    • first kiss
    • first time having sex
  • played varsity softball and racquetball but quit soccer (I later quit softball)
  • I kicked ass at nationals in racquetball and won “Rookie of the Year” award, no biggie though because there were only two “rookies”
  • I became best friends with someone new
  • I stopped being best friends with this same person 6 months later
  • I also lost about four of my other best friends
  • My forever best friend basically upgraded to my sister

So “wack” is the only word I can think of to summarize that shit up. Basically, I need to get my life together because I probably have PTSD after 2016. And how do I do that? “New year new me,” right?

I want to leave the bad parts of me in 2016, and I already have regrets of what I didn’t do. I think this is more 2007, but I really want to learn the piano. I just watched a music video and pianos are beautiful. I also want to learn to dance in puddles and walk to a beat and get the courage wear my yellow raincoat even though I know people will find it ugly. I wish I would’ve gone and seen The Lumineers before they were a big band because if I were to go see them now it just wouldn’t be the same as a small concert. So maybe learn to go watch small concerts. Also, appreciate the good things in life because they not last as long as you wished.

(Basically that last paragraph is my reactions to watching a Lumineers music video.)

((The song was Ophelia, if you were wondering.))

Once I’m done with this post I’m definitely going to do a post on my reactions to watching music videos to my favorite songs for the first time, so just hold tight a fat minute so I can get this wrapped up and get the show started.

BACK TO THE POINT. This has turned from a *quick summary of my big Christmas realization* to a post I have devoted at least an hour of my life to that I won’t get back, and I’m probably wasting your time too at this point so might as well make it all worthwhile.

I already know that my 2017 is going to be just as wack as my 2016. If interested, here is a summarization:

  • Junior year

And of course solid half of my friends are going to graduate and leave for college and I have a solid two and a half fucking years to deal with fake bitches and high school. Even though that sounds passive aggressive, it really is. Most literally: everyone at Lincoln (except a select few, mainly seniors WHICH is the reason I’m passive aggressive) is either fake or a hoe, and I mean that most literally. But I’m gonna let your imagination run wild to figure out who you are!

I really am going to miss our seniors and my sister when she leaves for college again in January and my innocence because that shit’s staying in sophomore year. I know myself all too well, and I know for a fact that I will be crying when watching all my friends walk at graduation and I will have to leave the photography to my partner Alex, (go you, love you) because I will be a HOT MESS. And the same things will happen in two more years when I sit next to all my friends and watch them walk from behind the curtain. Because, to be honest, the grade above mine is irrelevant as fuck so no tears will be shed for them.

All I want is, in a year from today, to be held accountable. I will read the blog post in a year, six days away from going into 2018 and I’m gonna be like “Wow, and she thought her shit wasn’t together. Lmao little did she know…”

That’s all I want, and this is basically a salad (my boss started using that term as a synonym to a big mess). All I really want is to live every day like it’s Christmas. With the warm feeling it leaves you but it’s that ass-kicking motivation for you to get your life in check, because obviously things are changing very fast and we’re growing up and by the time I finally finish this post, we’ll be graduated.

So, enjoy my babes. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.

P.S. I already know I’m gonna get those comments like “You were probably pretty fucked up when you wrote this post, right.” NO. 110% sober. Because staytruetoyou.org.

The Head and the Heart

I don’t know what it is, but there’s something wrong with me.

The people I surround myself with, my family and friends, I couldn’t ask for better. They care about me and want what’s best for me and make me laugh and smile and make me a better person.

The opportunities I’ve been given, the opportunities to travel and to meet new people and to explore and do things I would never imagine doing. They’re all so amazing and a blessing, not a guarantee.

My personality was not all my doing, I couldn’t have been stubborn and intelligent and giving and trustworthy and understanding all on my own. I inherited that from the great people I surround myself with – the people that made me who I am.

But for some reason, none of that matters. None of that matters when I lock my thoughts inside an empty skull and let it bounce around until my skull has cracked. None of that matters when you shut it all out. For Gods sake, you were given these things — why can’t you appreciate these things not everyone has the luxury to appreciate. People WISH for a life like yours, appreciate it God damnit.

I have so much to be thankful for and I do I do I’m thankful for it. But for some reason my heart and my brain hate each other. They hate each other so much that they’re at war. My brain wants to break my skull and my heart is thankful, it’s thankful it’s thankful I promise.

Some days my brain wins and some days the heart. Yeah, that’s the best way to explain it. The days my brain wins are the days I’m locked inside my head, the head want’s me all to itself. And when the hearts winning, those are the best days. Because the heart is thankful.

And see, right now my heart is wounded. It was hurt bad so there’s no place for good days. But the heart is what fuels the brain and some day the brain will have to loose and that’s what keeps my heart alive.

Just be patient, because soon my heart will heal and I promise you it’s thankful.

 

 

 

November 8, 2016

Writing to me is an escape from reality. I think bizarre thoughts and I have feelings towards other people and those feelings can’t form in the right order to come out of my mouth. In turn, I use poetry and sad excuses of writing in order for me to process the jumble of things running around in my brain.

I know some, most of my writing isn’t the best, but its mine. The things I write and the things I chose to share with others are all carefully selected. The diction I use may not be great, but the final drafts of my writing are the best to what I want.

Looking through my blog or my writing, you may find essences of yourself in my writing. Not uncommon. My life is incorporated into all of my writing in one way or another, I’ve come to realize. I more often write of people and personal stories than any other type of writing.

Written words are my scapegoat. If you’re lucky enough to see a specific poem of mine, read the heart out of that poem. You were meant to see that poem for a reason, take care of it. I do.

I don’t write for attention, I write for the sake of myself. I won’t lie, I love that moment of gratefulness when others hear your poems are left dead in their tracks. They ask who wrote the poem and you don’t say anything, don’t say anything until their honest opinion comes. And when it does, admit yourself and then you’ll get looks of awe.

If only they understood what it was really about. I hope you try your best to do so. And when you do, that is when you’ll know what I’m really about, too.

August 2, 2016

Tonight I sat in an uptown, contemporary apartment in the chic Pearl District, dog sitting for my mom’s best friend. My ideal night, to say the least. I watched five episodes of my binge watching guilty pleasure, ate a pint of ice cream (that I have to  be sure to replace before I leave tomorrow) and reconnected with people who are or once were important in my life.

Not only have I reconnected with people from my past and present, but I reconnected with myself, which is a strange thing to admit. A lot of people knew me as a goody two shoes or a teacher’s pet or a smart Alec. I’ve also gotten that I’m too shy or too outgoing, which makes zero to no sense at all but I just go with what it is.

I jokingly admitted to my friend earlier today that I peaked in 6th grade, and I don’t think I was joking as much as accepting or admitting. In 6th grade, we were a bunch of awkward 12 year olds struggling to make friends in a place where everyone you previously knew only took up one fourth of the class. I tried to change myself that year. I saw an opportunity and I took it, and I still wonder if it was for the better or for the worse.

That was the year my family was going through a divorce, and the change I experienced involved abandoning some of my closest friends, some who have forgiven me and some yet to. I was going through a lot and I felt alone because I believed surrounding myself with populars would get me somewhere. That was one of the hardest years of my life, I was alone, but socially, I peaked because everyone knew who I was. (A lot of my new friendships that year didn’t last through the 7th grade, but the love I have for those friendships is still there.)

Anyways, August just came around the corner and I’m almost a Sophomore. It’s funny saying that now because I say that with pride, even though a lot of people in my life only have one or two more years of high school left, and I’m still not sure whose the lucky ones are. Tonight I learned, despite my social climax in the 6th grade, I undoubtedly peaked emotionally this year, and it’s still getting better. Disregarding a few mental breakdowns in the school bathroom during finals or the inevitable lost high school friendships, I’ve never felt more content than now.

I recently had a feeling where I thought I had forgotten who I was. My priorities were no longer straight and I had lost sight of my future and everything important to me. I was wrong to think that because I know I am still the person that loves reading and learning, that will help others when they need it and appreciate the people I have in my life. Because in the end, that’s what’s most important to me. I finally understood that I’ve changed with time, grown up, but I’m still the same person I’ve always been.

So I’m typing this via a couch overlooking a construction building with a dog in my lap, and I have no idea who, or if anyone, is going to read this post or this blog. If you are reading this, you probably know me to the point where you’d feel guilty if you didn’t read this blog. And, if that’s true, I’ve trained you well. But for those of you reading this who know of me or don’t know me at all, you get to see my life through my words and see how I’ve changed from my first post to now.

I’m not sure why I made this blog public, at all, and to be honest, I’m scared to have people reading into my life the way I see it. But hopefully it works out for the best because this blog has brought me peace through tough times and brought back memories from my past. This blog may seem as a cry for help, may make distant people feel obligated to contact me and catch up. But all I want is for you to find out who I really am, to prove or test who you thought I was; or remember who I was and who I am and how much I’ve changed and how far I’ve come. I speak my mind best through my writing, so try not to read into my words too much – I don’t want to regret sharing this blog in the morning.

Dear future correspondents,

I’ve been trying to figure out what to say in this first blog post, and I’ve been struggling. So many things happened to me at my week at the Washington Journalism and Media Conference, and there’s only so much I can say to the future correspondents:

A week home and I’m still  tired from the rush of last week. I still remember my excitement when I received my first email from Elena. I still remember my excitement when my acceptance package finally arrived in the mail – even though I was told of my acceptance two weeks before.

From the minute I got my acceptance email to attend WJMC in November 2015, I thought the longest time of my life would be spent waiting to arrive in D.C. on July 5. And I was right, it was the longest nine months of my life. But I was also wrong. I departed from D.C. on July 10 – six days after I arrived – and never has six days felt so far apart.

As the conference was approaching, I postponed packing more and more. The day before I departed, I raided my mom’s closet in search of business clothes that wouldn’t look too ridiculous on me. Being across the country on the West Coast, I left my house on Friday, being that it would take a full day for me to land in D.C. I didn’t want to leave my home. All my excitement was left in the last nine months and for once I was nervous. I hadn’t read any of the recommended reading, hadn’t attempted to make friends or read about my faculty advisors.

I would say don’t follow in my footsteps, but my footsteps lead me to four people I bonded with and will never forget. My time at WJMC2016 was six days of my life that I will hold on to throughout my life. There were sleepless nights, long days and, in the end, a lot of tears.

Ten things I want to tell you:

  1. Pack tissues. Keep them with you wherever you go – from the minute you arrive on campus to two days after you arrive home. Especially in those last moments at WJMC, you never know what will trigger you to cry. Learn from my experience.
  2. Blog. Memories will begin to clash and fade and all I want is to be able to hold on to those memories forever. Although I didn’t bother to blog during our designated time,  I spent that time with new friends who have grown very important to me – leading me to my next point:
  3. Make friends. Try and make friends outside of your color groups. Sit with someone different at dinner when you’re not with your groups. You’re in D.C. with 200+ kids who you have never met before – there are so many opportunities for you to take.
  4. Take risks. Show everyone what you know and learn from others and what they know.
  5. Ask questions. You are going to have so many things running through your head during all of the speakers. It doesn’t hurt to ask questions – the speakers are there for you and to answer your questions.
  6. Sleep as much as possible. Whether it’s right after you shower after security check or on the bus going into the city. Sleep when you have down time because otherwise, like me, you’ll be sleepy all day and won’t be able to enjoy all the daily activities.
  7. Get to know your roommates. I had a room to myself, and shared a bathroom with three other girls. Most of us kept our doors shut and, to be honest, I couldn’t tell you their names. Become friends with your roommates and take turns having first shower.
  8. Be nice to everyone. All the correspondents are in the same shoes as you – they’re probably far from home, came here alone and not knowing anyone and are just as excited and tired as you are. People may be there for different reasons, whether it’s because their parents made them, they’re trying to test the waters to see if journalism is the right career for them or they are here because they know they want to be a journalist.
  9. Call your parents. They sent you to this conference because they care about you and know this is going to be one of the best weeks you’ll ever have. Call them every day or every other day and tell them whats going on, who you’ve met or where you’ve gone. They will appreciate being updated since they can’t experience it with you.
  10. Keep in contact. You’re going to cry at the gala. You’ll cry in your last color group meeting and, since then, you’ll be on and off crying until you board your plane, and maybe a little bit after that like me. Spend as much time with your new friends as possible – you only have six days together. Get each other’s social media – so you can see pictures of them and their life in another state. Get their phone number – FaceTime them before you forget their voices and what made you become such great friends.

My time at WJMC2016 has taught me so many things from working with people I don’t know, that in the end, it’s always you who gets to decide your future and make your own choices and that real friends aren’t always the same age as you and may not live in the same state as you, but you’ll always see them again, as if you never said goodbye.

Dear future correspondents, I promise you that July will come soon enough and you’ll be standing in Baggage Claim 6, awkward and nervous – which is worth it. Because it leads you to the best people and best experience you’re yet to have.