The Night My World Ended

The morning after the world ended, I woke up in my best friend's basement. It was Christmas Eve Day, my family was in shambles, and I had never felt so alone in my entire life. The sun was up and beaming obnoxiously through the tiny window above my bed. I cursed the sun for rising.

There is a difference between being suicidal and just wishing you didn't exist. You think that maybe you'll fall asleep and the sun won't rise again because it makes no sense that it would. It's hard to contemplate other people's lives going on like nothing happened to you, like you weren't drowning. 

But despite my muddled brain and full-body ache, I did exist and the sun did rise so I had to do what I did every other morning, albeit in my own house.

I sat up. I put both feet on the floor. I stood, I walked to the bathroom, I showered. I did my hair and my make-up just like it was any other day. I went upstairs and made small talk with my best friend's family over grapefruit and cereal. I laughed.

Because the sun was up. Because I was alive. Because this is What You Do and not doing it would be so much worse than anything that had happened to me. Because all I had were the motions and I was determined to go through them. 

Because, because, because, because.

I sat on the couch and talked to my friend and her mom and made jokes about their evil cat. I made plans with my boyfriend. I ate food. I tried to breathe.

But after two hours of pretending that I had myself under control, I stumbled back to my basement bedroom and flopped gracelessly onto the pull-out bed. My headphones were still hooked up to my iPhone, so I hooked myself up and listened to Coldplay's Fix You about 20 consecutive times, trying to induce the tears that seemed to be stuck somewhere in my stomach. Nothing. I fell asleep with my music still on. 

I woke up to my phone ringing and tears pooling up in my eyes. It was my therapist. We talked for an hour. I found out later that she didn't charge us for that session. 

I was finally crying and it felt good, except for the moment of terror when I wondered if I'd ever be able to stop. For a few moments, I felt bad for myself. I saw myself from the outside, a crumpled young girl on a pull-out bed, mascara smeared all over her face, trying so desperately not to absolutely shatter.

Then I dropped from the bed to my knees and started pleading with God to let me survive this. I made promises, I got angry, I cried, I tried not to scream. I was so caught in between my rage that God would allow something so terrible to happen to me, even though I'd tried so hard to be good, and my desperation to feel some comfort and peace in the midst of my world ending. It was the first time I realized that growing up didn't mean it was easier to manage my emotions, but rather it made it possible for me to juggle so many conflicting emotions at once that I felt vaguely schizophrenic. 

That night, my world continued to crumble. The police picked me up from my boyfriend's family Christmas party. I spent Christmas Eve and early Christmas Morning in a police station, clinging to my little brother and my dad. I spoke to a judge via Skype, and at 4:36 on Christmas, we walked into my house. The tree was lit, the presents were gone, we were finally safe, and we had somehow survived the last 72 hours with shreds of Christmas spirit intact. We went to bed.

And that year, our Christmas miracle was being together. I woke up with the words of the Grinch in my head:

"And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet ice cold in the snow,
stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so? It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags. And he puzzled and puzzled 'till his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before. What if Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store. What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more."

And it had come, despite the end of my world, despite my mother's betrayal, despite the fact that I wasn't sure I wanted it to be Christmas.

But it was and I was alive and for a few hours that day, I felt it.

Life goes on and moves forward at a sometimes relentless pace. Sometimes all you can do is wake up in the morning, put your feet on the floor, and tell yourself that you're going to make it through another day. And maybe your world ends, and maybe you have to pick up the pieces and start all over, and maybe sometimes it makes no sense that you would have to do that. And maybe it makes you want to quit.

I'm not going to tell you that eventually it will be over and your life will be wonderful and you can just forget all the bad stuff that happened to you. What I can say is that you is that time will pass, the sun will continue to rise, and you have to continue to get up and give 'em hell. 

Me

My battle with my skin has been a constant in my life since I was a wee lass of eight. Anyone who's had chronic acne can tell you that it sucks. There's nothing like waking up to a giant puss volcano erupting on your nose to make you feel like staying in bed all day.

Naturally, when I was old enough to venture into the world of foundations, powders, and eyeshadows, I rushed right for the concealer. I still remember my first day of high school, standing self-consciously in front of the mirror and slathering my face in whatever CoverGirl foundation was the latest at the time. I wanted desperately to make friends with the girl in the mirror, but she was so difficult to accept because she looked like this:

Actual photo from 9th grade. It's worth noting that I was wearing platform flip-flops, a kimono shirt, and jean capris. Bless my heart.

When I firmly believed she should look like this:

Yes, T-Swift's Love Story was at the height of its popularity when I was a freshman in high school.

I was even more desperately trying to make actual real friends and get attention from actual real boys (oh foolish girl) and it seemed to me that covering my pubescent skin with thick, ill-pigmented sludge (and getting a push-up bra) was the way to do it. Little did I know, the sludge may have actually been making my skin worse.

But I persisted. My first foray into the world of womanhood was characterized by globs of CoverGirl concealer, chunky maxi pads, and crippling insecurity.

As I grew older, I experimented with all kinds of drug store foundations, cycling through Revlon, Maybelline, Alamay, and even the late-blooming Neutragena line. I lined my brown eyes with thick layers of black pencil, sometimes only lining the bottom, and brushing on clumpy, crumbly mascara, all the while praying to the beauty gods that I would someday wake up to a face more like a model's and less like my own. I tried different fashion trends-- Uggs with jeans, sweats with tight t's, converse sneakers. I wore bad perfume, complained about being "fat", and developed a habit of saying "like" far too often.

Homecoming 2008

And my hair-- goodness gracious, my hair. I wore it long, long, long until the summer after 10th grade when I chopped it to my shoulders and layered it like crazy. My boyfriend at the time told me he didn't care about my hair or make-up. He told me he loved me for me, and I tried to believe him when I finally sheared my long hair for a short pixie cut the day before my junior prom. A few months later, when my parents announced their divorce, I shaved my head completely. I was in the midst of what I would later believe was a mild mental breakdown, a la 2007-Britney Spears.

Pics or it didn't happen? It happened. 

Gradually, through all my radical changes, I started to accept the girl in the mirror. She wasn't perfect. She had acne. She had too-small ears. Her eyebrows never cooperated. But she was all I was going to get.

By the time I started college, I was fed up with being fed up with myself. My makeup routine was set in stone by this point and I executed it religiously every single day with precision. I struggled to find friends because I struggled to feel good enough to be someone's friend. But a dear friend of mine finally convinced me to be her model for her photography project. I relented reluctantly because I almost never liked pictures of myself.

I waited to see the pictures anxiously. When they finally appeared on facebook, I considered not even looking at them, afraid that they would confirm that I should never ever be photographed. I finally got up the never to look."I look... pretty," I quietly admitted to myself, alone in my dorm room. Because, sure, the photos were a little edited, and yes, my friend was an expert at framing me in amazing light, but darnit if I didn't look good. It was the first time I'd ever considered that I wasn't some kind of terrible freak of nature who needed to be covered in make up constantly to maintain the image of averageness. It was a turning point. It gave me the push I needed to realize that the bigger problem with how I looked was my own perception, not my reflection.

One of the pictures. Yeah, girl. Work it.

It's been about a year since the fateful photo shoot and I think I've made enormous strides on the path to self-acceptance, and, ultimately, self love.

And yes, I still fight with my skin, but it's gotten better. And yes, I still wear makeup. And yes, I still have days when I feel insecure or unattractive or bloated, but I work through them. I can afford nicer makeup now, the kind that's smooth and looks more natural. I enjoy my makeup rituals, painting my face more like an artist embellishing their artwork and less like a 13-year-old trying to mask her entire existence in gray foundation. I still change my hair, but less frequently and radically, and it's gotten longer as I've gotten healthier.

But the girl in the mirror, I love her more these days. Her eyes are sharp and clear and her lips are pink and soft from 19 and a half years of laughing, kissing, yelling, and being gnawed on when she's stressed. I see much more in her than a lack or surplus of certain features. I see strength and courage and heart. I see a survivor and a friend and an artist. I see her for her.

And she's me. I'm me. And that's a good thing.

On the Mend

Hey, guys. It's been... gosh... how long has it been?

I went a little AWOL for a bit. And I'm sorry. I've been trying to write but it doesn't always...work. I don't know how to explain it other than I get this weird selective writer's block where I can write for hours unless I try to blog. Maybe it's something akin to stage fright? I don't know.

What have I actually been doing? I changed jobs, I bought some cute boots, saw some doctors, moved, discovered a little playground across from my house, journaled (a lot), cut my hair, dyed my hair, blew half (give or take... mostly give) my paycheck at the new Ulta, got obsessed with Breaking Bad, and started regularly using moisturizer.

So, no, I haven't been lounging on the beach or anything. I've been busy...ish.

I'm trying really hard to get back to blogging because I actually do enjoy doing this, but in the meantime, here is one of my billion expertly crafted Spotify playlists. (Did you know you could add playlists to blog posts? This is so cool.)

Anywho, I'll be posting again soon (I hope.)

Enjoy.

Update

It's been a long time, and for that I apologize.

What you have to understand is that my life has been in a near constant state of turmoil and I am just now getting back into a "normal" routine. So I guess it's time for a lightning round of...

What the Heck I've Been Doing this Past Month

1. I took my finals around the middle of April. Finals are awful, but they brought my first year of college to a close, which felt pretty good, I guess.

2. I moved out my my apartment, which was a hellish experience. I hate, hate, hate packing in a way that I can't fully explain without sound effects, facial expressions, and falling on the ground crying. I think that in the two day period between finishing finals and moving out, I said more curse words that I had in my entire life up to that point. I also had to do a top-to-bottom deep-clean of the apartment, which involved spraying more chemicals into small, poorly ventilated spaces than can be healthy.

Highlights, for your amusement: Me, running around the apartment in a bight pink bra and soccer shorts, screaming at my (recently stubbed) toe when my roommates were both still taking finals; Me, crying in my closet because I was sweating too much and it was making me mad; And me, finally walking out if that blasted apartment for the last time, thinking, "I am literally sweating Windex."

3. I moved back home for the next 8 months. It's been a transition, but things are looking good so far. I spent the whole first week sleeping (because MEMORY FOAM MATTRESS), and the second week job-hunting.

4. I got a job at a toy store! I start training tomorrow, so let's all hope that goes well. I've already freaked out a few times and I haven't even started yet... Hmmm...


Anyway, that's just a brief update. I have lots of wonderful posts on deck that should be posting in the next few weeks. Thanks for sticking with me! I love you guys!

The Greatest Fear

There's that quote that's thrown around all the time.

Something about how what we fear most in not failure, but, in fact, our own majestic, glowing potential to do good and be good and vanquish our own weaknesses.

And yes, perhaps that is valid for some people. Maybe one of you harbors a deep-rooted terror of your own excellence. If that is your cross to bear, your own brand of hamartia, then it is real to you. I'm not trying to discount that.

But for me, my shining potential is a million miles away from my greatest fear. More pressing fears include spiders (and any possible spider mutations allowing them to fly), tight, crowded, and/or loud spaces, enduring a Russian prison sentence, accidentally joining a gang, the candiru and the myths surrounding it, getting lost in a city at night, sharks, riptides, people who lurk, any situation that would cause me to be portrayed as a victim on an episode of Law & Order: SVU (which is a great show, but also kind of terrifying), and having to repeat high school.* 

In the grand scheme of things, I think fear of greatness falls somewhere between my fear of choking on a mini-marshmallow while drinking hot cocoa and contracting rabies from a rabbit bite. 

So, no, not a big fear of mine. 

My biggest fears are the stuff of cliches, yet I wonder sometimes if things become cliche and over-used and mocked because they're actually essential human truths that we're too scared to admit plague us because they're embarrassing. Because they reveal too much of our gooey centers and put dents in our glossy, scared-of-our-own-perfection topcoats. 

Isn't everyone scared of being alone? Scared of turning out to be tragically insignificant? Scared of losing what they have?

Hasn't everyone, at some point, laid in bed contemplating how small they are and how infinite the universe is and how totally unfathomably minuscule they are in the grand scheme of things?

Regardless of religion or level of devoutness, we all, at some point, allow ourselves to wonder what happens when we die. What if, by some tragic turn of events, this really is all there is and death is really the end? What if we all end, with the crisp finality of a lobbed-off ponytail, and end up 6-feet-under with no way out?

These are the fears of madmen and heretics, the fears of kings and soliders... the fears of the human condition.

We want to matter. We want to be relevant. We want to be unforgettable. We want, we want, we want. We spend our lives, from our first breath to our last, wanting.

My greatest fear, I suppose, is that no one will be willing to look up from their wanting long enough to see me, really see me, and say, "I see you. I need you. And you're enough."

And I guess I'm also scared that I'll be too consumed in my own wanting to do that to someone else.

I do not fear my potential to be great. I fear my potential to love and be loved. We all do.

So we face that fear everyday.

We learn to look past wants as we decide to see others as we so desperately need to be seen. We love, not because it is easy, gentle, or painless, but because it is something we need. We love because we know the glittering paradoxes of the human condition and know that acceptance is the one thing that cause ease the nausea when the glitter goes to our heads. We love because we are human and because we know we must face our fears.

We love because we are scared, but also because it is the one thing that seems to make us feel safe.

We love, we love, we love. 

Stuff and Things on My Brain

1. I am so over fair-weather friends. Suffice it to say, my feelings have been hurt a few times this week/year by people who choose to only be my friend when I'm doing well, but who will literally pretend I don't exist when I'm not.

People, hear me. It's better to just not be friends with someone than to only be that kind of friend. I can deal with someone not liking me/not wanting to be my friend, but the feeling of hurt and betrayal that comes with having a fair-weather friend is absolutely horrid.

Please, please, please take that into consideration in your day-to-day life. Thanks.

2. Here are some songs I really like these days, for your listening pleasure.

Don't You Worry Child cover by Madilyn Bailey

Keep Your Eyes Open by NEEDTOBREATHE

How to Be a Heartbreaker by Marina and the Diamonds

Landslide by Fleetwood Mac

Bluebird by Sara Bareilles

3. I have decided to take a semester off school for reasons. I am so blessed to have a family that supports me in this decision! So yes, when school wraps up at the end of April, I will be returning home. And staying there for eight months. Whaaaat?!

Goals for my time "off" include geting my license, geting a job, and getting appropriate amounts of sleep most nights. Also hanging out with some amazing friends that I've missed like crazy, and possibly going running everyday...?

4. I'm allergic to Utah. The weather was amazing today, but so are the magnitude of the allergy symptoms I'm having. To be fair, I'm a little bit allergic to Pennsylvania, but not nearly as allergic as I am to Utah. Time to break out the Zyrtec...

5. My hair is long now. Not long long, but longer than it's been in two years. Wanna see a picture?

Boom. Super long. I can get 70% of it into a ponytail, so that's exciting. I'm trying to get used to having it down, though, because when I used to have it long long, it was always in a bun, like so:

(Apparently, 16-year-old me knew I would need a bun-pic for my future blog.)

Anyway, hope you survived your Wednesday. I did. Just barely.

x,

   g

Cave Dwelling

They told me I needed something fun, something exciting to look forward to. Plan a party, read a book. Do something, for heaven's sake, because seeing you just sit there is... freaky. It's strange. It's abnormal.

And then they told me that people are happier when they're looking at a bright future or whatever. And yeah, that's probably true, I suppose. But it's easier to have a positive perspective when you're standing on top of a hill than when you're stumbling around in a cave with a faulty flashlight and a very dim memory regarding the way out.

I mean, really. It's Perspective 101.

But I guess people who feel qualified to give that kind of advice are usually the ones who haven't been in a cave recently. Us cave dwellers realize that we aren't usually the best at giving uplifting advice.

And so I offer mine humbly and without pretense.

Stop trying to look forward all the time. Let your hope be abstract and your goals be gentle. Give yourself permission to savor the smallest moments of joy and peace.

Read a book in the sun. Dance to your favorite song when no one’s around. Take yourself on field trips to places you’ve never been before.

Don’t feel bad because you didn’t enjoy that party or this dance. Don’t beat yourself up for not liking “normal” fun. Your fun is okay. Your fun is excellent.

We cave dwellers are not hopeless, nor are we cynical for believing that we needn’t always have a perfect dedication to our futures. We have learned to reside firmly in the moment.

We have learned that it is staying in the moment, breathing the fresh air, is more beautiful than rushing from second to second with a furious ache for something to look forward to.

Tomorrow may be the best day of my life. It may be the worst. It will likely be another average day. But it doesn’t matter. Because today will never happen again, and today I will find my glimmers of sunlight as I ride the roller coaster of my own emotions through the highs and lows of just... being.

Today, right now, you must be. Be in your cave, on your hill, in your valley or forest.

In this moment, you are alive, and that is enough.

Winning.

OH MY GOSH YOU GUYS.

Here. Look at these numbers:

Stats as of 12:25 pm on Feb. 14th-- at time of posting, views for Feb. 14th exceeded 300.

What is going on? I don't even know how to comprehend these numbers. See, every time I post something (and subsequently share it on Facebook), I have this semi-rational fear that people will essentially react like this:

But so far, no one has, and I am grateful for that. People have even told me that they like my blog and that they read my blog. On the outside, I'm usually all like

Play it cool,  play it cool.

but on the inside, I'm like

I win the internet. 

The point here is thanks for not thinking that I suck. It's really sweet. I'll do my best to continue not sucking.

I also wanted to take a little time and talk about why I blog, because I know some of you stay up late pondering that question. Rest ye your weary minds.

I like to write. Before I started blogging (and after, sometimes), I spent a lot of time scribbling in a notebook, writing things that I thought were hilarious/witty/insightful/woefully self-indulgent. I kept them to myself, because I am secretly very shy.

Over time, I accumulated 50-ish of these passages. Some were short (less than one college-ruled page) and some (mainly the woefully self-indulgent ones) were more than 5 pages long. They were poems, song lyrics, stories, anecdotes, rants, rambles, complaints... some were even peppered with stick figures and took a comic format. Sometimes I go back and read them and I'm mildly horrified at what I thought was so amazing three years ago.

Anyway, I had pretty much decided that I liked to write, but that I never planned on writing in any public setting... until I found myself in a Creative Writing class durring my senior year of high school. My senior year was... hard to say the least. I found myself looking forward to CW everyday because I had a chance to just let go for 40 minutes and write whatever I wanted. It was pure therapy. My teacher was amazing, too, and managed to coax me into sharing some of my writing with the class.

I gradually got more comfortable with the idea that I have things to say and people will read them. I shared with the class, then with then-boyfriend, A, then with my dad, a few friends... and finally, I started blogging.

It was terrifying at first. After my first post went "live," I spent the evening constantly refreshing my stats page. Every single pageview was mind-wrackingly intimidating. I think I got 43 pageviews that whole week, which averages about 10 views for each of the four posts that went live that week.

Anyway, time went on, and less than a year later, new posts on The Epitome of Snark average 40-60 pageviews within the first 24 hours of posting. There are undoubtedly those among you that are not impressed by that statistic, but it kind of blows my mind.

For the curious of heart, here is a list of the Top Five TEoS Posts to Date:

1. Because Life Can Suck- September 20th, 2012: This was actually the first post that went up.
2. My Friendship/Dating Application- December 31st, 2012: Apparently, a lot of people wanted to know the qualifications for dating/being friends with me. 
3. Enjoy the Ride- October 22nd, 2012: A post about my dear grandmother who passed away on the day Enjoy the Ride posted.
4. You're Doing It Wrong: Flirting- September 23rd, 2012: Comical observation about the boys I'd met at college up to that point.
5. Facebook Questions!- December 4th, 2013: Your questions, my responses. Boom.

That's all I've got for today. I hope you all survived Valentine's Day with only minor cuts and scrapes to your body/ego/world-view. Keep on keepin' on, my lovelies.

x,

   g

Glum-Be-Gone Part 2: Valentine's Day

Brag-y update on my life/blog/self-esteem in general: In the past 5 days, TEoS has gotten 300 pageviews. What?! Okay, that's probably not a ton, but my two-sizes-too-small heart grew one size today... All I can say is this.

Also, please check out the poll in the sidebar. It's the little icon with the graph? Yeah, that. I'll put polls up sometimes, when I feel like it. Boom. We get new features everyday. 

Well, kids, it's that time of year again! The time when lovers desperately dash from store to store seeking the perfect heart-shaped box of candy and single people become more terrified than usual that they will die alone.

Yeah, this year, I fall with the singles. For the first time since I've been of legitimate Mormon dating-age (16), I find myself without a boo.

"What?" you ask. "How could anyone as adorable and witty as you be alone for the greatest loveFest ever created?"

Or more accurately, "Is this going to be a long, bitter post about how a cranky single chick hates other people's happiness?"

Psh. No. *deletes everything previously written*

I haven't really liked Valentine's Day since I finished elementary school, where Valentine's Day was a celebration of friendship and sugar-highs, akin to Halloween. Even when I was not-so-single, it never struck me as being a great idea. Part of this is its propensity for overshadowing my birthday. That's not cool.

But mostly, I don't like how crazy everyone gets. If your entire relationship is dependent on having the perfect Valentine's date, is that really a relationship you want to be in? And if you're so "alone" in the world, why are you on the phone, complaining to your best friend about it? Doesn't having a best friend to talk to make you, by definition, not alone?

Anywho, that's just my two cents.

Now for the fun part. I've compiled some of my favorite love-related memes, written you a Valentine's Carol, and done some other cute stuff that will, I'm hoping, put a smile on your face, no matter your level of singleness this V-Day. Enjoy.

For Single People:

First of all, Valentine's Day can be amazing for single people. When else can you buy huge quantities of chocolate without getting a sympathetic look from the cashier? 

Replace "girls" with "guys" and you have my life story.
 

Amen to that.

Particularly funny to me because the number of times I've been told to "go out of my comfort zone" to "meet someone" in the last year is a triple-diget number.

This one made me legitimately sad.

For "Attached" People:

To the tune of Deck The Halls:
Deck the halls with creepy Cupids
(No no no no noooo no no no noo)
'Tis the season to act stupid
(Ha ha ha ha haaa ha ha ha haa)
Raise we now our expectations
(Want a ring? Take a ring! OBTAIN THE RING.)
Can you feel the desperation
(You will die alone, alone, a-loooooone)

 Disregard women, obtain yams. 

In Conclusion:

I made you a Valentine.*

Hope your V-Day is filled with candy, love, and unrealistically high expectations! 

See you on February 15th, when my characteristic wit and cynicism will no longer be regarded as a hatred for other people's happiness. 

Love you guys. 

Love,

     Grace

*Okay, yes, that is a One Direction poster in the background. No, it is not serious. Note the mustaches. It is also covered in lyrics from this song. Chill.

The Weight of Your Opinion

In January I decided to start going by my middle name, Grace, rather than my first name, Micaela. And, yes, a lot of people had a lot of opinions about my decision because people have opinions.

I was expecting some confusion when I decided to use my middle name in my everyday dealings. When I posted on Facebook about choosing to go by my middle name, the first comment was, "I like Micaela better."

I've dealt with this kind of thing before, mostly in the context of my love for changing my hair up dramatically and often. There were several occasions in high school where people I hardly knew took it upon themselves to inform me that they liked my hair better red, or it looked dumb short, or (after a particularly bad hair decision) that I looked like a boy.

When strangers or people I didn't know very well would inform me of my shortcomings, I took it to heart. A good friend noticed this and imparted some life-altering wisdom: These people didn't know me. They didn't know I was funny under pressure, or that I cried twice the first time I saw Tangled, or that I make a mean spaghetti sauce, or that I was an extremely loyal friend. They didn't know who I was as a person. Why was I letting the opinion of people who only knew me by my appearance have weight in my life?

There are people in this world whose opinions I care about and ask for frequently. I take what they say very seriously. Even when I don't ask, they are willing to take time out of their day to inform me that I'm being stupid, or that I need to change X aspect of my life. Their feedbacks is a valuable compass in my life, and I love them for caring about me so much.

So, back to my name change. When I first realized that not everyone was going to be on board with my decision, I was a little hurt. It never occurred to me that people would feel strongly enough about it to publicly share their opinion. I guess I figured it was a personal decision I got to make. I wasn't trying to change anyone else's name, after all. Just mine.

After stewing on my situation for a few minutes, I realized that I didn't need to let one person's opinion make me feel bad about a choice I'd made for myself. Heck, this person probably didn't even realize that their comment would hurt my feelings.

My point here is twofold:
1. Wield your opinion of people appropriately. If you don't have something nice to say, don't say anything at all. Unless they ask you directly, in which case you can either white-lie or be tactfully honest.
2. Don't let other people's opinions dictate what you do in life. Know whose advice you value. Give yourself permission to disregard comments from people who don't have the authority to inform you of your issues.

Sorry if this is a bit disjointed. I'm tired. Better end now before it gets worse.

x,
   g

I Am Not a Pterodactyl

Okay, this is another pre-pubescent me story. You're welcome.

I went to private school until half-way through second grade. That was when my parents decided to main-stream me. The adorable little charter school I was attending was in serious financial trouble, so I guess they figured it was high time to move me from one failing system to another (we'll talk about my views on the educational system some other time.).

I learned pretty quickly that public school was serious business. We sat at assigned seats, which were grouped into "pods" with other students. We ate lunch at the same time every day. We had to ask to use the bathroom. But the weirdest thing for me was that we had units. Like, for a set number of weeks we would all learn about a certain topic. It would permeate every aspect of our day. When we learned about pioneers, we wrote pioneer journals and did word problems about how many oxen Jeb would have if he gave four to Sally because all of Sally's oxen were brutally murdered. Stuff like that. We also moved seats every unit. Boy, was that exciting.

One fateful day, it was announced that our next unit would be dinosaurs. The boys in the class rejoiced. All the girls pretended to scoff. It wasn't cool to like dinosaurs if you were a girl. Everyone knew that. My teacher, Ms. Foley (who was as close to Ms. Frizzle as any teacher could get), told us to all stand up so we could get our new seats. I was put at a pod with two other girls (I forget who-- they were irrelevant) and two boys. I was new to boys.*

One of the boys had been at my old pod. His name was James. James, even durring other units, loved to talk about dinosaurs. He knew everything about velociraptors. Seven-year-old-me found that wildly sexy. I recently ran across an old journal I wrote in around that time. The first page says (I'm not even kidding), "I love James. He is cut. He nows abut velosoraptors." And then there are a million deformed hearts.**

The other boy was different. His name was Bert. Bert had a reputation for being the class know-it-all, and also for being kind of a jerk. Now, I was new to the public school system, so I often found myself competing with Bert for the position of teacher's pet and class brain. He had the advantage of having two anthropology professors as parents. It was so not fair.***

One day, durring recess, Bert approached me. I immediately sensed that something was afoot. He'd breeched the Cootie Line. 

"Hey, guess what?"

I looked at him suspiciously. "What?"

He pushed his glasses up his nose. "My dad told me that all humans are turning into dinosaurs."

"No they're not." Wait, are they? What?! This was not discussed in Unit Time.

"Yeah they are. My dad said. And guess what else?" His pale, smug face glowed with the light of knowledge I did not posses. I considered driving him away with a nice round of Kissy Face, but I thought better of it. 

"What?"

He leaned in close. I could smell the peanut butter on his breath. "I'm turning into a pterodactyl and so are you. We're going to be the only pterodactyls on Earth." Bert paused, presumably for dramatic effect. "We're going to have to mate."

Mate. Mate. Mate. It echoed in my head. I didn't exactly know what "mate" was, only that it meant that I would have to be Bert's wife. My life was over. I would never marry James. 

Ms. Foley blew the whistle, signaling the end of recess. The rest of the day was torture, sitting across from James, just knowing that I'd never have him. Every time Bert spoke, I cringed more than usual.

By the end of the day, I was so fed up that the first thing I said to my mom when she picked me up was, "I have to mate with Bert." And then I burst into tears. Through sobs and gasps I recounted what Bert had told me. My mother called Ms. Foley that night. 

The next day, Ms. Foley sat us down in a circle and explained that people do not turn into dinosaurs.

Nope, we don't. But these days, I find that more and more unfortunate. 

x,

   g

* My first and second grade classes at my little Montessori school were comprised of me and five other girls. This was probably due to the fact that I made out with every boy in my kindergarden class.

** My taste in men has changed surprisingly little since second grade. I mean, I like people my own age, but the sexiness of velociraptor knowledge has yet to fade. 

*** Looking back, I think this whole thing was just a plan to sabotage me so that he could steal the title right from under my nose. It was probably also driven by his inability to properly express his affection for me. Which I totally get. I'd be lying if I said I'd never thought about trying this.

I Thought of You

I thought about you yesterday, for the first time in weeks.

I woke up like I usually do, head clouded with nightmares. It took me a minute to gather my strength and sit up, but I did, and when I looked out my window, I could have sworn I heard someone say your name.

It surprised me, to say the least, to have you suddenly brought to my mind so soon after waking. The pain's been fading, after all. What started as the sharp, stinging missing of you has slowly sunk deeper and deeper into my consciousness. After the stinging was the dull ache of a missing piece, followed by a lighter (yet always present) yearning for what I couldn't have.

And then you became like a bruise at the back of my mind, painful when bumped. Sometimes, I'd take a finger and poke it, just to see if it still hurt, because there was something so comfortable about missing you. Missing you filled the space previously occupied by loving you, and God knows I'm terrible at having holes.

But yesterday, when I thought of you, it didn't hurt. I tried to make it hurt, banged at the spot where my bruise had been, tried to force tears, but all I felt was a whisper of nostalgia.

It scared me that I could be so fond of having a sore spot.

And then I got up and showered and blew my hair dry (it's longer now, you know) and put on a pair of jeans that you wouldn't have liked. I watched an episode of that TV show you were always trying to get me to watch and decided, almost without realizing, that you had good taste in TV after all.

But then I realized that I was thinking of you again, and tried to recoil, but there was no reason to because you weren't really there anymore, making me hurt and wonder what if.

Then I found myself in front of the mirror, thinking about thinking of you, and realizing how much I've changed since February. If we met now, you wouldn't know me. You wouldn't love me. And that no longer scares me.

If you should ever see this, I'd want you to know how grateful I am to you for being the beautiful boy with the green eyes who took a broken thing and taught her to trust herself.

But now, I lay this ache to rest, and welcome you, my sweet nostalgic memory, into the realm of my distant thoughts. I have learned how to live.

I haven't the time for ghosts, you know.

x,
   g

Hide and Seek

As a kid, I never much enjoyed playing Hide-'n-go-Seek. The way I saw it, it was terrifying and humiliating no matter what role I ended up playing.

There's the Seeker, who counts to ten and then looks for everyone. The Seeker has to walk around alone looking for other kids. I always had this nagging worry in the back of my mind that I wouldn't be able to find anyone, thereby ending up humiliated and alone. Or worse, that the other kids had all abandoned me, leaving me to look for people that simply weren't there while they all went off to play somewhere else.

And when you're not seeking, you're a Hider. Hiders are simply supposed to hide as best they can and wait to be found. Being a hider was, for me, just as bad as being the Seeker. Finding the right hiding place was a serious business. I never wanted to be found first because that meant my hiding spot was lame, but I also never wanted to be found last. Last meant sitting alone the longest, unable to do anything to change my situation. Last meant having a tiny, irrational moment of terror, contemplating the consequences of never being found and remaining hidden forever. Last meant people were impatient with finding you, prone to giving up.

No matter what I did, I was charged with isolation, told that I could either be seeking or sought but never both.

As I grew up, I began to realize how precarious the balance of the Seekers to the Sought really was. In middle school, I had trouble making friends, and was told that the less available I made myself, the more people would want to be with me. High school brought the same advice, but in relation to boys. This is what I heard: 

Be yourself, but if being yourself means being straightforward and assertive, expect to die alone, because people like to seek. They like the game. They like to feel like they're winning. And if you make it too easy for someone to find you, you're lame.  

But don't play too hard to get. No one likes a tease. Be complicated until the other person gets bored. Surprise! You were winning all along.

Honestly, I have no patience for games. I don't like the "pretend you're busy" nuances of new friendships or the "keep him guessing" culture of dating. When someone likes me, as a friend or otherwise, I appreciate them letting me know. You don't have to be clingy about it. Embrace the awkward.

I don't enjoy feeling like I have to hide in just the right place and wait to be found. And I don't like this mentality of hiding or seeking. It's hiding, because we're all a little hidden inherently, with our flaws and secrets, while seeking, because no one has to ever be alone.

It's realizing that Sardines is maybe the better game, because, after all, we're all playing the game of life as a team, learning that hiding and seeking should always end with everyone smiling because no one is ever alone.

Happy Saturday!

x,
   g

The Year of Grace

For the first time in an exceptionally long time, I'm in control of my life. Kids, I cannot put into words how good that feels.

I've taken to calling this the Year of Grace because, goshdarnit, this is going to be my year. Come hell or high-water, I am going to enjoy 2013 because I say so. I'm finally beginning the process of transforming from victim to survivor. I'm ready to stop letting my past define my present and future. I'm ready to be me.

What will the Year of Grace entail, you ask?

I can tell you that there will be a lot of resisting the temptation to get my hair cut short again. Yes, this will be the year I finally grow my hair back out. I may even consider going back to my natural color, but let's be real-- changing up my hair color is one of the most fun things I do.

There will be a lot of studying and learning. I'd really like to settle on a major this year so I know what I'm doing with my life. I feel like I should probably get serious about this growing up business.

There will also be some money-earning. Besides babysitting and helping my dad with his software company, I have never been gainfully employed. That's really embarrassing to admit, but my health hasn't always allowed me the option of working. In light of finally having resources to get that stuff under control, I'm confident a job is in my cards this year.

As well as getting my driver's license. That's even more embarrassing, but it was delayed for the same reason a job was. I'm ready to check driving off my list of to-do's.

There will be healthy food and more exercise. College sent me into a downward spiral when it comes to nutrition, but I really really really need to get that under control. And I will. This year. I hope. Probably.

My last goal is probably the most embarrassing, so bare with me. I want to learn how to dance. I'm not talking ballet or hip-hop (though that would be nice.) I'm talking about basic social dancing. I am probably the whitest person you will ever encounter, and as such, I have little to no ability to move gracefully. My idea of dancing is jumping up and down and moving my arms. You're probably thinking that there's no way I suck as badly as I think I do, but believe me, there is.

So yeah, that's what up. Happy New Year!

x,
   g