January 7, 2013 -- 2 Years Since

Perhaps I am here today because I feel emotionally obligated to write on this day. Or perhaps I think it will be better for me if I do something in my mother's memory. So far, I have done nothing. I woke up with the intention of paying attention to everything that made me happy. I managed it as far as I did not hate anything, but overall I think I'm just missing the whole point.

In my creative writing class, I wrote a story about her. Our prompt was to write a story using certain words listed below. She currently has it for grading, so I cannot share it with you just yet. As soon as I get it back, I will try to copy it on here. I cannot really remember what I wrote about, other than it was a dream in which my mom visited me. We spent the night sitting together, holding hands, gazing at the moon. Not a single word passed between us, because there was no need for them. The emotions that came with writing the piece greatly contradicted each other. On one hand, I felt desperately alone. That's how I've come to feel over these past few years. I don't always notice it, because in those moments it isn't there, but there are times when I really feel it. Like throughout the rehearsals for my play, The Laramie Project. To those that were alive (and aware enough) to watch the news in 1998, you might recall an incident in Laramie, Wyoming. A 21 year old, Matthew Shepard, was brutally beaten, tortured, and killed because he was gay. The Laramie Project is a play dealing with people that knew Matthew, people new the perpetrators, Aaron McKinney and Russell Henderson, and even people that had strong opinions on the subject. It was very powerful, and also very emotional. There were many times we would sit in a circle to talk about what was going through our heads. I always opted out of talking, because I suck when it comes to finding the best words to express myself. Perhaps that's why I feel better with my blog. I can revise and edit before you hear what I have to say. Almost each time at these meetings, someone would start to break down and the rest would follow. We were all very stressed out that we would only have two months to rehearse and complete every aspect of this play, and also really jolted at the level of hate that oozed out of some of these characters' words. Everyone else had someone to lean on when they got upset. I didn't. Perhaps it was because most everyone in our world is self obsessed, so that they don't often notice when someone is hugging themselves because they cannot get anything out of anyone else. I realize now how harsh that sounds, and I wish I could say I was exaggerating. And I know that this was not on purpose. That's just how things ended up. The one time I broke down I condemned myself to the bathroom. I don't want people to see. I don't cry in front of people. I just don't. I can't fall asleep in front of others either, strangely enough, unless it's a sleepover with the given intent of, y'know, sleeping.

So there's that. Then, on the other hand, I can see the good out of her death. I absolutely hate that I can see it, but I can. I have noticed that her death has forced me to grow up faster than I would have otherwise. I had no one to hide behind when strangers were around. It was up to me to suck it up and talk to people. Become more social, as it were. I am shy. I am not good at comforting people, even when I suspect what the right thing to do would be. I'm the one standing there awkwardly, trying to come up with something to say that would be of any comfort. It got harder when I realized what NOT to say. Nobody cares that you're "sorry for their loss." That's not gonna do shit. Saying you're sorry makes it sound like you did it. And to me, when people told me they understood what I was going through, I frankly wanted to punch them. Unless they literally had gone through the same thing, I didn't wanna hear it.

And then there's the sympathy. Nobody sees the good things that come from death, or even the good that is death to begin with. I mean, I dearly wish that my mother was still here, but I feel better knowing that she left her sickness with all its pain and fear and nausea to go and feel like herself again. My favorite writing prompts have been the ones where I incorporate my Mom. To me, she is like a goddess. She is the best person that was ever in existence. She was wise, funny, and happy. And more than anything, I want people to know that. Some other people may only see her great ability to organize in a way the rest of us could not. That is only a tiny aspect in the abstract puzzle of her wonder. I don't care about what else I have written today except this. Now. I love my mom, and that will never change. And I will never forget.

You know what my mom feared? Not for herself, though she might have worried. She was afraid that after all was said and done, her death would ruin our relationship. She was afraid we wouldn't be as close. I fear she was right. I can't connect to her at all. And yes, I'm that person that believes in spirits and such. I have to, if I want any source of hope. I have to know that someday, I can accomplish the task of talking to my mother again, and building back the relationship we once held.

It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas

Which is unfortunate, because Christmas has already come and gone. Now it's just a nuisance. Especially because I will be getting my permit on Monday, and I would like to begin driving as soon a possible. I do NOT plan on going out on these slippery roads. Not until I have some experience under my belt. I can use that expression because I wear a belt.

There are times when I feel like I am re-using titles. I hope that's not the case, because this title really fits for that beginning sentence I had going there. Didja like that? I thought it was clever. But it's 11:00 on a Saturday night, so what do I know?

I have the full intention of going outside tomorrow and building a snowman, or perhaps a snowball fight if I can find someone to join me. Oh, to be a child. Even if technically, that part of my life is ending.

Wait a minute!

No it's not!

Why would I suggest something like that? That childhood is something that fades away, and you are left to look forward and face it, without turning back. What a stupid way to live. There are those that believe that you need to "act your age" and be responsible and independent. Well you know what? NEWS FLASH: None of that matters As Long As You Are Happy (I'm capitalizing it because it's important). Success is not measured by how much money you make or how many friends you maintain. It's measured by the amount of joy you feel. The rest of that stuff will invite itself into your life, if you allow it. That which is like unto itself is drawn. In other words, anything similar to your wants and desires will be automatically attracted to your life and experience.

And just to show how tired I am. I have the urge to let out maniacal virtual laughter: Muahahahahaha!

I should really get some sleep. For once during this vacation, I have a day to myself where I can sleep as long as I like and do whatever I like. And man, I plan on enjoying it.

Watch Out, America

Here I am before you now, one year older. I have in my eyes a vision of what I would like for my future, even as far up as after college. Nothing is specifically laid out; I just know what I would like to end up happening. 

So I am now officially 16. In terms of females, that means I am now a woman. In terms of the law, I have to wait a couple of years. Ah well. 

I have been taking Driver's Ed for the past week. It's this program my town has where there are a total of five classes from 9:00 - 3:30. It's almost as long as a school day, but it feels a hell of a lot shorter. Maybe that's because I get an extra hour of sleep (because of the weather today I got an extra two hours). Sure, it sometimes feels like a bit of a drag, but you will never catch me saying that it's a waste of my time. I don't even care that I had to go to class on my birthday because I know that I am gaining knowledge that will become a part of me for the rest of my life. After this, I am going to get my permit, then I'll be driving on the road! The actual road, with other people and rules. It's like being thrown into the middle of society. I'm a bit frightened, but more excited.

My dad let me drive his car for the first time. Being that I do not yet have my permit, and being the responsible parent that he is, he took us to a nearby parking lot to practice the basic driving forward, accelerating, turning, and I even managed to park! After the experience, I evaluated what I just went through, as my mind tends to do. I realized that the idea of driving had been much scarier than actually taking it out for a spin. After a day, I really want to do it again! I deeply enjoyed the sense of entitlement that came forth when I placed my hands on the wheel. I have never heard any of my permit-owning friends be so excited about driving, but I really can't see why not. It's freaking amazing!

There have been stories told to us by our instructor about parents who immediately take their children out on busy roads. The child then proceeds to become really stressed, and then never wants to go out on the roads again. Knowing this now, I have told my dad to take baby steps. We will start with nice calm areas of town and work our way up. Plus, my dad pointed out, the back roads will give me good practice of hills. I plan to become a safe and defensive driver. Not only that: I plan to have fun while being a safe and defensive driver. In the words of my 7th grade English teacher Mr. Reynolds, there is no feeling like that of driving. (I'm remembering all the way back to 7th grade, so I don't think that's exactly how he worded it, but based on his usual speaking voice, I can guess that it was pretty close). I mean, what could you possibly compare the feeling of controlling a vehicle that takes you faster than walking? I haven't found it yet. I can't even come up with a good analogy to even tell anyone what driving is like.

So with these final thoughts I bid thee adieu. May your journey be safe and infinitely joyous. (I'm gonna use this for now on whenever I can't find an adequate way to sum everything up). 

Merry Christmas To All

Two years. That's how long it took for me to feel like myself again. Sure, there are still instances where I am disconnected from Who I Really Am, but for the most part, I think I can really focus on being happy with less regret.

Wanna know how I know?

It all has to do with Christmas. That's right, this merry holiday that allows adults to be children and children to get one sleepless night of pure imagination and magic. I've decided that, if given the choice between telling my future kids if Santa Claus exists or not, I will tell them he does. I had so much fun imagining him and his reindeer when I was little.
But anyway, as I was saying, Christmas this year is what leads me to believe that I am okay. Better than okay. Last year, I couldn't really get into the full spirit. I was happy to spend Christmas Eve with my family, but there was a cloud of despair hanging over us that we were trying to ignore, yet it managed to hang in our minds, like icicles.

But this year, I feel, will be different. I can just feel it. I have even been sneaking glances under the tree, trying to figure out which presents are mine. I've been practically giddy about the whole thing.
I've also had the responsibility of finding presents for my friends. They also got my homemade cheesecakes, which is be becoming a fast favorite. Along the road, I have found that I am a giver. I absolutely love giving people presents, because I want to make them feel happy. The cheesecakes are exhausting to make in that it involves a lot of standing around, and it's almost torture not being able to eat one...or ten. But all the same, I love doing it. Food brings smiles to people's faces. In the cooking class I took over the summer, we became close over our cooking. There's so much life that caught me off guard at first; I wasn't expecting so much love.

So obviously I have chosen to become a chef. Along with the reasons I have listed previously, I also love cooking because when I am in the kitchen creating something, I feel the most connected to Mom. I am brought back to those nights when she invited me into the kitchen to help her make dinner. And you know what? It always tasted better those nights. From wonderfully delicious to spectacular and intoxicating.

I would like to start a tradition of my own someday. I want my family to come over to my nicely sized house with its huge gourmet kitchen (that's my plan for my future home, in case someone thought I was actually bragging about my current home. My reality kitchen is pretty tiny. We never host holidays). My family would come in and we would all cook together, little kids excluded unless they want otherwise. We would all come together with our own recipes and goodies. The kitchen would be crowded and busy. And wonderful. I imagine us all talking and laughing, catching up on old times. Everyone would be opened up to a world of openness when they walk into my house. Then we'd all sit down at the decoratively set table, and the endless string of compliments over each dish would begin, spreading warmth through the at atmosphere.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

To the Human Brain

There's no doubt you've all heard. About the shooting in Newtown Connecticut, that is. I heard about it a few days ago, and I am faced now with a puzzling emotion: confusion. One of the things that truly fascinate me is the actions of people. How they react and why they do certain things. So I find it annoying when I truly have no idea why someone would do something. From what I'm told, this man shot his mother before going to the school and opening fire on the kids. People don't do these kinds of things just because their gun was lying around and they were bored. No. So what then? Did he have a case of mental illness that caused him insanity? That's the only explanation I can deem plausible. Perhaps that's why I love Sherlock Holmes so much.

People are a mess of craziness and self consciousness. We are taught things in our society that make little sense if we were to remove ourselves from the situation. Like that stupid unspoken rule that girls shouldn't fart. It happens! Deal with it! (from a person that you now know obviously farts).  Somehow, inside our heads with its unspoken rules and its guidelines that other people have created for their own purposes and expect you now to believe, it makes sense. We are not stifled by this overflow of different opinions. I think most of us are followers, myself included. And I officially think I've stopped making sense about now. But I'm going to keep typing anyway. Just to confuse you.

 You may have noticed that I have begun to put pictures in the front of my blog posts. I am doing this because I was inspired by author Leah Cohen. You see, she does this in her own blog, Love As A Found Object. After reading her blog posts, I noticed that I was connected to her in many ways. I was first introduced to her because my Creative Writing class would be meeting with her, and our teacher gave us an assignment to see her writing style and then create a prompt that reflected that in our own way. She and I are so similar, right down to our writing styles. We both like to show off our large vocabulary, whether we think it fits, or we are making a conscious decision to the audience. In my case, I'm a big show-off. I like how words can be so meticulously strung together to form a balance of words that while some people may think is too much, other people will stand back, take a deep breath, and feel the words that you have just written. 

We are also similar in that her mother died a little while ago of cancer. We both revere our mothers as someone who is so perfect that she makes all mothers obsolete. In my eye, my mom was such a gracious being. She cannot be pegged as similar to anyone else, because she was her own. She was the very definition of beauty, not in that she had the perfect looks -- she wasn't very confident in her weight -- but rather she was a being to be noticed. She is beautiful and she is the most wonderful person I know. Being that she was my mother makes my connection to her so much stronger. I do not believe that I am seeing her out of proportion simply because I can't see her anymore. 

It helps to talk. But not about my problems. I despise it. I would much rather talk about what I had for lunch. Because food makes me happy. Trust makes me happy. I don't choose to live in a world where I have to constantly watch my back. And for that, I do not lead a stressful life. My life does not have to be burdened because I trust. My vibration tells the Universe and thus the Universe responds. You can always have what you want. Animals make me happy. They live a judgment free, "feed me" life that lets them live eagerly and happy, ready to accept. 

Sorry if I flip-flopped around on subjects for a while. That's what a free-write is. No rules.

Rainy Days Lead To Sunny Skies

Last year, I was entering a dark time in my life. My mother had died only a year previously and I felt alone, having found nothing to turn to in order to distract my constant stream of thoughts and emotions. In that year, I decided to attend the annual Snowball Dance, so that I could finally give myself a night to have fun and be with friends.

Things didn't turn out so well. When most of your friends have dates, you tend to be the odd one out; the one who goes back to sit at the table because it feels better than awkwardly standing, hoping that somebody will talk to you, or ask you to dance. That night, I finally decided that I might have a case, if even a small one, of depression. It was time that I stopped living that way and finally make some progress in doing good for my own life. My first thought was to see a therapist, so I told my dad and he got me one. A very nice woman with a lovely smile. I believe that if the given circumstances had not been the case, that being that she was paid to talk to me, we may have been friends. That is, if there had ever been a time when I would have met her.

I went to her until that following spring, because my condition consists of something called SAD -- Seasonal Apprehension Disorder -- so it only occurs in the winter. During that spring, summer, and then autumn, I dreaded the time when my depression would return. I realize my condition wasn't even serious or even the worse case, but was still a heavy burden to carry. For someone like me, who is mentally incapable of  showing malice towards anyone, the feeling was heightened.

But that was last year.

This year, my schedule has proven to be my salvation. I have recently taken part in the play The Laramie Project, and although the subject is quite serious, I must say that I am enjoying myself. I have finally met these people that my brother treats as family, although there are a few that seriously creep me out. In this past week, I have come to curse the schedule and how it keeps me at school until slightly past my usual dinner time, leaving me very little time for sleep and talking to my friends. But now I realize how much it helps me. The Snowball Dance is approaching once more, and I have no doubts as to my emotions. The storm has been ridden out, and the sunny skies await.

Crème Brûlée

I love creme brûlée! Seriously, I think it might be the best dessert ever. It's so light and the "brûlée" portion adds a nice crunch. Before last week, the last time I had one was years before. The only specific thing I remember about it is the blackberries that were sitting on the top. When combined with the already flavorful custard, it was -- oh my god -- it was like, well, heaven I imagine. Just recently, I was having dinner with my family at this lovely Italian restaurant called Tomasso. It was the fanciest place I have ever eaten. When we walked to the door they offered to take our coats. Then we were seated and fully taken care of. It was very nice and relaxing, although there were times when I thought I shouldn't be laying my elbows on the table or talking too loud, in case they kicked people out for that. Luckily they didn't. And I am left with a very happy memory.