Library

I can't remember the last time I was there, or the last time I could even fit it into my schedule. But today, the siren song of the books became too strong, and I went.

The surrounding ground is torn up, naked and exposed to the harsh cold and frost, but inside is welcoming. I find a computer, type in the title, find a call number, and begin my search. Soon, the beat of my muffled footsteps find the right pattern, and I fall into step, swooning under the weight of literature in the air, enticing and caressing.
The shelves tower with knowledge, the upcoming expansion promises even more, and I feel small and playful. I love the feeling of finding the right book, how something that just minutes before was simply a number on a screen is now tangible, filled with words and stories and emotion, solid in your hands.
I turn, having planned on a short visit, when I come face to face with Joyce Carol Oates. My fingers itch, and I feel guilty for never having read her, even when she has an entire shelf to herself. I browse slowly, savoring each title, tilting, bending, to read them all. The colors, the fonts, the pictures, styles. The worn hardcovers with torn dust covers. This is all lost today, on kindles, online, in monotonous copies of black and white, on video games and I-pods. I pluck one out, and pull it to my chest.
My search continues, by author, by subject, as if I'm starving and feed only off of words, until my arms are full. I walk through the mystery aisle, shivering slightly at the surrounding horror, locked away on pages, leaving me safe, unless I dare to pull one out.

As I scan the titles into the checkout, a father walks in behind me, and smiles as his young sons point to pictures on the walls, gaudy educational posters. "Who's that?" A curious voice asks with a pointing finger. The father responds, "That, my son, is George Washington, the first president of our United States." I have to suppress an urge to turn around and hug him, hug them all, for suddenly, there's hope this isn't all lost. There's hope in books, in family, in learning, in teaching.

I return home, and settle on a familiar spot on the couch. The television remains off, for I am far away, lost in the magic of Oates, Maguire, and Wallop.

Recognition

"We are teenage girls.When we go home...Our straightened hair goes up into messy buns.Our makeup has faded or smudged so we take it off.The fake smile vanishes into how we really feel.Our brand new shirt changes into our favorite old sweater. Our skinny jeans are traded for sweat pants or pajamas.And our Uggs are taken off to reveal our fuzzy socks.When we go home...You wouldn't recognize us."
My friend emailed me a link to this Facebook Group, and at first, I was confused, thinking she expected me to sympathize with it. Her, who hunts in consignment stores with me, who avoids hair straighteners, and would swear off makeup all together if it weren't for the allure of bright colors. Her, who, while skinny, tall, and gorgeous, has no problem in pajama pants, dungarees, sweatshirts. "Blog about this," she told me, "explain it."

It's funny, because even when they get home, they all look the same. In messy buns, no makeup, old sweaters, sweatpants, and fuzzy socks. I don't straighten my hair. I've come to love the mass of unruly curls. Makeup is limited, and I smile only when I really feel happy. Shopping means nothing, new clothes mean nothing. If my favorite old sweater is available, so it will be worn during the day. Skinny jeans are uncomfortable, Uggs are cruel. But in whatever I do, in whatever I wear, I'm always me.

I would be recognized at school, home, socializing, anywhere. Because I never hide who I am. The same can be said for you. Recognition is only possible if people know who you are. And people can only know who you are if you do. I pity the girls who don't get recognized. Who feel so pressured to cover up, just under the label of teenage girls, that nobody knows who they are.

To Those Without Responses

"I love the fact that you don't care what other people think. You are so talented but don't let it go to your head. You are so modest and kind and honestly there is no way I can sum up in 255 characters how much of an inspiration you are to me."

This has sat in my Formspring, unanswered and anonymous, for seven months and counting. Among others, heartfelt, incredible, loving posts, that I've never given responses. I'm selfish. Because if I keep them in my Formspring inbox, I get to see them every time I sign in. I'm sorry, to those who write, and never get responses. But please, know that it's because I keep your writing close to me.

Part of writing is being able to be read without looking for a response. You've put words together, words that could change lives. Words that have changed life. Like smiling at someone you don't know, or spreading OperationBeautiful notes, people underestimate the power of these words.

So thank you, those without responses. Thank you, all of you.

Flying

Bear in mind that I'm listening to "Tomorrow" from Annie as I write this.

"Love don't make things nice - it ruins everything. It breaks your heart. It makes things a mess. We aren't here to make things perfect. The snowflakes are perfect. The stars are perfect. Not us. Not us! We are here to ruin ourselves and to break our hearts and love the wrong people and die." - Moonstruck

I was wrong about this quote when I first saw this movie. I always thought it was hopeful. That love was fun and exciting, that Loretta and Ronnie would give in, and be together and happy and loving. I was wrong. Love does ruin everything. It does break your heart. And it does hurt, more then anything. But that's what we're here for.

We always feel better when we have someone who understands us, even when that understanding may come from a completely unexpected place. I asked a friend how he was, knowing his girlfriend had just left him. He said he felt alone. And in that one word, I knew I felt the same. Simple, hollow, loneliness. I found comfort in understanding. And we talked, about relationships, about what goes wrong, and the purpose of any of it. I told him I didn't think I've learned anything. After a moment's pause, he said, "Well, I realized that it's much more fun when you don't know what you're doing until the end."

And of course, he's right. I've made bad choices, I've liked the wrong people, I've taken chances. It's like flying. Even if you know you'll crash, it's better to fly, even once, then to never get off the ground. It's much more fun to take chances. We are here to ruin ourselves and to break our hearts and love the wrong people and die. From this, we learn, we grow.

I can say honestly, I feel happy today. And I can say honestly, I'll be even happier tomorrow. And the next day. That doesn't mean I'll never look back, of course I will. But it means I'll learn from it, and love the time I spent flying, without knowing what I was doing. I loved, I crashed, I got hurt, and I learned. And that, is why we are here.

Weight

A week ago, I had the most perfect, loving boyfriend in the world. I could do the splits and hit a high A. I ran a mile nearly every day. I lost 4 pounds. I had promising auditions, and wonderful recommendation letters. I was confident. I was in control.

This week, I got dumped. I tore a muscle. I can't stretch, and I stopped running. My voice cracked, and I have to learn 5 new pieces for auditions in different languages. I stumble over every obstacle, overwhelmed by what feels endless. Walking down the halls in school, I feel heavy, plodding, slouching. I brace myself outside the classroom. Breathing deeply, I close my eyes, and try to smile. I cannot. My face feels heavy, pulling down on the corners of my mouth, and smiling is an effort I can't seem to come up with. I push through the incredible weight of the rest of the day.

Home again, I retire to my bedroom, and curl up in the rocking chair in the corner. My fingers trace the fading pick hearts painted on the armrests and follow the winding designs to the words on the sides. It was a present from my sisters. In their colorful handwriting, it says happy birthday, and goes on to remind me that even when the worlds turned against me, to sit and remember, that I'll always have them.

Rocking back and forth, I feel comforted. And I smile, nearly weightless.

Hope

I feel as though I've been teetering on the edge of a cliff, brewing with dark energy, and someone has pushed me, and not a single person is willing to break the fall.

It's difficult, I know, to console a friend after someone has left them. It's impossible to know what to say. They tell me we weren't right, that they never liked him anyway, that I'll find someone else. And then they stop talking altogether, as if they've choked on their awkward stuttering. His picture rests face-down on my shelf. His friends delight in my heartbreak, "liking" the Facebook break-up, sending cruel messages that warn me never to talk to him again, and even mutual friends, taking it upon themselves to let me know that they "won't be there for me."

I feel as though I'm endlessly falling. Please, dear readers, when a friend needs you, no matter how painful it may be, reach out to them. Do not, please, do not leave them alone, do not ignore them. We, all of us, seek comfort from others, in human contact, in hearing words of comfort, in knowing we are loved.

With puffy eyes and shattered soul, I Google the words running through my head, waiting to be faintly amused by the gargled nonsense the web chooses to spit back at me. Mindless clicking eventually sends me to Wikipedia's page on the definition of boyfriend. I scroll around, not really reading, and one of the pictures catches my eye.

Two men lie on a couch, and the caption is simple. A man with his boyfriend. The article mentions nothing about gay or straight relationships. It is simple, and gender neutral. For some reason, I find hope in this. I find hope in a future for love and acceptance. There is hope for love, all love.

And my heart's hurting fades, just a little bit.

Secret Worlds

"Everybody has a secret world inside of them. All of the people of the world, I mean everybody. No matter how dull and boring they are on the outside, inside them they've all got unimaginable, magnificent, wonderful, stupid, amazing worlds. Not just one world. Hundreds of them. Thousands maybe." — Neil Gaiman

Think.

Infinite

As he drones on and on about rational functions, I fight sleep. He circles a hole on his graph. A hole. In the line. I'm confused, thinking that maybe, I'm just more exhausted then I think. Math is black and white, yes or no. There is always an exact answer. No gaping holes.

I copy the equation into my calculator, and trace the line. The blinker disappears, there are no values. There is a hole, infinitely small. Inexplicably, I feel guilty, like I'm the one who has torn a hole in the graph. Not just the graph, it feels as if I've gone ahead to rip a hole in the universe, in everything I thought I knew.

It feels strange, and terrifying, to realize that everything in life, everything you could know, has infinitely smaller details to learn. You couldn't find enough time in your life to read every book in the small library in my town. Every choice you make can turn you in an incredibly different direction. Every person you get to know could change you. There are infinite decisions, things to learn, paths to take. Life is big. Life is daunting. Life is infinite. And I feel as lost as the small tear in the graph at (2,2).

Dear Anonymous

"I love you, but this is kind of upsetting. Everyday I go into a dark place, thinking of everything that's gone wrong in my life. Everyday I struggle with depression so much that I don't really want to even live anymore. I'm jealous of those who have perfect lives. Think about that for awhile." -Anonymous comment on Writing

Dear Anonymous,

Forgive me, please, for calling you out like this.
I could tell you nobody lives a perfect life, but of course, you know that. I could just tell you it'll all be alright, but you don't want to hear that, no matter how true it may be. I could tell you that you must find help, but I figure you know that too.

I would prefer to talk to you face to face. It's a comforting thing to hear the voice of someone who loves you. But alas, I can only call you Anonymous. My life isn't perfect. Neither is yours. Nobody has made perfect choices. Perfect choices do not exist in life. All of life, all the joy and excitement and learning comes from the mistakes. And often, mistakes hurt. But please, trust me on this one thing.
There is always another way. Always. Depression feels like there's no other option, that the pain outweighs everything else. But please, don't limit yourself to that pain. Find happiness in the fact that there is always a reason to smile. Always. No matter how small a reason it may be. There is hope in this world, my friend, and you are loved.

www.givesmehope.com

Please, call me?

Writing

I began to write a lot more once I realized there were no rules. There are no guidelines, no suggested topics, no requirements. Once there was no demand for a great novel, the blank page in front of me invited mindless scratchings, short stories, endless possibilities.

I'm not always happy being happy. I'm not satisfied with nothing to complain about. Without drama. Without conflict. Without something to write about.

But then I realized something important. One can write about anything.