Learning from little guys

I realize I haven't written in a while but I've definitely had things on my mind. The reason I haven't written is that I have been exhausted. Completely drained physically and mentally. Even dead week and finals week seem appealing compared to this. I have also been keeping very busy, which I suppose doesn't help with the tiredness, but oh well. And when I have had the opportunity to write, I just plain didn't want to. Very strange, that. I almost always want to write. But what I have been meaning to write about is directly related to my job, and I have come to a point where I am ready not to have my job anymore. There have been plenty of days in the past four years where I woke up and thought, Ugh, I don't want to go to work today, but not wanting my job is completely new, and frankly, I don't like it. I love my job. Really, I do. But the class I've had this summer has worn me so thin that I can't stand it any more. Our three oldest are all boys, and each of them is worth about three whole kids in the amount of energy it takes to keep up with them. And by kids I mean two-year-olds. And they don't call 'em the Terrible Twos for nothing. So, yeah... I haven't even wanted to think about work, much less write what I'm about to write. 'Cause I'm stubborn like that.

About a week or two after deciding I needed to write this, I went to dinner with a friend. I can't tell you exactly when that was, but it was probably at least two weeks ago... but don't hold me to that because I honestly don't remember. Anyway, the point is that we went to a Chinese buffet, so naturally there were fortune cookies involved. I don't put a whole lot of stock into fortune cookies because they're nothing more than mass produced phrases that are left intentionally vague so the reader can interpret it in a way that will make it apply to their own life. However, of all the fortunes I have received—and trust me, there have been lots—I do believe two really were meant for me. Of those two, one is the one I received that night with my friend.*

An important word of advice may come from a child.

That, my friends, is precisely what has been on my mind for the past month. I can only conclude that this particular fortune cookie was psychic. Okay not really, but still. I had been digging my heels in against writing this, and then the fortune cookie more or less reached out and slapped me across the face with a cold trout.

My class has kept me in a perpetual state of stress all summer long, wreaking havoc on my mind and body. It's all I can do sometimes not to grab one of them by the shoulders and yell STOP IT! But despite all of that, I honestly believe that toddlers are some of the best people on Earth. Why? Because I think they know what it really is to live life to the fullest, and they love with everything that is in them.

First, a bit on living life to the fullest. In my mind, you don't have to travel to far away places or take on extraordinary tasks like scaling gigantic mountains or jumping out of airplanes to live life to the fullest. I think living life to the fullest requires nothing more than doing what makes you happy, and doing so all the time. As we get older, we develop filters and reservations—or at least most of us do. We learn that society will judge us based on our appearances and our actions. Toddlers are completely unaware of that.

A toddler will never stop to consider their actions. They won't think, “I'm not the most coordinated of the bunch, so maybe I should just sit back and watch the others dance.” It would never cross their mind that they might be thought weird if they get down on their hands and knees and go in circles, scrubbing the top of their head on the floor. When you have the dress-up clothes out, a boy will wear the fluffy tutu and flowered hat if he darn well pleases, regardless of our society's gender guidelines. They do what makes them happy, plain and simple. I don't know about you, but I wish I had that sort of confidence and inhibition. And just as toddlers don't worry about being judged, they won't judge you. It doesn't matter to them if you have a terrible singing voice or if you're having a bad hair day or if your clothes don't fit just right. All they expect of you is your attention and affection. Give them that and they'll be your best friend.

And that brings us to love. The older kids in my class right now can be and generally are very ornery, and a couple of them can be downright mean and hateful at times. However, I have seen our orneriest boy stop screaming mid-tantrum to console a classmate who lost her footing and fell off the window seat.** This little guy, like any and every toddler I've ever met, can be incredibly sweet and tender when he puts his mind to it. When a classmate is upset, it's not at all uncommon for him to gently pat them on the back or wrap his arms around them, and if they're really upset, he'll even kiss them on the shoulder as he hugs them. This compassion is not something toddlers reserve for each other; they offer this love to anyone that takes the time to get to know them. (I supply the qualifier only because at this age, many are also stricken with a major case of Stranger Danger.) If adults cared for everyone the way toddlers do, I think the world would be a much better place.

No matter how much they make me feel like pulling out my hair, I have a lot of respect for toddlers. They're pretty great people, and I could definitely learn a lesson or two from them.

* If you were wondering, the other fortune cookie told me that I have a wonderful way with words and should write a letter to someone.

** Just in case anyone is concerned, the window seat in our classroom is not high enough to pose an actual safety risk, but it is high enough to scare the little ones if they fall. Nothing that can't be taken care of with a hug though!

If you felt a sudden jolt, don't be alarmed; that was just my paradigm shifting.

Firstly, I've been meaning to write for over a month now but between working and being tired from work and suffering from a very unusual case of writer's block, I haven't been able to come up with anything worthwhile. However, my head is in a much better place than it was when I wrote my last post. I'm just going to call that a moment of panic brought on by my having too much time to think. I'm back at work now, getting out of the house and spending time around people every day, and it's all good. Gotta work harder at not letting the worrying fester.

Now, on with the show.

I've been thinking a lot about love the past couple of weeks. Not of the romantic variety, or in the “I don't always like you but we're related so I have no choice but to care about you” sort of way, but the kind of love God calls us to show one another. I've always tried to be a nice person in that I aim to be polite and respectful and treat others as I'd like to be treated, but I don't think simply being “nice” equates to showing love.

My mom and sister and I have been visiting a church for the past few months. They recently had a revival, which is what spurred me to write this. The topic of discussion one evening was found in 1 Peter 4.

⁷The end of all things is near. Therefore be alert and sober of mind so that you may pray. ⁸Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins. ⁹Offer hospitality to one another without grumbling. ¹⁰Each of you should use whatever gift you have received to serve others, as faithful stewards of God's grace in its various forms. ¹¹If anyone speaks, they should do so as one who speaks the very words of God. If anyone serves, they should do so with the strength God provides, so that in all things God may be praised through Jesus Christ. To him be the glory and the power for ever and ever. Amen.

The speaker mainly concentrated on verses 9 and 10, expanding on hospitality and service. He noted how everyone seems to be caught up in their own little world these days, too busy to care about fellowship and giving to those less fortunate. A good message, to be sure, and I did pause to think about what I have and haven't done and what I could do in the future, but that isn't what got to me. Though I was already familiar with the passage, I had never read it in the particular mindset I was in that night, so while the speaker carried on with something about a big bowl of tuna fish and dragging people home with you for lunch after church, my brain was stuck on verse 8.

Love each other deeply.

That phrase was still going around in my mind the next evening when he spoke on 1 John 4:10-12.

¹⁰This is love: not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins. ¹¹Dear friends, since God so loved us, we also ought to love one another. ¹²No one has ever seen God; but if we love one another, God lives in us and his love is made complete in us.

There it is again. Love one another.

“One another” does not mean your family and your friends, or even all the people you know. Those two little words encompass every single person on earth. That's a whole lot of love we ought to be giving out. And this is the bit that really got me: How can I show love to someone if I can't even approach them and say hello? How can I love anyone if I hide from everyone?

In the past I have thought that, in sticking to myself, I was depriving myself of the opportunity to know others. It never occurred to me that I was denying others love. Now this new perspective is just further motivation to change my ways.

The mockingbirds are mocking me.

I've been wanting to write something for a while now. I've been wanting to write anything really. My brain keeps telling me I need to write, but I haven't been able to think of anything to write about, fiction, nonfiction, or otherwise. Sure, I've had plenty of thoughts, but it has taken me this long to be able to put them into anything remotely coherent.

I've been on my own from 6:45 AM to 3:15 PM, Monday through Friday since I left school. At first it was nice having the house all to myself. It was quiet and peaceful. Not so much anymore. Now it feels too much like it did when I was in high school. It's quiet and lonely. The other day I was literally pacing because I didn't know what else to do with myself. I've spent countless hours watching Netflix, but that isn't a satisfying way to spend the day at all. Not when I've spent two and a half weeks doing little else.*

This restlessness I feel is actually worse now than it was in years past. Before, I was lonely and I wanted company, but I just wanted someone here at the house with me. One or two friends, or even just my mom, just so I wasn't alone. Now, I find myself wanting to be out and among people—any people, lots of people. At school, even though I spent most of my spare time on my own, I could hear my neighbors in their rooms and in the hall. I always knew that someone was there. Now I just feel completely shut off from the world again, and after spending so many months trying to get over that, it feels even more suffocating than before.

As nervous (and sometimes scared) as people make me, I want to be around them. And being around them is good for me. I know it is. I've tried tiptoeing through the waters, so to speak. I made a little bit of progress that way, got a little better at interacting with people, but not much. This past semester I was either half-dragged or half-pushed into the water, and the other half of me dived right in, and I came so much further in doing so. I don't want to lose that progress by being isolated again.

Of course, this isolation isn't going to last. I'm going to start working next week. Work doesn't provide much room for interacting with people, though. Well, not much room for interacting with people capable of carrying on intelligible conversation anyway. I'll be spending forty hours a week in a room with twelve babies and toddlers and my mother. Nothing against my mom, of course. She's great, and I love working with her. But spending time with my mom isn't exactly going to help me in getting over my anti-social ways.

I think I'm going to go back to posting at least semi-regular confessions. Even if they don't actually help me, I'll feel better for having made the effort. Haha.

*I haven't been spending all of my time in front of my computer. I can't sit still that long. I have also been crafting. The first two weeks I was home, I spent some of my time decorating school supplies to give to a dear friend for her birthday. Lots of glue and paper involved. The table in the sun room is still covered in paper. Last weekend I went to Michaels and bought a paper punch, so I've been using scraps to fill the house with these:

Three-dimensional butterflies. Oh yes.

And yesterday I started crocheting again. I had this grand idea to make a blanket out of lots of little granny squares, because I thought it would be super simple and quick given how easy it is to make a granny square. But then I realized that to make a blanket the size I wanted, I would have to make two hundred and seventy squares, and then I would have to stitch them all together. That did not appeal to me, so I thought I'd make the blanket out of some larger squares. It still would have taken around ninety squares total with my new plan, and that did not appeal to me either. My solution? One gigantic square. My work in progress, after putting in roughly five hours:

 Please ignore the loose ends. Weaving them in is my least favorite part.

Clearly I will be here a while. But it's keeping me busy, and that's the important thing! Not having anything to do makes my mind wander, and when my mind wanders, I worry about things. Anything and everything. Luckily, working for the rest of the summer will keep me too busy to worry. And when I'm not working, I'll be too tired to think. So hooray! Sort of. Ha.

From mountains to molehills

My semester is officially over <insert Kermit flail here> and I now have time to breathe. And think. 

The thinking is a little slow-going, being that I've barely slept in days, but I'm not stressing about studying anymore, so my head is at least a little clearer. I've been thinking about the past nine months and all the things I've done. I think one of my greatest accomplishments came just yesterday afternoon.

What happened, you ask?

I had a conversation with someone. And not just a conversation, but one in which I barely felt uncomfortable at all. And it wasn't just someone. It was someone I didn't even know. I'd never seen her before in my life! But we had a conversation, and I held eye contact with her, and when I laughed it was genuine and not out of nerves.

I could not tell you the last time that happened... if it has ever happened before. It's no big deal for most people, but it's a very remarkable step for me. The perfect way to end the school year, I think.

On should-haves, why-didn'ts, and what-ifs

I reread my last post this weekend. It's been bugging me. As I mentioned in it, what I published here was actually a rewrite of my first draft. In rewriting it, a lot of my original message was lost. I didn't realize that until I read over it again. I'm sure that anyone else who read it was able to understand the gist of what I was saying, but it still feels lacking to me.

In my original post, I discussed all the things I have wished to change over the years. Obviously my health and negative school experiences are at the top of the list, but there have also been times when I wished I could fundamentally change my entire person; I wanted to stop liking all the music and TV shows and whatnot that I liked and start liking what everyone else liked, because I just wanted to fit in. I wanted to be “normal”. And I tended to dwell on thoughts like that.

A couple of weeks ago when I said I've come to the conclusion that I don't need to change, those are the things I was talking about. I don't need to listen to the Top 40, or stop watching cheesy sci-fi shows with terrible special effects, or fawn over all of the currently-hip celebrities. You can like what you like and I'll like what I like. Who I am is who I am.

Likewise, there is no point in obsessing over past events. Even if I had a time machine that could take me back to my first year of ninth grade, I wouldn't be able to stop myself from getting sick. Even if I reacted to the situation in a different manner, I wouldn't be able to control how the school administration handled it. I wouldn't be able to change my friends' responses, and there's no way of guaranteeing that I could have prevented them from drifting out of my life. I can't change what's in the past, and even if I could, I really shouldn't. All of these happenings are what shaped me into the person I am today.

When I said I was done wanting to change, I meant I was done wanting to be a different person living a different life. I am still very much in favor of change in the form of personal growth; that's pretty much the whole point of this blog. Growth is all I've been striving for in the past sixteen months, and it's what I plan to keep striving for. I believe there will always be room for improvement of character. What I'm done with is the should-haves and the why-didn'ts and the what-ifs. All I can do—all anyone can do, for that matter—is play with the hand that's been dealt, because it was dealt for a reason. The dealer peeked at the cards before He passed them out.

I feel better now, having clarified. Although I'm pretty sure the clarification was unnecessary for anyone reading. Oh well. It's my blog and I'll ramble if I want to. Haha.

On cynicism, self-reflection, and silver linings

So. Funny story. I started writing a post last night, but I was half asleep at the time and got interrupted by a knock at my door, so I stopped writing mid-sentence and did not resume until almost twenty-four hours later, at which point I had sort of forgotten where I was even going with the post. Here it is twenty-six hours from the time I originally started writing. I have read and reread my finished post—which I have open in a separate document as I type these very words—and have come to the conclusion that it's rubbish. It sounds very contrived, which is not what I wanted at all. (Apparently my inner voice turns into a stuffy fuddy-duddy when I'm exhausted.) However, I still want to post something and share what's been on my mind lately, so I'm going to give you the SparkNotes version.

The past seven years made me quite a cynical person, and I've been trying to change that in the past several months.

I was miserable and lonely in high school. I won't go into detail here, but I have written about it in previous posts. What's relevant to this post is that I was isolated more often than not. So frequently I wished not only that my situation would be different but that I would be different. I just wanted to be normal. I wanted to fit in. Because on top of all of my health issues, I am what most would (and have, to my face) call weird.

I wasn't cognizant of it at the time, but all those months and years I spent in isolation weren't just a rough patch in my life; they were a formative period. Since I started this blog, I have been really big on introspection and trying to figure out why I am the way I am. In my mind, I have tended to focus on why I developed my negative qualities, like my cynicism and social anxiety. I have wished that I could be different in those respects too. I never realized that almost every. single. good. thing. in my life is there because of the exact same events that brought the undesirable things. Some are more indirectly related than others, which is why it took me so long to see it, but that doesn't change the fact.

As I said earlier, I have been trying really hard to change my way of thinking. I have been constantly reminding myself that I don't need to be different. The things that have happened to me had a reason for happening. They made me what I am. And were I other than I am, I would not be myself. That means that everything in my life would be different, good and bad, and I know that it isn't worth trading the positive to get rid of the negative. Especially since I have so many wonderful things in my life right now.

Confession #56

I haven't written anything in a few days, and it rather weirds me out. (Yes, I'm using "weird" as a verb. Deal with it.) I don't know why I didn't feel this same desire to write when posting a weekly confession was my goal. Hrmph.

Writing is on my mind again today. Writing and speaking. One would think that these two would go hand in hand. One would think.

When I write, it is often a stream of consciousness that pours from my mind onto the paper (or keyboard, in such instances as this). I write words as they come into my mind and do very little revising of thoughts until I have finished writing whatever it is I'm writing. Logically, the words I have written would be very much like the words I would say if I were to speak the same thoughts out loud. This couldn't be further from the truth.

Somehow, when I speak out loud, all of the eloquence I like to think I possess flies right out the window.

I often find myself stumbling to find the right word for what I'm trying to say, or using one word when I mean something different, even when those words are very common words that I use often enough to know better. Sometimes I say things that sound right, but aren't even words at all. I won't even get into how often I mangle syllables.

I'm not quite sure why this happens, but I have noticed that it happens most significantly when I am tired or nervous. Now, the nervous thing I understand, but that doesn't explain why it would happen during everyday conversation with a close friend. As for being tired, sure, that explains why my thought processes would be slowed, but it doesn't explain why I can sit here, completely and utterly exhausted, and type this without having any difficulty at all. Why, the sentences you're reading here are just as they were when they came to my mind, and I haven't had to go searching for one word yet. I don't understand how that works.

I cannot begin to explain the frustration I feel at not being able to recall a word when speaking with someone. Words are one of my biggest passions in life! How ridiculous it is not to be able to express simple ideas! Maybe that's just the perfectionist in me; if I can't say something properly, it bothers me to say it at all. Of course, not saying anything at all is not an option. I simply have too many things that I need to say. Or at least need to write. In fact, that's why I began writing in the first place. Little thirteen-year-old me had so many ideas that needed to be explored, but many of my ideas failed to resonate with my friends, and since I couldn't share with my friends, I took to paper and pencil. I had to let the ideas out. I'd go mad if I kept all my thoughts to myself. I'm already a bit mad as it is, so no need to compound the problem.

...

Okay, funny story. I got a phone call while I was in the middle of typing that previous paragraph, and now my train of thought has been thoroughly derailed. I honestly can't remember where I was headed with this post. I'm pretty sure I had a nice, neat conclusion planned out, but... eh.

In closing, I'd like to say that the most frustrating thing of all is knowing that there is a word for the condition in which you cannot recall a certain word, but never being able to recall what that word is. It happens to me every time. I have just looked it up, and the word for this condition is lethologica. I always swear that I'm going to commit that word to memory, but it always escapes me...

On the subject of journals and writing

I had several diaries when I was young. I wrote in just one of them, and only a few times a year, if that often. You may be wondering why I bought so many when I never even used them. I didn't quite know at the time, but I was young and much less aware of myself and the motives that drive me. I know why I do it now. I use the present tense here because I still have the same habit. If you walk around my room back home, you will find journal upon journal, and all but one or two of them are completely empty. Even here in my dorm room I have about three of them stashed away. I know I already have more than I could possibly need, but I can't help but buy them.

It's the blank pages. There is something very alluring about a book with no words. They have the potential to be anything. They could be everything. That's what draws me in.

The problem is that this grand, romantic notion then makes me afraid to actually write anything. I don't want to taint the pages with anything trivial or frivolous. All of those crisp, white sheets are perfect, and to mar them with my words almost feels like an atrocity.

At the same time, though, the empty pages are heartbreaking. What good is a book if it never gets the chance to tell a story? Just as I am reluctant to write in them, I hate to leave them void of any words at all. By writing something down, even if it's nothing but blathering, the book gains a voice. Not writing anything at all truly robs it of its potential.

I often wonder if anyone else has this sort of complicated love affair with journals. I imagine most people wouldn't have any issue buying one and filling it quickly with their thoughts and feelings and daily goings-on, and yet it's the silly little writer who can't bring herself to write. I suppose I just care too much about the pages and the words and whether or not I show them enough respect.

Despite all of this, I have recently begun writing in a journal, and I plan to continue writing in it. It really is a great form of catharsis. That much I had already learned from starting this blog. I had never put much stock into it when people said that keeping a journal was good for you. I figured that writing my thoughts would be no different from thinking them, and if it isn't any different, why put forth the effort? But typing all of these posts has made me genuinely evaluate everything, and actually putting things into words allows for a deeper understanding than just thinking in ideas. Maybe it's the writer in me, but I find that writing thoughts down on paper is even better. Taking control of a pen and forming each individual letter gives the words more meaning. It makes them more personal. I love the tangibility of the whole experience.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that writing in any form, whether it be pen and paper or keyboard and blog, is worth your time, and a blank piece of paper—or a white screen with a blinking cursor, as the case may be—deserves to have a purpose.

To wrap things up, I'd just like to say that this love letter to books and pages and words and thoughts is longer and more serious than I originally intended. That's another wonderful thing about writing; once you start, the words take over. The things that come from your own mind can surprise you sometimes.

Everything you hoped would last...

...it just always becomes your past.

I'm supposed to be doing homework. I intended to be extremely productive tonight. I really did. But I've got some stuff weighing on my mind, and I just can't concentrate.

When I think about my life, I think of it in segments. The first segment starts as early as I can remember and stretches up to the point when I got sick, the second segment is the time which I spent floundering on my own after getting sick, and the third segment begins with the formation of my current group of really good friends.

I had a pretty solid group of friends when I got sick, and somehow that all just fell apart. By December of my second freshman year of high school, I had basically lost touch with all but one or two of them. About that same time, I began hanging out with some new people, and those friendships have lasted since.

The problem is that I still can't wrap my head around the fact that I lost the friends I used to have. These were people I'd been friends with for three, six, ten years! Even worse, the friendships I managed to hang on to through that year—with friends that were with me for more than a decade—have since dwindled.

One the one hand, I'm incredibly grateful for the times that we had together. I wouldn't trade my memories for the world. But at the same time, it breaks my heart every time I think that memories are all that I have left. The best friend that I grew up with, the one I think about every time I hear certain songs on the radio, or pass by our old “haunts” in town, the person that kept me holding on to what little sanity I had when I was fourteen... she's no longer in my life. That kills me.

A few of my old friends used to be Facebook friends with me, even after we lost touch. Somewhere along the way, almost all of them “unfriended” me. We never spoke to each other, so not having them on Facebook isn't a huge difference, but knowing that they had chosen to delete me hurt when I discovered it. It hurt a lot. It didn't hurt as much, though, as still being Facebook friends with the people that used to be in my life, seeing what they post, and feeling so disconnected.

I see things all the time that make me want to comment. Things they say that make me laugh, goofy pictures that are so typical of them. I never know if it would be appropriate to comment. It would feel awkward to just comment on something out of the blue when we haven't spoken otherwise in so, so long. Sometimes I type something then delete it without posting, because I honestly don't know what their reaction might be. I wonder if they look at my posts and have the same thoughts. Do they miss me as much as I miss them? Do they have the same fears about trying to make contact only to discover that there isn't any hope of rekindling that old friendship?

The worst part is seeing a post that makes it clear that they are unhappy or having a terrible day. I want so badly then to reach out and cheer them up. It's been so long now, I don't know what I could say. I don't know them or the struggles they face these days. But I think about them all the time. I worry about them.

I've spoken before about these people—the ones that stayed in touch longer than the others. There were only two of them, but they were my real friends through everything. I often wonder if they ever read this and know that I'm talking about them, and moreover, to them. I miss you guys. I miss you more than I ever thought I could miss someone. And I want to talk to you. I do. I'm just afraid that maybe you don't want to talk to me. That maybe I'm just a sentimental sap that needs to learn to let go.

Maybe I'll work up the courage to talk to you some day. In the mean time, if you are reading this and you ever have the same thoughts, maybe you wouldn't mind letting me know. You could post a comment or send me a private message on Facebook. For that matter, you could text me if you still have my number. It hasn't changed.

If you are reading this but you don't want to let me know, that's fine. I get it. The past is the past, and we're different people now. Just know that you meant everything to me when we were growing up, and I still think about you all the time. Wherever life takes you, I hope you're always happy.

As for my newer friends, you guys rock too. I don't know if I make it known well enough or often enough, but I love you and I know I wouldn't be where I am today without you.

Confession #55

Being short is aggravating.

This post comes about as a result of a very brief but panic-inducing encounter which lasted long enough to scare me but not long enough to cause public humiliation. What happened and how did my height (or lack thereof) cause it, you ask?

I got trapped in a building with automatic sliding doors. Again.

This incident may have only lasted two seconds or so before someone walked up behind me, but still. Two seconds is plenty of time for panic to set in.

(In case you're wondering, the last time it happened, I was about seven or eight years old and got stuck in a grocery store. My mom had sent me, by myself, to take a basket back inside. The doors were already open when I approached the store, but they were closed by the time I had returned the basket and wanted to leave. The sensors above the doors couldn't see me, and the doors wouldn't open. It. Was. Terrifying. I was trapped there for two or three minutes (which felt like an eternity) until another person walked up and was tall enough to properly exit the building.)

Yeah, it's a laughable situation now, but it's still frustrating. I don't think normal-sized people really understand what it's like to be short.

It's really annoying to go places with my little sister, who is eight years my junior, and have people speak to us as if we are the same age. This happens all the time, and it wouldn't be such a big deal except for the fact that she is currently a smaller than average twelve-year-old. Every now and then I get the urge to say something like, “Listen, pal, I understand that you're trying to be friendly, but stop patronizing me. I have a vocabulary full of things that my parents have to look up, so just use your grown-up words, okay?” (But then I remember that I'm afraid of people, so I just smile and nod and let my sister do the talking.)

A couple years ago, my family went to a casual sit-down restaurant where adults were given beverages in non-disposable, straw-free cups. I got a styrofoam cup with a lid. When my sister started middle school, I happened to be with her at back-to-school night (don't remember why...) and was mistaken for an incoming sixth grader. I was nineteen. The day I moved into my dorm room last summer, my family and I went to out for lunch and I was offered a kids' menu. Two months ago, a volunteer Santa gave me a goody bag and told me to be sure and mind my mom and to keep my room clean. Gah!

People often tell me that being short is not a bad thing. Said people have obviously never been in a position where they couldn't even see out of the peephole in their door, or couldn't reach something in their closet without using a stool, or couldn't properly sit in a deep-backed chair because their legs were so short that sitting all the way back would require them to have their knees straightened and in the seat with them, with the result being that they sit forward in the seat to allow their legs to bend but then have to lean way back to reach the back of the chair, while their feet still don't touch the floor because their legs are just that short. Not a bad thing. Hrmph. Oh the stories I could tell! I haven't even mentioned all the problems I faced as a kid!

Sigh.

Okay. I'll stop ranting now. I'm fine, I swear. Just needed to vent. Haha.

Confession #54

I always have my best ideas in the middle of the night. 

I think it must have something to do with my being completely exhausted and thus thinking in an altered state of mind. Most of my ideas for novels have come to me after midnight, and after I have a main premise in mind, most of my plot twists and character quirks are hatched at a similar hour. This is also when I come up with brilliant plans for just about everything else. The problem is that I eventually fall asleep and forget all about these wonderful schemes.

Just last night—more accurately, around one or two o'clock this morning—I had a fantastic idea for a pattern for a crocheted hat. And right up until ten minutes ago, I had no memory of it whatsoever. Many times I will go through the process of forgetting, remembering, forgetting, then realizing I forgot something but not being able to remember what. Hopefully that won't happen this time, but if it does, this post should help jog my memory. In fact, that's mainly why I'm typing this. (And also because I'm avoiding finishing the paper I'm supposed to be writing for Brit Lit.)

(Hey, did you notice that I threw in some extra adjectives? I did that just for you. You know who you are.)

Confession #53

I don't perform well when I have a large number of things demanded of me or am put under great pressure.

In fact, I perform quite poorly. Rather than being motivated to do the things that need to be done, my Fight/Flight instinct kicks in and flight wins out. Except instead of running away from my problems, my brain just sort of shuts down. It's more faint than flight, really. Like a myotonic goat.

Reflection

Alright, here's the thing. When I made my resolution one year and twelve days ago, I had already determined that I would be starting school in August. In fact, that was one of my larger motivations in starting this blog. However, I had no clue what effects school would have on me mentally or physically. Things got really hairy for me around the middle of the semester, and by the end of it I was doing everything I could just to stay coherent. That included cutting out every bit of stress possible, and unfortunately, that meant breaking my resolution. Keeping up my weekly confessions just took too much time and effort.

Even though it didn't go quite as I had hoped, I do think that this blog has helped me. I never had very many readers, but I know of at least one good friend that read everything I posted, so in the later months, I envisioned myself writing each confession specifically aimed at her. Doing that made everything feel a little more real and a little less like I was just rambling on the internet. It added a bit more vulnerability to the experience I guess you could say. It didn't matter that a lot of my confessions were silly or inconsequential things; they were still my private thoughts laid bare. Opening up was the whole point of this exercise—first in text, and then application in the real world.

The real world has been a much more troublesome adventure. I spent the first seven and a half months of the year just like I spent the five years prior, which was on my own more often than not, and not by choice. That made the whole “growth as a person” thing kinda hard, but the odd day of work provided me with the opportunity to talk to co-workers. It may be a little ridiculous, but even having known them for three years, I found it difficult to make smalltalk with them. I did my best to change that over the summer.

And then August came. School. Wow. I met more people in the first two weeks of school than I had met in years.

It. Was. Terrifying.

But I survived! And I spoke to people! Moreover, I made some new friends!

I even started talking a bit in my smaller classes. I raised my hand to be called on and everything! Not often, mind you, but the fact that I did it at all speaks to how far I've come since I started this self-betterment journey.

I suppose I should note that when I say I started talking in class, I mean I answered professors' questions and participated in class discussions. I did not do much talking at all with classmates. One-on-one stuff still really freaks me out. But I am still working on it. Just because the year ended and I did not keep my resolution entirely doesn't mean I'm done trying. I have plenty of room for improvement yet. Plenty.

For instance, in my last class today—Critical Analysis and Writing, which is just a fancy title for a generic freshman English class—my professor brought up the idea that characters in books can sometimes feel more real than the people we actually interact with from day to day. This sparked some discussion, and I decided to share my opinions on the matter. As I sat and waited for a classmate to finish speaking, however, my resolve fizzled out into a minor panic attack. Needless to say, I kept my thoughts to myself.

I was forced to speak later though. You know, the typical “Give your name and something interesting about yourself” introduction that you get at the beginning of the semester. The only semi-interesting thing I could think of was the fact that I'm allergic to everything. My professor then wanted details, like how many doctors I had seen, any precautions, etc. I ended up giving a very (very!) brief summary of my medical history that seemed to last forever. (Brief as it was, it still took a few minutes to get out.) I was shaking and struggling to speak in an even tone by the end of it. I don't like being the center of attention. Not. One. Bit.

So there you have it.

I didn't manage to keep up with this blog for an entire year, and I'm still incredibly shy, but I am better for having done this.

I'll probably continue to post confessions from time to time, or more likely, just musings whenever the mood strikes me. I find that all this word vomit is quite useful for sorting my thoughts.