The Days I Hate

Struggling with depression, I have bad days and good days. I have horrible days, and I have great days. It's easy to see how I would love the good days and hate the bad days. And I do.

But the days I hate the most are not the bad days.

The days I hate the most are not the days I struggle to keep from crying almost every second. The days I hate the most are not the days when I have to ration my energy from the moment I get out of bed so I can make it to the point where I can go back to bed. The days I hate to most are not the days when I cannot stand to be touched. They are not the days when I can hardly move. They are not the days where everything pisses me off. They are not the days when mindless frustration and rage boils so close to the surface where anything can send me into a screaming frenzy.

No, the days I hate the most start with a smile. The days I hate the most start with confidence and strength and responsibility. The days I hate the most are the ones that last long enough to let me fall.

It always hurts more to fall from a great height than to sit at the bottom of a hole.

The worst days are the days when I can stand up straight for most of the time, but sag before the day is over. The days I hate the most are the days when my pills work, but wear off.

And I know why.

Shakespeare said that 'tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, but Shakespeare clearly wasn't depressed. Because having a good day, and then losing it before the day is over just makes the fight feel futile. Having a day when the pills wear off is just a reminder that it's the pills that make everything okay. Having a day when the pills wear off just makes obvious the reason I didn't want the pills to begin with.

I remember being fifteen and talking with a man for half an hour, and then having the man telling me that I'd be better off receiving extra serotonin from an outside source. I've been saying that for over a year, I said to myself. I wasn't a hypochondriac; just a very self-aware fourteen-year-old. So what made this man's opinion, this man who had known me for half an hour, more valid than my own? Why was it that I got help when someone else said I needed it, and not when I did?

I thought for a few minutes about refusing the pills. I sat in silence as I considered what it would mean. It would mean an end to the slight independence I had treasured and nurtured for the past five years. It would mean that the attempt to make myself self-sufficient had failed. It would mean that my effort to help my parents by making one less worry for them had backfired, and now I was an even bigger worry. But most of all, it meant that I didn't have control.

I accepted the pills because maybe the monthly drain on their wallets would make my parents pay a little more attention to me. Maybe this concrete proof positive that their middle child wasn't unaffected by the break in the family would push them towards healing. But no, the pills were accepted as the cure, and the illusion of being okay was accepted in place of actually being okay, because it was easier. And my fragile illusion of control was shattered.

I needed that control. I still need it. In a world where so many things are beyond my control, having control over my body gave me a comforting illusion of safety and security. That's why I can't give up my control. Giving someone else control over my body is the ultimate form of trust for me, and it hurts bitterly when that trust is betrayed.

Daily, I entrust my wellbeing, my brain chemistry, my most essential self, to little blue pills, and every time they fail, that trust is shattered, and I am that much farther from trusting anyone else that completely. But I have to go through the possibility of being betrayed every day, because it's better for the rest of the people in my life if I can never fully trust anyone than if I spend days on end in bed, too lethargic to move.

And people wonder why I don't get close to anyone.

The Care and Keeping of Kitty

This is something that I need everyone who knows me to understand. Not just see. Not just hear. Understand and accept. And I really do mean everyone. Every single person, from my boss to the person to whom I talk in class, from my best friend to a passing acquaintance, this is a thing you need to know, and I really don’t think anyone has gotten it yet.

Having me sit down and watch other people work and then telling me not to worry about it is like sticking an alcoholic in a wine cellar and telling them not to drink.

It will not happen.

If you are desperate for me to be okay with it, you have to say something like this: “I want to do it." “I like doing this sort of thing." You can NOT say: “Don’t trouble yourself." “You’re fine, just stay there." or anything else related to that.

You have to make it, at least in my eyes, about your comfort, not mine. If, in reality, you want what’s best for my physical health and peace of mind, make favors to me about you.

Growing up, I was taught that putting myself in any place other than last is selfish, and that there is nothing worse than being selfish. I was not taught—did not learn—that if I don’t take care of myself, no one will, until I was fifteen, and by then, the habit of putting myself behind everyone else was so ingrained, that I’m still trying to break it, and I still feel guilty as all get out when I put myself ahead of anyone else, even when I know that I need it.

This is why talking about my problems is so hard for me. This is why I can’t call people at three in the morning when I’m crying too hard to sleep, even though I have to work in five hours. This is why I always surrender in conversations when others interrupt me. This is why I always volunteer for the shit jobs, why I always pick up the extra shifts, no matter how tired I am, no matter how much I just want to rest.

I don’t actually think it, but my subconscious whispers to me: “You aren’t as good as they are. You aren’t as important. Let them sleep. Let them talk. Let them rest. You don’t matter." I try to fight back, I try to speak up and speak out and make myself heard, but I have been conditioned my whole life to think this way, and it’s only been a year since I left the constant presence of people who still (despite knowing what it does to me) force this bullshit down my throat.

So, in the end, friends of mine, what I’m saying is that I need you to take care of me sometimes. I’m trying hard to kick this thing in the teeth, but I really do need your help, and it’s so fucking hard to ask for it because, get this, it makes me feel guilty and selfish. ("You should be able to do this yourself. You’re not strong enough. Why should you expect them to help you when they have their own problems?")

Most of all, though, I need your reassurance. The occasional, unwarranted “I love you," or “You’re adorable," no matter what my mood is like before or after, never goes unnoticed or unappreciated, and it makes all the difference the next time I must fight my demons.

Art Is Hard

My big brother graduated college this weekend. I'm going to miss him when he leaves for the west coast this fall, but that's not really the point of this post. Because the ceremony was yesterday afternoon, a good part of our family came to congratulate him. My parents, my sisters, my oldest brother, an aunt and an uncle, and both sets of grandparents.

We went out to dinner Saturday evening, and I got seated across from my maternal grandparents. Now, I love them to death; my grandpa was one of the first people to encourage my writing. He used to ask to see what I'd written between times we'd seen each other, and then read it aloud (I would ask him not to do, and then hide under the table in embarrassment when he did it anyway). Since my writing has kicked up a bit, and our visits aren't as frequent as they used to be, he's stopped asking to see it, and started asking about it. So, on Saturday, I decided to tell him--and, by extension, my grandma--about my Minecraft project.

I started by explaining Minecraft. Now, my grandparents aren't the most tech-savvy of people (and the Understatement of the Year Award goes to...), so I told them that it's basically a videogame version of LEGOs for adults. Once they knew what I could do with the game, I started telling them my plans; use Creative Mode, create a small community surrounded by a huge wall, create a huge world outside the wall, make a dissatisfied character, tell the story of how (s)he finds a way past the wall.

The idea is really to use Minecraft as the medium with which to tell my story, instead of words or pictures or words and pictures, to film it, and to post it on YouTube. When I told my grandparents this, my grandpa's first question was, "Will people pay to see it?"

I didn't really know how to respond. I mean, everything else aside, I'm pretty sure that that would be illegal. I may own a copy of the game, but Minecraft itself isn't mine; I'd have to get permission and pay royalties and all sorts of other ridiculous bullshit that I can't even pretend to understand.

But let's look at the aforementioned everything else that I put aside. I've been working on this project since January, and not once did I even consider the idea of charging for this. Yeah, if everything works out and the gods of fortune smile on me, I want to be a successful author when I graduate college. Much as I may joke about becoming rich and famous, though, that's never what it's been about for me. Writing, and every other type of art I do, has always been about the art itself. When I say that I want to be successful, that it would be lovely to be as beloved and as widely read as, say, J.K. Rowling or J.R.R. Tolkien, for instance, it wouldn't be lovely because of the money; I want to know that something that I have done, something that I have created, has touched people. I want to know that I have helped someone the way Brian Jacques helped me. I want to receive letters like ones that I myself have written, telling me that the stories I have told have given someone enough light to make it through the darkest times of their life. All in all, though, I just want to make art for art's sake.

Maybe I'm spoiled in that I'm surrounded, on the Internet, by people who see art as I do; not as a means to an end, but as the end in and of itself. Maybe it's that, being so surrounded by people with a passion for what they do, I've forgotten that there are people out there who simply don't care, who do their job because it's a job and it brings in money.

Or maybe it's because my grandfather isn't an artist, and so he doesn't really know how it works. He doesn't understand the blood and sweat and tears and heart-wrenching agony that go into creating art of any sort. He doesn't understand the passion necessary to keep at it, even when you're only getting quarters thrown at you for standing on a corner, reading your work. He's never felt the pounding of a story longing to be free, no matter what it takes, even if no one wants it. He's heard of these J.K.s Rowling and Stephanies Meyer (what now, Grammar Nazis!), and he thinks that it's just churn out a novel and get rich quick.

Maybe, if I could organize my thoughts while speaking, and not just when I'm at a keyboard, brain-vomiting onto the screen, I could have explained it to him. Maybe, if I weren't so afraid of offending him, I'd have been able to explain the concept of art for art's sake. Maybe, if I weren't so damned shy, I'd have quoted Amanda Palmer at him: "Stop pretending. Art is hard."

Remember

It is three in the morning, five days before I turn nineteen. I am so scared of the things I must do while nineteen. I must be up in six hours to be at the theatre in seven, but I cannot sleep. Instead, I remember.

I remember being tiny, playing frog in a pond-themed kids' area in a mall. I remember slipping, falling, lying on a bench, unable to breathe or remember how I got there.

I remember being little, having a friend, a "friend", and a stuck-up brat. I remember ignoring Barbies and Bratz in favor of creating worlds in chalk on my friend's giant drive-way. I remember learning my first swear word. I remember forgetting it a few days after, only to remember learning it the next time I heard it, years later. I remember the first time I gave up on another person. I remember being teased, though I don't remember for what, by my "friend" and the stuck-up brat I remember leaving without telling anyone, walking the half-block home, being missed immediately. I remember my mother scolding me for worrying the brat's mom, only to stop reprimanding and start hugging when I burst into tears. I remember telling her, being told, very gently, to ignore her and the brat would stop, but to never leave without telling anyone again. I remember being coddled for the rest of the week.

I remember being homeschooled through fifth grade. I remember the first—the only—"D" I got on a report card. I remember realizing that I wasn't as smart as my siblings. I remember knowing that it wasn't going to be as easy for me. I remember the disappointed look in my parents' eyes. I remember realizing that they thought I hadn't tried. I remember promising myself to work as hard as possible so I never had to see that look again.

I remember Friday afternoons that stopped when I was seven or eight. I remember my Daddy coming home for lunch. I remember wrestling in the family room and people sandwiches on a golden couch. I remember learning to ride a bike. I remember falling, crying, being cheered up, getting back up and trying again. I remember Daddy-and-Me Days and Mommy-and-Me Days. I remember one day every four months, going out with one of my parents, doing whatever I wanted. I remember Atlantis and the Rain Forest Café and riding my bike through forests. I remember being happy.

I remember my big brother, the oldest of the four of us. I remember Weird Al and "Stairway to Heaven" and secret stashes of chocolate in his desk. I remember being teased by the brother between us. I remember my biggest brother sticking up for me. I remember the neighborhood boys teasing me, just because I was a girl. I remember both my brothers sticking up for me. I remember being loved.

I remember second grade. I remember getting bitten by my friend's dog over the summer. I remember going to Oregon, a single stitch still in my knee, unable to wade in the ocean with my siblings. I remember waking up one early September morning, not understanding what was going on. I remember trying to comprehend what was happening. I remember being seven and not getting it. I remember the "friend" and the stuck-up brat moving, getting a new neighbor, making friends. I remember that spring, going to New York with my Daddy for my Communion trip. I remember driving past the ruins of the World Trade Center, not being allowed in the Statue of Liberty, roller skating in Central Park, turning down a play on Broadway. I remember going to Washington, D.C. afterwards, meeting the rest of my family. I remember learning to read that summer. I remember yelling it down the stairs to my Mommy. I remember, "That's nice. Go back to bed." I remember running to my big brothers' room, yelling that I read a book. I remember a noise of disinterest, and "You probably just memorized it." I remember being crushed. I remember my older friend moving away. I remember getting closer and closer to my new friend and my little sister.

I remember 2003. I remember learning that my mom was going to have a baby. I remember my brother upset about the due date; it was six days before his birthday. I remember an emergency C-section almost a month before the due date. I remember her umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck and could start choking her at any second. I remember being nine and not knowing what that meant and just being excited that we were having a baby! I remember my not-so-new-anymore friend being jealous but loving my baby sister to pieces.

I remember summer 2004. I remember drama camp. I remember acting in Annie. I remember a terrible night. I remember reading late and hearing shouting and my oldest brother's fist in the wall and him slamming the screen door as he ran away. I remember my mom crying and my dad shaking. I remember sitting with my other big brother and learning about what "drunk" meant. I remember being thirsty. I remember crossing the kitchen. I remember my oldest brother on the ground, handcuffed, shouting and swearing at the police. I remember my friend's dad coming to stay with us for the night. I remember Auntie taking over after that. I remember milkshakes that were supposed to make everything better. I remember the pact to keep this from the littlest two at all costs. I remember not being allowed to talk to "other people" about it. I remember translating that to "don't ever talk about this." I remember bottling everything up after that.

I remember starting regular school. I remember not knowing what to do. I remember not having a thick skin. I remember changing what I could so I would fit in better. I remember wearing skirts—even though I hated them—and pressuring my mom to let me start shaving—even though I didn't understand it—and starting to play sports—even though I didn't care about them. I remember still being teased for being the smartest, for actually reading when we were supposed to do, and even when we didn't have to do, but could if we wanted. I remember the best thing was the teachers. I remember wanting to get the hell out as soon as possible.

I remember my first crush. I remember not understanding it—why was I thinking about a woman like that? I remember being scared that something was wrong with me. I remember creating a fictitious crush and letting that leak so that no one learn how I was thinking about my teacher. I remember watching Tin Man and feeling the same way about the lead actress, Zooey Deschanel, and wondering what on God's green Earth was wrong with me. I remember hearing about "gay". I remember Googling it. I remember crying from relief.

I remember freshman year. I remember my brand new best friend on 22 April, 2008. I remember Doctor Who over the summer. I remember a hell of a car-pool and getting closer to my brother and the housing market crash and having to leave private school at the end of the year. I remember lying and keeping secrets. I remember leaning on my new show, praying with my wavering faith for a madman with a box to come rescue me. I remember my big brother leaving me.

I remember public school. I remember swim team and a determination not to make friends and a cold silence broken by a Doctor Who joke. I remember opening up to my team, finally telling someone about my sexuality, being accepted at face value.I remember coming out to my private school friends. I remember bullshit and fuckwittery and poor communication from everyone—including me. I remember everyone leaving me—or maybe it was me leaving everyone. I remember the fifteen minutes after every practice when we could just be stupid and laugh our asses off. I remember getting up every morning just for that. I remember my best friend coming back and the two of us wondering if we could ever again be what we were and healing our relationship and being stronger now than ever before and my promise never to go back. I remember becoming best friends with my little sister. I remember learning about my baby sister's mental health issues.

I remember my own mental health issues being identified. I remember being hurt and self-destructive. I remember my parents swallowing my lies. I remember when they finally didn't. I remember being promised that they had seen it before, that they just hadn't known what to do. I remember saying that it would have been so much better had they just called me on my bullshit in the beginning. I remember thinking that, at least then I wouldn't feel so goddamn invisible anymore. I remember starting to sort it with my parents' help. I remember not being able to talk to them. I remember they never made an effort to keep communication flowing. I remember, six months in, they figured I was okay and everything went back to "normal". I remember "Let's pretend this never happened." I remember going on without them. I remember having my friends to help.

I remember starting this blog. I remember longing to leave. I remember my first girlfriend. I remember why that didn't work. I remember my first boyfriend. I remember how much that didn't work. I remember getting my tattoo, my permanent reminder of love. I remember leaving. I remember leaving the hell my parents' house had become, but leaving my two best friends, too.

I remember finding my home. I remember making my new family. I remember the bliss of the summer, tainted only by what I didn't realize was an emotionally abusive relationship—though it was long distance. I remember refusing to put up with shit, even before I realized what it was. I remember breaking up with him in the worst fucking way possible. I remember starting moving into my dorm. I remember starting classes. I remember falling in love with my campus, with my professors—yeah, even the boring ones—with my social group, with my friends. I remember getting even closer to my big brother. I remember the first time my anxiety was accepted by an adult without need of proof or disappointment. I remember having problems and breakdowns and cry fests. I remember being happy anyway.

I remember my life tonight. I remember what I have done, what I have gone through and what I have gotten through. I remember that it could be worse. I remember that that's never much help. I remember all the scary things I still have to do. I remember my friends, my campus family, my big brother, my little sister, my best friend. I remember my own strength. I remember my strength when supported by all these people.

I remember that I can do anything.

Five days from nineteen, five days from the beginning of the year that will truly make me an adult, and I am not longer afraid. I store away the fear, though, and my subsequent vanquishment of it, for the next time I must remember.

Neverland

I don't want to grow up.

I don't mean that I wish to forever remain eighteen. Much as I love it here, I don't want to be in college forever. I do want to get older, gain experience, go on with my life, do things, learn things, meet people. I just don't want to grow up.

I don't want to lose the child-like joy I find in simple things. I don't ever want to feel like I can't play. I don't want to give in to the idea that, because I am a grown-up, I cannot play certain games, watch certain movies, or read certain books.

I don't want to grow up.

I want to read books all day, carefree. I want to play pretend games. I want to take my plastic, collapsible lightsaber and have a duel with my Big in the middle of campus. I want to be silly and stupid in ways that won't ruin my life. I want to play videogames and board games and watch Disney movies.

I want to remain a child.

Some days, I stop for a moment and I think about what I've done. Today, I worked in a theatre for four hours. I did my homework. I had a meeting about housing for next semester. I got my medication. I signed up for an Amazon selling account, so I can get rid of my textbooks. I made appointments for tests. I made a doctor's appointment. I have nothing but responsible. On days like those, I feel proud of myself. I have managed, so far, to stay afloat in a world that rejects people like me: the depressed, the socially anxious and backwards, the troubled, the lost. But, too, I feel disappointed. I look at my accomplishments, my adult-ness. and I'm sad, because, in all that responsibility, I haven't truly done a thing for myself. I haven't read, I haven't written, I haven't drawn, I haven't played.

On these days, I have grown up. I am not a child.

I don't want that. I accept that, to be totally independent of my parents for the rest pf my life, I have to be responsible. I have to make and keep appointments, work, take care of myself. I understand that I have to be an adult. But I want to be able to stay child-like, at the same time.

It's a matter of happiness. Children are happy with small accomplishments, with little things. Most children are easy to please: a little attention, a small gift, a short, silly story, and they are content. That is what I want. I want to remain easy to please. I want to keep my happiness at a nice day, a new book, a random hug from a friend.

And I want to be able to cry. I have been told that I am a rock, a source of strength for my friends. Much as I love that, I want it to be okay for me to break, to fall apart. I don't want always to have to hold myself together, until I am so fragile that the smallest touch will shatter me. I want the option of a good, therapeutic cry when I need it. I want be able to throw a fit, to punch pillows and break things, because it makes me feel better.

I want the option of being childish. I don't want that door closed to me. I promise to be responsible, to think and to do the right thing, but I want to be a child sometimes, too.

In the words of the good Doctor, there's no point in being grown up if you can't be childish sometimes.

These Scars Are Different

On my eighteenth birthday, almost a year ago now, I got my very first tattoo. My mother wasn't happy about it, but she didn't have to be; I was an adult by then, and I used my own money.

I had actually requested that it be a Christmas present the previous December--not the actual tattoo, I'd still pay for it, but the parental permission required to get a tattoo before I was an adult. Obviously, my parents said no, and, actually, the fact that they did kind of hurt.

Think Of The Children

I normally stay out of this sort of thing. I blog about personal matters, inane things, and the agony that is Twilight. I rarely dive into the clusterfuck that is politics. I don't talk about world events. I stay away from the news. But I can't do that this time.

They were children.

They were my baby sister's age.

After I got home from work the day of the Newtown shooting, after I'd done my Internet thing where I catch up on the world, after I read everything I could find about the shooting, my morbid imagination kicked into high gear. I imagined all the children who wouldn't get to grow up. I imagine all the mothers who would never hug their babies again. I imagined all the older siblings who would never move from annoyance to affection regarding their younger siblings. I imagined what would drive someone to do that. I imagined all those small, broken bodies.

I imagined Gracie's among them.

I cried for a good half-hour.

I called her, talked about stupid things; Pokémon cards, videogames, comics books, and T-shirts. I listened to her voice, and wished to God that I could have been there to hold her. I've been looking forward to going back to my parents' for the first time, just to see her, to hold her, to remind myself that my baby sister is still alive, that she's still with me, that her innocence hasn't been ruined.

And then today, I was on Facebook, and I saw something that just made me angry.

It was a picture comparing Obama to Hitler and Stalin for disarming the country. When I saw that, it hit me that, for some people, this isn't about the victims. It's not about what happened. It's not even about the killer. To them, it's all about the fact that their precious rights, that fuck only knows if they even goddamn use, are being ~taken away~.

I'm sorry, but no. This is not about Obama being a "socialist", or black, or whatever the fuck your problem with him is. This is not about your rights. This is not about your guns. This is not about the fact that you, personally, would use your gun to save a life. To sum up, THIS IS NOT ABOUT YOU. This is about a very disturbed man who did not receive the help he needed, and somehow got into an elementary school with three guns and now he, six other adults, and twenty children are DEAD.

I don't give two flying monkey fucks what your views on guns are. I honestly do not care. If your concern for your precious guns has overwhelmed any grief you feel for these lives cut far too short, your opinion has just dropped so far in my estimation that I cannot even fucking see it anymore. If you are more concerned for your guns than for the people who have suffered this horrible loss, go to hell. And if your guns are so important, than fucking take them with you.

Maggie Smith has spoken.

This, That, and The Other: An Update on Life

It is one in the morning. I have a maths exam in eight hours. If it were up to me, I would not be awake right now.

But it's not up to me. It's up to my biology. Because guess what.

I'M FUCKING NOCTURNAL.

World, you need to shape up. So many people are all about inclusiveness: include the blacks and Hispanics and gays and all those other minorities, and I'm not bashing that, but how about we get a little inclusiveness for the nocturnal people? How about we get more all-night stores and restaurants, more night classes and work opportunities for people who function better at midnight than at noon?

Seriously, my sleep schedule can flip in a day. No matter how much sleep I have gotten during the week, when I don't have anywhere to be before, I will literally sleep until one or two in the afternoon. I went to bed at five AM yesterday morning. I woke up at two-thirty in the afternoon. I am perfectly peachy, and would be happy to spend the rest of my life like this. I'm not going to get to do, but I can hope, can't I?

I don't even know what the point of this is. I'm angry and upset about something completely different, and I feel like yelling and swearing about it, but I can't react the way I want to, so I suppose that's where this came from.

Maybe I'm just feeling misunderstood and excluded. Not like that's different than usual, but hey, what can I say? I have to have a talk with my German professor at eleven about social anxiety, and I have to figure out how I'm going to get through it without yelling at him or crying. Merlin only knows if I'm going to manage...

On a completely different note, I've decided to post at least once a week from now on. Perhaps it will be a Twilight recap. Perhaps it will be a ramble of ramblyness, like this one. Perhaps (this'll be fun) it will be a short story of mine. Who knows? But there will be a post every week.

With that, dear readers, I leave you and go back to my GameBoy.

Night

I step outside into the icy cold. My breath fogs in front of me, and I smile. A memory drifts on the still night air, a memory of eighth grade, a time before I knew of my allergy, and "the only good thing about smoking". I let the memory float to me, and then past, choosing instead to look up at the night sky.

It it cloudless, save for the steam coming out of the paper mill to the north, so similar to my own foggy breath, but so much bigger. A little to the south, I spy Abby's buddy, Orion, and above me, I think I see the Big Dipper. I grin, my knowledge of astronomy so very limited.

I should have been home hours ago, but my Big started watching Firefly, and I couldn't exactly walk away. It's midnight, and I'm tired, and I still have to shower; the night is cold and empty, but I am fine walking this way by myself.

I take a deep breath to revel in the night; the air is icy, and it pierces my lungs. My body is wracked by coughs from my brand of the Con Death Plague, and I remember that I should really be wearing a hat, a scarf, and probably a thicker coat. I couldn't be bothered, though, to find them on my way out the door to my social group meeting.

I am almost at the door to my dorm now; I tread a longer path than usual, to avoid the snow and keep my shoes from getting wet (they're canvas, and they take a long time to dry). I do not want to take my hands from my pockets to open the door; I'm not wearing any gloves, and my hands chap easily when it's this cold out. I have to do, though, because it's midnight, and not many people will be around to let me in. I pull out my ID and swipe it through the lock, yanking the door open before it has a chance to be an ass and close on me.

Inside now, I am almost immediately warmer. I trudge up the fourty steps to my room, and practically fall through the door. I wave at my roommate. She grins back. My coat comes off and I am cold again. I should shower and go to sleep. I have class and work tomorrow and I'm tired and sick. But I haven't been writing, and I feel the need to do. So I sit down, open my browser, and, still chilly, start to type.

I'm Still A Princess

My first name is Sarah. It’s not a secret. I put it on pretty much everything. I introduce myself as Sarah Kate—and want to be called Sarah Kate—because Sarah is so common, and it’s less confusing to have a differentiation. But my name is Sarah. It’s Hebrew; it was the name of Abraham’s wife, and it means princess.

My mom used to call me that when I was little. I’m her first daughter, and she used to tell me about how we once promised to always be best friends. Before my baby sister was born, Mom would tell Neenie and me stories about Princess Sarah the Brave and Princess Annie the Kind. I was her princess, and she would always be telling me how beautiful I was.

It’s been at least ten years since I last heard a story about Princess Sarah. I’ve changed so much since then, and I’ve learned so much about myself. I’ve learned that the reason I tap pens against tables is because it keeps me focused. I’ve learned that it’s okay to cry without a good reason. I’ve learned that I’m never really going to understand people, but instead, I have the ability to just look at a set plan and know how to put it together. I’ve learned that on the sliding scale of sexuality, I lean more towards women, but that men are okay, too. I’ve learned that I do not fit into a traditional gender role; I am gender neutral, and only seem more masculine because I look female.

Princess Sarah wasn’t any of that. She was very ladylike, though the most important thing in her life was keeping her people safe from the dragons that would constantly plague the city that her parents ruled. She had no romantic interest, in either boys or girls. She never cried, because she was so brave. She always took care of her sister, Princess Annie, and she was always so focused on saving everyone she could. And she always did; she would save the day before anyone died, she was just that good.

I know now that I’m not going to save everyone in the world; I’m not even going to be able to protect everyone in my reach. I still try, though. I will always try to keep my friends afloat, to battle away the dragons that plague them. I will always take care of my Neenie, even from as far away as I am. Though I shake and tremble and occasionally have to physically anchor myself to something to stop myself from running away, I do the scary things, the uncomfortable things, the new things, the things no one else will do and the things done in front of people, I stand up for others and for myself, I put my trust in others when it would be so easy to just stay jaded, I speak my mind and damn the consequences and no one ever knows how absolutely paralyzed with terror I am at every moment I am doing it.

I am not the same Princess Sarah that I was when I was eight, but I am still Princess Sarah the Brave.

I’m still a princess.