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.

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.

Romance

So I broke up with my boyfriend last week.

Don’t get all weepy on me. I’m fine, it was my idea, I wanted it to happen, etc., etc. Honestly, I’m happy it’s over. The boy put way too much pressure on me. I was his only source of happiness~. He could see us together ~forever~. He practically had our headstones all ready. He’d talk about how we could get a house together and we’d garden in it and we couldn’t have cats.

See, here’s the thing. When he talked about that, I’d never see it. I’d look into my future, and I couldn’t see a house and a garden and no cats. All I ever saw was a London flat and my Speckle and my Neenie and ALL THE KITTIES. It seems to be a thing now. When I look, when I think about what might happen, I only ever see that. Just me and Speckle and Neenie in a flat with kittens named after superheroes.

It’s made me realize something. I’m not going to be one for commitment. Not romantic commitment, anyway. I mean, I’m incredibly loyal as a friend, and I will always stand by the people I love, but I’m getting off track…

If I look into my future, and all I can see is my two best friends, there has to be a reason for it. I’ve been saying recently that every single one of my significant others should, and probably will, be jealous of Emma Lee, and it’s true. She is my Speckle, and she is the most important person in my life. I care for and love her just as much as anyone would their One True Love, though not quite in the same way. Because I have that in Emma, I don’t need or want it in anyone else.

Maybe all this means that I wasn’t born to be a monogamous person, much the same as I wasn’t born to be a heterosexual person. I’m fine with that. The only real problem, though, is making other people fine with that. I don’t want every break-up of mine to be nasty, and I’m afraid that a lot of them will be. I just want clean, easy relationships where we don’t ask too much of each other, and both recognize when it’s over.

Maybe I’m asking too much of the world. Maybe I’m being selfish and lazy. I don’t know. I do know, though, that I’d be absolutely crazy to go out and look for another life partner when I already have one, and probably even two, despite the fact that they’re my sisters.

I Love My Parents

Honest to god, I do. If you heard me complaining about them on occasion, you might not be so sure, but let me tell you, I love them with all my heart.

That doesn't stop me from hating them at times, though.

When I was little, I used to say that my parents were the best parents ever. Granted, it wasn't too hard to think that, what with my limited worldview and all. I was sixteen before I even heard my parents disagree. They didn't argue, and they certainly didn't fight. Not in my hearing, anyway. They let me be interested in the things I wanted to be interested in. I mean, maybe it helped some that my parents are both minorly geeky, and I was interested in geeky things, but when I wanted to play with Pokemon cards and videogame systems instead of Barbies and Polly Pocket (for example), they let me.

(As an aside, it was damn hard to do it, really, because my big brothers didn't want a ~girl~ tagging along. I ended up playing by myself throughout most of my childhood. Until I met Kaila, anyway, but that's a different story entirely.)

So anyway, to Little SK, this was enough to make my parents the Best Parents Ever. But then I went out in the world, and realized how sheltered I'd been.

I do not understand the majority of pop culture references made by anyone.

I did not know what the modern connotations of the word "gay" were until eighth grade, nor did I even know of the word "bisexual" (ironically enough).

I could go on and on about all the instances when my parents tried to do the right thing, only to end up making the wrong choice and fucking me and my brothers up completely (fortunately for them, my sisters missed most of the blunders by the grace of being the fourth and fifth children), but that would take too long. Each instance really deserves its own separate post. So instead of doing that, I will grace you with a realization I have come to rather recently.

My parents never encouraged me.

Oh sure, they did the regular, parent-y things like coach my soccer team and lead my Girl Scout troop and try to get me to get good grades and whatever, but they never encouraged me in what I wanted to do.

I have been writing stories since I was ten. In eight years, eight years, my mother and father have collectively asked to see my work twice. My grandfather asks to see it more than they do. In the four years I have been writing poetry and one year I have been drawing, they have never asked to see any of it.

I don't expect them to be like some parents who are all, "Okay, my kid wants to do this, so I'll sign him up for classes and get him all this stuff for it and how-to books and I'll learn with him and it will be so much fun, dammit." I don't want them to be like that. My stuff is my stuff, and I'll learn how to do it on my own, thanks.

I just...I wanted encouragement, growing up. I wanted to know that when I was doing what I wanted to be doing, they were proud of me. I don't want the happy hugs and "I'm so proud of you" just when I brought home straight A's and Honor Society induction letters and 34's on my ACT. I want a "Congratulations!" when I tell them I finished another poetry journal. I want a "That's my girl!" when I tell them that I finished writing a book. I want them to brag about me, not because I'm smart, but because I'm creative and I make beautiful things and I'm going to be an author and I wrote a children's book that my bloody teacher wanted to publish!

Dearest readers, I haven't hurt myself in almost a year and a half now, and not once have my parents told me that they're proud of me for coming through it, or that I'm strong because I haven't slipped at all, or just held me because I looked like I needed it. I'd not have made it as far as I have if I only had them to lean on. The only reason I have made it is because I have wonderful friends and I'm fucking stubborn as hell.

I know nothing is perfect. I know that life isn't fair. But once, just once, I want my parents to take something of mine, something that they have asked to look at, go through the whole thing, then hug me and tell me that they are proud of me.

I'm going to keep going the way I am, no matter what they do. Still, it'd be nice to know.

I Wrote A List This Week

This isn't all that uncommon a thing for me to do. I write lots of lists. Lists of books I want need to get. Lists of things I have to do. Lists of what my mom needs me to get at the store. I remember things better when I write them down, and I feel more accomplished when I check things off. Plus, I know that everything is done when the whole list is finished.

But this list is a special list. This list is a list of things I need to bring with me to college.

I'm sure some of you are thinking "Already? It's only the beginning of May!" I'm sure I'd be thinking that, too, if the person were anyone other than me. But only if I didn't know the reason. The reason I already wrote this list is that I'm leaving soon. Twenty-three days from now, actually.

See, I got a job this summer, working at my college. My big brother goes there, and he hooked me up at the theater he works at. I'll be working forty hours a week, and living with his awesome, geektastic girlfriend, Jordan. This is going to be a huge change for me; I know that it will be Fun and A Good Experience, but it could also be Frightening and Lonely, and it will definitely be New and Different. I have many complicated feels about this, and it will probably be a good thing for me to get them down and sort them out.

The first think I'd like to address is my house and homelife. In this aspect, things can only get better. Yes, I'll be providing for myself, living with someone who I have only met three or four times, and will have to manage everything on my own, but I honestly can only see this as an improvement. I currently live with my parents and two younger sisters; my oldest brother has moved out, and lives in Chicago, and I will be joining my other big brother in Wisconsin this summer. I love my family, don't get me wrong, but my baby sister (she's almost nine now, but she'll always be the baby) has an Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD), and it can make life hell sometimes. She can be this sweet little girl, who loves to hug you and hang out with you and looks up to me and our other sister so much and wants to be just as cool as we are, but suddenly, with no visible cause, she can become unreasonable, throwing fits over the smallest thing; she won't respect our personal space, she has no filter between her brain and her mouth, and never thinks how hurtful the things she says can be, she doesn't get that sometimes, big girls are irritable and in so much pain they literally cannot move and just don't have the patience or the will to deal with anything stressful.

I don't want anyone getting the wrong idea. Like I said, I love her, with all my heart, and I will do anything to help her. I'm so grateful to the people at her school, to the staff, who know exactly how to handle her, and to the other students, who love her imagination and think she's the coolest and are almost always so nice to her and make her feel like the most popular girl in school and, really, I think she might be. I'm so happy that she can have that, because I know the hell that kids with mental disabilities can go through in school. I flew completely off the handle one day in Gym class because the teacher was being an ass to someone like my sister, and nobody said so much as a negative word about the kid in my hearing for the rest of the year. I hope that my baby sister doesn't ever have anything like that happen to her, but if she does, I hope that there is someone like me to stand up for her.

Now that I (hopefully) have convinced you of my love of my sister, I think it's safe to say that she is one of the things that make me cry the most often. The unreasonableness, the temper tantrums, the just not getting the fact that Neenie and I just need to be left alone sometimes, are so hard to reconcile with the sweet girl she can be. It's desperately difficult to deal with, and there are times when I have to babysit her, and once she's in bed, I just sit down and cry, and I'm damn certain that it will be so much easier when I don't have to deal with that sort of thing on a daily basis. But then I love her so much, it hurts to think that.

Also included in my homelife are my parents. I remember saying, when I was little, how my parents were probably the best parents in the world. I think back and remember that, and then remember how much they managed to screw up. Maybe Neenie and Grace have it best, because my parents had three kids to practice on before them, or maybe what they do is more noticeable. Or maybe my parents were so afraid of doing the wrong thing that they did it anyway.

When Neenie was in fourth grade, her teacher was a bitch of the highest degree. This was the final year in our elementary school before the students started switching classes; English, spelling, math, science, social studies, all were taught by the same teacher, so Neenie had to spend the whole day with the same woman. My sister would come home sobbing, because the teacher made fun of her, almost every single day. My parents went to see the principal, and I think I'm going to love that woman for my whole life because of what she did. She couldn't fire the teacher, because the pastor had the final say in those matters (don't get me started on him), but she told Neenie that she could come down to the office whenever she needed to, because the teacher was being mean, because another student was being mean, or just because Neenie was feeling down. So my parents did something about that. They don't seem too bad, do they?

Well, look at the other side of the story.

When Neenie was in fourth grade, I was in seventh. Now, I didn't have a teacher going after me, but I had most of my classmates on my back. Neenie has always exuded an aura of confidence (however much we both know she lacks it) that has made her a favorite among her classmates. I never had that. I was smart, geeky, and socially awkward from the ground up. I had been homeschooled until sixth grade, and I didn't have any idea how to interact with my peers until about eighth grade. I'm still kind of clueless. They teased me mercilessly because of this, and I came home crying almost as often as Neenie. My parents never did anything.

When I started to self-injure, I think it was kind of obvious. I'd show up in the morning in my pajamas--a tank top and pajama pants--with cuts criss-crossing my shoulders, but my mom took the cock-and-bull story about falling into bushes that I fed her for the longest time. She only ever did anything about it when my dad saw them, too.

My big brother thinks that she was afraid of making a mistake. Perhaps she was thinking that I was just clumsy and kept taking the same fall over and over, or maybe she was in denial. All that I know is that it made me feel even more alone.

But they did eventually get me help, and I got better.  I'm still better. You could almost say that I'm flourishing. Almost.

They got better, too. They helped me get through things, they did what they could to help me get better, and they were very, very gentle with me. For about five months.

Once those five months were up, though, I started seeming like I was okay again, the support and the gentleness and the care that they had been showing me faded slowly away, until they got to the point where they act like nothing is different from before. They have started, again, some of the behaviors that put me in the hospital in the first place. They yell at me for doing things wrong when I think I'm doing them right but I'm not because my parents have changed the rules again and forgot to tell me. They don't take what I do seriously. They tell me that I need to take time for myself, but get angry with me when I do. They make hurting, cutting remarks that undermine my self-esteem and confidence.

I have to deal with this sort of shit in my own home. And my friends wonder why I think so poorly of myself.

I never get out. I'm trapped in a house that isn't a home, with people who don't seem concerned about my welfare, and I'm dying to just leave. These are the reasons that I got the job at the theater in the first place, and why I'm so happy to be going. But there are reasons that I want to stay, too.

I'm a part of a wonderful youth group. I left St. Damian, the parish of my childhood, and the school where I spent three years learning, to go to a church twenty minutes from where I live, where my only connection is that it was the place my dad and his siblings went to school. Why did I do this, you ask? Because my three years at the school sucked. Because the pastor was a homophobe, and I couldn't sit through another damn sermon about how gays were bad and wrong and going to Hell because they didn't conform to the Bible. Because the place where I ended up had a group of loving, supporting people who let me be myself and stood by me through hell and high water. Because the sixty-something-year-old youth minister told one boy to get off another boy's lap because "that's so gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that."

They are wonderful human beings, the epitome of what the Catholic Church really should be, who take the real meaning of the word "catholic" to heart, and make it truly universal. I'm going to miss being a part of this group, all the friends I leave behind, the love and support they have given me, and the two hours of being open and honest and just having fun every week, and I know that they are going to miss me.

My social life has taken an upturn recently. Specifically, I actually got asked to prom by a friend of mine, and that's something that I never thought would happen. But this kid; he's a friend of mine, and I've sort of half-liked him ever since we met. He's cute and geeky, and he's one of the few guys I've met who are actually really nice (the total is, like, seven or something, and two of them are my blood brothers and another is like my little brother). I mean, I have quite a few guy friends, but most of them can be complete assholes sometimes.

But anyway, so there's this boy who has asked me to prom. Unfortunately for the both of us, I had to say no. No, I'm not doing anything the night of or whatever. I just really hate dances; I hate dancing and crowds and noise and really bad music, and that's pretty much the summary of a school dance. So we're currently treading those awkward waters frequented by two socially awkward people between a slight miscommunication (he thinks I was out-and-out rejecting him) and clearing it up, but hopefully this will work.

Except that I'm leaving soon, so God only knows where this will actually end up going.

Then there are my other friends. My best guy friend (and my "little brother") and I came up with this hilarious plan to build ourselves a little hut thing behind my house this summer, and it would have been so much fun to build it and paint it and hang out in it all summer before I left for college and he started classes (at a local community college) in the fall. Because I'm going away to work, that plan completely fell through.

This is just a little sample of what's going on. My friends and I had a bunch of plans (road trip, hanging out, swimming, and all sorts of other stuff) that won't happen now because I'm really only going to have ten days of summer break between my last day of school and when I leave to start work.

But the hardest part of leaving is definitely the fact that I don't get to take my little sister and my best friend with me.

These are two different people, but they can both share the same two roles. Neenie, my freshman (they make great pets), has been considered my best friend since sophomore year. I don't know how it happened, other than gradually, but suddenly we were super close and loving each other and still a little teasing but in a nice way now and sharing interests and all sorts of things, sort of like what happened with me and my big brother, Chris, but fortunately before my senior year. Emma Lee, my lovely co-host on our recently-conceived podcast (shameless!plug is shameless), has been my best friend since the first day we met in 2008. We are similar enough for it to be awesome and kind of freaky, but different enough that we fill in the gaps in the other's character. When a lot of people think about soulmates, they picture the perfect couple. Emma and I aren't in a romantic relationship--we never will be and the thought is pretty weird. We are soulmates, though, completing each other, best friends for forever and a day, and we know we'll make it through hard times because we have done before.

I'm going to miss these two desperately. Even though I don't get to see Emma every day like I do Neenie, it's still going to be hard being so much farther away from her. Nothing will change in our relationships because we are four hours apart, I know that, but it still hurts to leave.

So, when the day comes to go, I'm going to leave with mingled joy and sadness, because sometimes good-bye is a second chance, but the hardest part of this is leaving you.

You know what I really hate?

I hate it when adults use the Oh-I-know-what-you're-going-through-don't-think-I-don't-I-was-young-once-too thing.  Yes, I understand that my mother and my aunt were, at one point, seventeen.  Yes, I understand that my aunt liked science fiction shows and pulling goofy pranks and just being crazy, just like I do.  Yes, I understand that my mother had to deal with a high-maintenance older sister, was very shy, and was clinically depressed, just like me.  Yes, I understand that they had hormones coursing through their veins like white blood cells.  Yes, I get that they were probably just as randy as me, though they'll never admit it.

But they were not, are not, and never will be me.

Yeah, Mom, I get it.  You had two friends all through grade school.  You had to deal with Auntie being selfish and totally self-centered.  You had three younger siblings.  You never wanted to disappoint your parents.  You know how hard it can be.


Yeah, Auntie, I get it.  You were boy-crazy, desperately "in love" with William Shatner and John Wayne and all.  You liked being crazy and annoying the nuns.  You didn't like being tied to the house.  You couldn't wait to leave.  You know how hard it can be.

Tell me, though.  Do you know what it's like to be bi, and not be able to tell your parents?  Do you know what it's like to take care of an eight-year-old Autistic kid who's not even yours?  Do you know what it's like to want so desperately to not be judged by the standard?  Do you know what it's like to have the voices of stories swimming in your head, desperate to be let out?  Do you know what it's like to lose every single friend you have at a time when you need them the most?  Do you know what it's like to have your mind wander during school because of your ADHD, only to fall into crushing self-doubt brought on by your depression about things having to do with your learning disorder?  Do you have any idea what it's like to grow up in this age of technology, with the world at your fingertips, when the only world you know is populated by people who either hate you or don't care about you?

I understand that we're pretty damn similar.  I understand that we have some of the same issues.  I get it; you know what it's like to be a teenager, you've "been around the block."  You don't know what it's like to be me, with my combination of traits from your family and traits from Dad's family and things that are all my own.  You haven't ever been me.

So stop telling me that you know exactly what I'm going through, or that you know for sure that one day I'll stop being so crazy by choice, and be fine with it, when you cannot possibly know.  Our experiences aren't the same.  Our personalities aren't the same.  We aren't the same. 

Stop insulting me by saying that you know how I feel.

Subject Matter: My Self-Esteem

I honestly think that my friends have no idea how truly high-maintenance I am.  Maybe they're just dense.  Maybe I don't let it show.  I don't know.  What I do know is that, as someone whose self-esteem could fit inside a quark, I need almost constant reassurance that, yes, I am a good singer and a good actress and a good writer and a good poet and smart and pretty.

Because, yes, I've heard it all before.  Yes, sometimes I start to believe it.  But you know what happens then?  A small voice pipes up inside me, and it says, "Who are you to be so conceited?  What have you done that you're justified in feeling important?  What could possibly make you think that people like what you do, or even care?  How is what you've done good enough to be shown to people?  How is your voice good enough to be heard?"

In the end, what that little voice says boils down to is, "No one cares.  You're not important or special enough.  Shut up and let the better people go."

I'm getting better grades than my big brothers did at my age.  I talk about it a lot.  I laugh that since I have a higher GPA and ACT score than my oldest brother, I'll get into the college he got rejected from, and then maybe I can rub it in his face that I did something better than him.  My parents get really disapproving and say that isn't Christian.

Ask me if I give a fuck, Mom and Dad.  Ask me if I care that it's technically mean, when I know Matt'll laugh and congratulate me.

"But who says you have the right?" that little voice whispers.  It's starting to sound a lot like Mom.  Or maybe Dad.  "Why do you think that, just because, by some fluke, you got a higher ACT score than the boys, you're smarter than them?  Maybe they weren't well rested.  Maybe they ran out of time and had to start guessing.  Don't rub it in his face that you're smarter than him, because it isn't true."

Just this weekend, Neenie and I both had plays.  Two different plays, two different places, the same days, the same times.  Mom went to Neenie's opening night.  Grandma and Grandpa went to Neenie's last show.  No one came to my opening night.  No one but Mom, Dad, and Neenie came to any of my shows.

When she said that only Grandma and Grandpa came, Neenie added that no one loved her.  I shot back that none of our extended family came to my shows, and no one came to opening night.

"So what?" the little voice whispers.  It definitely sounds like Mom and Dad together now.  "It's not like you're as important as her.  It's not like anyone cares.  You had three lines.  She had two whole songs  to herself.  You're lucky they showed up at all.  Be quiet and be grateful."

Sometimes I wish that I never had to come home.  Sometimes I wish I could go live with Smitty or Marissa or Stefanie, someone who loves me and tells me that they love me and assures me that I'm special and good enough and perfect the way I am.  Then the voice whispers, "You don't deserve that.  You don't deserve to be told that, even if everyone knows it's a lie.  You need to feel that you're worthless."

And that's when I get fed up with it.  That's when I call the voice out on it's bullshit, tell it to shut the fuck up, I don't care if I don't deserve it, I don't care if it's a lie, I want to feel special and loved and good enough, I don't give a rat's ass what my family says or thinks, and by God, I'm going to listen to my friends when they say I'm awesome and cool and pretty and smart and good enough.

But then no one says it.

A Conversation with Myself (I'm Not Crazy, I Swear)

Hey there.

Hey, kiddo.  How's things?

Not too good at the moment, I'm afraid.


What's up?

I'm having trouble with some of my...worse instincts.

That again, sweetie?  But you've been doing so well!

Yeah, well, I saw the razor in the tub, and it took a long time to convince myself not to touch it.

You didn't, then?

No, I stayed safe.

I'm proud of you, sweetie.  Wanna talk about what happened?

I s'pose.  D'you have any idea how hard it is to try to explain to your parents why you're a part of GSA without coming out and admitting that you're gay?

I can imagine that it would be difficult.

Try nearly impossible.  I mean, how am I supposed to make up reasons that sound intelligent when I can't words in the first place?  At least Mom took pity on me and gave me some questions to answer.  I mean, shouldn't they know by now, seventeen and a half years in, that I have trouble with satisfactorily answering vague questions?  Haven't they seen my utter frustration enough to know that I need more specific parameters for what they want to hear?  Saying that does kinda seem like I'm tailoring my answer to them.     Maybe that's true.  That's probably true, actually.  But maybe instead I should say "what they want to know".  It sounds more accurate.

And you wanted to...?

Well, I've been dealing with stupid all day, and I'm pretty fed up with it.  And Mom was preaching about how we're supposed to just accept the stupid and the logic-less and move on.  Obviously, seventeen and a half years haven't been enough to learn that I thrive in order, when everything is in its correct place, and things make sense. I mean, I sometimes have to force things into order just to stay sane.  It's all that practice that makes me so good at retconning.

At least you can always hide in your room.

Yeah, but that comes with problems of its own.  Mom always nags at me when I spend too much time up there.  And Dad gets pissed off when I'm in my room and listening to music and can't hear him calling.

But he knows that it helps, doesn't he?

You'd think.  But I tell them so many things that help, and it gets better for a little while, but then... they forget or something and it goes back to the way it was.

Try telling them again.

Then I feel like I'm nagging.

Sometimes you have to.  You know that.

Doesn't stop them from yelling at me...

I know.

Maybe I should just live in my bedroom from now on.

That'd be impractical.  You have to eat and go to school.  I'm sure you can wait until next August.

Yeah, I probably can.  Maybe I'll whine a lot more, so that I don't self-destruct, but I'll get through.

If you tell your friends, I doubt they'll begrudge you weekly whining sessions.

Yeah, they're awesome like that.  Hey, thanks for listening.

It's what I'm here for.



Have you ever had a conversation with yourself like this?  You're not crazy.  Well, if you are, I am, too, but at least we're sane enough to admit it, right?  In any case, I often find it helpful to talk to myself, because I know the solution to a problem, and I know I know it, but I just can't figure it out.  The back and forth of conversation always helps.  Try it sometime, why don't you?

On YA Literature

Oh, hey!  This blog isn't just going to be moaning about my personal life! YAY!

On the other hand, I am going to have to bring some of it in here to make my point.  Anyway!  Moving on!

This post has to do with this Wall Street Journal article.  (Yes, it's from two days ago.  Sorry, Interwebz, but I've been working.  And, you know, getting money.)  I will take this time to admit that I did not read the whole thing.  I got outraged, and closed the tab.  It was rather like my reaction to reading New Moon the first time, except that I could only metaphorically throw this article at the wall.

For those of you who are too interested in what I have to say to read the actual article (haha, aren't I funny?), it deals with how bad YA books are and how they can contaminate the children and make them do terrible, awful things, like sex and drugs and cutting.  Thanks for your concern, but most of the druggies I know don't bloody read.  Yes, you read that correctly.  They do not pick up books, let alone read them.

Trust me.  These are kids who pride themselves on never reading anything, kids who refuse to even start reading school books in case them might actually like the books (oh, the horrors!) and then end up finishing them, only to discover, Oh bugger, their record is broken! 

And then there's sex.  Tell me, have you ever read Story of A Girl by Sara Zarr?  I'm in the middle of reading it, and it's fascinating.  It tells the story of a girl who was found having sex with a sixteen-year-old.  The girl was thirteen at the time.  The story commences about three years later, and shows exactly where Deanna's choice led her; her father cannot have a normal conversation with her; her mother tries so hard to make things seem normal; she has a reputation at school for being a slut, because she had sex with one guy.  If I had not already promised myself to my future husband (as the ring on my finger shows), this stark portrayal of the crap that can go down would have convinced me.

Now let's talk about cutting.  Everyone has five fingers on each hand, right?  Okay, let's not count the thumb.  If my arithmetic serves me well, that makes four, yes?  That's how many people in my life know exactly why I was out of school for more than two weeks back in January; my parents, and my two female best friends.  My male best friend does not know.  My little sister does not know.  My big brothers do not know.  My confidant-in-all-things-depression-wise does not know.  My friends have been convinced I had pnuemonia. 

The absolute truth?  I had been hospitalized for self-injury.  I spent two and a half weeks going through a program to deal with it.  I told everyone that it had been happening for a year.  This was a lie.  I had been cutting for more than two years at that point, but I'd be darned if I told anyone.  I'm not going to get into what started it; that's a story for another post.

There are two common categories for the reason people hurt themselves; A) they have so much emotional pain, they invoke physical pain to distract themselves (sort of like whacking something really hard so you have something other than your, say, headache to focus on), or B) what they're experiencing is a numbness so acute that they will do anything just to feel something.  I personally moved between the two.

Now, you're probably asking yourself, "Where is this kid going?  What does this have to do with YA books?"  I'm getting to that.

Now, for this length of time, I more than once thought about killing myself.  A lot of things kept me from it; the thought that doing so would be selfish, a promise I had made to my best friend to not hurt myself at all, but mostly, it was the escape I found in books.

One of my favorite series is Redwall, by the late Brian Jacques.  The paperback copies of his books are relatively compact; short, thin books (height- and width-wise, I mean) with an average of 300+ pages and rather small print, a single book will fit in hoodie pockets, cargo shorts, and nicely-sized purses, and multiple books fit easily in a backpack for car trips.  They are easy to take anywhere, is what I'm saying, and I did.

In the two+ years that I was hurting myself, I fought the impulse, when I had the strength, by reading, because it took away the pain.  The stories I read were beautifully painted, with scenery rich in detail and characters you cared about.  Anyone could get lost in these worlds, and that was exactly what I used them for.  When burning through the life of Martin the Warrior, my own life was gone, and all that mattered was his.  When turning the pages of Marlfox, the lives of Songbreeze and Donflor were far more pertinent than my own.  These books were not without tragedy; Brian Jacques was one of few authors I've experienced who knew the true value of character death, and how much better it makes a story when properly executed (pun not intended).

Though important, telling hurting teens that they are not alone is not the only thing that books can do.  YA fiction provides an escape from their own world that is much safer than drugs or alcohol; the only way you can get hurt a book is by getting hit over the head with it, and there's no such thing as a book overdose.

Since getting out of the hospital, I have not once hurt myself, and I've read more in the past five months than in the three years previous.  The pain and the problems aren't gone, not by a long shot, but my books give me the strength I need to fight, hope that one day it will all be better, and faith in a happy ending.

Maybe I'm just speaking for myself, and this isn't how anyone else views books.  Maybe I really am just the nutcase in the corner, hiding behind her shield of books.  Then again, there's a good chance that one of my best friends is lying on her bed right now, her nose in the YA book I gave her, reading about pirates and  mountains and warriors, and not thinking about her fight with her boyfriend, or the fact that she needs a job if she's going to go to college, or that she was pretty damn close to failing physics this year, or that she might not even graduate with me.  There's a good chance that another of my best friends is sitting on his couch, unconcerned with the fact that his parents can't send him to a good college, that he can't even take AP tests, that his little brother is once again being a prat, and that he can't hang out with his friends because he never has the money, because his mind is buried under human gods and troll gods and intricacies between kingdoms and godly wars.

So these books aren't for everyone.  So they don't save all the people who need saving.  At least they give it a damn good try, and grab everyone who is within reach.  Every single YA author that has gotten even one letter thanking them for saving a life, no matter how bad anyone says their book(s) is/are, should be given a hug, a handshake, or a clap on the back, and a resounding "Thank you" from the world, because saving just one life is something huge.

Subject matter: Hope

I don't know if I heard or read this somewhere, or if I just came up with it on my own, but a statement has been floating around my head for a while now: "It takes a special person to look to the future for light when the present and the past are so dark."

Does that mean I'm special, then?  I don't know.  What I do know is that hope has gotten me through some pretty dark times.  Maybe it was naive of me, but I remember months passing when I would lay down to bed at night and promise myself, "It will be better tomorrow.  Someone will notice, someone will ask, someone will let me cry.  Someone will see the cuts or the scars or the way I massage my barely-covered shoulders.  Someone will have the heart to give me what I don't have enough will left to ask for."  It was what I saw when I looked back that prompted me to say, "An old adage says that where there's life, there's hope, but it's been my experience that where there's hope, there's life," and credit it to my pen name and post in on the wall of my junior-year English classroom.

There was a time in my life where it took every ounce of willpower, coupled with thoughts of my little sisters and my parents and the fact that I could not worry them, to get out of bed every morning.  It took me an hour to talk myself into getting up, an hour to convince myself that I could make it one more day, that Joey would smile at me and take my hand, or Axel would be there with his "drug-money" to buy me a soda, or Smitty would have a bar of chocolate in her purse saved just for me.  It never got me down that none of that ever happened; I just told myself that it gave me a better chance for the next day.

Once I was officially out of bed and on my way to getting out the door and making the bus, my way to keep going was the fact that I didn't want to trouble my parents to have to drive me to school.  At school, breaking down would lead to being sent to the counselor's office, which would lead to the story coming out, which would lead to one of my parents coming to school, which meant inconvenience for them, and I didn't want that to happen, so nothing would happen at school.  Back at home, head to my room, lock the door, watch Buffy or Doctor Who or Sherlock, or read something, and get lost in a world that doesn't exist.  Then it would be dinner and chores and sleep and do it all again tomorrow, still while constantly thinking, "It'll get better tomorrow.  It'll get better tomorrow."

So if it takes a special person to do that, then I suppose I am special.  To quote my (marvelous) junior high social studies teacher, "There's more than one definition of the word 'special,' Dillon."