Karma

    National Let's-Just-Give-Jenny-A-Hard-Time Day was today. Sorry if you missed this glorious occasion. Starting with someone texting me an hour before I needed to get up about lunch today (could you at least tell me something important if you're going to wake me up?) and ending with this girl at a Christmas party, my day was full from start to end of people who are about to be forced to take a swig of their own medicine. 

    This afternoon, I went home, got dressed for a Christmas party and went with my white elephant gift and holiday spirit at arms length. Shortly after walking through the door at the party, I encountered a girl who I knew would get under my skin until the minute we had gone our separate ways. A drama queen doesn't even do her justice. Standing in front of a person she had met a mere few seconds ago, she spouted off about a girl who wears too much makeup and smells bad, giving me a desire for her to have a bad day and just rub it in her face. As I let go of that, everyone retreated upstairs, where for almost an hour we just talked and chilled. Not once, not twice, or even thee times did The Girl look over and give me a smug look of this-is-my-territory-you're-encroaching, making me want to step on "her" territory even more. Remember, two can play this game. 

    Dinner came and went, complete with her numerous malicious looks and smirks. I sat eating, trying to be polite and not reciprocate in a much more hateful manner. Directly after, white elephant began. I had no idea what the presents would contain. All I knew was which present was mine and what it had: five of the ugliest unused nail polishes my eyes had ever laid on. My number was five, not good or bad. The Girl's turn approached, the number directly before mine. She looked at me, grabbed the last present with wrapping paper, which somehow she knew I had been speculating. The Girl grabbed it and ever-so-viciously tore away at the beautiful metallic wrapping, aware my eyes were on her. She received some alarm clock, pretty cool but not the best. Next was my turn. My present was good but not spectacular, definitely an unfairly good trade for what I gave. It consisted or some bath soaps, hand sanitizer and lotion...the typical gift when it is an all girls party. People continued picking gifts until someone stole The Girl's used-to-be perfectly wrapped gift. In turn, she picked another present and it was even better. How is this fair? I silently screamed, angry beyond control that she was being rewarded for being a brat. The last numbers picked their gifts and The Girl's was stolen again. This time, I wouldn't even look and see her flaunt how wonderfully everything turned out for her. I glanced up quickly and saw that my ugly nail polishes were being given to her, for she had stolen some of my joy that evening and now her dandy gifts were stolen as well.

    Hahahahahahaha karma. I once had felt bad about bringing such an outrageously terrible gift, but now was filled with an evil contentment. What goes around comes around. To be able to try to show someone their place, you have to get out of yours to begin with. 

Our Beloved Optimist

  Most mornings I drearily hoist myself out of the Optimist Park pool after swimming, head to the locker room, shower, and try to get dibs on the "big" aka handicapped stall. Each day after I claim my stall, or one that is about as wide as Stewie's head in Family Guy, I try to remember to look up. Tired from waking before the rooster crows, exhausted from swimming so much I am surprised my gills have not come in yet and not prepared for another day of high-school humiliation and lunch in the library, I strive to find even a fleeting glimpse of security in an ever-changing lifestyle. Beyond the confines of the plastic, or whatever material makes up those cold, hard-as-steel fences between stalls, the locks protecting my nakedness and the slimy, wet floor, there is a sky that is always blue.

    Little do people know, the locker room ceiling of Optimist contains a hope that no one or nothing else can produce. I glance up to see the cotton-candy blue roofing and take a deep breath, reminded of the life and breath that no family strains or school stresses can rob from me.  Occasionally, I wonder about the builder of Our Beloved Optimist. Did he know, as he ordered his men to place in the ceiling joists and the panels, that he would give hope to a deranged, high-school dreading adolescent? I stare up at the ceiling once more before continuing getting dressed, thinking about the person who had the light sapphire panels added. I ponder that maybe, maybe, they as well looked at the soft indigo paneling, their spirits being lifted each second their gaze lingered on that dusty-blue sky.

EDITING NEEDED. I am submitting this for a Point of View writing competition, demonstrating a view different from most others who come into contact with the Optimist ceilings. Please even leave quick comments or tips!

Disconnected from the Devices

         After yet another long, tumultuous day, me and the IBM Stinkpad congregate with our other outsider of a friend, the iTouch. Totally disconnected from any texting, facebook messaging or chatting, I sit down to journal my thoughts into this piece of...iPaper?
         One last attempt for an apology with my sister, two SmartLunch sessions, three tests, four of us at the dinner table, five problems Mrs. McNally ignored when I asked, six portfolio add-ons (four short) and seven minutes more of babysitting than needed, I find myself here. I swear, each day gets longer. The minutes are less condensed, airy silences filling them and pauses of indefiniteness fall more often. The days come in single-file lines, just as elementary school kids follow the line leader, except there is no designated caboose in life. Annoying as it may be, I am the door-holder, waiting for the last of the kids to come so I may resume my place in line, only for the end to be nonexistent.
           Solutions to my problems are fewer and farther between, forcing me to take on the role of my uncle... solving government contingency, except in my own life. The battle remains between the side of me saying I just need a break and the side that conveys to me that courage is built from never stopping. That sector of my subconscious was proven wrong today, as I slipped into my room to calm down from another dinner table argument. My first tear in months was shed, my strength and resistance being arrested, or maybe never there to begin with. While I disgracefully allowed my sister to seize the better of me and throw it away, that tear was a reflection of the one last hope I have. The single desire that stands alone like the nerdy kid when teams are picked in P.E. The single desire to not be subject of ridicule from my ruthless sister, the single desire to not be on the outside looking in.

Everything Happens For a Reason http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yIzIEwNVWq4

           A divine symbol? Maybe not, but I can't see what else this morning was supposed to mean when added to this afternoon. Or, I could just be over-analyzing as always.
          This morning, after a dreadful swim practice (if only for the reason of frigid weather, less than half of the showers working at the pool and an agonizing stomach ache), I went home with my friend where we would kill time and get ready for school on another late-start Wednesday. After dressing, doing the ordinary make-up and discussing boys, my friend and I ate breakfast and hurried into her grandfather's car, because both her parents work. Not normally do I run into people with the exact same voice as my grandfather, whom I have deliberately not maintained contact with except the mandatory "hi"s and visits. Seeing this coincidence as abnormal, I reflected on my grandfather's age and what that means. He will not be present for me as I get my actual first job, as I graduate college or even as I walk down the aisle (if I ever do). My grandfather is a temporary gift, something that will eventually wither and fade as flowers do after the first winter's frost. So, after I walked through the door of my house, placed my bags down and ate, I called my grandfather. Title it fate, or just a coincidence, but my grandfather, who seldom answers the phone, picked it up today when I called. From then, we continued to talk aimlessly about books, farms, singers at my mother's wedding and other random topics. But while the points of conversation may not have been meaningful, the conversation itself was. I spoke, for a solid thirty minutes to a man that is fundamental in how I came to be (literally, I would not be here without his existence) and it does not matter the topic on which we spoke. Instead, the fact that we did talk does. He could be gone tomorrow, without as much warning as a deer dashing into the road while your eyes and fingers are on the radio controls. And perhaps he will be gone...in a week, three months, two years, but I want to hold onto the pieces of him that I can: the conversations about irrelevant subjects, the laughs that I will forever cherish, and the memories along with way.

"Sometimes We All Get a Little Broken" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pmey1k7WXdc

         "Sometimes, we all get a little broken. [...] A little broken. [...] At what point do you get so broken that it's time to just get thrown away?" [Maureen Johnson's Scarlett Fever]. We each have our share of broken moments, some  more than others, but nonetheless, they are unavoidable. We hold onto whatever we can: God, family, friends, money, alcohol, drugs, a single constant in the blazing fast changes that whirl around us to no end. Tears make situations hurt more, but being strong and attempting to move on brings our breaking to be that much more critical.
         Holding on is the easy part, when looked at from each aspect. It is not similar to hanging off of a cliff, where falling off and dying is the more attractive choice. Instead, it is deliberate whereas letting go of the ledge comes easily when one has no more strength. Finding a way to not ruin everything else we have organized and participated in is the difficult part. School, work, neighborhood, church... each place is perceptive to changes in attitude, sometimes costing us more than we signed up for. A serious job loss leading into poverty, an ugly divorce, domestic abuse, fill in the blank are all factors that we may not be able to control. Coping methods are problematic, coming without naturally without choice and only making things worse. Due to that, the kids in the struggling family end up with Fs in half of their classes, finding no relief at home and releasing their angst on school. Consequently, people surrounding them acknowledge changes in our actions and interrogate the details folded beneath the rug perfectly, indirectly forcing our decision.
        Keep going as best as we did before or just forgetting our attempts? It is painful, brutal, and life-wrenching when the decision is the latter. When we see "what's the point?", when being downcast is the norm. Anti-depressants don't solve it all. Sports don't offer aid either. Most temporary resorts leave us more unraveled then before, where we are frayed past the edges. And brokenness continues... Thus, when are we too broken and need to just be thrown away? I explore the question thoroughly, aware of the subjectivity of it. I find that I feel similar to the person described above more and more now. Friends are made but no real moments of realization in who will survive high school with me and who the true friends are. Family struggles run deeper by the day, another layer of icing off the cake before there is none left. Religion having been fed to me from all angles, socially, familial-ly, and mentally last year at a private Christian school, St. Davids and now having to distinguish: is this my faith or my parents? Do I really yearn for this or only pretend to because it makes life easier to get along with my parents? Senses of belonging linger in my book as I close it and no where else. With three kids and two closer in age, sharing the same friends, you'd think I would have adjusted to their exclusion, but no. Christmas is the absolute last thing I want right now: all the siblings home to bask in the unhappiness in my family that can't be placed aside for the briefest of moments. As all these thoughts flood my brain, overwhelmed just by thinking about it, I wonder, maybe I am just too broken to be fixed.

Sister Suck

        Sisters are the worst thing in the world, at least in my experience. While some sisters come to a compromise of give and take, being best friends forever, my sister and I have never found that balance. My sister, Megan, and I have always (as my mom says) had "strong" personalities. Consequently, our heads bump frequently. Actually, who am I kidding? They always do.
       While I just typed that I believed the balance is delicate, I quickly backspaced, sure that it is in fact not very sensitive at all. Megan, though, happens to be a jerk who is two-faced, putting on separate acts for everyone save my parents and me. Everything I do, every accomplishment, every outfit, goes under her silent speculation. At times, I will muster all my courage into telling her to stop, that we need to meet in the middle. Feeling similar to the protagonist and hero, I am only shot by the villain who retorts dumbly, playing innocent, denying crime in her actions. I am forced to step back, know that I am emotionally the bigger person, overstepping her sly tricks.
       I really enjoy ending my entries with solutions, realizations, revelations... whatever they may be generally referred to. Sadly, I do not have one. While I wish I did, I wish that fourteen years would be enough time for us to work out the problem, wishes are just balls of gas blazing through the sky or glimpses of 11:11 as we steal peeks at the clock during class. There is no solution and I doubt that we may ever come to one. The desire of a justification still exists, as I can honestly say that I would be more elated than distressed if Megan were to be gone and I don't want to go on feeling that way. After-all, she is my sister. I may have learned to apologize for her when I meet someone who knows her, but she is my sister. Elucidating on what that truly represents is difficult for me, more probably because it has a more negative connotation than positive, but being sisters counts for something. Looking back upon this blog, that is her redeeming grace: we are sisters. It may not stand for anything pleasant, but it cannot be changed and sounds about as precious as pink bows and polka-dotted ribbons. And, perhaps, one day it will be legitimate, a significance of friends tied by blood that endured and shared life together. But that remains a huge perhaps.

I remember hearts that beat. I remember you and me. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ehbl1wFv8aY

          Looking back to the blissful times of middle school, excluding the drama, the heavenly days of the heated summer, the carefree days of childhood, we see ourselves desiring and reaching towards the past, but never actually acquiring it. As I sit at this computer, leg bent and other dangling in my preferred position, the melody and lyrics of "Still" by Matt Nathanson (link in the title) float through my ears and into my brain. I contemplate the times, in proximity as near as last week, that I created avoidable botches. I observe my daily diction, occasionally humiliated by it, and ponder at how I could have changed that situation just by words I could have manipulated differently.
        This summer provides ample examples of how I left relationships and events neglected. It carries a heavy stench to replay events in my mind without the "undo" button where all returns to how they were before the lethal mistake was made. Especially, I recall how I delayed dealing with some of my middle school friendships. I carried the friendship far enough so that after the year started, I had a reason to bring the relationship to a cessation. Then I allow the relationship to fall as it will, similarly to leaves in the fall, the ultimate reason for the abrupt end being fear.
         I tremble at the termination of times of gaiety. I was afraid, mainly of spoiling the fun before it needed to end. The party needn't relinquish because of me, so I backed away instead of bucking up and putting a little more effort into being the friend I should have. As it turns out, I look at the relationships with distress and regret. The friendships remain untied and lying in the course our lives, a slight interaction in the grand scheme of things to become yet another deplored event in my teenage years.

Leave My Door Open Just a Crack, 'Cause I Feel Like Such an Insomniac http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8E4iF6HYOs8

      I stay up at night thinking, infrequently, but sometimes, for hours on end. My mind wanders through links of people, events, possibilities the next day, week, or month holds. "Women's brains are like spaghetti, men's are like waffles." My thought process is a living testament to women's brains being lumped in with spaghetti. I ponder over the swim meet tomorrow which leads to the time I went to States last year with my old swim team, which reminds me of Target that we visited and how I need to return photo frames which brings up this summer and the pictures I needed developed from then. It is so insane that my logic moves so quickly throughout and to places years ago, times that have been long forsaken.

     Unfortunately, despite how intriguing this contemplation method is, it introduces my thoughts more to over-analyzation than anything. I begin to wonder: Why did my teacher take six points off for that? Why wasn't I chosen? Why did this happen to my mom? Etc. It kills any trace of good spirits remaining from yet another exhausting day. I am even prompted to wonder: if my life were instead a movie, a superficial journey of a girl surrounded by cameras and with tears produced by eyedrops, would these situations that my mind reads over again and again and again like a broken record player exist? By chance that my life were identical to those we see on blu-ray or while indulging in red cushioned chairs with a bag of greasy popcorn that has as many calories as Michael Phelp's daily meals, would these unpleasant swerves in the road occur? Would these speed bumps continue to feel as if they are Mount Everest? Then I see the fault in my path, the feigned love in movies that is tangible for me. The struggles I battle in relationships may be overwhelming at times but it certainly beats the counterfeit connections and friendships we see on the big screen but progress in expressing an "aww." While the trenches I must climb out of feel like mountain climbing without a rope, I know the prize and victory at the end is real. I know the sunrise I can see as I emerge is not green-screen or a paper background, instead it is as genuine as the reward that will await once I come to the end of each scuffle.