The Theater Lights Are Blinding

My stomach is churning, as if I am about to go on a stage by force. They are having a big party for me tomorrow to celebrate my eighteenth birthday and my high school graduation. I don't understand why I was okay with my last party, but am deeply nerved by this one. I simply want to crawl under my bed covers and hide for the next couple days. For the first time, I am not excited about my birthday, or even about it being the fourth of July. I'm hiding in my room...part of me doesn't want to see the fireworks either.

To other people it must seem like I am depressed, but I really am not. I'm just stressed at the moment. I don't know why I am so nerved by the prospect of turning eighteen tomorrow. I am perfectly okay with taking on new adult responsibilities...so what on earth is making me feel this way? I miss my family and friends in Ohio but I am at peace with my decision to move. I feel so confused and I don't like this constant clenching of my stomach.

Current Music I'm Listening To:

• Lily Allen: [album] It's not me, it's you
• Eclipse Soundtrack
• Creedence Clearwater Revival
• Otis Redding
• K'naan: [album] Troubadour
• She & Him: [album] Volume II

Books I'm Reading:

• The Girl Who Played With Fire; by Stieg Larsson
• To Kill a Mockingbird  (again); by Harper Lee
• The Economist (magazine)

Don't Stop the Clock, Just Give Me a Moment

Perhaps, it is much to soon to write another post here. After all, nothing of significance has occurred today: I thoroughly cleaned my room, I ate pizza for two meals, and I stayed in my pajamas until four o'clock in the afternoon. Again, I find myself rambling on this stupid website because I cannot sleep. I am so exhausted and I still cannot shut down my mind long enough to fall asleep. It is already 10:40 p.m. and I wish I didn't have to wake up at 7:30 tomorrow, but I am wide awake.

I wonder why I never write about the important issues. Although writing has always been therapeutic to me, blogs are typically used as a tool for expressing someone's opinion on a serious or popular topic. On the contrary I only write about my inability to relax or my daily occurrences and what they may have taught me. I feel that I am a very passionate person when it comes to the things that interest me, so the fact that I do not write about them strikes me even more as odd.

Indeed, I have never stressed how upset I am about the oil spill and the wreckage that we, as humans who share this earth, have allowed to continue. Or maybe the fact that there are thousands of people who cannot speak up for themselves because they lack human rights that should be universal in every government. I think about these things all of the time on top of my own insignificant problems.

I read in order to keep updated on the world. I cannot watch the news anymore- it troubles me and everything has become too biased. Since when did the news decide to wield its powers as if it were a politician? It seems that people are too focused on pointing out their opponents faults, rather than delivering the news through cold, hard facts. There is always a bias, but why must everything be so dependent upon these biases? I hope that I can succeed in journalism. I want to find a way to communicate important issues with everyday people; educate them without over whelming them. Sadly, we hear of so much chaos and hatred that we have become desensitized about terrible things. We hear the devastating numbers regarding social injustices or the effects of the oil spill in the Gulf, but what are we doing about it? How often do we stop talking and start acting? I hope that we can find a way to present people with the necessary facts about and event, but also act them to care. It is important to be educated, but what is an education if you do not use it for good? for progress? for empathy toward humans and our planet?

I bought a magazine at the airport earlier this week and I cannot put it down. How many (lets round) eighteen year olds buy The Economist and gladly read it cover to cover? What amazes me more is that I hate math, however, this magazine presents statistics effectively without overwhelming you with the numbers. I feel as if they are concerned about the bigger picture. Their over all journalism makes me as happy as when I read the New York Times.

Despite the fact I am preventing myself from getting a full night's sleep, I am glad that I am writing more again. I don't care if I have someone reading these, or the fact that this is my first post where I attempted to speak of anything but my inner thoughts and problems. I hope that I never stop writing because it keeps me motivated to be a better person as a whole, to do more, to think more, and to pause the day for a little time for myself.

Like a Child in Adult Clothes

I have so much that I need to say but I feel speechless. My stomach is knotted and I want to sleep until everything is okay. I know that will never happen. I know that I think too much. I know that I need to just drink my water and take some deep breaths....its not working very well.

Anxiety. It feels like my nerves are on fire, like something has shocked me inside.

Child-like. I feel so immature. I'm desperately trying to be more of an adult, and I think I have succeeded so far these past six months. Why is it that turning eighteen is making me dig my heels into the ground? I wish that I would stop acting like a child when it comes to dealing with you. I feel awkward, embarrassed, and upset that I'm acting this way. I'm ready to throw my hands up and make a decision that I will regret. But I will not. I must stop, breathe, and think of my options logically. I wish I could tell you what I need to say precisely but  instead I only tell you a tiny fragment of my thoughts. I end up feeling like a fool no matter what happens next.

Put a joker's hat on me, and watch me entertain this cruel court.

Restless and Unimaginative.

I spent the weekend feeling ill and yesterday I was again acquainted with my stomach's functions, which was... lovely. Today I feel a lot better though and I'm thinking I should get some laundry done.

I arrived in Boise, Idaho on Tuesday afternoon and spent the next few days with my Aunt Judi. It was a nice break from the month's craziness. Thursday I met up with my aunts Quinn and Selya and I drove down with them to Idaho Falls. It could have been a lot worse being stuck in a car for fours hours or so with a sick baby and three Chihuahuas. I was very happy to see them and we stopped by Grammie and Pappy's grave site, which was a bit odd upon seeing 'Violet' on a gravestone. We also stopped by the old house so I could take some pictures of it. Speaking of Grammie, Grandma GG gave me a photocopy of Grammie Violet when she was my age- give or take- and it makes me happy.

This weekend I headed to Island Park for some camping, however, I'm not sure I can even call it that. First off, we "camped" in what was really a house on wheels (crown molding anyone?). There wasn't even a fire! It was nice to spend time with Zach though. I missed him a lot in the past two weeks. Since the bugs were so bad on top of me not feeling well I spent the majority of the time in the camper/house and finished my book The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson. I haven't read any mystery novels in a long time and this one turned out to be a pleasant surprise. I cannot pin point exactly why I liked it so much, or what made me read half of the sequel in one morning but it may have something to do with the complex characters.

I am spending tomorrow and Wednesday with my great grandparents on the Pond side. I'm excited to spend some extended alone time with them because I have never gotten that chance before. It has always been small visits to see them every couple of years for an hour or so, then off to the next relative. This time I will be able to listen to their stories and get to know them better. Hopefully, I can also walk toward the back of their property and see the old Anderson house. Its incredible to still have that kind of family history still around. I plan to then visit my great grandparents on the Hudman side on Thursday and Friday :)

Why do I always write so much? Its like some weird addiction where I cannot stop. I feel so self conscious now that I let people know I have this. Before, I only had created a blog because I often wanted to vent on a computer and now I feel more aware of what I am writing. Like before, I would have complained that people bicker to much over absolutely nothing but now I'm more cautious of what I say. Always so cautious; will it ever stop? I would not be surprised if I woke up with yellow type wrapped around me one day.

I hope I get into a photojournalism course this fall. I hate to say it in a way, but I really cannot wait for school to start again. Classes keep me focused and sharp. Right now I feel focused, but dull. I want something else to think about, something with a deeper meaning. Why can I not ever enjoy vacations for too long?

no quirky ending this time.

Bursting My Own Bubble

I have always known that, while I love new experiences, I am most likely to resist change from occurring. No matter how much I may want something, I always try and reject anything from taking place in the way it was planned to be. The way I had planned for it to be. Today is my last full day in Ohio, in this little bubble of my childhood. There is so much that must still be completed before tomorrow and yet, I find myself rigid and obstinate. Pull the blanket over my head, read for two hours on the couch, purposely ignore the clock's chiming reminders of the reality. It is a good thing that my mother is not home; she would become frustrated at my attempts (or rather lack of attempt) and I would hate to have any argument.

There is so much that I must get done, however, there is so much more that I must say. Whether it was on this pointless blog (which I only have due to the convenience in fast typing) or in my journal, I feel that some draining of my thought sludge could help my increased stress levels.

I am no longer employed (for obvious reasons in moving) and I feel that it has made me quite happier in the short term of the surrounding chaos. Two weeks ago [could it have really been that long ago?] my grandparents flew in town and I spent the week immersing myself in (some rather pointless) graduation events. Usually I found myself annoyed with the undertaking and ended up skipping the Senior Picnic, for example, to hang out with Ed the majority of the week. He came over for dinner Friday night and helped us sent up the tent. The next day, I was an even bigger ball of stress and practically ran myself sick. Finally, around three o'clock, my dad called me. I came back from IGA to the house and many guests were already there. I took Ed with me and we drove to meet my dad at his hotel. All in all, I was late for my own graduation party by a whole hour (lovely timing) and continued the day in a relaxed haste (if there is such a description). By the end of the day, I had accumulated a bunch of money and gift cards, had Ed smash cake (mmm frosting with red dye stains) in my face, made numbers of short rounds to people I would have loved to converse with more, and listened to drunk people in the garage during a thunderstorm passionately discuss everything pointless with educated arguments.

Sunday, my dad came to the house for breakfast with the family and we left for my graduation ceremony around 1:30. To be honest, they had a great ceremony but I was tired and hungry after a couple hours had passed. The speeches were all entertaining, they called each student with a small description of accomplishments & etc, I received my diploma, snap snap photographs, and I spent the rest of the time in a fog. I remember seeing my mother with tears in her eyes and I recall making faces at Ed whenever he glanced over to the left. It did not feel like a graduation or a glorious completion of my thirteen year career in Perry Schools. Rather, I was sure it was another school assembly and we all happened to be wearing funny costumes: a dream of course.

Monday, Zachary and my dad left. It was harder to see my brother leave. Indeed, you know when your sibling loves you when they beat the living crap out of you first. I ended up crying when they had left. Of course...even though I'm really leaving him.

And now:
...the rest of the week has gone by in a haze of dust. My childhood has been tossed, donated, and stored in the basement. After graduation my mom helped me hurriedly pack away two suitcases of my things to fly back with my dad as I helplessly stood there watching. That is how most of the week's packing frenzy has played out: I would stand helpless, unhelpful to those trying to help me, and I would eventually crumble into a literal ball under my bed covers. Thank you for trying to help, sorry I am acting like a child again, good-day.

...I am (frantically?) typing out my thoughts and hoping their temporary dismissal will bring some relief. I feel exhausted and one of the worst things about it all is that I cannot, absolutely have failed in all attempts to talk to the one person that I want to talk to. I know that they would make me feel better in this chaotic state of being, however, I am left tired. Tired because I can't fall asleep, rather pathetically hoping I will get a phone call to help me calm down.

I have to get going, I think. I cannot just lay here all day hoping that things will get done by themselves. That is irrational and irresponsible...granted it would be an amazing occurrence in itself. I could lay back and watch it all unfold and sit here wasting my last day away.

I guess I must get going and grow up. Put my bubbles, coloring, and chalk away for a while...just for a little bit?

Lost and Caffeinated.

Thinking may just be the death of me. One day I will be thinking and my head will implode from all of the things that are constantly rushing toward my skull at a million miles per second...but I still cannot stop.

I'm graduating in two weeks, I think. Too be quite honest I don't keep track of the days anymore. People want to know my future plans as if I'm some kind of prophet. I'm as clueless about my future as I was a year ago. Why would being a graduate change any of that uncertainty? When I close my eyes and think about it, all I can picture are thousands of little post-it notes sticking on the back of my eyelids. I'm trying to read precisely what they say about my dreams, plans, ambitions but nothing is coming through. I feel as if each blink causes a post-it note to fall away from my thoughts and I'm left scrambling to try and recover it, frantically trying to grasp at my past in order to move forward. Indeed, now more than ever I feel blind to what may be heading my way.

I have so many things that I have to do and instead I sit here pondering everything. I have to pack my things, create a picture board, etc. I just want to freeze my life for a while and do absolutely nothing but sit in the sun. How can someone be so thrilled and excited to be graduating and moving, and yet feel so terrified about the outcome? I'm rushing to pick up the pieces that I feel are strewn across the floor. The mess of my room simply reflects the state I am in- a chaotic mess of my childhood and future.

Last time I wrote about how I couldn't stop thinking of Alice, Peter Pan, etc. Right now I'm in the process of thinking of something that will adequately convey this roller coaster I am on. To my dismay, there's just no single word that describes the huge transition I am undertaking both physically- with moving- and emotionally- with trying to become an adult. There's no guidebook this time, no one to help me relate to. Actually, I don't think I ever had a guidebook but it felt like I would turn out just dandy in the end if I held out long enough. There's a big void labeled my future and its looming ahead of me like a sick twisting storm. The trouble is that I don't know how to properly prepare for it or what is to come. In the past, I always had a a sense of what to expect but now I am without any true sense at all.

Violets For Rememberance, Ophelia

I'm falling in love with Sylvia Plath. She is beautiful in her writing and I'm yearning for more everytime I get the chance to. Obviously, it seems redundant to say she's poetic because that's exactly what she was. However, I'm not reading her poetry, I'm reading her journals. Her everyday thoughts, worries, and emotions raveled up into a book of truthful observation, her sentiments preserved in the bindings. Its like when I read Zoe Trope's Please Don't Kill the Freshman all over again, thirteen and looking for answers wherever I can get them. The lost ages- thirteen and seventeen. The time when you are stuck in the bindings of your own journals and looking for a way out, yet trying to carry your past with you. Your past, afterall, is the only thing that you truly know the best because it is you. That is why people repeat the mistakes of others even if they know history: I can give great advice to others, I just cannot follow it myself. Every few pages, Sylvia repeats the thoughts I have daily. My worries, concerns, hopes, all seem to tread on the same trail she has already walked, skipped, and fallen on.

I'm still drinking coffee, and despite the fact its only cup number two, I've been sucking down caffeine for the past three hours. Its my perfect kind of morning, a slow awakening followed by reading and deep thought. The sun helps erase away the nightmares I keep having. Last night in my dream, I found out I had cancer, but usually I dream of my family dying off like victims of war. It makes me shiver and want to forget why I ever sleep at all. My mother says I have abandonment issues, but how can this be if I'm always the one who feels like I abandon people? I hate leaving the ones I love stranded. I need help, I need to stop feeling as if I'm abandoning myself.

I've been thinking an awful lot about fairytales, children stories really. Alice in Wonderland, Snow White, Peter Pan...don't you see the pattern unraveling? Lost children who have to find their way back home. How is it that I don't know where my home is, yet I have two homes always waiting for me? Perhaps, that's not what it means at all? What am I thinking subconciously in my skull, what is with this obsession I have with these stories?

Another new book of fascination: What Matters by David Elliot Cohen. Its a moving collaboration of some of the world's leading thinkers and best photojournalists to create a book that presents several significant issues affecting our world today. I want to engulf all of the knowledge into my brain forever. Its moving and splendid and inspirational to the end. Unintentionally moved, cross-legged on my bed with tears falling down my cheeks. Wiped one off with the brush of my fingertips, but the impact remained inside my heart. I'm suprised my ribs weren't cracking: it had felt like a train had hit me.

There is madness in the details, a molecular violence in my brain...

All I have done really, is written today. Words to heal, to hurt, to laugh, to reexamine the world around me. Is this world growing or is it shrinking? Statistically it is growing, and fast. But part of me says this doesn't make sense. I'm meeting new people and seeing new faces almost everyday, and yet...I feel as if I'm crawling deeper into myself. My little hole to Wonderland, flying away to Neverland, and running deeper into the forest until I cannot see the light.

...the decision to make a decision is often derailed, really the whole thing is insane...

I'm stuck in this world, and I feel like a child. Stuck in my dillusions of what is not real and the things that burst with reality. Sometimes I just want to escape from the truth of what the world is, of what it means to face it like an adult. I feel rather pathetic and cowardly thinking this way, yet it keeps coming back for more. A bad habit I wish I could break more easily. Tapping my feet, biting my lips until they bleed inside, peeling the weak parts of my nails rather than simply triming them. Terrible little habits that are controlling me. I'm spinning like a top and wondering how much it will hurt if I finally quit spinning. The pavement below sure looks hard, rough with imperfect grooves. There are no patterns and I think this terrifies me. If I stop spinning and fall from the dizziness, will the pavement bruise me?

"The truth doesn't always hurt...does it?"