The Meaning of Never

Being a typical middle class NYC teenager; both adventurous, always yearning and desiring to see and know and feel more, while still fairly sheltered and inexperienced, I am thankful to admit that I do not know the meaning of never. I have not felt never, I have not seen never. While it is true that I'm already too old to ever be a professional dancer, ice skater, horse-back-rider, or gymnast (which I still find sad, though I never considered any of them as a career choice), I am constantly told that I can do, be, think, see, have whatever, whoever I so desire. My entire life is ahead of me. And though there are occasional breakdowns over fear of missed opportunities, virtually nothing in my life is a definitive never. I am only able to imagine the life of my great aunt who will never regain her vision, or the little boy from my church who stood and talked about his 9 year old sister he lost to lukemia. He will never see her again. I try to imagine the pain inside of my father's friend who once made his livelihood through his greatest passion; piano, until a terrible accident crippling his hands, but I cannot. He will never play again. That would be, for me, to never act again, never write again. I cannot fathom. And though I do feel guilty for my inability to ever fully empathize with any of them, share some of the hurt, I'm so thankful and lucky to know that, as The Elegance of the Hedgehog taught me, I don't feel what they feel, carry the burden that they do; I am safe, privileged, blessed. I do not know the meaning of never.

It was initially proving to be quite difficult writing a blog post as I usually do, using a single quote or theme, with this book seeing as though almost every other chapter is titled "Profound thought #__", and practically the entire book is thought-provoking and eloquent. I found myself, at times, underlining so much it was ridiculous, and beginning to worry about how I would manage to pull off this entry, practically deciding to simply not write anything at all and to just move on to my next book. In the last five or so pages, however, a single idea hit me harder than anything else had. It was said by Paloma Josse, a bright 12 year old from a wealthy family who comes the the conclusion that life is vain and useless, planning to end her own on the day of her thirteenth birthday. Upon coping with the sudden death of Renee, the concierge of her building whom she had only just begun to grow exceedingly close with, Paloma realises that her own plan was vain in and of itself, and that she did not truly comprehend what it would mean to die, to experience never; "For the first time in my life I understood the meaning of the word never. And it's really awful. You say the word a hundred times a day but you don't really know what you're saying until you're faced with a real 'never again.' Ultimately you always have the illusion that you're in control of what's happening; nothing seems definitive" (page 324).

Technically speaking I am, in ways, quite similar to Paloma; young, privileged, naive and unaware of things that I am so sure I know, dramatic, and quick to draw grand conclusions, plan great events without looking so clearly at the larger picture or the actual implications of what those things may mean, may result in. This is what angsty teenagers do; even the talented and intellectual ones like Paloma, even the startling normal ones like myself. It's hard to pinpoint the precise moment that one grows up or comes of age, and it is most always a series of moments or events that individually shape what the adult you will be, but this, I think, is part of it. To know, realise, fully comprehend the meaning of never. To understand that 'never say never' is a rule often hard to follow, that there are things that happen, that exist, which, by their very definition require never. To see an ultimate and definite end to something, to feel true regret; it's what separates the children from the adults, the free from the burdened. And though I think I'm a marginally more self-aware, I'm still lucky to be able to say that by the end of this book, by the end of this entry, while I have my shallow never's of lost chances that really don't matter and melodramatic exaggerations of what never is, I am still free.

I wish I were Rory Gilmore.

Rory Gilmore from the tragically cancelled show Gilmore Girl’s is the perfect girl. She is the sweet, personable, mature, driven, smart, graceful young woman. She is small and effortlessly beautiful. She’s got big strikingly blue eyes and can have any boy that she wants, but will never take advantage of it. Rory Gilmore was accepted into all three ivy leagues that she applied to. She goes to Yale but doesn’t have to worry about the money because her wealthy grand parents will pay. She knows who she is, what she wants, exactly where she’s going and you can’t help but to be so sure of the fact that she will, without a doubt, get there. And, more commonly known, (aside from her ridiculously fast talking) Rory Gilmore is the girl who has made a best friend in her insanely perfect mother. She’s the one with that flawless relationship that I- and I think so many others- will always envy more than her small waist or her big blue eyes or her brains or the way that she’s so responsible. I want that more than, I think, pride or maturity or comfort of relatives with money or comfort with myself. Because as much as I love her personality, determination/drive, sweet looks, and frame of mind, really the show's not about that. As much as I love Rory's Grandpa and Luke the softie and Suki's clumsiness, it's not about them. It’s about Lorelai and Rory Gilmore- about their relationship. It’s about a daughter who can, after a terrible day, go home and cry to her mom about it- even in that awkward stage during which she should hate her. It’s about a girl who shares inside jokes and favorite junk foods and secrets and gallons of coffee and heart breaks with her mother.

I have this vivid speck of a memory from when I was seven years old. I’m curled up next to my mom- I used to, even then, like to fall asleep with her in that massive-seeming bed. I didn’t care to admit it to friends because that was the age where everyone wanted to seem older, more mature, more grown-up, and sleeping with my mom was not going to help with that image in the eyes of classmates. We’re both on our sides, facing each other- heads tipped down, foreheads touching slightly like young lovers. She has one arm around me and closed eyes, but mine are wide open and I’m staring intently at her face and thinking about how pretty she is and how I want to be like that someday. Then she squints a bit like she does when her glasses aren’t on because she has such awful vision and whispers to me “Promise you won’t turn against me when you’re older?”. I’d seen the way she fought with my sister and I’d seen the TV shows portraying parents as the enemies in the eyes of a teenager. Knowing that would never ever be me, I nod “Of course”. Then she closes her eyes again and smiles a bit, slightly giving in to sleep "Promise you’ll cuddle in here with me always?”. I grin at that “Definitely”.

I don’t know why I think about that moment so much, why it means anything to me, why I even remember it. I guess it's just a bit of nostalgia, regret, something I miss, a moment I'd like to change and while there are many of those, this one, for some reason, stuck. I often wonder, though, if my mom knew that I wouldn’t keep my word. It’s not fair to ask a seven year old to stick to a long term promise- especially one so hard to keep- and I can’t seem to decide if she knew that and wanted only to be comforted by my response, even if she could anticipate that it wasn’t true. Or if she really did believe me, no matter my age or maturity level. Either scenario kind of breaks my heart to dwell on.

Now I’m fourteen- I don’t sleep in my moms bed anymore and I think that I have done something like turned against her. I don’t remember the moment this happened, and I wish I did, because maybe that could help me pinpoint what the problem was, even if I had no way to reverse it. But despite it all, I still have those moments where I want to run to her massive bed and crawl into her safe arms, where I'm convinced that if I did so, things would be ok- even if only for that small moment in time. But, somehow, I can’t seem to do it anymore. I want to think that if I could only be Rory Gilmore- if I could only have that relationship, if I could allow myself weak moments, be a bit less stubborn, then I’d be happy. If I could only have good priorities and dark hair and big blue eyes and determination and a best friend of a mother, then I’d be just fine.

I’ve realised that there are no ‘Rory Gilmore’s. It’s taken me far too long, but I have realised it. And while there are girls with dreams and aspirations, girls with pretty hair and big blue eyes, girls who go to fancy colleges, girls who are proud and confident but modest and honest and sweet, girls who do what need to be done and don’t forget to enjoy themselves, even girls who have an (almost) perfect relationship with their mother and aren't afraid to admit it, I think it’s fair to say that there aren’t many who are all of that, who have all of that. And despite loving this show more than maybe life itself, I resent the Gilmore’s for putting me through so much before I could find the reality out for myself.

The Diving Bell and The Butterfly

I read The Diving Bell and The Butterfly on a friend's recommendation partially because I trust their taste, partially because I needed a new book to read, and almost fully because of Jean-Dominique Bauby's incredible story that it tells and how it was managed to be told. After suffering a stroke that resulted in locked-in syndrome, Jeam-Dominique was left completely paralyzed- imprisoned in a body over which he had no control, without any sort of contact to the outside world aside from blinking his left eye. This 132 page book was written by him using only his left eye to blink letters to someone typing. And although I knew that it would inevitabley be heartbreaking, I didn't expect a beautifully written, insightful, thought-provoking, and life-changing book out of this. What captured me the most was his memory of small moments that he missed, little pleasures from his old life that would never carry over to his new one. Here are two excerpts where he talks about that:

The delectable moment when I sink into the tub is quickly followed by nostalgia for the protracted immersions that were the joy of my previous life. Armed with a cup of tea or Scotch, a good book or a pile of newspapers, I would soak for hours, maneuvering the taps with my toes. Rarely do I feel my condition so cruelly as when I am recalling such pleasures.

For pleasure, I have to turn to the vivid memory of tastes and smells, an inexhaustible reservoir of sensations. Once, I was a master at recycling leftovers. Now I cultivate the art of simmering memories. You can sit down to a meal at any hour, with no fuss or ceremony. If it's a restaurant, no need to call ahead. If I do the cooking, it is always a success. The boeuf bourguignon is tender, the boeuf en gelee is translucent, the apricot pie possesses just the requisite tartness. Depending on my mood, I treat myself to a dozen snails, a plate of Alsatian sausage with sauerkraut, and a bottle of late-vintage golden Gewürztraminer; or else I savor a simple soft-boiled egg with fingers of toast and lightly salted butter.

Last thursday, I sat inside a cafe across the street from Ms.51, wasting time before a rehearsal that I had to be at at 2:00. School was out for me already as graduation had been the day before, but there was another week left for the younger students. I sipped my iced coffee and wrote in my notebook and felt very grown up, watching the sixth and seventh graders out to lunch- yelling to their friends, strolling into the restaurants and delis where the people knew my order. I heard them each complain as the whistles blew and they slowly trickled back into the building we all considered to look like a jail and I realized what I had taken so for granted and what- they too- were overlooking. I couldn't help but be jealous of each and every one of them for the extra year or two that they would have there that I wouldn't. And when I went to pick up my report card and the teachers were all in a straight row of chairs that I wasn't allowed to pass- a row of chairs blocking off the entrance to what had been my second home for the past three years, the ugly brick building with broken lockers and bars on the windows and hideously painted walls that I'd spent only 194,400 minutes inside of and that held so many of both my worst and most enamoured memories- only then did I realize what was over, what I had lost. It wasn't until then that I realized that these small comforts of my middle school were- not soon to be, but already behind me- it wasn't until then that I realized how strongly I relied upon these comforts or that they existed at all. It hit me so suddenly and painfully in a way that not much does.

I don't mean to compare my experience with moving on to high school to Bauby's condition because it- of course- doesn't compare on any level and I don't claim to think that it ever can. As shallow as my struggles are next to his, this book has made me realize what defines happiness, what is goodness. It's not having a perfect life. I don't think that happiness comes with what anyone pictures or is convinced will make them truly happy. No one has a perfect life, because even when they get what- in their mind- will most definitely make them deeply happy, they want more- that's just human nature. I think that happiness is having little spurs of goodness to sustain you for that moment in time before the next one. Happiness is his warm bath and appreciation for food- happiness is having a school where I know faces and I love teachers and I'm on the top of the heap. Happiness is the forty minutes of freedom we were given with our friends out to lunch that I won't have in high school, it's going into Cafe Martin and not having to tell Martin what I want to drink. Happiness is simple things that are easy to overlook look and are far too often forgotten.

And I'm terrified of this- of time or not having enough of it, of taking life for granted or just taking the small, important moments for granted. Because I don't think that anyone can be happy if they don't see the good in pieces of their life until they've lost those pieces. I don't think that anyone can be happy when filled with the regret of having having overlooked something- no matter the size or importance- that made them happy. I think that it's about more than stepping back and looking at things in prospective and trying to realize your good fortune, or trying to see it all with an optimistic point of view. I do that- or at least I try to. I don't think the idea of optimism or gratefulness is something that people forget about, it's just something that- in the moment- is much more difficult to commit yourself to than it seems. Maybe it's because we lose faith in ourselves or in other people or in the world or in life or in whatever religion we claim to be faithful to. But this underlying fear that comes with almost everything I do or say or think or feel is that I somehow won't have control over it- as if something will dictate my thoughts, monitor my words, change my actions, take authority over my feelings. As if something will keep me from appreciating these moments given to me or not let me recognize the good things in my life. Something will hold me back, something won't allow me to be happy. Or maybe I'm just afraid that I won't allow myself.

This is why I read.

Slow down.

When I flipped to the end, I honest-to-god didn't know it was over. I scanned the next page and saw that blankness- that absence of words- and the feeling that came wasn't so much sad as it was confused. I waited for the empty, hollow-ness that always came with the end of a beloved book. But, it never come. Maybe then, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings wasn't so beloved to me after all. Or maybe the end of the book just didn't feel like an ending. It stopped abruptly and out of the blue just as a new chapter of her life was being opened- almost as if Maya Angelou had collapsed, mid-paragraph, pen still in hand, unable to finish her thought. That's what it felt like. But then again, that's what this whole book seemed to feel like to me- one event after another, one place or thing after another that you just keep thinking you'll get attached to. Person after person gets introduced into Maya's life and they just seem so prominent for that moment, that you keep hoping they'll be important or that you'll get to know them and love them, but then, before you know it, they're ripped out from under you, gone from the story. And you just keep wondering- what happened to him or her? Where did they go? When did they go? Did I miss it? Every chapter in her life seems to begin and end in all too much of a hurry and before you know it, she's gone from 7 years old, living with her grandmother in Arkansas to 16 in California with her mother and very own baby boy. All that happens in between is this great big blur, and you find yourself wanting to know more about that best friend that she once mentioned or the woman that introduced her to literature and changed her life or the people she stayed with when she was 15 and didn't have a home. You want to know more because, when they were mentioned, they seemed so vital- at the time, they were all that mattered. And then suddenly, they were gone as quickly as they seemed to come.

That's why I sort of hated this book, at first. I expected it to be more poetic, more smooth but everything seemed to come out jumbled and sudden and out of place. Only now- now that I've finished it and put it down and started to move on- only now do I realize that this unpredictable, erratic seemingly mess of a book wasn't poorly written or not well thought out. It was like one long stream of consciousness, but in the best way possible. The way in which this book was written so accurately symbolizes coming of age- it so precisely describes growing up.

The other day, as I was going through my insanely disorganized room- cleaning it out to prepare for repainting the wall from a light peach-y pink and yellow theme to a more dignified, mature, deep red- I came across a number of old notebooks and journals. And as I read about my teachers and friends and problems that seemed to consume my life at the time, I realized that I didn't remember any of it. I didn't remember why I had been mad at Ms.Dina or what the wonderful present that Mackenzie had given to me for my birthday was or who on earth Jane was. I barely even remembered anything about the year that my best friend spent in Puerto Rico- something that I'm absolutely positive consumed every second of every day in third grade. All of this that I'd written about- complained about, cried about- things that crumbled my little heart or things that brought me to life, things that my world spun around- all these things were so quickly forgotten. Just six or seven years later. All that was left were these little snip-its, brought back to life and drawn into my mind again by my writing.

And I realize that- just like Maya- I'm growing up, perhaps slightly too fast. Me not remembering my elementary school years is like Maya jumping through every moment of her own growing up experience in her writing. All of the sudden, these things that meant so much are gone- these shallow things that consumed my life are forgotten. And sometimes I wish, just like with the book, that I could rewind and live through everything slower, get to experience it all again fuller. More poetically, more smoothly. Because now all I have are these little glimpses- like passing by my younger years through the window of a moving train- the view is sharp and inconsistent and everything is rushing by so fast that I only have time do catch tiny glances, snapshots. I want to slow down and get to know the people better and see the places closer and encounter the problems more fully- I need some time to smell the roses. Because I feel that, just like Maya, my life is swerving forward uncontrollably and I'm practically grown up.

And I shouldn't be.

Not yet.

This didn't really turn out as I planned...

"I was eight, and grown." -I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou

That was really the moment that made me realize it.

Because before, I hadn't quite given any thought to her age. Or maybe I had, but when Maya Angelou put it in words like that- in such a simple and direct sentence- that was what really made me step back and acknowledge that yes, she was eight. An eight year old was actually having to go through this. She was grown. Already. She had to be grown. She was forced into being grown. But, she was only eight.

Maybe it was never mentioned, or maybe I never noticed it, or maybe I simply blocked her age out of my mind because I didn't want to think about it. Because it was just too painful a thing, given the circumstances. Maybe I'd assumed that she was older because everyone else's characters were. Lily from The Secret Life Of Bees was 14 when she starts her coming of age journey, Melinda from Speak is 15, and Holden from The Catcher in the Rye is 16. It's just not fair that she has to be eight. But she is, and I overlooked it. And now here it was, staring me in the face.

When I was eight, I was happy. I was running in the backyard and imagining all it could be if I squinted hard enough. Eight years old was dancing in my kitchen or daydreaming on the couch because there was really nothing else for me to worry about doing. Eight years old was simple and easy and safe. I never imagined the kind of troubles that Maya had to go through, much less faced them myself. I couldn't even fathom a world in which someone my age was scared about money or new clothes. A world in which I would be worried about my parents not loving me or my grandma hitting me or anyone sending me off to live with someone else. I could not imagine a world of constant fear, of hiding- even at home. Of lying to my brother or keeping secrets that I wanted so desperately to tell. A world that had no safety, even for little eight year olds. Maya's world.

It hurts me so much that Maya never got those moments of little-girl giddiness or freedom. Maya never got to run in the backyard screaming with glee and have no chiding for it. She never got to sing too loudly or hit too hard or jump too high or make any mistake- she never got to be a kid, because when she was eight, she was already grown. And that breaks my heart.

Now, I'm fourteen.

I can make my own plans and do my my own homework and tie my own shoes. I can ride the subway by myself, and next year, I'll be doing it every single day 2 times a day. But, I'm not grown. I'm definately closer than before, and though it seems like I know everything there is to know and have grown up as much as is possible, I don't think I have. I'm not grown, and I won't be for a while.

I have fights with my mom over feelings and arguments with my dad over opinions. Because, finally, I have my own opinions. I've gone through all the typical events that mark me going from a girl to a woman. I'm growing up- who knows how fast or slow or when it will be over but, I'm not grown, I don't think.

And if I am, I don't know it. I don't know it because I never had a moment that said in no uncertain terms that I was done growing. I never had one single event that determined the end of my childhood. Maybe I will have that moment, maybe it's still to come in my future. And, maybe I won't. Maybe I'll ease into adulthood, grow slowly. Maybe I already have, too slow to notice.

But as I watched Maya standing in court in front of her family and in front of the man that took away her childhood in her very own home, I knew that she was right- she was grown. She was terrified and confused and far from ready to be an adult. But, she had to- ready or not- she was grown. And if there was anything more painful than that, it was watching her realize it.

What We'll Do To Spite Our Mothers

Is it okay to do blog posts on TV shows as long as Ms.Robbins is in love with the show?

Note: The underlined blue words are links to videos of scenes I'm talking about (my form of textual evidence) and the time in parenthesis refers to what part of the video it happens in.

My inspiration to write a blog post on My So Called Life came from here; please read it, it's amazing.

‎"Lately i can't even look at my mother without wanting to stab her. Repeatedly." (5:00-5:10)

Every girl has felt this way before. Don't even try to deny it. And it doesn't mean that you're insane or sadistic or homicidal-- it just mean that you're a teenager. Mother/daughter relationships are so complicated and so confusing and next to impossible to ever explain. What I love about Angela Chase from My So Called Life is that she always can for us. And if she can't explain something, she'll explain just why she can't seem to explain it. From obsessive friendships to the kind of love where he doesn't even know you exist, Angela describes every moment of female adolescence perfectly-- and she doesn't leave out mothers.

I don't think that you can leave out mothers in a TV show about being a 15 year old girl, because no matter how awful or wonderful, present or absent, protective or lenient your mother is, she will affect your teenage years in a huge way. Hands down, flat out. Because she's your mother.

When I saw the first episode of My So Called Life, I felt like someone had read my diary and made it into a script. I was Angela Chase and Patty Chase was my mother. No question about it. Just like Angela, my friends would exclaim how nice she was and just like Angela, I'd mutter that it was only because they were there. Just like Angela, I'd refuse to clean my room or eat a balanced meal because I knew that it would give my mother too much satisfaction. Like there was some war going on between us that I had to win and she didn't know about it, and maybe I didn't either. And lately when I look at her, I feel like stabbing her. Repeatedly. And half the time I don't even know why.

Just like Angela.

But sometimes, I have that knot in my stomach, that urge to run to my moms room and crawl into bed next to her and cry and cry and cry and not have to explain anything and for her to just hold me and make everything better again like mothers do.

Just like Angela.

I don't think that anyone purely hates or loves every aspect of either of their parents- just like no person is fully good or bad- it hits somewhere in the middle. Angela creates that perfect balance of feelings that everyone can connect to. She hates her mother, she loves her mother. She's introducing her to Jordan, she's not talking to her. She's listening to her, she's disobeying her. She misses her, she can't even stand the sound of her voice. She's being a moody, indecisive teenager.

And that's why I'm Angela and my mom is her mom. That's why every girl who's ever watched this show has immediately declared that, they too, were Angela more than anyone else who claimed the same, and that her mom was their mom more so than each anyone who might've thought the same. Because they each have at least one quality that cannot go unseen in any mother or daughter. Because Patty Chase is the dedicated, loving mother that's only human, that makes a million mistakes because of it, and that cares all too much if her daughter stays out late. Because Angela is all of us, she is the perfect example of a flawed, angry, blissful and at times, lost teenage girl. Because she shows us we're not alone. Ever.

Revised and Published "Sometimes I Wish I Could Forget"

So, this is the New and Improved version of this:

Time is relative. When you're 14 years old, the last 4 years may have seemed like the longest, best, worst, most important, most painful, what-ever-it-is years of your life. Then, as a 50 year old, your life has been steady, settled for a while and the last four years seem unimportant, a nonentity. A senior in high school may think that the year can't go any slower- that it seems like a lifetime before they will graduate when, in the big picture, this year is only one tiny fraction of their life. We all live and die, and go unnoticed by many. Four years mean nothing in the grand scheme of things, but at the same time, can define someones entire life.

Now, take a moment to think about the last four years of your life. Think about what they meant, what they did, how they changed you as a person. Think about what things would be like had they never happened, what you would be like if they simply disappeared. One moment they were a piece of your history, a chunk of your memory, part of what made you you, and the next thing you know, they were just gone. It would be as if a part of your life never even existed, you suddenly re-winded. This is what happened to Naomi Porter.

She hit her head on slippery steps and in a split second, four years disappeared. Anything from after the age of 12 was simply erased from her memory- her mothers affair, her parents divorce, her boyfriend Ace, her best friend Will, her love for yearbook and tennis, her ability to drive, her lost virginity, her new house, her half sister- everything. The most eventful, vital years of her life were forgotten. Her world had become a mystery- why did she drop that class? Why did she fall for Ace? Where did she wear that dress? How did she have her hair? Did her father have a girlfriend? Did she like the girlfriend? She begins to search for clues to piece together her history with. She had to trust people to tell her pieces of her past, and to tell them honestly. Naomi's life became a complete nightmare of question and wondering. At the same time, though, her amnesia had given her a fresh start. At sixteen years old, she had basically no past. She could choose to simply start over, be a whole new person. She didn't remember the old one, and no one would know that it ever existed. When Naomi finally does remember everything, she hides it. She doesn't tell anyone that her memory is back because, she doesn't want it to be. Starting over felt good, why face the reality of her messy but true life if she didn’t have to?

This book, Memories of a Teenage Amnesiac, makes me think about what it's like to forget. Is it better to forget your mistakes? To live with no history? To start with a clean slate? Or, is the point of life to live with the decisions that you make? At one point in the book, Naomi comments that she thinks perhaps the only reason that her significant other, James liked her is because she has no past, because the present and the future can be what she chooses, what she wants them to be. There are times in my life when I think that nothing could ever get worse. When I feel as if a mid-life crisis is occuring 30 years premature and all I want to do is just give up on everything and everyone. I would kill to erase my mistakes. I would do anything to go back in time and just start over. But maybe everything does, despite how cliche this may sound, happen for a reason because if it didn’t, there would be no argument as to why Naomi shouldn’t forget. She just would, there would be no hesitation because there would be no reason why she shouldn’t.

In sixth grade, I said something awful about one of my closest friends that I’ve had for as long as I can remember. The thing is, I didn’t even mean what I said about her, and she overheard. I remember what made me feel the worst about it was that when I called to apologize and tell her it didn’t mean it, I didn’t want to lose her, yadda, yadda, ya she wasn’t angry-- just really hurt, sad. And, I’ll never forget how her voice sounded because I’d never ever heard it that way before and that made everything a million times worse. I remember in that moment, hating myself more than I ever have before, being so ashamed of what I’d done that still to this day, the only person that knows is my mom. I remember a list of things I would do to take it back going through my head. A stream of items or words or people or foods or anything I would give up if I could go back in time and have her back.

Anything.
Anything to loosen the tight, dry knot in the back of my throat or fill the empty, aching hole in my stomach.
I had become desperate like anyone in a similar situation would be.

But, I couldn’t. There was nothing I could do because I’m only human and I don’t have a fairy god-mother or Hermione’s time turner. Because I’d done something that so many had done before me and so many will do after me- made a possibly life-altering mistake. And I regretted it deeply but, like the others, I would have to live with that.

So what’s the upside to this? Why, if everyone wants so badly what Naomi has the opportunity to have, should she not take it? Because I made up with that friend and she’s still at my house practically everyday eating my families supply of cookies. Because, while what I said will always be there, we still have our run-around-like-4-year-olds-on-a-summer-afternoon kind of juvenile relationship. Because, since that day, I have tried as hard as I possibly can to not say a single bad thing about a friend behind their back, and it’s worked for the most part. Because I learned an important lesson in a painfully hard way but because of that, I’ll never forget it. And, if I did, who knows how many times I would’ve made that mistake again. Sometimes I think when you do something wrong, you just get a strike and a bit of luck and everything is OK. But, if you forget and keep on doing that thing, you’re out of luck and strikes and nothing turns out OK. Because, “Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it” and though this quote is overused in my writing that’s only it’s so true and so, so, vitally important to remember.

Lately, I've been trying really hard to be catholic.

To believe in god, or fate, or bible stories. To go to church every Sunday, or confession, or just to pray once in a while. I feel like religion is an amazing thing to have as a part of one's life. I know, that sounds weird and poser-ish and completely the opposite of what a good catholic thinks/does. I should just believe. I shouldn't have to try or think about it. It should just happen. I shouldn't want it because it seems fun or helpful or exciting or exotic. I should want it, have it, simply because I believe. But I don't-- I want it because it seems like a good thing to have. And that's really awful, but it's true.

I'm growing up in a time and place and group of people where being religious is... well... weird, not normal, frowned upon. Most of my closest friends, even, would be weirded out or confused if I told them that I believed in god. Maybe that's just the people I know, and I'm taking to much liberty in generalizing that statement, but it certainly seems that way to me.

At this point, it's not even like I'm hiding a part of myself because I haven't believed in or done anything that is required to really be a catholic since probably 2nd grade. Yes, my parents are catholic, I was raised catholic- I got baptised and I had my first communion and now, I'm working towards my confirmation. but, does that make me catholic if I, myself, don't really, truly believe?

Hang in there, there's a purpose to all this self-absorbed rambling, I swear.

My point is this: Maybe I have a hard time believing in god because I just do. Because I've always been logical and couldn't picture things like resurrection or turning water to wine or just the fact that someone controls everything we do or think. Things that require some magic, a great imagination, and faith. But, maybe it's because of the people I meet and spend my time with. Maybe the teenage disapproval of religion is shaping me as a person, is turning me into something I'm not, or something I am or should be or was.

When I read Looking For Alaska by John Green, I can't help but think about Pudge's character and who he was before boarding school. I can't help but wonder if he would've been someone entirely different had he stayed at home, and whether that would've been a bad or good thing. When he arrived there, he couldn't even smoke a cigarette without coughing. Then, through joining forces with The Colonel and Alaska he became someone that his old self never would've imagined. Is it good that he smokes and drinks and plays pranks and sets off fireworks and watches porn? No. Is it good that this is the only way he came to make friends and fit in at his school? Absolutely not. But, it's reality. Our society has such a twisted definition of popularity, what it is to be "cool", such an ugly view on beauty or fame, people changing themselves for all the wrong reasons.

Was Pudge always meant to be that way? Did he just need someone to help him realize it? Do people have a certain self that is determined in their genes? A real, true personality, waiting to come out at just the right time, with just the right people? Or, is how we are, who we are, determined by experiences? Will the people we interact with as children determine our lives as adults?

I hope this post wasn't to disorganized and pointless. It feels like it was, a bit, but I hope you can still make sense of it and get something out of my weird, scrambled thoughts.

Sometimes, I Wish I Could Forget

Time is relative. When you're 14 years old, the last 4 years may have seemed like the longest, best, worst, most important, most painful, what-ever-it-is years of your life. Then, as a 50 year old, your life has been steady, settled for a while and the last four years seem unimportant, a nonentity. A senior in high school may think that the year can't go any slower- that it seems like a lifetime before they will graduate when, in the big picture, this year is only one tiny fraction of their life. We all live and die, and go unnoticed by many. four years mean nothing in the grand scheme of things, but can define someones entire life.

Now, take a moment to think about the last four years of your life. Think about what they meant, what they did, how they changed you as a person. Think about what things would be like had they never happened, what you would be like if they simply disappeared. One moment they were part of your history, a chunk of your memory, and the next, they were just gone. It would be as if a part of your life never even existed, you suddenly rewinded. this is what happened to Naomi Porter.

She hit her head on slippery steps and in a split second, four years disappeared. Anything from after the age of 12 was simply erased from her memory- her mothers affair, her parents divorce, her boyfriend Ace, her best friend Will, her love for yearbook, her love for tennis, her ability to drive, her lost virginity, her new house, her half sister- everything. The most eventful, vital years of her life were forgotten. Her world had become a mystery- why did she drop that class? Why did she fall for Ace? Where did she wear that dress? How did she have her hair? Who was Will, really, to her? She begins to search for clues to piece together her history with. She had to trust people to tell her pieces of her life, and to tell them honestly. Naomi's life became a complete nightmare of question and wondering. At the same time, though, her amnesia had given her a fresh start. At sixteen years old, she had basically no past. She could choose to simply start over, be a whole new person. She didn't remember the old one, and no one would know that it ever existed. When Naomi finally does remember everything, she hides it. She doesn't tell anyone that her memory is back because, she doesn't want it to be. Starting over felt good, she didn't want to face the reality of her real life.

This book, Memories of a Teenage Amnesiac, makes me think so deeply about what it's like to forget. Is it better to forget your mistakes? To live with no history? To start with a clean slate? Or, is the point of life to live with the decisions that you make? At one point in the book, Naomi comments that she thinks perhaps the only reason that her significant other, James liked her is because she has no past, because the present and the future can be what she chooses, what she wants them to be. There are times in my life, and I'm sure yours too, when I think that nothing could ever get worse. When I feel like just giving up on everything and everyone. At such a time, I would kill to erase my mistakes. I would literally do anything to go back in time and just start over. But, maybe everything happens for a reason (I know, that sounds corny and stupid and over-used) but, perhaps it is true. Perhaps, every thing you do happens for a reason. Every mistake you make is meant to be nothing more or less than a mistake. I often wonder, should Naomi start over? Should she take this golden opportunity to be a whole new girl? Or, should she accept the person she was and live with it, with what she was supposed to be, for better or worse. What would each of us, as flawed human beings do?

It's Kind of a Funny Story

This book is so real. I've never seen a book that's truer to teenagers relationships or parents vs. kids. It always monitors what is going through the 15 year old boys head which some people might think is crude or gross but I love it because it's so right on. The thought about how teenagers all want to be like each each other- like if one boy is depressed they all think "hey that sounds cool, I want that, I can have that, I can do that" or if one kid has asthma or low blood sugar or a broken arm they all do because "he can miss gym class" or "eat during school" or have people write all over his arm". I experience this practically every day and that is why I love this book- because i honestly believe that any teenager could turn to any random page and make a connection.

Craig's character is normal. He is not an Ellen Hopkins character, he is real. He's just a normal guy who lives a normal life and suffers from some depression. He thinks normal teenage thoughts and does normal teenage things which is what makes this book so brilliant- it's serious and sometimes depressing but, always light-hearted and funny. One night, Craig almost kills himself which gets him checked into the mental ward. There, he meets so many people who change his life, including Noelle, a girl who cut her face with scissors. Craig, like most 15 year old guys, is unpredictable and confused. Just when you think he's over Nia, just when he thinks he's over Nia, he's not. Just when you expect him to make a move on Noelle, he doesn't. Just when you think he's getting worse, he gets better or just when you think he's getting better, he gets worse. This book may be one of my new favorites, I really rushed through it because I wanted to see the movie but, I'm looking forward to reading it a second time with annotations and much more time. It really does require it's own category- I've never seen anything so depressing by nature but yet, so funny.