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.

Why Teenagers Don't Want To Wake Up In The Morning

I would be fine alone.
And I was.
Until the morning. When, only half awake, I tried to think why I was alone in the bed. There was a leaden feeling. It was the same leaden feeling with which I woke on mornings after John and I had fought. Had we had a fight? What about, how had it started, how could we fix it if I could not remember how it started?
Then I remembered.
For several weeks that would be the way I woke to the day.
-The Year Of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion

I love sleeping more than practically anything else in the world. Maybe it's because I'm going through a staying-up-late-sleep-deprived phase that puts me in a constant state of tiredness, making sleep a precious commodity that I crave more of, always. Forget parties or concerts or running around the city at all hours of the night, acting twice my age- I’d much rather go home and take a nap, any day. This makes me sound incredibly lazy, but that’s really not what it’s about. Sleep lets me run away in my thoughts or from my thoughts. When I'm up at 4AM for the 5th time that week, completing a project that should have been done months ago, or waiting to see a TV show late at night, what keeps me going is the wonderful thought of how I will, eventually, be able to lay down my head, slip under the blankets, curl up into a ball, and fall fast asleep. The covers are always soft and safe and every line in my brain or heart is blurred and smudged. I’m in my own little unconscious world, unaware of anything happening around me or inside of me. It's this peaceful, carefree sensation that beats every feeling in the universe.
I can't be touched.

Until I wake up.
And the covers get pulled back.
And my mind slowly sharpens.
And everything comes crashing down.

Like Joan Didion-- when her husband dies and every morning she wakes up and that hard truth dawns on her once again. Every morning the covers are pulled back and her mind sharpens and she digs through her brain to remember everything that breaks routine, everything unnatural, everything that her unconscious, carefree self would never fathom- like John dying.

And the feeling that comes every time that that happens is unbearable-- the forgetting and remembering of the things that hurt the most. Because it's said that everything heals with time, all pain lessens as the hours and days and weeks pass. But how will anything heal if every morning is a fresh realization? How will the pain ever fade if you are hit each day with the initial shock of the very first time that it happened?

That's what I found most heartbreaking about this book- the way Joan would momentarily forget whether it was from falling asleep or just time starting to wear away the truth. Then she would wake up or see something that jolted her memory and it would all come rushing back in a second and she would have to face it all over again. It was as if each time this happened to her, every ounce of progress she had made was erased or forgotten and it was "back to the drawing board". Throughout the book, I was terrified for a character that I'd come to love so dearly because it seemed like she would never be OK, she would never feel OK when it was always "one step forward and two steps back".

Recent events of my life and just the fact that I'm fourteen has left a distance between my mother and I. It's hit like a meteor, practically over night, splitting the earth in half, leaving me on one side, and her on the other. What I laughed at and couldn't seem to understand as a little girl, what I swore would never happen, has happened. My mom and I have lost our relationship. I can’t handle her and she can’t handle me and neither of us know how to say that. Maybe it’s a phase, or maybe it’s forever. But, whatever it is, it’s here. The other day, when I could hear her steady breath and low snores from the next room over- when I was sure that she was sound asleep, I crept into her room to say goodnight. I used to do that every night. I used to kiss her cheek and she would pull me down for a hug and say something along the lines of "goodnight" and "I love you, beautiful girl" and "I'll see you in the morning". But I haven't kissed her cheek in weeks and I can't even remember the last time we've hugged.

I tiptoed to her side of the bed and leaned down and whispered goodnight and when she stirred, I expected tears or emotional ranting or a confused stare- all that seems to define our strange relationship lately- something I'd bite my lip at and awkwardly stalk off, not knowing quite what to say or do. But she looked up at me with the ocean blue eyes that stood out when she wore grey, the eyes that I’ve always envied, and they were tight and squinted like someone who had been staring at the sun for too long- slightly confused, but at the same time like she’d been expecting me. A slight smile played across her face- only one corner of her mouth turned up, sending ripples across that cheek. Then she closed her eyes again but kept the smile, and for a moment I thought she’d fallen back asleep.

Then I heard a whisper come of “goodnight” and “I love you” and “my beautiful girl”, in the same, ordinary way that it always used to. And for that moment, it felt like we were one of those pairs of mother and daughter who had a relationship again. Like what were before, like things had never changed. Like the days from years ago of sleeping curled beside her and cuddling and my imaginary rule of being safe from anything as long as she was there had never ended. Like we'd fixed it all or maybe just rewound.

Then I snapped out of my thoughts and looked down at her and remembered that she was half asleep- that she was having a barely-conscious moment. The kind where you wake up and for a minute, you forget what has happened- what life-changing thing has happened, or you forget that you’re supposed to be upset about something or angry at someone. And so, for a moment, you act like it’s not there, because for that second, it isn’t, not for you. And suddenly, I knew that she’d wake up the next morning and never remember this at all. And that things would go back to how they were- emotional and teary and frustrating- free of half smiles and squinting eyes. It would be like it had never happened.

I realized that just like Joan Didion, she would wake up the next morning and forget everything that has come between us over the past few months. She'd forget because the non-existant bond that we now have is completely irrational- it's something that no one could fabricate or imagine in a perfect state of sleeping. So, she'd forget, even if only for a split second and maybe start to call me in for an opinion or just to ask the time, before she remembered the unspoken rule telling her that she couldn't do that. It would come crashing down- the truth- and standing over my mom, looking at her ignorant-seeming blissful face was like staring into the sweet eyes of a small child that I knew would be hurt and I couldn't do anything about it, I couldn't even warn them-- I could only stand and watch it happen. And that was almost more painful than being the "Joan Didion", being the one to have the realization all over again time and time again, the one who has to pull back the covers and sharpen their mind, the one whose pain seems like it will drag on forever. Because watching pain can be harder than feeling it and on the outside looking in is an impossible position.

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.

Molly Weasley And The Power Of Love *SPOILER ALERT*

Molly Weasley is not perfect. She is not rich or beautiful or flawless. But, she's strong- she's a fighter, and she's smart, and loving, and the most amazing mother that anyone could ever wish for. Mrs. Weasley lives for her kids. She doesn't love anything in the whole world as much as she does those six boys and one girl.

She's not the kind of mother who give their children whatever their hearts desire- even if she could. She pushes them, and disciplines them, and teaches them. She's not the kind of mother that kids dream about, hope for. The kind that let their children do whatever, the kind that leave them alone, let them go their own way, whether good or bad. The kind that let them have what they want, watch them make their mistakes and let them. The kind that can't be bothered- the kind that kids think they desire. She cares too much to be that type of mother.

She's the human kind- the kind that makes mistakes, the kind that knows what is best even if it seems like "the meanest thing in the world". The kind that's not afraid to be the bad guy once in a while if she knows that it will help her kid. The kind whose children complain about her endlessly- the real kind.

The realistic nature of this character is what makes everyone love her so much-- she's the mother that we all have or know or have met in our lives. And before the seventh book, that's all she was- just that motherly character. But, J.K. Rowling made an extremely intentional and strong choice that most people overlooked. The one and only curse word actually written in the entire Harry Potter series is said by Mrs.Weasley and it's said in defense of her child. After Fred is killed, all bets are off- her child is dead- she won't be calm anymore, she won't just watch as Bellatrix attacks her only daughter. I cannot help but wonder- is it love or hate that helps her kill Bellatrix? Because she is a powerful witch but, let's face it- Bellatrix is more powerful. So how does she kill her?

My first thought was hate. Is it hate so strong that builds up so much to her limit that it bursts through in a surge of power, of energy, of a sudden passion for what she's fighting for? Or is it the power of love? Does love, the same way that it helped Lily Potter, help Mrs.Weasley kill the cruel woman that poses as a threat to her family? Did love, something that Bellatrix most likely does not possess, defeat her?

The whole idea of Lily's love protecting Harry always seemed a little far fetched to me. It just didn't seem like something powerful enough but now, all of the sudden, when Mrs.Weasley put herself out there to save her daughter, it all made sense. Her love for Ginny and Fred was shining through. In this one split second of complete chaos and utter loathing, everything fit into place for me. And suddenly, I believed that Lily's love could protect Harry like it did.

Because, Molly Weasley showed me how strongly and fiercely a mother could love their child.