The Dustpan Race

I always find crazy stuff when I'm visiting home. This past weekend, I came across the following, a story I wrote in 7th grade English that I'm sure at the time seemed clever, but now reads as ridiculous. I should also note that nothing like this ever happened; whenever there were signs of mice in the house, my mom always kept it on the down-low, and would catch them before Heidi and I ever saw them. This story is purely a work of fiction. Here is the story in its entirety, maintaining all grammatical errors, etc.

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The Dustpan Race

Picture this: my little sister, playing with her dolls, all innocent like. Today's episode is about Ken marrying a beanie baby and Barbie and Theresa trying out plans to try to sabotage the wedding.

Just when Barbie was getting ready to start, my sister screamed "EEEEEEEEEKKKK! A M-M-M-M-MOUSE!"

In the blink of an eye, she was standing on a chair, holding a dustpan, and of course,the mouse stopped dead in his tracks.

Now my sister was trying to figure out where exactly Mom put the cheese and traps, but decided that it was useless, and decided to smush its furry little butt herself.

She jumped off the chair, called it a VERY bad name, and started chasing it around the house like crazy. They weaved in and out of furniture, jumped and ran under and over tables, all while whacking at it from side to side. They kept this on for about ten minutes, until finally she chased him out the door.

Do you think that is dramatic or what? Well, the other side of the story is even more dramatic than you think.

Mr. Mouse got up early that morning, wanting to go to the "grocery" store for some more Limburger cheese (he was always running out). It was his weekly morning stroll, always around seven o'clock, and today happened to be Wednesday. He ate some cheddar on rye, brushed his teeth, stretched his paws, and started on the trip.

He sort of jumped at a screeching noise from somewhere up above, He was then frozen to the spot where he was.

'WHOW!What's that?Cheese? No. OH MY GAWSH! A CAT! No, wait, it has no tail. Hey, I know what she is. She is a human. Okay, now an escape route. Under the chair? No. East? Yes! I believe that that is the way to go!'

He then ran as fast as his little feet could carry him and cringed at what she called him, and hoped and prayed that she wouldn't kill him.

He was chased around for ten minutes, and finally ran out the door. She then went back inside. Mouse waited for awhile until after dark, and stealthily crept inside. He got to hismousehole again.

"From now on," he thought, "I'm taking walks at night."

Keep Faith

As I lay in bed the other night, not quite ready to fall asleep, I went through the meager photo gallery on my phone. I deleted a few pictures and reset my wallpaper with a picture of a picture of my aunt's cat dressed as James Bond I'd taken a couple weeks ago when we were visiting my grandmother over Christmas. The picture that had previously graced my phone background since the beginning of December was one featuring a quote my friend Erica had forwarded to me in light of a low point at the end of the semester.

Because of the quote wallpaper, I had had to delete the text banner I'd had on my phone. So, naturally, when the cat James Bond picture was put up, I went back into my settings to reset the banner. What I've always wanted to have--but never have had the space for because the banner is limited to a certain number of characters--is "Keep each other safe. Keep faith. Goodnight," the closing to Potterwatch in the Harry Potter books (which was thus adapted by the amazing PotterCast as their closing). Shortening it to just "Keep safe. Keep faith" was still too long. I tried fitting the simplified phrase in again in the hope that it would somehow fit, but to no avail. So, as I'd had to do before, I typed in "Keep faith" and hit save.

The last year and a half has provided its share of both high points and low points. For the most part, I feel in close to the same place as I did in my last post; things seem much more complicated while I feel simultaneously better equipped to understand what makes up my anxiety and depression. In August I started grad school, which has improved things to some extent. My experiences thus far have provided an enormous but not unexpected amount of challenges, but overall I feel happy. Fall semester was rough, but I feel stronger for it.

And yet new anxieties have set in alongside those that were there last year. While I find myself more hopeful, I'm navigating new and different concerns, and it has continued to take its toll in the form of anti-peptalks and nights I cry myself to sleep. I haven't been writing as I've wanted to, as evidenced by the fact that my novel is still comprised of character notes and freewriting in addition to the lack of posts on this blog over the last year. It's been hard to overcome the negative head spaces. That's not to say that I haven't been writing, because I've done some solid writing, especially since school started. I'm thankful for it. But despite this, I know I have a long way to go, both with writing and everything else in life, because the funk has seemed to slip into everything else, too.

Last week was New Years. I spent it with the old roomies. It was a fantastic holiday following a much better Christmas than last year, and it was good to just be and catch up with my friends, most of whom I hadn't seen in months. I talked to them about what had been going on, about school, the quarter-life crisis, my fears, worries, everything. One of the girls pointed out, "You have to stop looking at it negatively; it's not that you have a long way to go. It's in how far you've come already."

Truth be told, I haven't had much faith in myself or in my own abilities lately. I didn't really realize it until New Years, when I was spending quality time with my friends and making up resolutions for 2014. The combination of anxiety and depression has manifested itself into my insecurities and made things so much harder, and I've let all the negative thoughts carry me off into the void. What I've realized in the last week, though, is that it's that faith that needs to be restored. Things don't have to be perfect. Things will work out. Little by little, I am gaining confidence, and I can't let the insecurities of today that have built up with those of years past break down the strength I have.

I chose the "Keep Faith" banner because I liked the simplicity of it. It can mean many things beyond the context of the Potterwatch message. It is a daily reminder that I need faith in every way, keeping it close. It is the way I will navigate the dark days, and the way that I need to allow myself the benefit of the doubt. It is how I will love myself fully and unconditionally. It is protection. It is hope.

New Year

I haven't posted anything in awhile. Mostly it's due to a very busy few months, with starting a new job and trying to pull graduate school application materials together in time for their deadlines. I haven't even finished reading anything since reading The Giver back in October.

But it's also due to a lot of other stuff.

The only thing worse than the quarter-life crisis is depression on top of the quarter-life crisis--and hell, it might even be the same thing. My grandfather passed away the day I started my current job, and since then, I've been in a bit of a funk. Much of November was spent in grief and the stress from trying to get the hang of everything at work. By the beginning of December, I was finally getting things for grad school applications in order when a mild-health issue arose, which led to one of the longest weeks of my life.

On Christmas Eve and Christmas day, I was incredibly weepy. I thought a lot about holidays passed, feeling horrible that I wasn't with my grandmother and my aunt for the holiday and trying to be thankful that I was working full-time, a grand change from the unemployment of two months before.

Then came crunch time for applications and various apartment issues, which lead into the part of depression that included all the wrong kinds of self-peptalks:

How can you think you'd actually thrive in graduate school? Let's be real. You did, what, one day of Nanowrimo, and look how you've screwed yourself over. You're always on Tumblr or Facebook, wasting time. You will quit. You'll go into debt. You're a fool for thinking this is where you're meant to be. All you'll ever be is right where you are now: a fucking failure working a job paying minimum wage. You want to get out? Get real. You're too afraid to go anywhere. You're wasting your time.

And look at everyone else. They're settling down, with good jobs and families ever growing. When was the last time anyone looked at you? Everyone is always telling you to be confident, and you've failed at that just like everything else. You can't even properly change yourself. The one boyfriend you've had didn't even kiss you in the year and a half you were together. You want to know why that is? Because you're disgusting and you act weird. He told you you were too perfect. The ones you fancy will always be looking the other direction. You're a fake. Give it up, because you'll always be stuck. Alone. Remember: single forever. That was your superlative in the yearbook. You were so effing naive. 

Needless to say, I've been feeling incredibly inadequate as of late; too many complicated emotions with too much stress from too many directions. It's gotten to a point where I can't even remember how I was so wide-eyed and eager back after graduation. I feel lost.

I spent a couple days with Brandi, Leah, and Cassie last week when we went to see Lady Gaga again, and for four days I felt really positive about everything. I'd just finished turning in the applications, I was out of the Little Apple for a couple days, and the thrill of seeing Gaga live is always such a beautiful boost in happiness and positivity. Upon my return, however, the feelings came rushing back. I worried that I bored the other girls, that I said stupid things that made them hate me, that I annoyed them. On top of it, I realized a few weeks ago that the last time I'd seen my grandmother and my aunt was back at my grandfather's funeral.

At the moment, it doesn't feel as heavy as before, which I hope is a good sign. I even did a little writing this week--not a lot, but it's a start. I stopped by the library earlier today to pick out a couple books to read, and I'm trying to look forward toward the Sigma Tau Delta convention. I am a writer, and I'm trying desperately to make myself believe it again, because I'm worried that I've forgotten it.

But my birthday is on Monday, and I fear it's going to destroy me like it did last year (aside from the drag show we went to, which was a wonderful pick-me-up). Valentine's Day is coming up, too, and my attitude toward the holiday has changed dramatically in the last few years; I cried myself to sleep in the last two years because everything was too much. I'm trying not to let things overwhelm me.

Things will eventually look up. I know they will. But right now, at this moment, I just feel so unsure. It's like I don't know what I want anymore, though I know I do.

It comes down to trusting in the right words, but all I can find are the wrong ones.

Baby Pink Platforms

A few days ago, my mother asked me--or rather, reminded me--to go through dresses and artwork for a garage sale our church back home is doing later this fall. It was something she'd mentioned to me before, but I hadn't done so the last time I was home and the deadline for having things ready was coming up fast. Another very brief trip home was in order.

I started going through artwork in the basement after I arrived earlier this afternoon, and that was...interesting. Some of it was stuff I'd forgotten I'd done, and the majority of the work was pretty weak from what I remembered. I joked to Mom that one of the pieces I'd chosen was from my "Blue Period," except that the drawing was horrible, and it happened to have been done during a really bad time in high school. At least Picasso's Blue Period produced beautiful, thoughtful work; I went through a period where I didn't care about what I was doing, and it is clear by looking at each and every piece.

The dress search was its own trip. I found one dress that I couldn't bear to part with; it is a deep mulberry color, one my mother made for me for my senior Winter Formal, that has a beautiful cut-out at the base of the skirt and lace stretching across the neckline. I told her I'd take it later, once I have room in my closet to keep it. I found the dress I wore to my high school graduation; it was never very comfortable and it poofed out strangely in front. The ball gown I'd worn to my senior prom, I finally decided, would be donated to the garage sale along with the graduation dress, a skirt I wore once or twice, and a couple of dance costumes.

When I was poking around my bedroom, I found a ton of things that brought back memory after memory. But then I found the platforms.

I'd gotten them at Wal-Mart when I was in junior high. They're baby pink--my favorite color at the time--and I wore them maybe once or twice. In fact, I don't even remember really wearing them--just admiring them, considering whether to wear them or not. Like, perhaps people would think I was trendy if I wore them.

The strangest thing about it all was the fact I'd found them the same weekend I repurchased the second Britney Spears' album, one that I have a love/hate relationship with. I listened to it again in its entirety yesterday, and it brought back memories of a group of friends I spent a lot of my time with in junior high, making up dances to each of the songs and listening to it for hours on end. Two of these friendships were especially toxic; one girl continuously brought me down, reminding me at every chance she could how much better she was at everything, and the other was close to the same, but she lived in my neighborhood and so we saw each other a lot until she decided to ignore me. And then, I entered high school and decided to spend more time in my room reading than socializing.  

One of the girls wore shoes much like this on a regular basis. It was her style, and I wanted to wear the same kind of stuff she did. I bought them hoping that she would approve, and that others at school would consider me trendy enough to spend time with. But I never really wore them.

This kind of nostalgia is something I'm not sure how to handle. At times it's great, because I can tap into the emotions easily when writing. I remember the good things about being that age, about wanting to wear makeup and nailpolish and getting prettied up, feeling as beautiful as Britney or Beyonce or the girls from B*Witched. I've talked a little bit about this before. I was reminded of it again earlier this week when I put in Hocus Pocus and my roommate and I were reminiscing about how different it was watching it as much later. There was something really exciting about growing up at the turn of the century. Listening to that music, watching those movies I loved as a kid--they all bring back the good things. Before the internet was something I depended on, when Disney Channel showed good movies and began airing shows that would stick with me for years to come. Every once and awhile, that mental journey is wonderful. I remember where I was, and how far I've come. 

Other times, however, it's somewhat depressing. At thirteen, I wasn't able to see how those friendships would break down my self-esteem, nor how I would think back on that experience often, understanding what it meant in my life. It puts me in a weird headspace, much like that when I read an old journal. 

But it keeps me thinking, wondering, discovering and rediscovering. I sang along to the album as I've listened to it this weekend, remember the things I love about it, as well as the things I don't. I even tried the baby pink platforms on, just to see how well they fit. And they did. I felt like a Spice Girl as soon as I buckled them. Baby Spice. She's the one who wore the platform shoes most often. 

I walked into the kitchen to show Mom. "Well, what do you think? How do I look?" I asked, striking a pose. 

Mom turned, glancing down at my feet. "Oh, yeah. Clunky."

I laughed, glancing down as well. My mulberry nail polish clashed with the pink in a strange way. "You're right. I gotta take these off."

Journaling Through Time

My sophomore English teacher required us to journal at the beginning of nearly every class period. He'd write a question in the corner of the marker board, and we'd write for five minutes exactly. The question must be answered, but we were allowed to talk about other things, if we so wished.

When I was home over the weekend, I came across the very Blue Books I'd written in for that semester and a half. Heidi and I took turns reading them before dinner yesterday. 

Me (when she picked up the other off my lap): You do know you are reading my personal, private journal that I wrote in class when I was fifteen? The one that only I (and Mr. Cook) know the contents of? 

Heidi: Yes. 

Heidi (later, jokingly): EW. You are rude: "My sister keeps telling me that she's planning something special for my b-day, but I figure that if she is, she'll probably forget. She does things like that." Well, now I know what you think of me. 

Reading the journals made me embarrassed not only for myself, but for my English teacher, who, I'm sure, had to read many of these hormone-ridden sob-fests over the years. (I'm sorry, Mr. Cook. I wish I'd written something more philosophical and interesting for you to read.) But mostly, I was intrigued, because I learned some important things. 

1. I repeatedly mentioned how I wished everyone would understand that my writing wasn't to gain vengeance on my classmates. (I wonder if I was paranoid.)
2. I tried (and failed) writing HP fanfic at 15. 
3. For the first chunk of journal, I mention the first two HP movies, but never by name. I can bet you fifty bucks that everyone (including my teacher) knew exactly what they were. 
4. There is a lot of this: "...THAT I AM NORMAL!! Well, kind of...maybe. I don't know" and this: "I can be an okay person if people would give me the time of day. Oh, and another reason I enjoy writing is because Heather has no social life, so she spends her time making up fantasy social lives so that she doesn't go insane with boredom." This is some of the most honest bits of the journal; I remember feeling this way every day. 
5. Above everything else, what I valued most in others (and prayed, in turn, others would value in me) was a good heart and good mind as opposed to a pretty face and hot bod. 
6. I talk a LOT about Prisoner of Azkaban movie (which, at the time, was to come out after that school year ended), Daniel Radcliffe, and Return of the King. 
7. The above, I realized, was because I needed a distraction to everything that was happening that year. And that year, truly, was a nightmare. I kept a lot of my feelings to myself. My emotions (and the events that affected them) were not safe in those blue booklets. 
8. As soon as my grandmother passed away that year, the entries spent a lot of time agonizing about how unfair life was. Her passing shattered everything. 
9. I was lonely. It becomes more evident as the journal progresses toward my 16th birthday, the age my parents told me I was allowed to begin dating. In relation to that, I was naive enough to think that there would be people lined up, waiting to date me. I don't think the loneliness was limited to romance, however. I mention my sister and my best friend, but I don't mention any of the other people I knew I hung out with in school. 

Out of curiosity, I pulled out the diary I kept for most of that year, just to compare the two. My real, private diary is a little more honest, but I know I kept things from it, too. The real diary contains better writing (at the beginning, before the entries become distracted with talk about crushes and movie stars). But there are correlations. Small ones, at that, but they're there. 

"God, I was such a drama queen," I declared as soon as I finished reading both booklets. Dad chuckled a little, and five minutes later, Mom let us know that dinner was ready.

A drama queen, yes. And yet the things I want to respond with: You will change your opinion of Buffy, though you technically won't see much more of the show than you have at this point. You will still be afraid of death, though you will fervently admire Emily Dickinson's view on the subject. Wait till you see DH parts 1 and 2 (and you will still love the HP books like there's no tomorrow, appreciating it more and more as you get older, for many reasons). For goodness sake, read Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson and The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky. And you will certainly meet some beautiful, wonderful human beings who love you, and whom you will love in return; these people will stick themselves to you like glue. 

And so on. There are, of course, a few other things I'd add, but I would probably keep them to myself. Because I have to learn things, and grow. 

The Dog In The Road

Yesterday, when my sister and I were coming back from a trip to Wal-Mart (something we do a lot when we're both home for breaks), we decided to take a back road to get home. It's a road we use a lot when we're heading to Wally World or Pizza Hut, both of which are located on the east side of town. It passes by a Berean church, a few residential areas, the Catholic cemetery, and a retirement home, and we often find ourselves cursing the frustrating but understandable 30 mph signs; it's so easy to cruise on the stretch at 45 without realizing. The stretch allows us to avoid turning onto the highway at a high traffic area. 

"So I have a song to play for you," Heidi said, scrolling through the lists of songs on her iPod. She tapped her finger on the screen and set the player on the dashboard, reaching to adjust the volume. "I don't know if you've heard this before or not."

"Oh really?" I asked, tilting my head. As soon as I heard the opening notes, I glanced over at her and back to the road in front of me. It was Gotye's "Somebody That I Used To Know", a song I'd played over and over since she had introduced it to me weeks ago. "I have heard this, actually. Remember? You posted it on my wall?" 

"Oh yeah," she said, and cracked a joke (at that point we were in a pretty silly mood). 

We passed the cemetery and turned onto the second leg of the route, a hilly stretch that passes by the church and the retirement facility. The closer we got to the church and North Street, though, we started to notice something in the roadway. 

"What is happening?" Heidi said, in her usual tone of a statement rather than a question. "What is that? Is that a dog? A person crouched over?" 

"I don't know," I said, slowing down and coming to a complete stop about ten feet away. It was a brown and white dog, and it was picking and pulling at a section of roadkill that had been sitting in our lane. "Ugh, that's so gross. What should I do?" I checked the mirrors to see if there was someone behind me, and then ahead to see if there was anyone coming from the opposite direction. There was no one. 

"Honk at it," Heidi said. 

I did. The first time, the dog didn't do anything. I waited a few seconds for it to move, and then hit the horn once more. The dog just looked up at us, a string reaching from its mouth to the half of roadkill it was picking at that was now hanging an inch from the ground.*

We yelled in disgust, shielding our eyes. Heidi laughed a little. "Oh my God! Is this really happening right now?!" she said. 

"Why did you do that?" I yelled at the windshield in direction of the dog, who had ducked his head and resumed its picking. I honked again, two sharp blasts, hoping that it would scare the dog into moving off the road. It didn't.

"Heather, you have to move around it," Heidi said. 

"No! The last time something like this happened, the raccoon got spooked at the last second and ran directly into the line of my tires. I don't want to risk hitting the dog if we try to move around it." 

"Seriously?" Heidi sounded more annoyed at the situation than at my story. She looked back at the dog. "MOVE!" she yelled. The dog looked up at us again, disinterested. 

"What do I do?!" I thought about the possibilities we had. I could reverse down the road a bit, turn into the church parking lot, and go back to the highway, turn right, and head back past Lakeview and Hardees to head home. That was a lot of work, but I did not want to hit the dog--I would never get over it. "Heidi, get out and see if you can shoo it off the road and I'll move the car and then you can get back in..."

"No. Heather, we have to move. You're going to have to move around it--"

"I don't want to!"

"It'll be fine. I don't think it's going anywhere. Just go slowly." 

I sighed and then crept forward keeping an eye on the dog and the road ahead. "Watch the dog," I said, turning the wheel to the left a little to change over into the other lane. "Keep an eye on it."

"I know. I'm watching. Just go slowly," she said. 

I watched the dog from the corner of my eye as we moved around him, scared that it would get spooked and run in front of my car. I remembered Dad telling me about the dog he'd had as a kid that got hit by a snowblower, and the kid who'd hit it coming to the door in tears to let him and my uncles know. 

But as we creeped along beside it, the dog picked up his meal in his mouth, and casually walked around the back of the car safely to the side of the road. 

"Really?" Heidi cried. "Did you seriously just do that, dog? Just walk away?" 

"Did that seriously just happen? Like, how does that even happen?" But I was relieved.

This morning when we were heading back on the same route coming back from Wal-Mart (Mom asked us to pick up some drinking water), Heidi looked over at me from the driver's seat. "Hey. Remember that one time?" 

"That we saw that dog? Yes. I do." I said. 

*I apologize for how graphic this is. It was disgusting. I felt like I was in a movie. 

"Shake It Out" by Florence + The Machine

One of my Christmas presents was Florence + The Machine's "Ceremonials," and I think I may be a little obsessed with it. This is definitely one of those songs that is perfect for writing and drawing--and I'm sure that the entire album will end up going on my art playlist. Of the three CDs I got for Christmas, this album is the one that I've kept in my Walkman* the most. Everything about the album is amazing.

I updated my iPod playlist last night to include this album in addition to songs from the respective greatest hits collections of The Cure and Tom Petty. I get ridiculously excited whenever I add/switch around playlists--I wonder if that's any indication to how silly the things that make me happy are, but no matter. Music gets me through my day, and I love switching playlists around. I really wanted an updated playlist for the ride back the Tiny Blue Room later today.

Speaking of which...I've been up for three hours and I really should get stuff pulled together. It's so surreal that the vacation is almost over.

*My friend Jessica had to explain what a Walkman** was to her daughter, who is about 5 or 6 years old. When she told me that I nearly fell over. I feel so old (which makes sense, I suppose, since my birthday is coming up next month).

**In case you don't know what a Walkman is, it is a portable CD player that was really popular through the '90s and into the 2000s, just before iPods and other such mp3 players became popular. I think it also derived from the Walkman cassette player, which preceded the Walkman CD player. Anyway, a Walkman can be seen at about :41 or :42 in this early video from Mandy Moore. And the one she has there is super fancy--mine is a simple silver Sony Walkman.

Home Again

My weekends at home are much too short, and I have noticed each visit seems to get shorter and shorter.

Anyway.

Fall is my favorite season. There is a small maple tree in the yard, and one of the best things about fall is watching its leaves turn from green to yellow and orange to a rich red-orange. I missed the turning this year; most of the leaves have fallen from the branches, and the red-orange on most of the remaining leaves has faded to a gorgeous burnt orange color.

I missed homecoming for the first time in years this year, and I can't decide whether I'm upset or not. At the moment, it's an ache that I can't really put my finger on. I love homecoming; it was and will forever be part of my favorite memories of growing up in my hometown.

Heidi's birthday is this coming week, so my family and I have been having a sort of mini-celebration for her. She's been home since last Monday for her fall break. After the having survived this horrible week, I wish I'd been able to have my fall break at the same time.

As is the tradition for being home, we've watched a Harry Potter movie (two this time around, both Prisoner of Azkaban and Order of the Phoenix on Heidi's request as she is the Birthday Girl). Heidi and I went to see the Footloose remake last night at the Astro 3, and despite the fact that there was a country remake of the title song during the last scene of the movie, we were both pleased and genuinely entertained. It was very good, and I'd definitely see it again.

After the movie, Heidi and I went cruising to talk and listen to music. Conversation is a beautiful thing, and those I have with Heidi are some of my most treasured.

I'm not looking forward to having to return to the Little Apple tomorrow; not that I hate it, because I don't. I just need more time here. I haven't been home much since the beginning of the year. In the last 24 hours alone, I've felt more calm, laughed more genuinely, and had more of a focus on life than I've had in ages. Thanksgiving break cannot come soon enough.