I haven't posted in a really long time, nor has anyone viewed my blog in a really long time. I started the blog around 2011, as a fashion blog. The problem with being a 12 year old fashion blogger, is that there is no time to blog. Nor is there any money unless your parents own a space shuttle or manage a hedge fund which neither of my parents did (or do) at the time.
The endeavor was well-meaning and well-intentioned but failed miserably. Mostly because I was kidding myself about how easy blogging would be, how easy it would be, and how to network. Of course, I had (and maybe have?) no idea how to do those things. I do plan to work on it though.
In the past three years, I have turned 16. Sweet, abominable, sour, lovely, been kissed, never been loved 16. I never knew what three years could do to transform a person. Now, maybe puberty is the most I will ever change, but to give you an idea of just how much it changed me:
|c.2014 verging on 2015 ( I do realize this is more like two years...shh I know.)|
Maybe my selfie skills got better, but I'm pretty sure puberty fixed a lot for me.... I never really understood the concept of age. I can't fully grasp it, but from what I understand three years really is a big difference.
I have a thing for older guys (three-four years older than I), I can't lie about that. But I never saw any reason not to chase the desire, they've shown interest in me, so I thought, why not? Why not return that interest. I can definitely meet a unicorn, and nothing has ever really come to fruition with anybody I've silently wished to be with...maybe because I have a tendency not to talk or to talk too much.
But that isn't the point. I had an amazing drama teacher, let's call her Miss Wiseone because she was that to my best friend and I during our arduous time in middle school and for the initial years of our high school experience. She told me there really was a difference besides number of years lived on the planet. That a lot of stuff happens in a year, that gives someone more knowledge and wisdom than those a year younger.
I've lived what feels like three lives in this span of time. So I feel like I may understand what she was trying to tell me.
I was first the awkward girl, who stayed at home as much as possible, loved reading and writing, and was completely socially inept. I hung on the words of my best friend like icing on cake, and I over cake. I loved food, so much did I love food. I could write a sonnet about food but then...
I was the girl with a medium amount of confidence. I met my first love in the market place across the street from my home, between China Paradise and a dog accessory store. A ballet studio opened in April of 2012, but I happened upon it around June. I was around 155 pounds, a chubby, awkward girl coming out of her soft-shell slowly and timidly. But ballet swept me up in her arms and swung me around the room, I laughed dazzled and dazed by the beauty of her, and my heart pulsed with the warmth and safety. These feelings were things I hadn't felt in forever.
A feeling of community and a desire to work harder than I had ever worked in my life came over me. I danced a few hours a week, and when I couldn't afford to take classes, my dance teacher offered to have me work for her in exchange for classes. I was thirteen, and I loved every minute of my hard work. I felt useful. Dance gave me love more than any love I had ever known, it made me happy. For the longest time I hadn't been happy. I had been living in a shell of myself until I stepped into that studio. I danced less like a swan and more like a hippo in high heels, but I pushed myself through every challenge, and I danced thirteen hours a week, and I loved every second of those thirteen hours.
But for some reason, I've always been cursed with three years. Three years to have friends, the guise of comfort, or love. Dance was no exception to this curse. And yes, dance summed up the last three years of my life.
I became a teacher at two and a half years of dancing. I had odds and ends students in the beginning, teaching them the most basic technique in thirty minute private lessons. I had been a teacher's assistant, semi-secretary, and cleaner for the studio up until that point. Any moment I was called to teach something excited me, I was improving. The class I was given had four girls I adored, who were eager to learn and loving. That class was the icing on the cake, the promise of a lead role if I could really work harder was the fork, and the improvement I had made at two and a half years was eating the cake. It made me feel truly and completely alive. I was nowhere near a perfect dancer, but my quality of movement was getting really good. I won a high silver at competition, a step away from a gold. At two and a half years. But just before the end of the summer, I fought with my mom. The fight was terrible, gruesome, and full of nasty words. She decided the only way to punish me would be to rip out my heart through my back. She knew of nothing else to take away from me that would make me more compliant.
*Start playing the Spotify playlist: Afternoon Acoustic*
But when they say you can't have your cake and eat it to, they may mean this. Because with that, dance was reduced to three hours. A second fight was the final blow, and dance is now gone. At nearly the three year mark. I can't explain the feeling of that loss of love other than saying it's like being left to die with your back missing.
One of the most important things to notice here is the lack of a mention of my best friend. I was a terrible friend in the past three years. I never went to her house because I was always at dance. This was the girl who's house I had practically lived at just a year before. The girl who was my first and only friend, my sister who understood everything and would be the only person to tell me the hard shit truth. Pardon my french.
Dance did also introduce me to an eating disorder, no it wasn't extreme. I never went below 124 pounds, and I still ate a lot. I just hated my body, and what I would see in the mirror would bring me to tears. I would claw at my fat, what little I had left, and I would tell myself terrible things. I kept a journal hidden next to my bed with the same sentences written over and over again: "You're fat.", "Noone could ever love you.". I started seeing a counselor. She was really nice. She was the only person I really talked to in any depth. She was a lovely woman, but in a sad way she became my only friend. But it didn't help my eating disorder. I smiled and I was cold, and with the frost came a sick pride in my loss of one thing for something better. Then I recovered. I have technically relapsed, despite the fact that a boy called me sexy, yesterday. I feel like a fraud for not not eating, but the thoughts definitely have been shadowing my mind and slowly blanketing it with darkness since I haven't been dancing. I am truly trying to love myself, I did finally tell myself I look pretty out loud, in front of my best friend, in front of a mirror. I've always rejected compliments, for fear if I accept them people will think I am narcissistic and arrogant. And they're not entirely wrong. I have a tendency to want to be cared for, to be perfect, but I think that stems from the lack of positive attention I received from pretty much the time I was born, but that is a complicated and long story for another time.
I also happened to learn Spanish, a little French, and lost my ambition to learn much else in the past three years. My passions became the only thing I had really any drive to do. My school didn't completely fail, I actually did well. I did however fail Chemistry and Algebra 2 second semester, in part because I have always been terrible in those kinds of classes, and largely because I had no desire to do them. I managed to salvage my Algebra 2 grade (C!) with the help of yet another amazing teacher, we'll call him Mr. Indianmathteacherdudewhowasawesomeandalotlikemygrandpa because he was, and I will not type that again. My English teacher encouraged me to follow my dreams, and so I went to Venture school for the second semester of my sophomore year. Venture is an independent study program that was far too easy. But it was developed specifically for cases like mine, people dedicated to something so much that school becomes secondary because the promotion of the career is more important to them or their parents. These kids know what they're going to do with their lives, or don't know at all. Sometimes they go to Venture because they have issues with normal school and they want to do other things to make it better. I enjoyed it, but I lacked a teacher. I didn't dance nearly as much as I wanted to, but Venture offered me time, that I wasted away. I had extreme anxiety, being home alone scared the living daylights out of me, so I would cram in all of the work the night before, and sometimes the morning before my appointment. With a woman who literally corrected things off of a key, and did no teaching. It is safe to say Venture was a failed venture. I learned literally nothing, and became lazy and unambitious.
Of course, this is not everything, if it was, I would be explaining everything for the next three years. But the third life I lived I am currently living. I am now the girl who will always be in love with ballet and dance, but I'm a lot more contemporary now. I am the girl who is coming into her own, and becoming much more philosophical. I am the girl with friends, supports, a specific taste in music, and a style. I am defining myself, which a lot of people are against these days. Definitions, as if definitions are the culprit for people's misplaced emotions. But to those people, I encourage them to look into etymology. Create a new word to define yourself. I have discovered I am ostentatious, ambitious, loving, caring, friendly, arrogant, afraid, worried, introverted with a slight tendency to extraversion, and I am vitacurious. I love food, and I never know exactly what to eat, I am a pescatarian, but at the same time I tend to be vegetarian, sometimes vegan. I am not entirely sure what I can and can't eat. And thus, I am vitacurious. I also wonder about life a lot, why it matters we're here.
And we don't matter.
Not to anyone but the small pool of people who know us. But as creatures with brains that process ideas and new thoughts, we think we matter. Who else could build what we, as humans, have built. The thing is, nobody remembers everybody who invented everything, just that they did it and we have it now. Nobody remembers the little guys, the teachers who amazed, who inspired. And in case you wanted to know, no I have no idea what i am writing about.
And yes that I is intentionally small. And yes this is about the wonder of teachers, and my life, and how time is precious but also a lot more abundant than everybody seems to think. We spend so much time looking for the meaning in things, what is the meaning in the Scarlet Letter? Farenheit 451? What is the meaning of life? 42. Clearly because that is the best number ever, duh.
But we have these answers.
We spend a lot of our time worrying, missing opportunities, losing loves, falling in love, sitting awake in bed thinking about what we should have done and what we want to do, and overall wasting our time. We do not act impulsively enough, grabbing what we love and holding it closely in our arms. If we spent more time being true to ourselves, our humanity, I'm pretty damn sure wars would break out far less, communities would be less corrupt, and you might actually know why the guy hit you on the street, or decided to drink himself to death later that night (and it wasn't to get out of paying for the damage). You might know that the woman on the street crying had a baby three months ago. She is so overwrought with happiness and the beauty of bringing life into the world that she worries about the kind of parent she will be. Because she just saw a girl with tattoos, piercings and colored hair and she hopes her daughter doesn't want to turn into that, but also she wants her daughter to be free. To be free to choose what she wants in life, and to know who she wants to be and to be okay with that.
And that girl decided she would get piercings and tattoos and dye her hair bright green because her parents never let her choose her own path, they restricted her as much as possible, and so she rebelled the way she could, with her body.
The world is full of so many people, with so many stories, and not a one of them is individually important.
The thing to remember is to be free. Free your mind, allow yourself to be taught, forgive me for calling you out specifically. But understand that I want to talk to you, to let you know what I think , what goes through my head. How I feel about the world, life, and other things. I do happen to think in run-on sentences, sorry.
I will change my mind, and I am going to do things in my life that will change me, which will ultimately define me. But in that definition, I will try my hardest to be free, to live like I want to be alive and not just living for the sake of living. As naive as it sounds, remember that children say the most amazing things before they "know" and are "wise" about the world. Words that teach us we forget a lot about ourselves as we leave the comfort of home and leave for the big-cruel world.
I leave you with a question, are you free? Are you really free? Are you doing what you want because you love it? Because you are good at it and are excited about it, or because you have to do it.
Are you free?