Understanding Fat Shaming

Note: I'm calling people "fat" on purpose in this post. First of all, I want to own that word. It isn't a cuss word for God's sake. Secondly, I want to evoke an emotional response. Fat has been used as a hurtful word. It's a word that makes strong people cry. Cry if you need to, but it's time for the truth.

I realize I've already made a post tonight, but after my post about self-love (which included body image), I had a conversation with one of my best friends. I know that he doesn't hate fat people, but he said some pretty ignorant things regarding fat people in our culture. This was just another effect of fat-shaming on us. Someone who really means no harm can say things that are very hurtful without understanding the reaction that understandably roars in response. So, I could go on about what fat-shaming is, how it affects people, how to fix it, etc. But I'm not going to do that. Because the person I talked to tonight understands all of that, but still doesn't understand. Instead I'm going to tell you a story. I'm going to tell you a story of a girl who's been fat for *most of* her life. I want to share my own fat-shaming history. Some of this will be news to you and shared for the first time, but I've come to realize that stories are heard while rants about the harmful effects of unhealthy societal expectations often fall upon ears accustomed to the sound. So here's my story.

As a five year-old, my step sister told me I was fat. She told me I needed to lose weight. She also told me I was a wuss because I was afraid to get my ears pierced, while her best friend's little sister who was only three had already done it. She told me I looked like a boy because of my short hair. She told me I couldn't touch her barbies because I would mess them up, and although my memory has served me the kindness to block it out, it's likely she molested me. She was about nine years older than I and she was skinny and pretty and cool. She constantly told me in new and creative ways that I wasn't okay. As an adult I can look back at that time and see a girl struggling with her parents' divorce, probably dealing with her own history of sexual abuse, and of course her own issues with self esteem. But at the time, someone who was older than me and knew so much more than me was telling me I was useless. It didn't matter what anyone else said, because people are nice, even when they don't mean it. I wasn't the kind of kid to be mean unprovoked (that came with puberty, haha), or ever hit below the belt like that. So I assumed that she must be right, and everyone else was being nice to spare my feelings.

Being a bipolar kid, I was really intense. I would constantly talk, usually about myself, I interrupted people, I argued too quickly, and I was completely oblivious to this behavior. So when I had a hard time making friends or people pulled away, I assumed it was because I was fat. Later, issues developed because I would see popular fat people, and I couldn't understand what was wrong with me. At St. Mary's we had uniforms. Until the fifth grade, girls wore plaid jumpers. Because in fifth grade girls began to wear navy skirts, the sizes stopped at what they thought a little fourth grader ought to wear. I was bigger than the rest of the little fourth graders. Only four girls were in my class at St. Mary's, and the other three were tiny. There was a new seating chart at school and I overheard some of the other girls complaining about it because they had to sit next to me. Completely unaware of my affect on people, I assumed this was because I was fat. It makes no sense, but to my young mind it made perfect sense. No one wanted to sit by me because I wasn't cool, which correlated directly with size. And I was deeply hurt by it.

By fifth grade I'd found my love of dance. Being big in the dancing world is incredibly difficult. You always have to be better than the best girl, because you're judged before the music even starts. My cheerleading uniforms had to be altered because the biggest size was too small for me. For someone trying to fit into a new school, I was convinced everyone knew mine was different. My best friend at the time who was dealing with her own self esteem issues as well (noticing a common theme?) would make side comments to me about the extra red fabric we'd snuck onto my uniform so it would fit. I would respond in a way that preserved her feelings while my own heart was breaking over it. I just wanted to be normal, and I had no idea how. I couldn't even wear the same clothes, because junior clothes were too small for me. I had to shop somewhere else. My dance team in junior high was called the Cubcadettes. After I joined (along with some other heavier girls), we were coined in the hallways as the "Chubcadettes." That made it ten-times harder to go perform on that floor. My mom, who was the coach, and I argued constantly because I was already so self-conscious about being a fat dancer that I didn't want anything else to make me look stupid. Often she was right (although to this day I think getting us pom outfits that looked like cheerleader uniforms was a bad idea), but my bipolar turned our conversations into battles. I was already scared.

In seventh grade, I started to lose weight. I worked out a lot and started seeing a doctor for weight loss with my parents. It was working for me. That year was the first year that I auditioned for and made UDA All Star. It was an audition hosted through UDA and UCA (Universal Dance/Cheer Associations) that gave you an opportunity to dance in the Philadelphia Thanksgiving Day Parade. I was so proud of myself when I received that medal. I wore it all day. Mom gave me shit for it calling me a Special Olympian, which genuinely hurt my feelings at the time, but I wasn't good at expressing that, really. I was just so proud because I truly thought my weight was going to get in the way of me winning that medal and it didn't. (Later I had a huge internal crisis when I considered that they may have only given it to me to prove they weren't fat-phobic, but that's a whole other story.) I went and performed in Philadelphia. It was a really cool experience and I got a lot out of it. I talked about it non-stop (again with the intensity that I'm sure drove people up the wall).

I came back, and during PE one day I was walking the track with the same friend who had made those comments about my cheerleading uniform. I'd been on TV, and she said that she had been with some boys (I'm not afraid to call out Abraham Huffington because he's still a dick). She told me Abe had said if they could find my station they wouldn't be able to miss me because of my huge ass. Again with the silent heart break. All I could think was I'm trying so hard. I will never be good enough for you people. I really was trying to lose weight and I was working my ass off to do it--way more than any of my peers did to maintain their tiny physiques. I cried about it in the bathroom between classes. I was truly hurt. People had said things about that friend to me, but I'd always kept them secret to spare her feelings. I had wished she'd done the same for me, but at the time I genuinely believed she thought she was being a good friend. Now I believe she may have used that as an excuse, but was looking for a way to bring me down. Perhaps out of jealousy, perhaps to shut me up about it, or perhaps both. But I do believe he said those things. In junior high (I think this is true of most girls; boys are oblivious), I was convinced people were always talking behind my back. Every now and then I'd find a moment of peace where I'd convince myself not to be so self-centered and to realize I was not the topic of everyone's conversation. But in this instance I was proven wrong. Being proven wrong one time will poison everything that follows.

This same friend also revealed to me that Sarah Simpson was calling me "Weight Watchers Dancer" behind my back. At the time, there was a Weight Watchers commercial with a plus-sized dancer. I guess that was supposed to be me. I was afraid to ever be around her again. I was so embarrassed. She was stick thin, a dancer, and everything I would never be. The only thing that made me feel better was being mean. Granted, my form of meanness never involved lying. I only told people how much of a bitch she'd been. I was so embarrassed that I wouldn't even use her words, but I'd say she was skinny and not that good of a dancer. I'd say she was mean and I didn't understand why people liked her... and people agreed with me. When my weight loss became more visible, she and her friend cooked up a rumor that I was bulimic. It was as if they were trying to say that, yeah she can be skinny, but only if she cheats. Again I was miserable. I worked my ASS of to lose weight. I was running, lifting weights, dance class, dance team, stretching and doing situps in my front room while I watched criminal minds... and they were going to say I was cheating? I was so pissed. But horribly, more than truly recognizing her cruelty, I continued that thought process: this is what everyone thinks. She's the only one enough of a bitch to say it out loud. And I felt worthless.

By 8th grade I'd lost a lot of weight. I was around 40 lbs lighter with a lot more muscle gained. I felt healthy. I still wanted to lose weight, but I was really proud of where I'd gotten. One day I dropped a bunch of stuff after the last bell. As he was passing, Dylan Reed mumbled, "like a cow" under his breath. I was done. I kept working out and eating right out of habit. But when the time stopped being readily available to hit the gym and the food not quite as accessible, I stopped caring. I didn't make the time or choose to eat healthy. What did it matter? I was never going to be skinny, no matter how hard I worked. I was never going to be as skinny as Sarah Simpson. She could eat all the pizza she wanted and look that way forever. She had it easy. Slowly, the weight crept back on. Cruel passing comments remained. Finding dance clothes to fit was still an issue. Changing in PE was devastating... High school.

On and off through high school I struggled with cutting, inappropriate relationships with boys, and all the other goodies bipolar brings to a hormonal teenage girl. I hated myself and I had no clue why. And I don't think I was ready to understand. I wasn't ready to say, I think I'm fat and I'm afraid no one likes me, because just the thought would make me cry. I didn't even like myself enough to really try to get to the bottom of why I was unhappy. College came and after an incredibly rough first year I began to truly find myself. My diagnosis with bipolar disorder gave me something I'd never really had before. For the first time I knew what was driving people away, and it had nothing to do with me being fat. I could acknowledge that the things I truly hated about myself were symptoms and not character traits. It was so freeing that I began to really come to terms with what it really meant to love myself. I learned that secrets are evil. The more you silently convince yourself you aren't worth it without consulting the people who love you, the less likely you are to succeed. Loving yourself is necessary to be healthy both physically and mentally.

So that's a story of fat-shaming. It took a mental health diagnosis and 19 years of struggle, but I learned that my body did not define me. I am smart, I can write, I can sing and dance, and I love children and books and Doctor Who and Harry Potter and and and... my size has so little to do with me. Granted, with the danger of generalizing I will state, that oftentimes, MY (not true for everyone) weight is a sign of how I'm doing emotionally. If I'm heavier it means I'm eating emotionally and I don't have the energy to work out. This is depression, folks. That is bad. But now that I know myself better, I know I'm not depressed because I'm fat. I gain weight when I'm depressed. And right now, after a year of self-discovery, I finally feel ready to tackle my health. But that's what it took for me. If I'd started any sooner, I wouldn't have been ready, and I'd have wound back up right where I started. Everyone has to find their own individual journey.

With that said. Fat-shaming is never okay. Ever. It is a sensitive topic because of the way it's been handled in the past and therefore must be handled sensitively now. Otherwise it's simply pointless. America is fat. Okay. Instead of making that broad and obvious statement, do something to teach kids about eating healthy. Tell them that loving your body is the first step to taking care of it. Tell them that it doesn't matter what someone else thinks of their bodies--they have to be their own champions. Okay? So shut up about the problem and be a solution. The solution isn't a lecture circuit. It's about appealing to people's emotions. Making them feel worth the effort. It's hard to understand what it's like to be fat in our culture unless you've been there, but hopefully this will give you a better idea of what it's like, and hopefully that will allow you to support healthier messages and to smash what hurts the people already struggling so painfully with self-hatred.

Compassion is Revolution

I love stickers. I love bumper stickers, laptop stickers, stars for good grades, decals... ALL the stickers. This summer I bought several stickers to put on my laptop. One of them says "Compassion is Revolution." I liked it at the time because I really like the word compassion. It's under-utilized, I think. It is a pretty-sounding word, and its relative connotations give me a warm feeling. Compassion. It's great. But the sticker didn't mean much more to me than that word. I was happy with that word and hadn't really put meaningful thought into is revolution.

But wow is that a powerful statement.

The other day my professor saw it on my laptop in class and said she liked it. As is expected, when someone draws attention to something, you see it again when your eyes had become too accustomed to its presence. And so I looked at it, smiled at her, and said thank you. I began to think about those words, because a part of me was very interested in what had drawn her attention to it. Perhaps she too has a bit of an attachment to the word compassion. Or maybe she had really considered the whole body of the sentence. So I decided the latter was probably more accurate because, really?, she is a nazi grader and the woman misses nothing.

So I felt the need to reevaluate that yellow and purple sticker. Compassion is Revolution. I wanted to know what exactly that meant to me.

At first I thought of a pay-it-forward kind of response, but somehow that felt too obvious and novel to be right. So I reconsidered my interpretation. What I decided on was this: Compassion is more than an individual act. Compassion is not just being kind to someone when you know they're struggling. Compassion is being a whole person who is in touch with their inter-connectedness with the world. Compassion is feeling pain because someone--anyone--else is suffering. Compassion is knowing a person's crimes and loving them without condition. Compassion is pain and it is joy. It is the pain of accepting the evils of the world. It is the joy of feeling connected to all other beings. It's a comfort. Each of us is compassionate, but not each of us is in touch without our compassion or ready to act upon it for whatever reason. The inability to express compassion is a sickness.

Enlightenment is a kind of revolution. When I make a lifestyle change, I have called for revolution within my own self as an individual. But if each of us is connected. If we are a greater being as residents of this big, blue planet... then that revolution within me is a revolution within all. Now, when I first had that thought, I was quick to correct myself. Just because I have done something kind does not mean that someone else will choose not to rape or murder or assault. I am smart enough to know that a single action does not save the world, no matter how we wish it would. But then I chose a different angle. When I commit an act of kindness, I am acknowledging that I have that capacity. That is the revolution.

Compassion is revolution only when you become aware that it is. You are revolutionizing yourself, which in turn creates a tiny revolution in this greater world. Each act of compassion will affect someone new. And if, now that we've dug a litter deeper, you would like to implement pay-it-forward into the theory, feel free. Feel free to do so, loves. Because honestly, there isn't much hope in the statement as I have perceived it. It is more of a demand or expectation than a soft statement. Revolution is personal, but our interconnectedness means it matters to the whole world. Perhaps for every door I hold or smile I wear, I will spur revolution within someone else. There is hope in that. There is hope in thinking that we can fix the world with individual acts of compassion. I'm not sure I really believe that. There will always be evil. There will always be debilitating pain that sickens a person and creates evil within their heart. Always always. But there will always be goodness in the world if we can find it within ourselves. It is our human responsibility to revolutionize our hearts to compassion.

Plant-Based Diet: Why and How for Naysayers

A conversation with Mom I had only a few minutes ago prompted this post. For the noobs, I had been a pescetarian (which is a word Mr. Spellcheck!) for about five and a half years. A camp friend of mine inspired the idea. We were 14 at the time. She told me she saw pigs in a trailer on the highway, thought about where they were going, and gave up land animals altogether. Honestly, I was trying to assert myself as a liberal in a very conservative small town. I was about to enter my first year of high school. I made the decision in September or November. Jim gave me shit (as is common and will be the topic of this post), and so in order to prove him wrong, I dove into it.
Granted. I'd never been much of a meat-eater. My lifestyle didn't change all that much. I was still eating fish which can be found at any fast food restaurant. And being surrounded by conservatives I got a lot of grief about it, which I took in stride. However, the response made me less sure in my decision. I was a really self-conscious high schooler (who isn't?) and took these things to heart. Out of pride I continued, but I don't know if I had any real reason in my heart to continue at the time. I hadn't done any research. I wasn't receiving the health benefits because I still relied on fish and cheese as my primary protein sources. But I kept on.

For lent this year I decided to go vegan. Wow. It sounded overwhelming (and still kind of does). Even to me, vegans were extremists--crazies--comparable to conservative Christians in their intensity and arrogance. But it had been on my mind, and I knew I had to try. I wanted to be healthy when I did it, so I did all the research I hadn't done when I'd initially picked up pescetarianism. I learned plenty about eating healthily as a vegan (actually a very healthy, protein-filled diet contrary to popular belief) but I also learned the reality of the meat industry. It shocked and disgusted me.
I was raised in a liberal household, but in college I've changed ideas and beliefs (as one should) and I've become far more liberal than the rest of my family. When it comes to animal rights, my family has a much more conservative viewpoint which I've grown to disagree with. Before I talk about this any more, I'd like to make it clear that I respect my family greatly. Their liberal upbringing gave me a strong foundation of a life based on compassion and inclusivity. From that, I've developed more liberal beliefs, just as they are more liberal than their parents, and their grandparents before them. With each new generation, revolution inspires progress. We fight injustice because it matters to us. We are the educated, passionate, liberal masses of Generation Y.

So, I promised a why and how regarding my vegan/vegetarianism. I'm going to try to stick to comprehensive facts and to cite my sources so you can check up on me or gain more information if you're interested. Before I get started, though, I'm going to define veganism. I've been surprised at how few people actually know what it is. A vegan is someone who does not buy or consume any product that has any substance from an animal. That includes, of course, all meats, eggs, milk, honey, some food dyes, and other things you may be surprised to learn have animal by-products. Okidoke.

It's healthier for the environment to eat less meat. An ignorant science teacher of mine in high school once said, "vegetarians are actually hurting the earth. If cow farts are to blame, then they aren't helping by not eating them." Oh, yes. This happened. If you were thinking along the same lines, it's important to remember that cows are severely over-bred to meet the extremely high demands of beef in our country. "A University of Chicago study found that the ‘typical’ US diet generates the equivalent of nearly 1.5 tonnes more carbon dioxide per person per year than a vegan diet. The livestock industry is responsible for 18% of global greenhouse gas emissions, more than the entire transport sector (which produces 13.5%), including aviation." Link here. Plant-based diets require 1/3 of the land used to house animals bred for food. The animals that we kill actually consume more protein and minerals than they produce. Plants are also a far more-sustainable food source. It makes way more sense to eat the plants we feed to farmed animals ourselves in a world with such precious and limited resources. Picture a world where the food used to feed over-bred farm animals went to feed impoverished families around the planet. We take this planet for granted. By 2050 our population is expected to have reached 9 million which is entirely unsustainable based on the average, meat-eater's diet today. Check it. 

It's a lifestyle choice rooted in compassion. This is where much debate arises. People bring up plants as living beings, blah blah blah. Plants are not sentient beings which is the basis of many who choose a plant-based diet. Most don't like to hear that pigs are more intelligent that our beloved dogs. "Man's best friend." Because we don't eat dogs, that would be barbaric, right? This is a state of ignorance that we have chosen as a society. No one wants to know what happens in those factory farms. The conditions are despicable. It's a lot easier to say, "don't tell me, I don't even want to know!" as I have in the past. But I care deeply about animals--mine, as well as the ones that man has designated as inferior. And so now, when I'm exposed to horrible truths about the industry, I feel a deep-rooted sense of shame when I turn away from it. If it makes you so sad that you can't even look at these images, then why do you support it? That was a question I really had to look at.

a rebuttal

I was discussing it with Mom earlier this week, and another misconception that many don't consider rose to the surface. She pushed my liberal buttons with this one: "If you're saying that eating eggs is wrong, then you're saying abortion is wrong." There are a few things wrong with this statement. Most obvious is that I don't care about the life that egg could have had. It was not a sentient being. I care about the hen who made these eggs, and is doubtless still doing so under inhumane circumstances. Many people I know who have been raised around farms will say, "no one did that to animals that I saw." There's also a problem with that statement. More than 99% of all farmed animals come from factory farms.Yup. Why? Because they produce cheap meat. They can house thousands of animals on one property. Because they aren't given special attention, there are no vet bills to pay for, and workers are paid as little as the industry can get away with. Local meats are far more expensive and won't be found at your local Wal Mart anymore. This quote summed it up beautifully:

"The disturbing nature of these problems can make it difficult for many people to accept the truth about factory farming when they are first confronted with it: “Surely,” one is tempted to say, “it can’t be that bad.” But once the scale of the devastation that this industry is wreaking on our health, the environment, and animals becomes clear, the most surprising aspect of factory farming is how effectively these problems have been hidden from the public in the first place.

It's healthy. When people picture vegans this is what comes to mind:

 

 

Rarely do these, more accurate pictures come to mind:

Lea Michele

Venus and Serena

Ellen and Portia

Emily Deschanel

Bob Harper

Jane Lynch

AmIRight? Some people have claimed vegan diets have helped with things like asthma, allergies, arthritis, indigestion, and migraines. Not to mention the obvious: lower cholesterol, considerable improvement in diabetics, and help for symptoms of IBS. Here is a seriously long list of personal testimonies to healthier bodies and minds. Commonly, people worry about my protein intake. What they don't realize is that the average American eats twice as much protein as is necessary for a healthy diet. Getting your protein from beans and grains is healthier and can even reduce your risk for osteoporosis. Also, the human body is not designed to process cow milk. 75% of the population may be lactose intolerant and live with undiagnosed milk allergies. A lot of people find cramps and constipation are alleviated with a vegan diet, simply because what they had been eating was poison to their bodies unbeknownst to them.
One woman said that when people ask her where she gets her protein, she answers, "where do you get your fiber?" Fiber leads to healthier bowel movements which can help prevent colon cancer. A vegan diet is beneficial to prevention of many diseases. Cardiovascular disease, high cholesterol, arthritis and many more. We are told to drink lots of milk to prevent things like arthritis. Ironically, a dairy-free diet has shown substantial benefits for arthritis symptoms. I could go on and on, but the link above has a really great list from a nursing website.

Finally my favorite argument: evolution. Another liberal button. As I've said, vegans are often compared to religious zealots. However, most vegans are left-leaners (as one might imagine), and this is an unfounded theory regarding human consumption of animals that naysayers like to torture us with. I do believe in evolution. Of course I do. We are a highly developed species. But that does not give us the right to eat all animals for a few reasons. First of all, these aren't animals we're hunting. They're bred in captivity and shipped out. All we have to do is pay for it. Other species have to fight for meat--have to chase it. Unless we can kill it with our own hands, we have no right to be eating it, and we aren't expending the calories necessary to get that food, which is another reason humans suffer from weight problems. Secondly, we are using dairy from cows which was never made for humans. Do we feed other creatures human breast milk? Better yet, who continues to drink milk into adulthood? It's unnatural. And here is the completely scientifically irrelevant point I'll make. Along with our evolution has come a refined evolution of compassion. We have the brilliant gift of speech, which has aided human emotional development (linguistics for ya). The fact that so many people turn away from images of the industry they support is because of guilt. But here's the good news. How about you try a Meatless Monday in your house? Maybe cut out red meats and buy soy milk when you can? You'll feel good about your decision not to support a capitalist, immoral industry even if only once a week. And of course you can reap the health benefits. You can make a difference. It's hard to be vegan. Worth it, but hard. I'm not asking everyone to make that life change. But I would like for people to know where I'm coming from now that I have. This post wasn't written to shame anyone about their diets. But I can tell you that I don't really find your meat jokes funny, nor do I find rape jokes funny, or child abuse... injustice should be taken seriously. Y'all will take from this what you will. If I've convinced someone to just give up red meat, I've done something. These are hard things to hear, but as compassionate, sentient beings, it's our responsibility to care for those who are least among us.

Bring us Your Kids: I Believe in Summer Camp

I've had camp on the mind lately. I'm so pumped for the summer. I realized last night as I was falling asleep that I have a whole life to live before I can get sick on those familiar winding roads. I'll have finished the other half of this semester. I'll have sung in my concert and danced in the showcase. I'll have been to Paris and Berlin and back. I pictured myself doing all these things and I felt very alone. At ACA Midstates Conference I heard the term "nature deficit disorder" for the first time. I need to slow down. This is traditionally a really hard time of year for me. As some of you will recall, this time last year this blog was formed. I left behind Tbird's Train with all it's secrecy and darkness because I wanted a fresh start. I think thus far I've done significantly better. But this long winter weighs heavy on my soul. So many good things can happen to me before the summer comes, bringing the energy and community of Waycross with it. But I only see these days as an obstacle. Am I excited for the other things? Of course. I cannot wait to see Berlin again and to visit Paris for the first time. I love performing, and I'm excited for my shows. But... my heart is in a hammock strung between two trees outside a little red cabin. So, what can I do about it? I'm just going to have to tie the two together--camp and life.

When I come back from camp, I try to organize my life to look just like camp. Partly I'm holding on with desperate, sweaty fingers to the life I'm leaving behind, but partly I recognize the logic in a camp lifestyle. My bipolar mind requires structure. I need time for excitement and time for reflection. I need time for bonding and time for introspection. I need to get in touch with nature, and to turn off anything that requires a battery for just a while. I need breath. Simple. In. Out. When I come home from camp, I make myself a schedule as detailed, but not as dynamic and colorful as the ones I make for my campers. I hang my whistle by my door on a hook. I see it every time I enter or exit my room. It serves as a reminder. I am accepted--respected somewhere. And I'll be back soon. I want to recreate camp at school. Of course that isn't possible. Camp is a safe place. Someone got raped in the parking lot I always end up stuck in at 2:00 am on a Thursday night. Right? Camp is its own world. But at that conference I had another thought. Camp isn't a vacation. Camp isn't some trip you go on to get away from everything. In essence, you do, but not in the way we traditionally picture vacation. Camp strips away all the shit of everyday life to really give you the freedom to dig deep. Sure, it's fun. But who says self-discovery can't be fun? And if you dig really, really deep you may pull something to the surface. Maybe that something you find can change you on such a basic level, that when you leave that sacred place, you keep that thing--whatever it is.

We do a really incredible thing at camp. We give kids an opportunity unique to a camp setting in which to find themselves. Kids don't go outside anymore. They're far too entertained by what's inside. They're so overstimulated that they have learned to easily escape themselves. We let them push those things they hate within themselves to the very, very back of their minds. I say bring that shit up. Because there is nothing within a child that can make them unlovable. It's our job to show them that.  We teach kids to love themselves. I hate when people say, "how can other people love you if you don't love yourself?" Well. Fuck you, too. Not everyone has their shit together. Most of us don't. But everyone is worthy of love and compassion. That kid that is struggling the most--they're the one that needs love. For some people it just works the other way around. A kid needs to be loved before they know it's okay to love themselves. I will love the shit out of those kids

I will love the shit out of you.

Anyway. Here comes that wrap-up you've grown to know and love: Camp is a big fucking deal to me. And it should be to you too. Sending your kids to camp shouldn't be a matter of "if," but of "how." In an age of immediate satisfaction, depravity of nature, and real anxiety in children, one week of play, of meditation, and of unconditional love is golden and unseen. Bring us your kids. Because I believe that we can make a difference. I've seen it within myself. I've seen it within my campers. I believe in summer camp.

Maddie writes conversationally? ;)

It's been a while and I'm real sorry about that. I've been doing more reading than writing. I seem to cycle that way. When I really write I need to be feeling terribly antisocial so I can hole up in some corner. (Today that is an empty Union Board office.) But when I read I fill my brain with new and exciting ideas to share with you.

New Glasses

Today I woke up early to get ready. I have new glasses by the way! So I was up, and I was singing, because I like to sound less like a diesel truck on a gravel road when I open my mouth to someone else. Lately I've been singing "The Parting Glass" by The Wailin' Jennys. Suggested by Ellen, a camp friend. I want to bring it together for something. For what? I'm not sure. But I miss performing. I want to sing.

And as I was singing by myself, wishing for someone to sing the alto part, I realized I was pretty content by myself right then. This doesn't seem like a big revelation, but it is for me. I've always been an extreme extrovert; at least I thought I was. I'm starting to question that. I think I'm more of a talking machine and I'm an external processor. My own insecurities have called me to question myself constantly. Are these shoes cool? Would someone be offended if I tweeted this? Is this too dorky? I needed someone to reassure me. For the longest time I never let anyone read my writing.

But being the external processor I was, I still wrote it like I was talking to someone. I know, Maddie writes conversationally?! What?! Anyway, the older I've gotten, the less fucks I've given, and the less company has been a necessity.  I talk to myself a little more deeply. I've been too afraid to consider my own personality, my uniqueness, and my interpersonal skills (they're often awkward at best). And the more I accept them, the less I really need company. I keep company because I'm interested in people, but that creates a completely different dynamic in my friendships. I don't need friends to talk to; I need friends to talk to me. I've been reading, because I need books to talk to me. I need to find myself in books. They're the best friends.

And this semester has been kind to my new-found sensibilities. My homework is reading. Reading, reading, reading. And I do some on my own, because I'm learning so much about humanity. They're things I need to know about why people get their hearts broken, and why bad things happen to good people. And I suppose no one really knows. No one has the answers, but everyone has ideas, and these ideas make me feel less alone in my quest for understanding.

Being alone doesn't make me scared anymore. I'm never really alone. I'm not alone if I have a book. I'm never alone if I have myself, because there are certainly things I've haven't learned about me yet, and that is just as important as the knowledge I have gained from my friends.

Peace.

I can't fix this world, but if I'm dying anyway, then I will die trying.

After the shooting in Connecticut, I didn't want to post hastily about gun control and mental health and the shallowness of people on Facebook and Twitter about the whole tragedy. I didn't want to write insensitively about something so painful, so real when the child who is most precious to me is in kindergarten now. I didn't want to write with a reactive vendetta for all the wrongs in this world. I've done that before, and there are consequences for thoughtlessness. But I've had time to sort through those feelings, and I'm as ready as I'll ever be to speak about it.

Tanglewood Press has made a really beautiful statement with the help of a Connecticut mom and Audrey Penn. Go to the link to be a part of that.
That whole project inspired me from speechless disbelief to hopeful action. The only way to confront Evil is the produce Good. "Be the change you want to see in the world," right? But I feel only a hate that I don't even try to drive away when those bastards at Westboro Baptist capitalize on people's pain. But the public support gathered to block their idiot cries trying to make their statement of hate gave me hope. Hope has been in short supply lately. (Quite literally, as the One Hope United employees will tell you. My mom collects hope trinkets and ornaments that are only sold this time of year among peace and love items. But for some reason, in cruel irony, the have been nearly impossible to find this year.)

But I found it.

I've looked to the things that make me feel better. I paid for the guy behind me in the drive-thru at Starbucks today--a guy in a piece of shit car, smoking a cigarette, and petting a cat sitting on the console. That made me feel better. Being a part of giving those kids at One Hope the best fucking Christmas of their lives... that made me feel better. It's not that I'm a saint or anything. I'm doing this to prove to myself that enough Good will drive out Evil. The generosity of those who donated to One Hope brought on a regular flood of tears. It's as if those people were doing what I was doing--they were proving to themselves that the world doesn't suck. The world has been acting shitty lately, you know? But even with the lack of hope, in the way that I sought hope, so have so many others. Among Mom's gifts from coworkers, hope was bountiful. It was nearly, but not quite impossible to find.

That's my sweater, bitch ;)

When a mom smacks her kid in Wal Mart, Kayla is tickling the piss out of Julian. For every child (and parent) at Sandy Hook, The Kissing Hand will provide much needed comfort. There is plenty of Evil in the world. Plenty, plenty. But there are good, good people. And we can make a difference. You don't have to save all the starving children in Africa to do that, though. You can just wrap presents for kids who don't have a family to spend the holiday with. You can help out at a soup kitchen (props to Noah), and you can forgive that dude that cut you off on your way to work.

I just read John Green's The Fault in Our Stars (you can stop judging me for dropping the ball on reading. I'm catching up, okay?) and I finished it in a night. I stayed up past my self-designated bedtime to finish it, sobbing alone in my room. The world is trying to prove its fragility to me. Hazel Grace is telling me, Connecticut is telling me, Hurricane Sandy is telling me... You can't turn on the television (something I gave up a long time ago) without those images forcing themselves into your conscious. The Fault in Our Stars hit me hard, probably because I'm already in an estrogen-induced, emotional break down, but it knocked me on my ass. Hazel is me if I were dying. Which, she would point out, I am. But if I was made more aware of my dying, I think I would be a lot like Hazel. Or maybe I have a flawed view of myself--I tend to judge others more accurately than myself. But in her voice I heard myself. Fragility. That's the word ringing in my head. I'm living a very fragile life. There's only a few cancerous tumors between Hazel Grace and I. There's only a few states between my precious babies and Sandy Hook. I can't fix this world, but if I'm dying anyway, then I will die trying.

Proof and the Pursuit of Happiness

I was talking to a little girl a few nights ago. (I guess high school isn't so little, but I remember teaching her dance as a much younger, little girl. I'll call her what I want.) She's the product of a very hard life and a lack of those survival skills required to get her needs met. And now she's coming to me to help her. I want to give her Waycross. I want to make her feel important and tell her that she's more than capable to be better than she is right now. I want to give her the world. I want her to change and come to me someday with a degree and whatever else she wants out of life. A wife, kids, a healthy, happy life... whatever it is. I want things to be better for her than they were for her parents. I want her to beat the odds. Her sister, whom I love dearly, has done that. She is a brilliant woman.

But.

It doesn't really matter what I want. It matters what she wants. And she is denying herself the right to want it. The pursuit of happiness, if you will. She's so scared that she won't have all those things, that she's given up. I do have some small hope, however. She contacted me. Why would she call me and tell me all the bad things she's doing if she didn't want me to tell her what to do in order to be better. She didn't text me to tell me she wasn't going to be anything (although that's what she did). She texted me to tell me she wanted help. She just doesn't know how to ask for it. Is this my new project? Is this little girl going to be mine now? Am I going to subject myself to heartbreak if (and when) this doesn't yield immediate results, or work even in the long run? But I feel like I have to try. She's reaching out to me, and I can't shut her down. I just can't. And this is what I want to do with my life. I want to prove to girls like her that it's not wrong to hope. It's possible to be something different. That's the career I'm looking at right now, and I have to get used to that heartbreak. It will come--and in a way I need to prove to myself I'm capable surviving that.

Proof. I need to prove to myself that I can make a good enough argument to prove to the children I love that they are worthy of the pursuit of happiness. Mission statement?

Intervention of the soul.

Black babies, cute animals, and depression

I hate negative Facebook posts. I think they're attention-seeking and childish. The same goes for Twitter and Instagram. But blogs are a little different. I had to convince myself of that. This is my heart unraveled and woven back into shape between little black letters on my laptop. This, this is me. This is what pisses me off, what make me laugh, what hurts me, and what brings happy moisture to my eye. This is my blog, dammit.

And I'm not happy right now. I don't taste when I try to eat. Laughing feels physically exhausting. I don't want to sing. I don't want to dance. I want to sleep. I don't even want to cuddle, if you can believe that. I don't want to be touched at all. I do kind of want hot tea, though.

In a sick kind of irony, I think I'm most creative at times like this. Stories are opening up in my mind. I just don't have the energy to write them down--to make them whole. I WANT to, but just not enough. I have things I need to accomplish. I WANT to do them; not enough. My day is heavy with all the shit that needs done, and it's weighing on my heart. Because instead of doing those things right now, I'm looking up pretty African American babies and cute animals on Pinterest. That's pretty much all I want to do. I don't want to talk to anyone. I want left alone.

How do you define success?

So, I got out all my frustration on the subject of Kyle. I was personally offended, and I shouldn't have been. It isn't my life. Our lives have been so thoroughly intertwined for so long that is seems like a personal thing. Of course I think it's a bad decision. The people from whom I'd take advice think so too. Until recently, Kyle would have asked me first. Instead he acted quickly before I could change his mind. These are the facts. And I don't care about the finer details, because oftentimes the closer we look at things, the less of them we see.

1. He was a junior in college and dropped out.
2. He tried to get a job from the time he entered college, never getting a real one that he could hold down. He finally got a job at a gas station near his Terre Haute house. He missed the first day and was fired.
3. He doesn't have a job now. He plans to look for one in Marshall--but the job market is slim, and without an education, there isn't much for him.
4. He is living with his sister's boyfriend in an apartment. Clearly he is not paying rent.
5. He is smoking pot regularly--with money he can't afford to spend; with money he didn't spend on school. He plans on buying his childhood home--which will put him in debt. But he was morally opposed to the debt school put him in. Life is full of debt. It's inescapable.

Perhaps I just measure success differently than he does. Perhaps I see success as getting an education. As getting a job in a field of your study that you're interested in and care about. As making your voice heard. As being a good role model to children. I measure those things that I do at Waycross as success. I measure my current job as success. I measure the hard work I'm putting into this degree as success. And sometimes I get sad. I do. Sometimes I get so overwhelmed I feel like I'll never get out. I do. But I'm smart enough to know that so does everyone else. And we're all in this together. When Shannon had a ton to do last week, I sat with her in the library and entertained myself. And as I study for my big German exam, she is designing her Halloween costume right beside me. German is hard. But when I get those grades back, I'm proud of myself. I work my ass off and I see something for it. That is success to me.

So. Maybe that's just me. I'd say it's most people, honestly. But Kyle isn't most people. He's never going to be. He's more concerned with the way things should be than the way they are. He's gets so lost in his thoughts that he can't see what's in front of them. He is an extremist. He is so opposed to our societal structure that he's just opted out of it. But you can't ever really opt out of it. You still have to pay for your food. You still have to wear clothes when it's cold. You still have to pay for a house.You still have to pay taxes. You still have to pay for the gas to meet those you love (assuming you have a car).

The rules don't change. You can't get out of those things. All you can legitimately opt out of is a job that requires an education. You still have to pay to feed your drug habit. Money has to come from somewhere. Now it will just come from a job that doesn't involve writing, or thinking, or relationships, or art, and will start off at minimum wage. But again. Maybe that's what he wants. Maybe he's okay with getting a fast food job and writing blog posts. If that makes him happy, then so be it. It's just not what I'd expected from him. I saw a different path for him. But it's not my story to write.

There are times that I've wished I could just ditch these rigid structures of school. job. family. house... I understand that feeling. But school is my favorite part of all that. I like the discussions I have in classes. I like what I'm learning. There will be classes I don't like--but you can't always get what you want. I love school. I'd love to live more freely--but I'll make that happen. I'm going to create a kind of happiness and freedom in my life based on those things that I learn on this campus. I'm figuring out with the people here what my options are--how I can turn the things I love into a career. And I can't wait. I can't wait to graduate and find a grad school. I can't wait to figure out what I'm going to do. I can't wait to travel and see the world. ISU is practically PAYING me to do it!

I measure success as trial and triumph. I think in a phrase, that's how I'd describe it. Trial and Triumph. I want to know how y'all define success. Comment me, bitches. :)

Also: These pictures don't have a lot to do with the rest of the post. I know. But they were hysterical, and even a moderate connection was worth sharing them.

Sometimes...

a girl just doesn't have the time to angry-type that post that is imperative she post.

Unrestrained Hope--A Post on Living Without Fear

It's been awhile, friends. The week of Homecoming and the week prior to homecoming was packed full for Greeks and the enthusiastically involved like myself. I had the Chi Omega tent to worry about and affiliated alumnae events, I had Sycamore Sync, and Trike, and The Walk.I'm not old enough to participate yet, but I have to worry about not hitting drunk college students in matching shirts saying things like, "Walk Hard, Play Hard," and "Keep Calm and Walk On." It's kind of like an unsupervised herd of children walking down Wabash--except hyper-sexual and profane.

Sunday, work took me to Indianapolis with Kyle. Pleasantly, Mom brought Kairyn along, and I spent some time with them. I took pictures for Tanglewood Press. It was a good Sunday day after a long, long, long two weeks.

Last night I had my date. Some of you may notice that I removed my last post. I did so because I was asking questions I've managed to answer myself, now. This is something I never used to do... but the recentness of the post made the contrast to this post uncomfortable and confusing to those who follow me faithfully.

Last night I went on my date with Drew. I'm guessing a number of you didn't even know that was happening. Dinner, movie, and conversation. In one way or another I'm guarding myself from an acca-awkward situation in the future. Here I'm going to define my feelings on the past of that relationship, my fears regarding it, and how I picture it working. *Deep breath* Here we go.

Drew caused me a lot of heartache over the last year. I was pathetically and unrelentingly in love with him, and he did not love me. I'm not the type to have a million crushes on boys and fall in love willy-nilly. I've only said it about three boys now. And Drew was the second. Honestly he led me on. On the surface, he didn't. He never made any promises he couldn't keep. He never did anything directly unkind to me. But when I look back--he was leading me on. Because he still paid attention to me. For whatever reason, he let me love him. He could have shut me down, and he didn't. It was hard for a long time. But this summer, I did a lot of processing, and when the truth of that relationship revealed itself to me, I cut ties. It was a kind of passive decision. I was uninterested in talking to someone who was uninterested in me. It's a decision I made just in time for him to silently change his mind about me. When my only contact with him was via text messages that he sometimes responded to hours later, any interest he'd ever had felt distant and vague. He's not one to talk about his feelings.

In this time I dated Jacob--a jumbled kind of affair. And due to misunderstanding, Drew and I had no contact for two months. Acca-awkward.

In an odd series of events, we began speaking again. And this time there was actual speaking. With calls instead of texts and with long-winded Skype sessions. He apologized an awful lot.

So... fears.

• I'm afraid he wants to be with be because he's lonely. And that it doesn't really have anything to do with me.
• I'm afraid my history will confuse our relationship--that was a not-so-subtle topic last night.
• I'm afraid he'll be too scared. And this will all be a repeat of last year.

If we were to make this work. what would it look like?

• No commitments. Nothing is ever in stone.
• Personal academic achievement and work always come first--even if that calls for an end to all of it.
• There would be an equal contribution on the part of both parties to see one another. I don't like the idea of "make it work." This shouldn't be work. I know long distance is rough. It never lasts, whatever. I've seen in work with mature adults before. But I still have those same fears of long distance. But honestly? Haven't we been doing that for a year? Just with a paralyzing fear of the assumed commitment that walks hand-in-hand with labels. What I dream of? It's close. Just with a greater effort to spend time together. Just with a level of temporary commitment, which doesn't dictate decisions for the future, but rather enriches the experiences we have in that moment... those moments.
• I'm a realist. My level of idealism has shrunk more as I've grown and seen the exploits and failures of those in my life, (and my own, I suppose). I'm expecting nothing more than acknowledgment of love.

If those things do not happen, I can be okay with that. But I can be nothing more than a good friend. I refuse to chase. I'm over chasing. I'm over looking. If love wants me, love will find me. and I will give myself wholly to that feeling in that moment with no care of what lays before me. Endings are as natural as beginnings. I live without fear. Love cannot exist one-way, and it cannot exist if it is unspoken. Something as intangible as a feeling doesn't really mean anything unless it's expressed. It isn't even there. Think about that for a minute.


I won't have my heart broken if it never becomes something, and I won't have my heart broken if something develops, then fades. That's just life. Sadness over such things is inevitable--but I'm beyond the mess I used to live in. I'm just as happy by myself. But hope is as unrestrained as love in it's imaginary place in our minds. I'm giving it substance by saying it here. I hope something happens. I do.

It is what it is.

and full of the details we avoid so carefully...

I'm feeling really lonely right now. I want someone to sleep next to right now. I don't want anything beyond that, though. Do relationships like that exist? I haven't seen my therapist for two weeks now. He's been sick. I don't know what I'm going to tell him. Just when I thought I had it all figured out--what I'd say to him, that is--more rains down on me. I'm going to need to take a list. This is what it would look like:

1. Jacob
2. Unnamed boy
3. Some missed classes...
4. Loneliness
5. Regret

I want to talk about regret because it's been on my mind. I think regret is the fallback of people with bipolar. They fuck up in mania... regret. They disappear in depression... regret. And right now, just somewhere between, I have only my past to regret--although it's a pretty heavy history.

Lord I'm 500 miles from my home.

I'm really sad today. I'm just sad in general right now. I'm thinking about a lot of things--dwelling really. I think I'm getting depressed again. I want to fight it, but I'm getting to that place where fighting it hurts more than living it. All I can do is keep going and keep on top of the things that need done. I'm kind of happy I have Chi Omega right now, because I have a reason to wake up and actually shower and take care of myself. Through recruitment we need to represent Chi Omega well. All I want to do is sleep.

So, apparently I wasn't a rebound. But the fact of the matter is I was too much for him. Right now he needs someone that doesn't need to be taken care of because he needs to take care of himself... whatever. It made me think, though: am I just too messed up for a relationship? I've already cut myself off from boys for a while now. I know how bad they are for me, and I know I was looking, which is never good. Love should come to me, I think. Today James said, "My grandma used to say that we live to find love, we don't love to find life. I think that's what you need." He's so right. And that resonated with me after a little time in the car gave me time to process that. I was looking. But I couldn't help but wonder if I am just too much for someone else to take care of. Am I so difficult that I'm one of those project relationships--will people take me on to try to fix me? Because I know how poorly those turn out. So, after that thought, the first thing I considered was just waiting. Maybe in time I'll have my life better together and I'll be good for someone. But then that disquieting word--maybe--slapped me in the face. What if I'm never better than I am right now? What if my whole life will be this roller coaster of ups and downs? What if when I need medication adjustments I become too much to take? What if I always struggle with self harm? What if I spend my whole life falling in love with people who are scared of me?

I thought of all these things as I was driving away from camp with NPR playing quietly in the background, only to make me feel less alone. I've never known someone with bipolar that had a positive, healthy romantic relationship. Bipolar people are great for some things. They are writers and actors. They're movers and shakers... but they never seem to have love. And that thought scares me. I'm working on being okay alone, which is hard, but I can't help but try to look to the future and hope that I find someone. I can't help but hope that I'll have that camp wedding I always dream of, and that I'll have babies that don't have to have bipolar disorder. I wouldn't wish this feeling on anyone right now.

He wanted me back Friday, after he dumped me Thursday. He told me that he missed me, Madeline Webster, Queen of the Gollywhops. He said I made him believe in love again. He said he'd made a terrible mistake, and he couldn't believe he'd let me go. But Wednesday night... he was with someone else. So I knew those feelings had to have a parallel conflict he didn't want me to see. So, against the calls of my heart, I said no. I said no even though he wanted me to believe that he wanted me. And today, Labor Day, four days later, he again doesn't want me. I see it was a wise decision to hold strong. Because no matter how much he "loves me," he doesn't love me enough to withstand my bipolar disorder. And maybe it's just the place he is in his life--I can accept that. But when love is real, none of that matters. When love is real, you can't imagine your life without someone. When love is real, you don't even consider loving someone else. When love is real, you're willing to take anything thrown your way: distance, stress, mental illness...

So, he dumped me Thursday. I'd planned on meeting his family this weekend, and so I hadn't signed up to work at Waycross for Family Camp. But when it happened, I knew I needed camp. I knew that I needed support, distraction, exercise, and music. So I emailed Eric, and he let me work, but I didn't get paid. I spent a total of $65 dollars in gas to get there and back and make my runs in Brown County. But I didn't even care. I was just so happy to be there. It was so good for me. The thought of Jacob still hurt a lot, but I managed to make it through the weekend with growth and a greater sense of peace. I think it'll take a while to heal now. I'm still very hateful towards him.

I'm maddest because he was the one that wanted to look so far ahead. Somehow that assured me, because he was willing to believe in long term when Drew wouldn't even commit to now. We seemed so good for each other. He promised to love me despite everything I was afraid he'd leave me for; everything I'm still afraid I'll be left for. And after rushing so quickly into things, he dumped me so quickly. I'm mad because even after he played on my emotions trying to get me back, he managed to change his mind so quickly again. I can exist as a fleeting thing. He can want me and not want me three times in the course of a weekend. I was mad because I felt deceived. But I have to catch myself when I'm mad at him for not wanting me. That really isn't fair. In that instance I'm not mad at him. I'm mad at my fear that no one will look far enough past my crazy to love me. Because honestly, at this point I'm not grieving him.

If he doesn't want me, he doesn't. And I have almost entirely retrained my brain to not want him anymore too. I can't even imagine myself ever being desperate enough to make that mistake. But I am grieving the hope I've lost. I think when I was looking, like I'd said before, I was looking for assurance that I was lovable despite my mood swings, and my scars, and my depression... and I thought I'd found that in Jacob. But I was wrong. And that's why it hurt so much. Because the very thing I was looking for in love, was the very reason I lost it.

I'm getting sick. My throat is sore, my head hurts... I'm just miserable really. I'm disgusting and I need a shower. I miss camp. But here I am, back at school, fretting about this homework I need to scan and email, and looking at the mess in my room fearing that I don't have the will to pick it up. It's going to take everything I have to shower and get to the library. I'm listening to Peter Paul & Mary, which is practically my camp soundtrack. 500 Miles just played. And I think it's true. I have no idea how many miles camp is from me right now, but it's too many. And not just camp, but those people who make camp what it is. They're my home too. And it's all so far away that it physically hurts. I feel it in my bones that there is where I belong. And soon I'll return to clear trails, or fix bikes, or work on the new archery field... and I'll find peace again. And maybe someday I'll learn to bring that peace home.

You've Got Mail and Oatmeal Cream Pies

I haven't blogged in a while. I just started my sophomore year here at ISU, you know. And I had a boyfriend. Had a boyfriend. It's funny how life happens that way. I was so over men, but some little part of my just wanted to belong to someone. And for the first time, I don't really want that at all. I'm about to honey badger all over the penis shit. I had to be hurt this way to see it, though.

I mean. I broke up with Kyle. I lived on that end, and it's shitty. Being Summer sucks. And Drew? I wanted him so, so badly. But I finally came to terms with the reality that he did not want me back--and time nor space would change that. And that broke my heart in one kind of way. It was a consistent throb that I became comfortable with; it began to feel normal. I was okay with the ache. It went from hurtful, to tolerable, to almost enjoyable... but with a little help from Ms. Beasley, I realized for the first time that I was being used. We were using each other really. I think a little more therapy will reveal the roles we played for one another. Who knows. But when I finally got there, I just kind of let go. One day I drove into town on a break, and I didn't text him the whole time. I didn't even think about it. It was kind of an epiphany. I was really over him.

And right now I want to text him so badly.

That's just a sign of how unhealthy that whole business was. And then Jacob. We moved way too quickly. I was a rebound. And some shy part of my brain knew that a long time ago, but I was just so excited that I ignored all of that. I was so happy to have found someone I had so much in common with, who promised to love me despite my crazy, who said nice things, and who bought me flowers... I was so happy that I ignored the shit in my brain warning me to slow down, to read him better before I opened up. But I kept thinking that with time, we'd grow close enough that the speed wouldn't make a difference. It would just end in the same place: a relationship. I thought the road there wouldn't make a difference...

And it's not that I'm so sad about the relationship. No good relationship ends in a breakup, right? But, I've never been broken up with before. It kind of took me off guard. I expected we'd talk it out and keep going... but I sensed what was coming. I didn't want to be drug around. I just yanked it out of his ass. If I'm not mistaken, he'd expected to get drunk and make an ass of himself so I'd do it for him. I sure can pick 'em.

And this is what I said to Shannon earlier while we watched You've Got Mail, ate oatmeal cream pies and pretzels, and drank warm Jones Sodas, I said, "it's not that I have bad taste. I like good guys. I like smart guys. I like really cool guys! I just don't like guys who like me." And she nodded. Because it's true. Jacob isn't a bad guy at all. And even though I'm pretty pissed at him right now, I know that will pass, and it'll be easier to acknowledge that he's not bad. He just didn't really like me that much. I'm glad it was over before I could get any more invested.

So. I know I'm coming across as pretty healthy right now. Maybe I am. But I'm crying as I type this. And I'd been trying to sleep for an hour before I finally decided to write instead. My heart was beating fast, like I'd been running, and I felt a little like punching something, which would not actually make me feel that much better. So I decided on this instead.

Tomorrow I'll go to Waycross. It's brilliant timing. He actually kind of broke up with me by saying that someone else was taking him home. The first thought I had was? Wtf? Did he just break up with me? and then I thought camp it is then, motherfuckers. I'm still pretty overwhelmed. I'm going to try to sleep again anyway. I'll probably have more to say tomorrow.

So as a good night:
"No one will remember you, Joe Fox. And maybe no one will remember me either. But plenty of people remember my mother. And they think she was fine, and that her store was something special. You are nothing but a suit."
Also: Thank you Kelsie Jo, Cydney, Mom, Shannon, and Sara. You all are my saving graces. I don't know what I'd do without you.
<3 Chicks before dicks.

Crazy Owl Lady Move-In

A while ago I moved into my quad. It's beautiful, and everything is exactly like I wanted it. It's a little cluttered, but with plenty of room to move. I have reminders of camp, home, and family, and things that make me smile. Oh, and owl shit EVERYWHERE. I didn't think that I'd be able to fit all my owl things in here, so I left most of them at home. But I have WAY MORE ROOM for my statuettes and pictures and whatever else I have... so I'm totally bringing them next time I go home.

In every community there's a weird, old lady who lives alone and smells like old people, and develops some strange obsessive-compulsive interest in some collection Sometimes it's cats, or shoes, or crocheted fruits... I'll be the owl lady. I'll have them everywhere--collected from my sorority-girl days. And then I'll go on hoarders and all my sisters will totally deny me.

Okay. So I moved in most of my things then went back home and bitched about wanting to be back in my quad, because I was whiny and period-y, but at some point I sucked up and stayed because I was going to need help with my last load anyway--a super-attractive trait, right?  I drove Ian around and I drove myself around. And then the goddam tornado hit my town. Whyyyyy?! So, I was stuck in Marshall waiting the storm out. The winds were way too high for me to drive and I'm pretty sure the whole town was flooding. So I ate Reese's Pieces (am I the only one that pronounces that reesees peesees?) and watched nature tear Marshall to shreds, like some cheap, disaster of a disaster movie.

When things slowed down a bit more, I was ready to head back over, but I had no gas. All the gas stations in Marshall were closed down because no one had power. So, of course, I ran out of gas on the way to Terre Haute. When I finally got to Terre Haute, exhausted and hungry, Grandma's car alarm started to go off in front of the Saratoga. And I laughed so hard I had to squat on the sidewalk. It was just like Nashville all over again. This time Jim knew what to do, though. So it was less disastrous. And somehow, right on Wabash Ave. the only people that came out to check on us were the people at the hookah lounge. Good job, Terre Haute.

But eventually we got to eat, and I finished moving in. I was just so happy to be in my room, and I was so happy that everything fit. I enjoyed the alone time. That was short-lived, of course. I'm an extrovert and unless I'm blogging (talking on the interwebz), or texting (talking with finger-words), or reading (pretending someone is talking to me), I can't handle it. So, I enjoyed the first few minutes of that, but since then, I've gotten antsy. I'm hanging out with new people. A boy :) And my old friends, new friends, and quadmates.

Speaking of quadmates, how do 5 girls go through so much toilet paper so quickly? I just bought some, but I'm not buying any more until I see three packages from other ladies. Jeez. It doesn't help I'm a total TP snob. I like me the soft stuffs. I'm loving finding my routine, but I'm still anxious about all of it. First day (week in my case) jitters, I suppose. I'm trying to stay on top of homework and maintaining my sanity. One of those things is subjective...

Yup. That's a Bean Blossom shirt.