Post from Xanga: May 10

My bedroom is like a tiny, little box. It's cluttered with things from my  few hippos to hundreds of dollars in jewelry, and even more books. It adds up to make me. Remnants of Harry Potter, and so much makeup and clothing. Dirty laundry lies on the floor, and old letters and passed notes and trinkets are hidden in boxes in my closet.

Tonight, my dad said to me, "She thinks I don't love her."
"You don't love her, I replied." We were talking about my mom.
"You know that, and I know that, but she only suspects that." He paused, but only for a breath. "I do love her, I'm just not in love with her."

He told me about how bitter my mom is, and that we both owe her a lot. But, I shouldn't live with so much guilt, and I shouldn't sob over her guilt tripping me for asking my dad to do the dishes.

"Four years ago, you stopped talking to us," he began. When I stopped talking, I became angry and hostile with them. And, he knows I went through something in school, but I stopped talking to them and chose to handle it on my own. He acknowledged that I handled it pretty well, but "You have to stop blaming us. You have to stop blaming us for something that we couldn't have helped, that wasn't our fault. It wasn't our fault or your fault, and you have to let go of that anger."

It all went out into the open. He doesn't love my mom. My mom is a resentful, bitter person. I blame them for something they couldn't have stopped or helped.

High school ends in a month exactly. I graduate on June tenth.

Originally, I was going to write about how I don't want time to pass this way. How I lived two years in silence and on autopilot, and I feel it returning. Each morning it feels like a chore to get up. The highlights of my days are never great enough, so they just melt into the monotony. Each night I become progressively more tired and bored and so tired. I feel it. The way I put all my focus into one aspect of my life, like prom. Then everything else melts away, and I just devote myself to the single cause. In freshman year, Rupert Grint occupied my mind constantly.

I feel the last moments of high school collapsing into a lackluster haze I will one day regret not better spending. Then, all at once, my internal problems cease to amuse me. I forget to be self-involved and gossipy, and I am thrust into the reality of my life.

While crying over my mom, I said I didn't want to go to prom anymore. I don't. My dress and my shoes are tainted by the bitterness my mother pelted at the silk, and now my gown reminds me of hatred. I don't know if I will go. It would hurt Eugene if I didn't.

Prom was my motivation. Once I graduate I'm going to leave the county. Then, I will return home and attend a local college, where I will stay for an undetermined amount of time. Meanwhile, the marriage of my parents has reached its peak, and I have waited for this all my childhood. They're both so tired and angry that they can only avoid it through spending hours watching television, a success if they can stay in the same room. And, I see it happening and I have used the same words my father used.

They also know. They know I blame them and I haven't forgiven them. I don't know how to stop blaming them. I know it's irrational and wrong, but they are still my parents. A child thinks his or her parents are invincible, and they will always be protected by their magical parents. I never left that mentality. It still feels like, every time they have an opinion on my life, that they have no rights to these thoughts. I made myself the person I am today, and I to through the worst time of my life, with so little help. They don't deserve to be part of my future. I'm still angry. I still blame them. I don't know how to let go.

High school ends in exactly a month. I thought things were going to be easier than this. That, somehow, I had made it and things would fall into place. Surprises of surprises, I was wrong.

Thirty-one days, and I don't know what comes after that.

Quick update for all the people who don't read this blog.

1. The school music teacher engraved my personal cello with a school barcode. He held my cello hostage (had it repaired) for three weeks, and I cried when it was given back.
2. The German came and left. She and I did and did not get along. It was quite complicated. On a personal level we got along, but on a social level we are very different people.
3. I am not leaving state for college, which was my dream (my primary motivation throughout high school). I have spent the past week pondering the meaning of life and crying a lot.
4. I have started reading a lot of cooking blogs. I'm baking something for all the high school teachers who impacted me. I like cooking and baking, especially for other people.
5. I stopped taking pictures (and blogging here) because I am really quite lazy. Sometimes I wear an outfit that I really like and think, 'Damn, I wish I could post this.' I could, but I don't because no one except for myself cares.

My Secret Admirer

Today, my secret admirer gave me flowers. Two synthetic roses. Everyone asked who they were from, and I told them quite happily. I skipped around the classroom in my awkward, jerky movements I make when clearly excited.

Then I ran off to find my secret admirer and tell him off. How dare he give me roses? The entire point of a secret admirer is that he's a secret! If he starts giving me flowers, then people will know who he is. If I let him give me flowers, the next step will be serenading me in the hallways! That simply will not do. How could he ever be so reckless and exceedingly bold?

Or, maybe, I am sad. Maybe I went to class and saw my friend had forgotten the flowers her boyfriend gave her. Maybe I skipped around to go find her and return them. Maybe I just found the idea of someone giving me flowers quite exhilarating. Maybe I have wanted a boy to give me flowers ever since seventh grade.

But, that's only maybe.

Maybe, someday, a boy will really give me flowers. Not a secret admirer, or a fallacy, but a real boy who really likes me. Maybe he'll give me real flowers; like sunflowers, tulips, or maybe even roses. Maybe I'll be able to walk around with the flowers all day and feel significant. Maybe he'll give me flowers more than once, but not so often it's not special. Maybe it will be wonderful, or it could be terrible.

Maybe the flowers would wilt. Maybe I would drop them and they would be ruined, or someone would bump into me and crush them. Maybe he would look at the flowers and look at me and think I'm not very wonderful anymore. Maybe I will have forgotten to take my allergy medicine, like I did today, and the flowers will make me unhappy. Maybe, no one will ever give me flowers.

But, maybe it could be wonderful.

But, that's only maybe.

Yesterday, the second, marked 100 days to graduation.

The kids going to UC's don't start school until August, September, or whenever. One of the schools I was accepted to has orientation in mid-July. Another school, the school I just got a $12000 yearly grant from, has orientation the day I come back from Europe. I have 104 days until I go to Europe to only come home long enough to be able to leave again.

104 days until everything changes. I have goosebumps whenever I think about it. I waited so long. It was so long. Sometimes I cry thinking about how long this was, and how difficult it was to get here. Now, the end is in sight. I can leave and never come back. I never have to go back to where it happened or see any of those people again. I never even have to see my friends or my house again. Finally, my past will just be part of me and not something I face every day. I won't be stuck, trapped here.

I cry knowing that in 104 days what once seemed unattainable will have been conquered.

Lately, I have pondered the expression that good things leave to make room for greater things. I wonder how that applies to my life. Does it imply that great things become good things? What about things that in unarguably bad? In the most recent context, I wonder if it applies. I wonder if Marching Band left me with a broken heart, a cracked spine,  and a feeling of abandonment so I could pick myself up again and find Journalism. Is Journalism the great thing to make up for Marching Band? Was Marching Band, my rock in junior year, merely a good thing?

Every morning, Journalism class makes me prepared for the day. I feel accomplished when I turn in articles, I learn when advanced staff reviews my articles with me, and I have a purpose in trying to change the way my peers view our school. I laugh with the kids in the class, and we accept each other. When I spent time with just four of them, I had felt like I had gone on a greater adventure than I have in months. Journalism might be the path I want to follow in life.

I heard this expression a few months ago, through my ex-boyfriend's new girlfriend. I never wrote about that ... calamity-like situation, and I never intend to. But, it was a turning point. Anyway, she wanted that to be her senior quote. I remember wondering if she thought my ex-boyfriend was the great thing she gained from her ex-boyfriend. I remember scoffing because I know he won't be a great thing for her. He isn't a great thing for himself. Spite aside, the expression has floated through my mind.

99 days to graduation. 104 days to Germany.

Journalism Part 2: Growing Balls

Simon started a blog today:

But the reason for this post is because Elizabeth R. shook off her “socially awkward band kid” image when she approached a young man, that she was eying throughout the day, and had a two and a half minute conversation.
Congrats Elizabeth!! Angelica, Angelica, Vincent, and I were the witnesses of you growing “balls”.
We all have new found respect for you Liz! This post is to you.

We were too loud and rude when leaving the campus, people looked at us. But, we're always the group that's way too loud. Our journalism class consists of a bunch of loud cultures. We have a Filipino, an Italian, a Jew, a Mexican, and an El Salvadorian. It's in our blood to be too loud and to eat too much. There was a presentation on avoiding stereotypes in the paper and everyone wanted to go.

"Are you serious? Look at the kids in our class, if we stereotype one group, somebody pipes up and is like, 'hey, that's not true!'" Then Simon supported me by making a comment about me being white or Jewish or homely. I don't remember. It didn't support my idea, but we all laughed.

As we waited at the bus stop, I saw the staring boy sitting by himself. I told Angelica 1 to look, and she started freaking out. Everyone started freaking out. Angelica 1 said she wouldn't be my friend if I didn't go over and talk to him. Everyone started saying I don't have any "balls" and ... they peer-pressured me. I told Angelica 1 if she called the bus station to see when the bus was coming, and we had more than two minutes, I'd go talk to him. So, she whipped out her phone and said I had three minutes.

Initially, I took about three steps in his general direction, but abruptly stopped behind a bush. I just happened to stop in the most stalker-like place, but it was unintentional. They all thought I wasn't going to do it. Angelica 1 had already looked away when I walked over to him.

He was looking in the other direction. I sat down and he smiled at me. It was very nice.

I introduced myself. His name was Jeremy (which I later found out is spelled at Jérémie). He asked my school, I asked his. I told him my friends were loud instead of telling him I have no shame, which was my first instinct. I asked where his accent was from because he had an accent. He said he's from Belgium. I told him my favorite science teacher is from Belgium, which isn't entirely true since Mr. Brown only lived there six years. Then I saw my bus so I told him I saw my bus. Angelica yelled my name as I stood up, so I said bye and walked away.

Everyone was freaking out. They had me tell them everything that was said and everything that had happened. Angelica must have hugged me five times. They exclaimed I have "balls." I said this is what we should put in the paper for reasons why kids should join next year.

When we were coming home on BART, I realized I have never done anything here. This was my first time taking BART into the city with friends; it was my fist time taking BART with friends. It was the first time I bought my own BART ticket, and the first time I rode a bus.

I hate it here because I've never done anything. There are so many places a person can go, so many places to see, and so many things to do. I've done nothing. My life is so secluded to my school and my parents and my temple. Now I am leaving, the time approaching so rapidly, and the opportunities I have missed and experiences I have never had are just becoming apparent. I guess this is what happens when you leave a place. 

Today was so wonderful. It was an adventure, even if just a slight one. I like the person I am, and the things I can do. I hope for more days like this, days of small adventures and horizon expanding. I can't wait to leave.

Journalism Part 1: Shoes

I remember waking up and getting ready in the morning. I remember initially going inside Angelica's car. I remember being in front of Vincent's house. I remember being at BART. I remember buying my ticket and I remember squishing three people into one seat. I remember people telling us where to go for the bus. I remember being on the bus. I don't remember any of the times in between.
Once we got to the school, Vincent bought coffee ... with my money. I lent Vincent money for the bus, I remember. There was a journalism conference in the city today. I woke up at 5:30, Angelica picked me up at 6:30, and the conference started at 8: 30. When we got to the school we were so early they wouldn't let us sign in.

Angelica and I went to the bathroom to be girls. She wanted to put eyeliner on my lower lids, but I refused because it makes me look like a raccoon. When other journalism kids from other schools started to file in, I said that we had to find me a white boy. Looking around, everyone was white or Asian. There were so many white kids!

We, being the psychotic journalism kids we are, stood in the corner and started referring to both of the Angelicas as mom, and Vincent as papa. Oh! We got lost on campus, too. Angelica 2 and Simon were Daphne and Freddie. Vincent was Shaggy and Angelica 1 was Scooby. I was Velma.

Inside the welcoming presentation thing, this boy was sitting in front of Angelica 1 and he kept looking at me. Then Angelica 1 became a spastic queen and noticed, and started counting all the times he looked at me. He was a white boy. They asked me if I wanted that one, him, and I said I didn't know.

Angelica 1 and I went to the first conference session together. It was about radio journalism. There was a more professional sounding name, but I can't remember it. This boy who looked JUST LIKE KURT was there. I stared at him all day. It too all my self-control not to touch his hair. The staring boy was also there.

After that presentation, Vincent and I went to the photojournalism presentation. We both had to go to the bathroom, though, so we left. There was something yellow in or on all of the toilets in the bathroom, all but one. I used the one that wasn't visibly yellow. I somehow managed to get soap on my pants, too.

When we finished our bathroom trips we went back to the presentation room, but the door was shut and locked. Vincent knocked and I tried my best to duck behind him. The room was very crowded, staring boy was directly across the room from me. Vincent and I stood in the doorway, and we had to hold open to door. The presentation was really interesting, and I learnt a lot of new concepts about taking photos for newspapers. It was sort of upsetting Vincent and I couldn't see the slideshow with all the ... pictures in it. I could see the staring boy stare at me, every once in a while.

Angelica 1 and I went to a presentation about ... something. I can't really remember. We were all just really hungry. Angelica 1 and I met up with Vincent to go to lunch. We couldn't find Angelica 2 and Simon, so we just assumed they would find their ways. Angelica 1, Vincent, and I followed the directions to get out of the building, but then everyone was just standing there.

I said, "Let's be investigative journalists!" After Vincent said he felt like we were supposed to go in a certain direction. We went in his direction to be investigative, and then everyone started to follow us. The people in charge assumed we were journalists and could figure it out on our own. Thank the journalism gods we were there, otherwise all the other kids would have starved.

Angelica 2 and Simon were already in the cafeteria; they saved a tale for all of us. When I sat down at the table, I saw staring boy at the table directly across from us. We all stood in line for lunch, Angelica 1 and I were together since vegetarians had to stick together. It was fun to sit around with my journalism kids. Angelica 1 and I have the same taste in white boys. We all talked about shoes and I don't remember what else. The keynote speaker talked for too long, though her presentation was interesting. Angelica 1, Angelica 2, and Simon all got seconds on the sandwiches. It was so funny. They just kept laughing. During the speech, I kept putting on lip-gloss. Vincent texted. Everyone else ate.

When we were finally released from lunch and the speech, we got to hang around campus for a while. I was very unladylike and wandered around while Angelica 1 and 2 were girls in the bathroom. When we were outside, Angelica 1 sat on a railing. I used a rock to help myself up, but scraped my hand in the process of trying to sit on the other railing.

"Elizabeth, why did you do that?"
"I wanted to be like you..."
"Aww!"

Then Angelica 1 and I went to a presentation on taking over the internet. It was very inspiring, and I think it was my favorite presentation because the speaker was really cute. We finally had our last presentation, and it was short. The conference ended at 3: 30. We were all just so tired.

Forget spring fever.

Many of my school friends are just beginning to feel the senior fever. It is finally clicking that this is our last year in high school, most of the plans we can make for our future have been planned, and everything we know is going to change. It took them so long.

I am itching, itching to leave home. I know I shouldn't. I know I should treasure this time left in school, but I simply cannot. I know I am going to regret rushing through the end of high school when there are so many opportunities to make now better. I feel like I can't do this anymore.

High School Experience:
Freshman year made me a victim of abuse and hormonal changes.
Sophomore year put me into a pit of depression and confusion.
Junior year was coming back to humanity.
Senior year is my first real attempt at being who I can be, who I should be.

Middle school was such a long time ago. It's weird to remember there was life before puberty. Before birth control came along to halt my menstruation-induced sickness, heartless people, and my run-in with Harry Potter fanfiction. There was a time when I was filled with school spirit, and I was popular.

Now I'm not so popular, but it also isn't so bad. I have friends. I have a personality. I have plans. Oh, the places we'll go. In middle school, we called ourselves the class of '06. Now we have sweatshirt and various other apparel to prove we're the first graduating class of the decade.

The rest of life is just in sight, but that shouldn't trivialize where I sit now.  Whilst I stare at my prospects and try to still face reality, I pray for  no surgery. Please, please no surgery.

When I need giggles, I read this post.