it's still going

Before I start, let me just make it very clear that this is me needing to vent. I am aware of this. I am aware that things almost always look better with distance and time.

But right now time isn't moving fast enough and I'm feeling a little trapped.

***

I feel like I just finished something and before I can even start to breathe, there's something else I was supposed to have already begun.

It just doesn't stop.

I just want some time to appreciate the quiet.

Just a little bit.

And okay, while I'm talking in these big, broad terms, it's not all my classes. It's not everything.

It's a few (okay, one) classes that not only do I not enjoy, I feel like I'm constantly behind. And seeing as a lot of that is due to the teacher, there's nothing I can do about it.

See? It always comes back to me needing to let it go.

I need to go talk to the people who might be able to make a difference and then I need to move on.

Accept that it's out of my control.

Ha. I'm not very good at that.

The whole being chill thing isn't inherent in my personality.

***

Thanks for listening.

I'm going to go make Valentine's.

Home, Part 2

Last time when I wrote about home, there was a very clear delineation in my mind.

I had my first home, the home where I grew up.

It's the place where my parents are. Where my kitty lives. Where I know everything and everyone. I have my routines and things are comfortable.

I had my new home.

My college home.

The place I was still figuring out, where I was constantly meeting new people and learning new things.

In the past two months, those lines have been blurred. Those lines between one home and the other are no longer quite so clear.

I now have friends here. Close friends, real friends. They're my people. The ones I laugh with and cry with. Ones I know I can lean on when the times get tough. It took the times getting tough for those bonds to form.

We live together and share so much. We learn and we grow and we whine and complain.

This is my home.

Yet, I still want to go home.

I want to go to my house, I want to see my parents. When I think of that home, I think of being wrapped up in the biggest hug. It's my comfort place.

I know that I will miss this place too.

I'm all confuzzled.

I guess I can have two homes. If that's what works for me, then it's perfect.

I've also really learned that it's the people that make a place what it is. It's the people I love and miss, no matter where I am.

home[s]

People laugh when I say "home" in reference to my dorm room. They think it's funny that I call it that, when everyone else says "dorm" or "room". But to me, that just sounds awkward.

And it's true, it has become my home.

Not just my room, but the whole place.

The campus, the people, the community that I have become a part of.

Feeling like I fit in a place, that's what makes it home to me.

That's not to say that my other home, the one I inhabited for almost 18 years, is any less of a home.

It's just....different.

In ways that I can't describe, that I wasn't really even aware of, until I got here.

Home.

This too, is my home.

This place where I fit and I know the routines and ways of existing.

I know this community as well.

It's been interesting, these few days of figuring this all out.

This fact that I now have two homes.

Two equally important places, but so completely different.

I also think that part of the difference stems from me.

I hadn't really thought I'd changed at school, not that I'd given it much thought.

I was still me.

Yet being here, I can feel the differences. The parts of me that don't quite fit with how I used to exist in this space.

I'm different.

And now it's a matter of reconciling the two different me's, within the two different homes.

a break

I have found that lately, I haven't had much to say.

Or just not here.

Okay, none of that is true.

I haven't been writing. At all.

And I miss it, sure, but it's also been a lovely break.

Sometimes I love something so much that I want to do it all the time and forget to give myself a break.

This time life intervened and made me take a break.

I just didn't have the time, or energy, or brain space to write here.

And now?

Well when I think of it, it still feels like a to-do.

So I've continued to eat popsicles and read and do a whole lot of nothing.

Which has been quite fantastic.

I'll be back.

You know I will.

the end of the year sappy-ness is starting

In my room, my graduation gown is hanging. With my dorky mortarboard and colorful cords. Just waiting.

Two weeks.

Tomorrow I take my AP Calculus test. I don't remember how much I've said about all that business here. Mostly because I've been talking about it incessantly everywhere else. And it's been sort of nice to take a break from thinking about it all.

Friday is my last day of observation in the hospital. Writing the final essay is just making me sad.

But also confirming everything that it's taught me.

But mostly the sad thing.

Maybe that's where all this end high school emotion is going. Because I gotta say, I'm not feeling much of it about high school. It just feels like another stepping stone, or some days, a big hoop to jump, on my way to something new. Something bigger.

It feels like I've only been at this school for a year. This one year where I've really started over in many ways. With friends. With classes.

Leaving everything else behind.

Or at least trying to.

Pretending to.

And although I've made some friends, some really great friends, actually, I'm ready to move on.

I'll remember them, think of them fondly, send them Christmas cards. But I don't feel very attached, at least in the long term. I knew going in that it was going to be one year. And so, while I didn't hold myself back, I also knew this was coming.

And now that it's upon me, I am more than ready.

where do I start?

How am I supposed to sum up this experience in just three pages? Where do I even start?

I got lost, I learned, I saw. I found a place for me, I met people who reminded me a lot of me. I met people who I never would have met otherwise.

I stayed up late. I refused to miss those precious four hours. Just four hours each week.

How am I supposed to write three whole pages? I don't know where to start.

It has been such an intense, and in many ways, very personal experience, that I don't know how to put it into words.

Let alone words that are going to be read and graded.

I saw more than I ever anticipated.

I asked questions and got more complete, enthusiastic answers than ever before.

I never knew what to expect. I thrived on the atmosphere of taking care of people.

I will miss it. I will never forget it.

the dance

What I'll remember won't be the dance itself. It was just another dance. Albeit, one where I wasn't terrified to take off my shoes. What I'll remember are the people. Walking around in our underwear. Trying to paint my nails crazy fast. And failing. The 44 bobby pins my friend managed to put in my hair. And afterwards, lounging around in PJ pants, playing charades and laughing. Just because sometimes, life is just so funny.

All Alright, We Are Young, and all the other song titles that relate to me at this moment

Tonight is prom. My senior prom. And I keep wondering how I got here.

I was here the whole time, but somehow I wasn't. I was too busy focused on me and getting better and sometimes just getting through the day to notice that the world was still going on around me.

That I kept accruing credits, enough to graduate, in fact.

Just because my world stopped didn't mean that the whole world halted.

I've been listening to Fun. (the band) a lot. All Alright, Carry On. It's the kind of music that makes me want to dance and sing and shout from the rooftops that yes, it is all alright.

So. Prom.

I have the dress. Nails are drying. A friend is coming over to do my hair and makeup. Going out to dinner. Taking pictures. And then....I don't really know what happens after that.

Whatever happens, happens.

I have no clue what that will be. I sure hope it'll be good.

But I'll be here, part of the crazy world, to experience it.

Suddenly

Somehow, I have my license. I am driving to school, with no one beside me. Really not sure how that happened. Paid $21 and stopped at a few stop signs and suddenly I can go anywhere I want. Within reason.

Somehow, I'm graduating in 22 days. Really, really not sure how that happened.

Somehow, I'm going to college.

Suddenly, I have more good days than bad.

Somehow, I have friends to say goodbye to.

Everything is happening so fast. Has happened.

And I've been here the whole time.

It's not like I was in a coma.

They're not bad things; on the contrary, they're amazing.

I'm not sad. Just, surprised.

Life happens so fast.

And they expect me to be an adult??

Birthdays have nothing to do with growing up.

I still have six months before that craziness is upon me, though.

Melancholy

I am feeling slightly melancholy.

I have no real reason to, I know this. At least intellectually.

It's Spring Break. The house is quiet and mine for a few blissful hours. The sun is shining. I slept in as long as I wanted to. There is beautiful music coming from my computer.

Yet still.

My emotions don't always have to make sense. They don't exist to be justified. They just exist. They are. And while sometimes I think I do need to snap out of it and move on, I also think that feeling and really just sitting with your emotions is important. Not wallowing. Just learning to be.

Just like how I usually don't (can't) fall asleep without music, but last night, it was perfectly quiet. And that was exactly what I needed. I went straight to sleep.

Melancholy because last night was my last time being in the Emergency Department. After only seven weeks, I had found a place where I felt comfortable. A place where I felt I fit. Because of the people and the environment and the newness and the sameness and learning and talking and being bored and flying high on new experiences. All of it. I just fit. That's the only way I know how to say it.

And then, I had to say goodbye.

Knowing perfectly well that I will probably never see any of those people (patients and employees) again. The jokes and the pain. The experience and newbies.

Those memories will start to fade. Already, they're blurring. Despite my writing and recording in that little notebook.

I just hope that while the specifics will fade, the important things will stay. Most notably, the way I felt while there. In the midst of it all. Belonging.

at the hospital

I walk down the long, empty hallway, considering the night. I'm trying hard to convince myself otherwise, but it felt a little tame. A little bit of a let-down after the past two weeks. No traumas that actually needed anything. Certainly not like the guy who was shot in the head, or the other guy who was stabbed. Everyone was telling me I should have been there earlier; it was crazy!

But my night consisted of more waiting than I would have liked.

While waiting for my mom to arrive, I sit down and start writing in my notebook. During the traumas I was writing obsessively, but when I was watching blood being drawn, or the woman's heart being stopped, my notebook was sitting on the counter, forgotten.

I get into the car. I start off slowly, explaining how the person who had a knife in their butt hadn't needed surgery after all. Which is good, for the patient. But I was disappointed.

As I talk, I start remembering more about my evening. I realize that while nothing was crazy like a guy who had been shot in the head, I still got to see some pretty cool stuff.

The prize winner was definitely the three partially severed fingers. Seeing bones poking out of his flesh, the nails intact on one side, and then turning over his hand and seeing halfway through the flesh on the other.

And although the heart being stopped was cool, it was also anticlimactic. You wouldn't have been able to tell the woman had anything more than bad heartburn going on. But the print out of her heart rhythm? Seriously cool.

It may not have been filled with running and screaming and dying. (Which is good for the patients. I recognize it's slightly sick and twisted and morbid when I'm wishing for a guy to be shot in the head. Let's clear that up--I'm not wishing for anyone to be hurt. But I know they will be hurt, and so I would like that to happen while I am standing at the charge desk, wondering what to do.)

But that's part of the experience too. Every day is different, and you never know what you're going to get. And above all, it's a huge privilege to be allowed to even see the blood being drawn. To have this experience at all, and as a high school senior, I'm still trying to wrap my head around it all.

on contrary-ness and writing

I don't like being told what to write. How to write. When to write.

I've discovered that with my blog; as soon as I gave myself permission to not feel guilty or obligated, the quality of my writing jumped. More of me was translated into the words, to my reader.

And I'm discovering that with my English classes this year. I thought that it was the genre of Creative Non-Fiction that was giving me such troubles.

Nope.

Our current unit is fiction/short story. Which I thought I would be pretty good at. I write fiction. Many of my posts are short, self-contained stories.

I even have lots of ideas for stories wirtten down. Whether they're just ideas, or the first few paragraphs.

My problem is not a lack of ideas. Or creativity.

(Although I do find it difficult to continue a half-written story. It's hard to remember exactly where I was going with it. Hard to get in the same mindset, so the writing style will match. Hard, but I've done it. Just not for school.)

So I must conclude that my issues stem from being told what to do. And how to do it.

I don't like being told what to do. It makes me contrary and grumpy. Which makes me procrastinate. Which gives me writer's block. (Or maybe it just makes me think I have writer's block.)

Whatever the cause, I need help. Advice. What do you do when you have writer's block? When you're procrastinating? Will you write my short story for me?

Pretty please?

***

My first post over at Miss Unlimited is live today. I would really appreciate it if you would pop on over and say hi!

Stuck

I am having a really hard time with my creative non-fiction.

Much harder than I thought.

After all, like I said, that's what I write here.

I write stories about myself and my life.

The thoughts that run through my head and the events taking place around me.

I write stories, I tell tales, but many of them are true. They are my stories.

So I have no idea why this is proving to be so difficult.

I have read examples of creative non-fiction. I have gotten some direction. I have sat and stewed and procrastinated for almost two weeks. And yet I still have nothing. Nothing.

I finally had a talking-to with myself last night, trying to kick my butt into gear.

So today I sat down, determined to write something, anything, that I could show to my tutor.

And I wrote. I did.

I stayed on the topic I had chosen, and I wrote. Not the required amount, but I wrote. The only problem was, as the story began to take shape , I realized that it had turned away from being my story. It had turned into someone else's story. This someone shared many of my characteristics and thoughts and feelings, but not enough to be considered a non-fiction tale.

This is where I'm stumped. Everything that is coming out of me is fiction. I am filled with a desire to tell other people's stories, not my own.

I think part of it stems from this belief that, "My life isn't that interesting. It's not interesting enough to be able to fill 4-6 pages."

I think I am also unaccustomed to sitting down because I have to write. Not write anything, but write about myself.

I don't know that I've ever had to do that before.

To create a story, one with a beginning, middle, and end, all about me.

I tell these stories about myself here on my blog, in a couple hundred words. I sit down and the stories just flow out of me, unplanned.

This, well, I just don't know where to start.

Creative Non-Fiction

The first assignment for my Creative Writing class is creative non-fiction.

As this is the class that I am doing at home, with my tutor, I am a little behind the times.

So I decided to find out for myself what creative non-fiction is.

I thought I had a pretty good idea, but wanted to be sure. My biggest question is, how much can be embellished, or how much artistic license can I take before it crosses the line into fiction?

And what I found is that no one has really defined that line. Because each piece is different, and each writer will have different ideas about where that line lies.

As best I can figure, creative fiction is very similar to much of my writing here. The posts that are stories, little bits of my life, where I don't write out the cold, hard facts.

They are factual, but also written with regard to creativity.

They tell stories and let you in on my thoughts and secrets, while still being written in an interesting way. A way so that you don't feel like you're getting my life story in bullet points.

Meditation

I breathe in for four beats. And then out. One. Two. Three. Four.

As my arms drift down to the floor, I can feel the tension draining out of me. I always hold it in my back, in these two spots that I can never reach without stretching.

I never take this time anymore.

It used to be part of my routine.

Every night, I would stretch and meditate and just be.

I would make a conscious effort to not think, to let it all go, and just be in that moment.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped.

My reading and writing and desire to curl up in bed and go to sleep took over.

All good things.

Which is why I didn't really notice.

I thought that if I was replacing one good thing with another, it shouldn't make a difference.

Not so.

There are so many good things, things that help me to stay centered, and to remember who I am. The writing and reading and sleeping are parts of this. But they were never able to replace the slow breathing and mindfulness of meditation.

Yesterday I needed it. To be quiet. To move slowly, but with purpose. I needed to recenter.

I don't know if it helped or not.

Because although I went to sleep early, I was awake for two hours during the night. And then awake an hour early.

I don't think it was because of the meditation. I hope not, because it feels like it could really help me.

I think I am stressed out, and worried, and unsure of what to do, or how to handle all of this.

I think it could have been worse, had I not taken the time to slow down last night.

But I'm not sure.

Not Funny At All

It's funny, in a very not-funny sort of way, how dramatically my week has changed.

Monday morning I wrote this whole, happy, smiley post.

I had had an excellent weekend, I wasn't that worried about finals, and I was only six days away from hearing back from the college I applied to.

The only thing marring my happy smiliness was the dead internet. So you never got to hear about my fantastic weekend, and the time when finals didn't seem like such a big deal.

Now, you get to hear about my terrible day. The one where I am worried about finals, to the point of freaking out.

It's Calculus. It's all Calculus.

I am done with English and Economics, not at all worried about Spanish (Although the teacher announced today that we have to learn new material over the next two days that would normally take us about two weeks to learn. Great planning.), and pretty confident about Anatomy (Although it would have been nice if we had actually used class time today to study. Instead, we watched what easily qualified as the stupid movie I have ever watched.).

But oh, Calculus.

I was worried. And then I got more worried when I saw the review packet yesterday. Which turned into a full-on freak-out when our teacher was mysteriously absent today, leaving us with a completely incompetent sub.

I want to go back to Monday morning. When my biggest issue was the internet not working.

I do apologize for the ranting and raving about school. I know I'll survive. But right now, in this moment, I'm not so sure.

Tired

I hate that the best word to describe how I feel most o the time is "tired".

Everyone's tired. It's the most common complaint. So I fit right in.

But it's not the same.

I know this.

But sometimes it's hard, when everyone else is listing off all their complaints, all the thing they have to do. Doing their best to win the "whose life sucks more" contest.

I tend to stay quiet.

So often I feel like words aren't enough.

And I'm not about to start listing everything I complain about in my head.

It's not who I am.

And everyone thinks they have it worse. And that no one else can possibly imagine what they have to deal with.

It's true. I believe that you don't really understand someone, all of them, until you walk in their shoes.

Which is, of course, impossible.

So I keep my mouth shut.

I think I've been dealt a tough hand.

I also think I've dealt with it pretty well.

And that's nothing to complain about.

overwhelmed

I'm feeling rather overwhelmed.

It's just sort of everything that seems to be at the same time. There may be enough hours in the day to type all the words, but my brain cannot function for very long. I can't write quality words all the live long day.

I think I just need to start. Because that's all I can do--start, and give it the best I've got.

I know this, yet I can't help but freak out and go into the whole but if I don't I'll fail and won't get into college and end up working at the corner store pumping gas, all because I couldn't come up with the right words.

I don't know where to start. Somehow, talking with my teacher gave me less confidence in myself. (Although that's really not surprising, considering that he told me he wondered how he was ever going to teach me to write.)

(Those last two sentences are my compromise on this. Maybe more will come later, maybe not.)

My compromise was to start here. It might not be something I can send to a college, or have my overly judgmental teacher grade, but it's a way for me to get the words flowing.

To remember that I can write.

And that sometimes I'm even pretty good at it.

on anonymity

I never really thought about the implications or potential consequences of having my real name on my blog.

No, my last name isn't here. Although if you wanted to, you could probably get a pretty good idea of where I live.

But if I type my name into Google my blog doesn't come up. For which I'm glad. My goal isn't advertisement or followers. It's having a free space to write. A place where I feel safe.

And when changing from Terrie to Tela, I never thought that it might stop me from being completely free and open.

Now, though, I have something I want to say. It's rather similar to this. It's something I want to write. To share. Because that's how I process things and get them out of my head. But I don't want to write this thing if it might get back to the person. Or really, anyone. I don't want the Tela on this blog to be connected to the physical me who goes to school and hopes to one day get a job.

It's not that I want to tear someone apart, it's just that in this piece of my story, another person happens to play a rather large part. A not-so-positive part.

I'm confused.

I don't know what to do.

So I'm rambling.

But I think my options are really quite clear: write the story, get it out of my head, but keep the details vague, or don't write it. Figure out another way to get it out.

Dance

Four years ago I bought a dress. I went with my best friend and our moms. We giggled and laughed and modeled, until we each found the dress. We spun and twirled and talked about earrings and bracelets and shoes.

I went home and showed my dad. I spun some more, and talked seriously about how it was such a good deal. (Really, it was.)

My mom and I went shopping again. For shoes. To match the dress. I fell in love with a black satiny pair that went perfectly with my dress. They were strappy and black and pretty and I loved them.

I tried them on with the dress. My parents oohed and aahed. I attempted to describe them for my friends. We were all bubbly and filled with excitement for our first high school dance.

Before I could buy a ticket or figure out what to do with my hair, I got sick.

There wasn't a dance or a dress or black strappy shoes. There were tears and doctors and home alone, not at the dance.

This year I put on that dress; it still fits. I put on those shoes. Carefully, around the injured toes. They still fit. I bought a ticket. I figured out how to do my hair. I wore earrings, but no necklaces or bracelets. I giggled and laughed and did make-up with friends. Five of us smashed into a bathroom meant for half a person.

Our parents showed up to take pictures. They oohed and aahed at all the right places.

Someone commented that it was our last dance. Everyone made sad noises about the last year. I kept quiet. It was my first dance.

I went. I danced. I sang.

I saw the best friend with whom I bought the dress. I did not dance or sing or speak to her.

I went to my first high school dance.