The Solution to Pleasing People: Don't Breathe

I had intended to write something different for today's post, but then I ate a bag of sour Skittles, read through comments and replied to something that many would say didn't deserve a reply. But I had sugar. And Sugar says I think it did deserve a reply. It's not really intended for the one who left the comment, and I want to use this situation as something good - to give my friend Sofia (helloswxft) a post I hope will help her realize how absolutely perfect she is. In fact, I removed the comment and didn't say anything about it to save the drama of comebacks from the mutuals.

I wrote this for myself.
And I wrote it for Sofia.
And I wrote it for you.

Comment goes something like this:

somethingsomethingsomething
Your twitter is supposed to be about Taylor. Not about constantly talking to your snobby friends.
somethingsomethingsomething
A Taylor Swift fan account doesn't mean you're listening to her leaked songs and ignoring everyone who doesn't have 122983738 followers!!
somethingsomethingsomething
I would prefer to see tweets about Taylor.


Well thank you, I guess. I'm glad you have my account figured out for me.


Listen, I had candy.
So a response. For me and for Sofia and for anyone out there who needs a little AMEN in the Be Yourself, Try Your Best category.

Here's a little something I've learned the past few years. It holds true to the non-internet world even more so, but I'll keep it to twitter because--well, when in Rome.

***

It goes something like this:


If you post pictures of Taylor Swift, they'll say you never talk about anything but her so you must be really bored.
If you post pictures of yourself or anything your own, they'll say you're promoting yourself.

So, don't post pictures on twitter. Ever.

If you wear gym shorts to the store, they'll say you look disgusting.
If you wear cute tights to the store, they'll say you care too much.

So don't wear clothes to the store. Go naked.

If you listen to a song before it's officially released, they'll say you're not a real Swiftie and you don't represent the fandom well.
If you don't listen to a song before it's officially released, they'll say you're trying to be "good" for attention.

So just stop listening to music. Completely.

If you tweet about your problems, they'll say you're desperate.
If you never tweet about yourself, they'll say your life isn't interesting at all.

So don't tweet at all. Deactivate your account.

If you smile, they'll say you're fake.
If you don't smile, they'll say you hate your life.

So, get Botox and call it a day.

I've received e-mails that I suck because obviously Mila is my favorite person on twitter and I favor her over my other friends. And I suck because Mia is my favorite. And good God, those poor mutuals, obviously Dani is my favorite! I've gained weight! I'm too skinny! Too much writing/not enough pictures. Too many pictures/not enough writing! I can't believe your friends are okay with you writing about them--way to exploit them! You don't write about your friends anymore, you must not have any!

Here's the awesome thing I've learned about ill-constructed and poorly given criticism: They all cancel each other out!

The lesson in all of this would be: don't look right, don't look left, don't create, don't share, don't write, don't talk, don't breathe.

Well, that's kind of not going to happen.

I do believe in being yourself.
Share.
Make mistakes.
Maybe look stupid sometimes.
Learn.
Grow.
Have fun.
Make things.
Connect.
Take risks.
Find good people who make you want to be better.
Listen to them.
Learn from them.
Read books.
Write journals.
Weed out the bad stuff. You'll know it when you see it.
But always.
ALWAYS.
Be true to yourself.
Be your best.
Be grateful.
Love others.

Here's the other funny thing I learned. If the same people keep coming back to tell you they don't support you anymore, they don't really mean it because they keep coming back to tell you they don't support you anymore.


Oh, I'm a picture girl, and there are no pictures in this post. Okay. Picture a giant field of daisies. And I'm running through it. And I'm wearing cute tights. And listening to Sweeter Than Fiction.

And Sofia's probably running next to me.

She's beautiful and sweet and she's always helping other people. Just tweeting things to make our days better. But what she doesn't realize is that she's unexplainable. No, for real. I can't explain her. She always sends such good vibes and even though she doesn't exactly realize all the perfect things she has to offer, they're there. Her kindness, love and beauty are her most obvious traits. And I love her.

Wait. I have more to say. So, applicable. The next part is, once again, for me and Sofia and you.

***********

Sometimes, when things are fine and good and there’s no good reason to explain it, I find myself stuck in my head, and when I’m up there instead of out here, it’s not pretty. I felt that way a little bit last week, and while we have all these names for it—I’m in the cave, on a funk, Debby Downin’, emotionally jagging—it can only be described as a mudslide of thoughts. What started as “I can’t believe I did that, what was I thinking?" suddenly snowballs into a nice brew of self-loathing poison. I didn’t message her back. I’m so irresponsible. I should do better in school. I can’t believe I haven’t cleaned my room in two weeks. God, how long is it going to take me to finish this? I can’t write. I’m messy. I think too much. I care too much. I don't know what I believe about myself. I'm too loud. Why can’t I be more like her? And if I’m not careful, it can end with a deafening, paralyzing I SUCK. And the worst part of it is that I’ve read enough self-awareness books to know that “I SUCK” isn’t a good place to be, and sometimes I'm silly enough to think I’m bigger than that—that I should be beyond “I suck” days—so then I feel doubly horrible for feeling horrible in the first place if that makes any sense. In equation talk, this is like Horrible² x Horrible² = All sorts of Horrible x Pi. Actually, I just wanted to say Pi because it makes me feel math-y, something I’ve never been—and oh yeah, I wish I was more mathy. See. More horrible.

I have certain proven remedies for specific feelings of mine. For example, if I miss my friends and I’m feeling uninspired? Remedy: Watch movies and bake cookies with Savanna. If I’m feeling overwhelmed with projects and don’t know where to begin? Remedy: Make a prioritized list and cross things off one by one with a fat red marker. If my room is messy and I can’t find my mojo to clean it? Remedy: Watch five minutes of a Hoarders episode, and I’m not only feeling pretty good about my house, but I’m gloving up to scrub my floors.

“I suck” is a tough one though. You can’t just say to yourself “shut up, you do not” because the latter voice tends to be more David compared to the Goliath of “I suck.” There are slingshots and stones though, and I find one of them in my books—the bible—a book that helps to guide many of my decisions, and we’re starting on the basis that it’s full of beautiful poetry. Last week though, I attempted an old Bible trick we used to pull when we wanted God to speak to us. We forced him to by opening our Bible and randomly pointing to a verse with our eyes closed, convincing ourselves that God was leading us to the exact words we needed to hear—like the game we used to play where we’d spin a globe and drag our finger along it until it stopped—and that’s where we’d live when we grew up.

“Speak to me, God,” I’d say. And then I’d open my eyes and read the great words of God meant just for me. And 99.9% of the time, it would be cryptic and unrelated, like “The Amalekites dwell in the land of the south: and the Hittites, and the Jebusites, and the Amorites, dwell in the mountains: and the Canaanites dwell by the sea, and by the coast of Jordan.” And then I’d be all, “Um, okay God. That makes perfect sense.” (note to self: try to aim at least for the New Testament with this one because Leviticus might leave you confused)

The cool thing about poetry books is that when you randomly open to any page and point to a sentence, there’s a good chance it will actually be exactly what you need to hear (no offense, Bible). So I tried it last week, and you’re never going to believe where my finger landed. Page 58: “We have an unfortunate tendency to emphasize our failures.” The author goes on to say that when we “lose it,” we should ask ourselves what it is in us that sees that we lost it. “Isn’t it our own wisdom, our own insight, our own natural intelligence?” And when we recognize that, we should celebrate that very fact as proof that we SO don’t suck. Hooray! Put your yellow shoes on, buy a balloon, kick up a dance and feel awesome for self-awareness, for the “Start here” space in the game of Being Better. For being HUMAN.

My twitter friends and I often bond over funny self-deprecating stories, and we’ve been known to clink virtual bottles over tales of “I blew it, how funny is that?” But we’ve been talking about the danger of too much “I blew it, I suck, how funny is that?” and making sure it’s balanced with “How am I going to move towards being better?” Among healthy banter the other night—with a balanced mix of “I blew it,” “I nailed it,” and “I’m working on it”—I brought up a quote: that you are only in control of yourself. Your siblings, your parents, your friends, the world around you—you can affect them, but you cannot control them. But you can control yourself. So I’m going to take that one thing I can actually control, and I’m running with it. Balls to the walls. What can I do right now to feel better, to be productive, to take charge? I can do the next right thing. And then after that, the next right thing again. One by one. That’s doable. I most certainly don’t have to figure out everything right now, and feeling a little insecure or unsure is not necessarily something that has to be fixed right now. The next right thing might be doing something nice for someone (a great way to get out of your head!) or going for a walk or coloring or cleaning one room or making the decision not to tell that gossip or maybe opening up a book to play the “point to the wisdom I need” game.

And since I wrote this, I already feel so much better. Sometimes for me, writing is hugging my feelings. Write it, say it, scream it, kick it, sing it, dance it, release it, kiss it goodbye and thank those feelings, however uncomfortable they may be, for bringing you insight.

And because I’m trying to be better about thank-you notes (but not feeling like I suck for writing them, stamping them and finding them on my dresser two months after I intended to send them), I’ll start with a little thank you to my feelings. It will work for me.


Dear Uncomfortable Feelings of Insecurity and Ickiness,

I just wanted to send you a quick thank you note for stopping by last week. I guess I have to commend you for your consistency because your occasional arrival patterns have proven you to be a reliable emotion. I noticed your steel-toe boots. Even though you used them to kick me around last week (and honestly, you need to see somebody about why you feel the need to do that), they were still nice boots. I’m looking into upgrading my own boots so I can more efficiently kick you back (I kid, I kid). You know, to be honest, I used to hate you. But I think my hate was really more that I didn’t understand you. Don’t get me wrong—you’re completely unpleasant to be around, and when I’m with you I’m usually only thinking about how long it is before you leave. But every feeling has value, and if I really think about it, you have helped me grow and know myself more. I’ve learned a lot about you too—what feeds you, what quiets you, what stories from the past have made you who you are—and learning more about you makes your occasional presence more bearable. Jumping too quickly to shoo you out the door when you arrive isn’t the kindest reaction now, is it? Sorry about that. Maybe we can work out a relationship—with boundaries, of course—where we help each other more. I had a teacher once who made every student stand up and say something nice about every other student in the classroom, and it was really hard to do for some of the students who weren’t very nice. But I think the teacher knew that the exercise was most important for those kids and for the students who were challenged to find the good in them. It changed our perspective. So, if I had to do that about you I’d say that you’re really good at helping me be vulnerable. And you are a good motivator. Maybe you could be a motivational speaker someday. Or one of those boxing coaches who screams at people that their punch is weak.
Anyway, I’m blubbering. I guess just…thank you for helping me grow.

Sincerely,

Me

And I love Sofia, very much.

Be Beautiful.

Dear Ari, Joyce, Keryna, Sofia, the other Sofia, Mia, Mila, Rafa, Claire, Chesca, Carina, Olivia, Michelle, Eve, Daena, Jess, Katy, Bella, Selina, Josie, Lucas, Issy, Yshas, Hudson, Taylah, Kirsty, Chris, Brenna, Mary Paige, Sophie, Kate, Becca, Russell, Saanya, Dani, Pia, Beth, Liz, Ali, Samantha, Peyton, Laura, Gianna, Ria, and about 10 other people whose accounts I love but whose names I do not know,

Number 1: Yes I had to go through my following list to write down all of your names. And they all have capital letters.

Number 2: Spell check doesn't recognize half of your names.

Ok now I'll get to the "lettery" part of this letter.

I wrote this so I could get all of my thankfulness to all of you out. And I can be sappy sometimes, and yes, it sucks that I even have to preface this with that statement, but I'll try to keep it on the down-low for the post.

Anyways...

Dear friends I've met on Twitter, you're all very young. Most of you aren't 13 like me, but you're still really young—the stories of your life just beginning, the first few chapters already filled with people who love you, places you’ve explored and experiences that, unbeknownst to you, have already begun to shape your thinking and strengthen your character.
 
I am beyond blessed to know so many amazing people, each of you so special in your own unique way. And today, I felt like I needed to write to all of you at once, which is really different for me. I write letters to my friends really often, but it's always been a letter for them alone. And now I'm writing to at least 40 people at once and it's a little bit intimidating. But I'm doing it anyways. Now listen to me, guys.


Right now while you're reading this, I hope you have a giant list of people in your life who have modeled what it means to be a beautiful person. A beautiful person is kind, hard-working, caring, curious about life, strong yet vulnerable.  Today, I want to tell you about something else that makes a person beautiful—something important.

Each of you was born with a light inside of you—the light that makes you who you are. All of your talents, all of your gifts, all of the joy and love and enthusiasm you have to give the world; your smile, your laughter, your ideas, your heart is all embodied in that light. Your light is unique to you. There is no other light in the world that looks exactly the same as yours.

So, please. Please. Don’t change that light. The world needs it. Don’t dim it, don’t wish you had a different light, don’t let yourself believe that your light isn’t good enough, don’t listen to anyone who tells you that you need to change. A beautiful person shines their light, just as it is. Please be you..

The world is a great big place with ideas and voices and images and opinions. They can inspire you or they can crush you. Let them inspire you. Take what feels good and ignore what feels bad. Don’t let anyone ever make you feel that your worth lies in anything but your light. It’s not your body. It’s not how much you accomplish. It’s not your grades or your job or your friends or how many people like you or how many followers you have. The most beautiful people know that their worth lies in the most precious thing they have to offer—being yourself. Shining your light.

Looking back, I can’t tell you how many times I've felt awkward, and since I'm only 13 I know there'll be countless more times. Sometimes I felt too loud and spirited around girls who were shy and alluring. So I shrank into uncomfortable quiet to be more like them. Lots of times I felt embarrassed for who I was and wished I could change things—things like my body or my clothes, what I was good at, what I wasn’t good at.  I wish I could go back and tell that girl just to be herself—that the happiest and most beautiful girls are the ones who shine their light and don’t apologize or feel ashamed for who they are. I wish she knew that she was perfect just the way she was and that she could affect the world and those around her most greatly if she just believed that she didn’t have to be anything but herself.

I love all of you so much. I love you just the way you are. I felt your light the moment I followed each of you, and I’ve been blessed to see that light continue to shine through my timeline or my DMs, or tweets we send each other. You are all different in beautiful ways, and I cherish the things that make you unique. I just want you to value those things as much as I do. The most solid, comforting, truthful, reliable thing in this world is what’s inside of you. Unlike money, you can’t lose it. Unlike appearance, it doesn’t fade. You were born with it. You will die with it. It’s you. The you I’ve loved since the day I met you.

Please.  Love that you.  Be yourself.  You will do great things just by being you.
Never forget that.
I forever celebrate you, support you and love you.
Love, Naomi

Sick

I have laryngitis. Really bad. To the point where I open my mouth to speak and, despite all my laborious efforts to will some sound--any sound--to disperse, nothing comes out but a weak, breathy whisper.

And I love to talk...I savor my words. So, it has been quite an experience these past couple days to sit quietly, saving the very few bursts of audible screeches I still have energy to emit for only the most important of communication opportunities...like asking for no salsa on my mexican food. Or, okay... saying I love you to people. But a good experience because, when you cannot, for obvious reasons, spend energy on outputting, you instead enjoy the ride of input. Taking in the sounds around me and expressing myself through other senses--and a few breathy whispers--rather than the occasionally obnoxious loud-ish-ness my character renders itself to.

And the challenge has presented itself beautifully with my friends. They talk a lot, and they always expect you to reply. So by showing them my note that said "Laryngitis -- I can't talk" I've been allowed to leave their comments with purposeful silence as opposed to the verbal onslaught that so often follows. So, the lack of voice has been a bit of a blessing, I suppose...and that's not just some far-fetched attempt to make lemonade out of vocally-challenged lemons. Promise.

 

New People

So, I met a new person yesterday after doing free indirects. I haven't talked to anyone new in a few weeks, so this sort of thing gets me excited, beginning within seconds of the "so-and-so followed you" notification. I'm kind of like an obnoxious child on a long drive, except instead of “Are we there yet?” I repeatedly ask my friends, “Have you met them yet? Have you met them yet? Have you met them yet?”—them, of course, referring to the incoming twitter users who hold my curiosity.

We have a nice thing going on twitter—a group of friends who’ve become like family and all fulfilling an important role. The Adive Giving friends. The Always Have Any Header You Need To Match Your Icon friends. The Sarcastic Yet Sweet friends. The Start A Conversation With Me Any Friday Night and You’re Guaranteed a Good Time friends, who also happen to double as the I Will Sing Messages to You Over Facebook friends, a total bonus. But I'm still always secretly on the lookout for people that are my age, or close to it. Fun people would be great. People that always know exactly what to say to anything. Just please no crotchety grouches who have huge accounts and ignore people and scorn when we tweet them smiley faces or growl when we tweet in caps.

Once word was out that this person had tweeted me, I went on a Nancy Drew clue search, scouting her account for any evidence of "cool person who will make good friend" and "close in age".

Last night, I was like "She's so cool. Dude. 14. That's so close".

This is like the twitter friend jackpot.

I get all fidgety and sweaty all of a sudden, fixing my hair even though she can't see me. Listen, me and my friends weren't the cool kids in school. Ok, most of us are still in school anyways, so moot point. Regardless, I have hopes for a relationship with my cool new friend, and first impressions mean a lot—especially when my account currently says “I don’t really care about anything.”

Katy is really nice. Her username is svperswift, and yep, you need to follow her. She's funny AND she's been to Niagra Falls. I think she's the bomb. I’m feeling some really good vibes here.

Weekend Rambles

So, I had a fun and busy weekend.

Ramble number one - Food.

Pizza. Me and pizza have always had an unstable relationship. When I was younger, I wouldn't touch pizza unless it had pepperoni on it. Then, for 2 years, I couldn't stand pepperoni. For the last 6 months, I've preferred plain cheese, but I could tolerate pepperoni. And now, duh me, I had no idea the pepperoni was made of PORK. So I'm done. Sorry, pepperoni. I hope we can still be friends.

The weekend would not have been complete without the following bit of unearthly loveliness. I actually have to stop and gather my thoughts for a moment because it is quite possible words will not do justice the deliciousness that is--there needs to be some kind of drumroll here--Costco's Hand Dipped Ice Cream Bar. (stop, applaud, bow--it's worthy).

I'd never tried it before and I was feeling adventurous, so I asked for one. It was given to me sitting on a white paper bag, with hot fudge dripping all over it.

I used my finger as a spoon while we waited in line. And after I couldn't resist, and I started eating it before it had cooled down. Only five ingredients--milk, sugar, eggs, cream and chcolate--but more than five amazed exclamations that followed my first bite. And I'm sure it's like the coolest thing ever for a 13 year old to be so capitvated by her ice cream that she doesn't care that it's dripping down her arm. And she's trying to balance not getting hit by a car and shoveling ice cream into her mouth.


Ramble number two.

Cats.

We went to the mall and met the cutest kittens on earth.



Clean slates. Possibility. Happy Monday.

We Caved and Colored

Have I ever told you that I like coloring? Well, I'll tell you now.

I like coloring--so much that often, when I buy a Spongebob coloring book, I've been known to sit on my bed for hours, hissing at anyone who comes near while I'm trying to color Patrick's shorts the perfect shades of green and pink. I color like it's my job--shading, highlighting, scribbling flecks of contrasting color into Barbie's hair or deliberating much too long over Wild Raspberry or Hot Magenta for the stripes in Strawberry Shortcake's shirt. I am selective in my crayon choice and have been known to choose colors based on their names alone. You would understand this if you're familiar with Crayola's Box 'o 96, featuring Macaroni n' Cheese, a warm soft orange, or Wild Blue Yonder, a murky mountainous blue.

I've also been known to throw out a perfectly good picture and start over if I've colored outside the lines or, God forbid, misjudged the intensity of Jungle Green (which, for the record, is far too vibrant for an eye color choice). So it has been a good exercise for me to encourage the freedom of expression that's so beautifully demonstrated by people when they color--sometimes out of the lines, sometimes all one color, but every time, their own style. And while I'm carefully gliding my yellow crayon (Laser Lemon, to be precise) along a flower petal to add depth and my friend's two year old cousin Sophie decided Shamrock is a nice choice for Bert 'n Ernie's faces, I've come to the conclusion that not only is it okay, but it's pretty cool that people do their own thing and stand by it. There are no rules to creativity.

***

Savanna's shattered phone has been replaced, but before she synced her contacts, I mellowed in the peace and quiet of a house with quiet phones--which overlapped to a vacant computer and Naomi caved-in. My mom calls it "the cave"--the secret place we retreat to when we're subconsciously overwhelmed or too busy. It usually involves--without even intention--ignoring the phone, letting Twitter interations stack up and hibernating to the inner depths of our homes where we bake, read books or, in my case, color. Retreating to the cave is a necessary occurance for me--a replenishing inverse from the go-and-do-and-see times. I like both ends of the spectrum--the thrill of adventure as well as the comfort and convenience of routine and feeling settled.

Holidays make me feel settled, and traditions like dyeing eggs connect me to all the puddles of nostalgic happiness, and dressing up in costumes and begging strangers for candy -- oh, that's the best. The holidays are coming up. Halloween and Thanksgiving and Christmas. Pretty soon, you're gonna have to to beat the holiday unicorns away from your timeline whenever I'm online.

I love that there is no reason behind traditions like dressing up and going door-to-door for candy. Or rather, there is, but when I Googled the historical explanation, it didn't excite me as much as "because it's fun" did. And I'm totally cool with doing fun things for no reason.

Happy Wednesday.

That Was The First Day.

The first day of school was today. (well, the first day of 8th grade, that is). I can already tell it's going to be the hardest year yet. I honestly can't believe that I'm in 8th grade. That seems so crazy. Didn't I just start 3rd grade? Wasn't I just wearing my hair in braids every day and wasn't I just stomping my sketchers on the rugs in the classroom so I could see them light up? Which, by the way, is still the coolest thing ever.

So anyways. 8th grade. I just know your dying to hear about it.

It started normally. Everyone read the giant chart in front of the library and found out their first period classes. Me and my friend, Kimberly, went together to read this chart, and I was just one big ball of mixed emotions. Really. It was so bad, I felt nauseous. Nervousness and excitement and "why am I here?"s ran through my veins.

So we got our first period classes. During first period, everyone had that glazed over look in their eye, because 6:30 came too early after 3 months of waking up at noon. My first period teacher passed out our schedules for the rest of the day.

It's good.

Now I feel kind of bad for poor Mila, who had to suffer through my rantings of how I didn't want any of the mean teachers, and how I knew I was surely going to get them. I didn't get any of them. Except for the only 8th grade P.E. teacher.
But that's a given, right?

My math teacher, Mr. Davis, has such an annoying voice. I just wanted to share.

I saw my old friends, and there were a lot of hugs given from me. There were just as many surprise attack hugs from out of no where that were given to me. And there were about a trillion exclamations of "I missed you so much!"

I have so many forms and packets and papers that my mom has to sign.

So here's to hoping this school year is decent.

P.S: I may or may not have thought I was over Hunter, then he said "Hi Naomi" and I changed my mind. IT MAY OR MAY NOT HAVE HAPPENED.

it totally happened.