I’m different and I talk about silver linings and stuff

crazywriterI want to stop seeing myself as so much of a victim, and more of an overcomer. I don’t have to be what troubles me. I’m not my past. I’m just Abigail, and I want to define myself differently. I want to be able to laugh at myself, to not care so much. Honestly, the only one judging me is myself. Nobody’s talking about me behind my back. Nobody secretly hates me (as far as I know). I’m trying to take on the attitude of summer. Yes, the season. Summer doesn’t care. It’s forgiving and warm. If somebody doesn’t like me, they can screw off. I’m just different. I’m Abigail. I don’t deserve to be looked at rudely or talked down to, bullied or mocked. Nobody can make me different. Let’s face it, I do weird crap. I don’t make any sense. And you know what? That’s okay. Making sense isn’t any fun.

I should start seeing the things I beat myself up over as good things. My clinginess, for instance. There’s got to be some good in that. What’s the silver lining? Sure, I’m clingy, but is that perhaps because I care deeply for people? Maybe every bad quality is just a twisted form of a good quality. Clinginess is a twisted form of loyalty and love, perhaps. Maybe my being easily wounded is because I have a sensitive soul? I’m sensitive to other people hurting, too.
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You Who Struggles

crazywriterDear you who struggles,

One day, you will give and receive love like an open window in the summertime. You’ll be so filled with joy that you’ll blow kisses at the sky and laugh at the wind. You will come to the end of your foggy valley and squint your eyes in the beaming sun. It will be radiant–oh, how radiant! You’ll run, with energy and emotion returning to your lifeless soul. The pathways before you will be quite rocky, but never impossible. One day, you will see yourself as the flower that you are. You will dance with bliss in the majestic ballroom of life, and you will feel beautiful. The spark will return to your eyes. Your smile, shaped by the cruel knife of pain, will be more beautiful than ever it was before. The nights will cease to be long and tearful; you will slip into a sleep full of dreams and pleasantry. The days will not seem so pointless, nor will they be grey and meaningless. Your heart–oh, your unique, wonderful heart–will burn with love for life.

But now, all you can see is your foggy valley. Continue reading

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Awkward: The New Cool

 

crazywriterOne thing I’ve observed in the past few years is the uprise of a new type of cool, a new social craze. Walk into a high school and see these people, self-proclaimed freaks, all about the hallways, in the cafeteria, and in the gym. It’s not necessarily a bad thing to be this way anymore. The millennial generation is the Internet generation, not the drug-experimenting party animals we’re so frequently made out to be. (That’s not to say that some of us aren’t party animals, I’m just talking generally here.) Many teenagers are describing themselves as “antisocial.” We’re Internet rats. We scurry about online, discovering the ins and outs of technology in ways that our elders will most likely never be aware of, finding new ways to express our discomfort with ourselves. The word is all over our Facebook feeds, squeezed in our 140-character Twitter blurbs, spoken in giggly, insecure tones among acquaintances and friends alike: awkward. Continue reading

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Cautiously Rash

crazywriter

I’m not a spontaneous person by nature. Well, it depends. I’m quite influenced by my emotions. If I’m rash, it’s because I’m experiencing strong emotions. Actually, I’m a really rash person. I’ll admit it. My feelings, desires, and temptations are quite strong. I don’t always think before I say and do stuff. It helps to be with a rational person who can say, “Wait! You should think!” before I do something stupid. I mean, it’s not like I wake up and think, “Hm, I’m going to do something rash today.” It just sort of happens. Continue reading

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InspiraBee

crazywriterWARNING: I was halfway through writing this when I realized that oh, this isn’t actually how flowers work. This isn’t actually scientifically correct at all. How did I pass first grade? Anyways, I understand that this isn’t correct. I just liked the idea too much to completely erase everything and start over with a new analogy. Try to overlook the problems and get my underlying meaning, okay? The truth is that I am trying my hand at inspirational writing again after a mind-numbing haze, and it’s really difficult. Really. I’ve spent a long time just staring into my computer screen wondering where to begin. I promise it’ll get better. I promise. Just bear with me until I get my brain back, alright? It may be awhile.

Inspiration is all around us. I like to imagine this inspiration as a field of flowers. Each of us as an adorable, fuzzy bumblebee flying next to our heads. The bumblebee pollinates are own personal field and no one else’s. The InspiraBee is ours. When a flower is pollinated, it begins to bloom. When it’s in full bloom, that’s when we get a brilliant idea. Sometimes the ideas bloom for a very long time. Sometimes they die off immediately. This is caused either by the lifespan of the flower, or our diligence in taking care of it. When we neglect to tend to an idea or cultivate it, it withers away. Sometimes it dies forever, sometimes the petals just fall off until it’s pollinated and restarts the entire process over again. So mostly, we have a fair amount of control over what we do with our inspiration flowers. Continue reading

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Perfectionism Destroys

crazywriterAt the start of every summer, I make a mental list of all the things I’m going to be during the next school year. I get this image of a perfect, confident, straight-A, beautiful, helpful young woman. Everytime. When September comes, I follow through with it–for a few weeks. Then school and/or life problems become too overwhelming, and I have to refocus my energy. By the end of the year, I look back and feel disappointed with myself and the girl I did not become. And so the cycle begins again.

But earlier this year, in June, I was determined to be that girl. I was going to do it! I was! So when September started, I hit the ground running. I kept running. The only way to succeed was, in my eyes, to set my expectations for myself unattainably high. So I never lived up to my own standards. As soon as I started coming close, I’d raise the bar just out of reach.
It crushed me.

I need something or someone to blame for my predicament, because I’m so sick of blaming myself. Because I don’t really believe in blaming other people, that rules out the someone. I’m going to blame perfectionism. But who brought on the perfectionism? I did. It was me. See? As soon as I try to find another reason, I realize that it really is my fault. Continue reading

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The Story of the Lunchroom Bell

crazywriterHere is the result of my inability to fall asleep yet again. It is a story–not one of knights and dragons, but of the true sort. Here is the story of the lunchroom bell.

During lunch my fourth grade year, the cafeteria often became quite noisy. When this happened, the lunch monitors would take medium-sized bells out of their apron pockets and ring them–over and over and over again. The chatter would dull for about thirty seconds and then rise right back up again. The bells didn’t get to me at first. As time wore on, however, they grated on me more and more. It was illogical and stupid. I felt that if I, a nine-year-old, could think of a better solution than the adults could, something was wrong. I decided to do something about it.

My first method was not effective. I raised my hand and asked one of the lunch monitors if she could help open my milk carton–you know, to get her in reaching distance. I then got up and threw away a packet of ketchup, which would serve as a distraction. While I was doing this, my friend and accomplice–whom I will call Beatrice–balled up napkins and stuffed them in the bell that was sticking out of the lunch monitor’s apron pocket. She soon noticed and responded with, “I am watching you.” Continue reading

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I love education, but I hate school? *rant alert*

crazywriterI really do value education, but I detest school. This is kind of a dilemma for me. And no, I’m not just being an angsty teenager. I feel really strongly about this, and I hate having my opinion debated all the time. It’s okay to have an opinion. It’s okay to not like something. Debating is not always helpful or welcome, okay? Please. I don’t have the tenacity to defend my every point right now. Keep it to yourself.

Okay. Back to my main topic now. I go to school and get great grades, but do I always feel like I actually know–I mean really know–the material? Absolutely not. The information, sadly, is not sticking. I (and when I say I, I think it’s safe to say that I’m not just speaking for myself) memorize the necessary test information by studying, take the test, get a great grade, and forget it. Three months after I learn something, do I still know it to the same level that I did? No. Do you remember all the layers of the atmosphere and weather patterns that you learned in sixth grade? I didn’t think so. (If you said yes, just to be a self-praising smartass, get out.) Nobody remembers it all. I know I certainly don’t. In fact, half the time after I take a test (especially in biology, but that’s just me), I get an A and have no idea about anything. If you asked me to adequately explain mitosis and meiosis, I wouldn’t be able to do it. Yet, I got a high A on that test. How come? Well, I’m being taught to regurgitate information, not absorb it. As long as I meet the state standard, I’m good. Continue reading

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Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer

crazywriterRudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (the 1964 original) has always been my absolute favorite Christmas movie of all time. For as long as I can remember, I’ve watched it several times during the Christmas season. It’s one of those things that never gets old. Just like the Polar Express–that’s my second favorite.

Anyway, a few years ago, I realized that Rudolph’s story is more than just a fun holiday tale. It has a message, one that was especially encouraging to me during that time of my life. The very thing Rudolph was rejected for–his glowing nose–saved Christmas in the end.

Excuse me while I go watch it again.

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Loving All the Enemies

crazywriterI really apologize for having nothing to write about other than memories and whatnot. I truly hope I’m not boring anyone. My present isn’t anything to write about–well, nothing I’d put in public or the Internet. My future is too shaky to really discuss. What does that leave? The past.

Sixth grade. Honestly, I still sort of admire my sixth grade self. It surprises me that I actually had that much strength in me. Then I start wondering where all that strength went.

Sometimes bad experiences change us for the better. For me, that was sixth grade. After fifth grade’s terrible experiences, I decided to be the sweetest, most accepting little girl anyone had ever met. I tried my hardest to put kindness into practice and make it a priority, even when people hurt me.

So, in sixth grade, some drama happened with three girls. Two of the girls had been my friends formerly, and one of those two stopped being friends with me unexpectedly. This is where my desire to be kind was tested. I could’ve retaliated to all the hate I got from those three, but I refused. This is where I admire the random strength I had in sixth grade: I still chose to love and care about those girls, no matter how they hurt me. Continue reading

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