a breather (and an explanation for why I might look at you with crazy eyes)

As you can tell by the title of this post, it’s summer, aka time for me to take a breather. I am so glad to finally be done with junior year, as well as an especially stressful finals week that made me temporarily hate my major (yay for no exams, not yay for six papers instead). If anything, finals were a test of my self-discipline, and I think that I managed fairly well. And it didn’t hurt that I wrote one of my papers outside while tanning with my friends. What matters is that everything got done (early!) and I survived. Thankfully, I can resume my thrilling pantsless lifestyle of the internet, video games, and sporadic naps. 

But, when I do make it out of the house, I often find myself thinking about mind readers, especially when in a large crowd. Not in a creepy, obsessive way. More like, posing hypotheticals if they were to exist. Namely, if one were capable of reading minds, could one “hear” selectively through an active choice, or would people’s thoughts bombard the mindreader to the point where he or she could not discern any admissible information (this question points out a lot of inconsistencies within the True Blood universe, which bothers me)? Or, if the mindreader is, in fact bombarded, do some thoughts come off as louder than others?

After much deliberation, I think that what would stand out to me, if I could hear thoughts, are thoughts that have absolutely nothing to do with what is happening. Of course, this sort of thing happens all the time, as no one can honestly say that they are completely focused on what is around them all the time. But, there have got to be outlandish things that catch the attention of the mindreader.

Which is where the parenthetical section of the title comes into play. When in large crowds, my mind wanders, inevitably landing on something inappropriate (mostly scatological, but often judgmental). Whatever the content, it is something that I should not be thinking about. Once it registers in my brain that my thought is inappropriate, I think, “Well, at least it’s not…” and thus begins a downward spiral of smut and humorous observations (that are only humorous to me). Then, I think about mindreaders, and imagine the horror that a mindreader would feel, hearing about my urge to pull the white hairs out of an unsuspecting lady’s head that just happens to be right in front of me.

This is point when I look around wildly to see if anyone is staring at me with a disapproving glare or a look of bewilderment.

Normally, I would panic at that point, but then I remember that that person is a mindreader, and has therefore heard thoughts that are far worse than mine. Besides, if that person can read minds, there’s not much I can do to combat that.

Oddly enough, after all of that internal monologuing, I am in a position of power. If someone is looking at me weirdly, then I can out that person as a mindreader. If that situation were to arise, I would like to make knowing eye contact, nod, and carry on my way, thinking “I’m onto you.”

unaccompanied

Proof that my life is unceasingly awkward.

I had the joy of taking a red-eye flight across the country today, and, me being me, experienced one of the most terrifying and embarrassing moments of my life. In one fell swoop, my paranoia and pride were shot to hell.

Of course, this statement may be taken as hyperbole, but suffice it to say that I thought I was going to be arrested, then melt into a puddle of embarrassment. There was also an incident as I walked through security where the man in line in front of me let rip one of the loudest farts I have ever heard in my life and pretended like nothing happened, but that story is somehow less funny than the one I am about to share with you. I honestly don’t know why I subject myself to this kind of torture, but I suppose I just want other people to laugh, even if it is at my expense.

Once I had settled into my seat (window, of course), I performed my usual in-flight routine—put on my hood, popped a Nyquil, and ignored whoever was sitting next to me (seriously though, I would not be able to pick him[?] out of a lineup)—and was out before the safety video was over. It wasn’t the most peaceful sleep I’ve ever had, but it could have been worse. I could have been awake. Though, in retrospect, being awake might have been helpful.

Upon arrival, I performed another part of my routine—waiting until the absolute last moment to stand up and walk off the plane. I don’t understand why people stand up as soon as the plane stops and then just stand there until it’s their turn to exit. Far too much effort.

As I was walking toward the front of the plane, a flight attendant with a serious face touched my left arm, which a) startled me and b) made me uncomfortable, and asked me whether I was traveling alone. When I responded that, yes, I was alone, she told me to take a seat at the front of the plane until she came to get me.

Naturally, I freaked out. What the hell had I done? Was there some sort of contraband in my bag? Did I miss something super important during the flight because I was asleep (and possibly drooling)? I’m sure my eyes took up the greater part of my face as I made my way to the front, utterly confused and still a little disoriented from what can only be described as my temporary coma.

I sat down and waited, watching all the other passengers leave. The thought that crossed my mind with the most frequency was, “shit, if I get arrested, that probs means I’ll miss my connecting flight.” #priorities

The flight attendant eventually came to get me after what felt like the entire population of a small city deplaned. She asked me for my name and final destination, then whipped out a comically long sheet of paper. All I could think was that that document held the secrets to my future, and judging by how long it was, I was a little bit screwed.

Finally, I did something unprecedented: I looked around. It was just me sitting in the front row, with an elderly couple across the aisle. Then it hit me. My life was about to get super awkward.

The flight attendant assured the elderly couple that their wheelchairs would be there soon. I sat there, wincing, knowing exactly why she had told me to sit down.

She asked me for my seat number, then looked deeply perturbed at my answer. “No, that’s not right. You’re not on my list. What’s your name again?”

And then came the dreaded question: “How old are you?”

“Twenty.”

“You’re not an unaccompanied minor!”

No, I’m not an unaccompanied minor. I’m twenty years old. I’m a junior in college.

I know I don’t look my absolute best right now, but I didn’t realize that I look like a child.

I exited the plane with mixed feelings. I was ecstatic that I wasn’t going to be arrested or held for questioning. But, I did leave amidst a sea of laughter from the flight attendants and even the elderly couple.

You guys suck.

The face of a child. A sweet, sweet child. And yes, I did take that picture in the bathroom of the Atlanta airport. I have no shame left.

the magic

Normally, this is where I would apologize for my hiatus and make some promise to write more frequently in the future. I think it would be better for all of us if I just skipped that part and moved on.

It was in Disneyland, of all places, that I discovered a flaw so fundamental in my personality that I was shocked that I had never noticed it before. And before you ask, yes, the setting was crucial to this discovery. It was in the happiest place on earth that I discovered why it is so difficult for me to be happy.

As my friends and I were on various rides, I found myself doing what I always do- craning my neck to see their reactions to things as they were completely engrossed in each moment. Then I wondered, why wasn’t I as focused as they were? Why wasn’t I drawn in? Was it because I wasn’t as interested, or because I wouldn’t let myself be interested?

Then I had a sinking realization. Since they were fully enjoying what they were doing, they weren’t doing something that I’ve been doing on rides for as long as I can remember: actively looking for the mechanics behind the ride, the edges where the fantasy and reality failed to overlap and revealed itself to me. Even in the darkness of Space Mountain, I locked my eyes on the tracks and the equipment, not the (fake) starry sky around me. I couldn’t suspend disbelief for even a second.

Not even in Disneyland, not even on a roller coaster, not even in the happiest of company, could I let my analytical mind rest. No, I was constantly searching for any mistakes, anything that could break the spell intended for me.

I’m not sure it’s necessary to explain how this tendency of mine applies to the rest of my life, for it’s probably quite obvious to you now. And that is why I am difficult.

And no, the irony that today is Valentine’s Day has not escaped me.

on saying goodbye

The following is my final blog post for my Off-Campus Study blog. I'm kind of using it as a coping mechanism for now, at least until I can figure out how else to express myself. Being home is so weird.


The task of writing this final post has been looming over me for the past week, but the guilt that I have generated from not doing it has far surpassed my unwillingness to begin, so here I am. At 2 in the morning.

The thing is, it still doesn’t feel real. And by it, I mean both my experience in Stockholm and attempting to resume my life at home. I still can’t fully process just how lucky I am to have lived in such an incredible city. However trite it may sound, Stockholm will forever hold a little piece of my heart. Cheesy and simple, I know, but the truth isn’t always groundbreaking and dramatic. It can be found in the little things, like walking through Gamla Stan’s Julmarknad on Sankta Lucia, glögg in gloved hand. Or laughing as the Swedish children on the Tunnelbana demand that their mothers pay attention as they pull faces and struggle to stay standing. Or even sitting in a Swedish apartment, reading by candlelight.

It’s funny to look back at the beginning of last semester and think about where I stood. Coming in, I was reminded of former experiences I had had as a child, going to sleepaway camp or something similar. I thought that I would be forever changed upon coming home, unable to readjust to my former life. But I always did.

So I lost hope in becoming forever changed, and accepted the fact that, while certain events have an impact on my life, there is no singular event that could completely shake up my perspective. As a result, I became cynical, jaded. I didn’t think it was possible to make lifelong friends in such a temporary situation, nor did I ever want to refer to something like this as the best time of my life. It just wasn’t realistic to think that one small period in my life, riddled with dramatic events, could fundamentally change me as a person.

In a way, I was right.

Yes, the major events are the ones that are the most documented. But the minutiae of daily life in Sweden are the ones that I am going to miss the most. The change has been gradual, barely perceptible. Friendships were formed organically and developed over time. I warmed up to my surroundings and took the time to appreciate them.

The ways I’ve changed are more sustainable. They didn’t have the explosive intensity that comes with immediately establishing a best friend, the way we all did as kids. I just hope that the half-life of these changes is longer than they have been previously.

As I write this, fueled by jetlag and nostalgia, I urge you to remember the little things, the things that happened so often that they would be weird to photograph (and no, smartphones don’t make it any less awkward). I am beyond grateful that I was given this chance to change. Maybe the change won’t last forever, but I’m okay with that.

Tack, Stockholm. Jag älskar så mycket dig, och jag ska längta efter dig.

untitled

I’ve written a lot about writing before. And I’ve written about not being able to write, too. But the thing with me writing is that when I actually do sit down and write (which is, unfortunately, becoming less and less frequent), I do so with an idea in mind. A thought, most commonly. Something that I have intellectualized and analyzed and considered in various ways before committing to putting those thoughts into prose.

But then something happened last week.

I had been feeling like shit for a while, so I finally decided to have myself checked out by a nurse at the university. She found some lumps in my throat and recommended that I see a doctor immediately. Before you freak out, it turned out to just be a viral infection back there. Sure, it sucks, but I can handle it until it goes away.

But at that time, I was so freaked out, and so frustrated with everything that when I got home, I sat at my computer and wrote. Because I was so exhausted, my normal filters weren’t up. I wrote what I felt.

When I re-read what I had written, I was taken aback. Those pages were full of things that had been lingering in my head, not daring to come to fruition or unable to do so because I couldn’t find the right words. I had gotten to a point where I couldn’t have them in there anymore, and when I saw them all spelled out, I was scared. Shit got dark.

I did something that I had never done before. Instead of publishing, I sent the document to my mom, who, after reading said document, almost cried. What sort of person wants to make their mother cry? Needless to say, I didn’t upload.

I believe in expressing oneself. But I also believe in discretion. There are some things that I don’t feel comfortable sharing with strangers on the Internet. So sue me.

Reading that document made me realize something. I didn’t realize how much was actually getting to me. Yes, my first instinct is to think rather than feel. I may put on a tough act. But I am not invincible, and no one (besides me) expects me to be. I am not impervious to the sudden darkness, or to being alone in a foreign country, or to being frustrated with a body that can’t keep up with my mind.

But I am not fragile either.

So bring it on, Swedish winter. I can take you, mind, body, and soul.

Maybe posting this after a week’s worth of analysis on the incident is counterproductive. But hey, at least I’m writing.

fortress of solitude

So, for some inexplicable reason, I am currently enjoying the second break of this semester. Not that I’m complaining. Stockholm University gets me. But, while my peers whisked away to various locations around Europe, I decided to stay put. Except, it wasn’t an actual conscious decision on my part, but rather an absence of a decision. My point is, I am here. And it is amazing.

I have this entire week to see Stockholm with fresh eyes. I walked around Central Stockholm as a tourist again yesterday, eyes wide open. I didn’t have to rush to class or to meet anyone. I got to be selfish and do everything at my own pace. I was planning on going to Gamla Stan today, but I decided that I woke up too late, so I read and cleaned my apartment. My life is terribly difficult.

While being alone is among my favorite things, I couldn’t help but notice that it emphasizes certain characteristics of mine that are a bit disturbing. For starters, I’ve been wearing the same shirt for the past two days. Of course, pants do not accompany this shirt. I have also found that it is entirely possible to subsist on coffee, but I know that I’m going to have to make a change soon.

But the most disturbing things about being alone is that all I hear are my own unfiltered thoughts.

A couple days ago, I noticed that there was the unpleasant sensation that something was lodged in my throat. It wasn’t painful and didn’t constrict my breathing, but it was annoying and even now I am very aware of its presence. No matter how violently I coughed or cleared my throat, the feeling persisted. I drank hot tea with honey, swallowed large quantities of bread, and even gargled with warm salt water (which can only be described as leaving the feeling of drinking hot ocean).

Finally, I inspected the back of my throat with a handheld mirror and my desk lamp. Then, I realized that I don’t exactly know what a normal throat should look like, so there is a possibility that something could be wrong but I simply wasn’t trained to spot it.

In a panic, I googled possible medical reason why I would feel this way. Biggest. Mistake. Ever.

Correction. Using Google Image search was the biggest mistake ever.

I was bombarded with images of strep throat and throat cancer, as well as lists of symptoms for the aforementioned that may or may not correspond with my condition. Of course, one website mentioned that it could be due to stress, so the best course of action would be to not think about it and calm down. Clearly that person does not understand how a hypochondriac functions (or does not function). I cannot stop thinking about whatever the fuck is back there, and I am far from calm. And, since there’s no distraction from it, I keep chugging tea and eating bread with the hope that it’ll just go away.

In the meanwhile, I’m going to do some more reading and figure out what I want to do for the rest of the week.

is this good?

Caution: I am about to toot my own horn a teeny bit.

I have been told I am a good writer. To those of you who have said this to me, thank you.It really means a lot.

But as I sit here, writing this piece instead of one of the two papers I have due on Tuesday, I have to wonder: what constitutes a good writer? How do we know the difference?

If a good writer is determined by writing habits, then I doubt I qualify. I mean, I’m using this bit of writing here to procrastinate on writing something that will actually be assessed and graded. I do not exactly have my priorities straight at this moment in time. Also, as I am sure you have noticed (or can see by the pattern in the archives of this blog), I am not consistent. I write in spurts,and then am negligent for a while until I find inspiration or motivation or something. When I am compelled, I write. Otherwise, I fill my time in another way. Not exactly the most sustainable way to be a good writer.

If a good writer is determined by subject matter, then my qualification is also debatable. When people ask me what I write about, I am always at a loss for words. How would you answer? Life? My thoughts? Nothing? Everything? I cannot answer the question appropriately because I don’t know what the answer is. As a result, I either sound like a pretentious douchebag or an oblivious idiot, neither of which (I hope) accurately describe me. Is it possible to be a good writer when I don’t even know exactly what it is I write about? Jury’s still out.

If a good writer is determined by voice, then I guess I am okay. I know that there are very few people who share my point of view, and there are even fewer who articulate themselves in the same way. My word choice and syntax are uniquely my own, and for that I am grateful. But just because I have a distinctive style does not mean that it is any good. Valley girls have a distinctive style, but that doesn’t make them any less irritating.

So where does this breakdown leave me? Exactly where I was when I started—unsure of myself and my abilities, yet somehow still eager to persist. Maybe being a good writer is being a little bit stupid, intensely self-critical, and extraordinarily caffeinated. If that is the case, then I think I may have a bright future ahead of me. I may even be able to develop into a great writer. Of course, there is the possibility that I might spiral downward into a mess of frustration and hindered social skills. The two are not mutually exclusive. But hey, if I’m a great writer, people will be able to understand me regardless,and may even cite my idiosyncrasies as lovable quirks.