The Outlier

I can remember the first time I was called beautiful by a boy. I was in college, it happened at the end of my freshman year. I was almost 19 years old, and had never even been called pretty by a boy. Various other names had been used for years, the ones I am used to hearing. The ones I believe because after so many years, so many people using them, how can you not? I struggle everyday to believe him when he tells me I'm beautiful, because how can he think I am when every other person doesn't.

My whole life, I've been a tomboy. I like jeans and sweatshirts, I prefer going barefoot to wearing heels. Playing in the mud, searching for bugs under rocks, never brushing your hair. Me in a nutshell. My mother said I'd grow out of it, just like my sisters had. They went through a similar phase, and came out of it very girly. They love wearing dresses and heels, spending an hour or two on their hair and make-up just to go to school. What my mother never realized is I am not my sisters. I have no desire to wake up earlier than I have to in order to look like a barbie doll to the people in my grade. I value sleep over looking perfect. If I can wake up, get dressed, and leave in 10 minutes then I will every time.

My older sisters dated from the time they were in eighth grade. They had scores of boys who wanted to be with them, wanted the chance to take them out. My brother was the same way, except with girls. All my siblings could get a date in a minute. I was not so lucky. The boys in my grade thought I was about as appealing as a crack on the sidewalk. They never considered me, not even for a second. Did it bother me? Not initially. For the longest time it didn't. All my friends dated, had fights and drama, and broke up. I was their go-to for help (though I had no experience I could give them some great unbiased advice) and through their stories I was 100% fine with not dating.

I was the outlier in my family. No boyfriends, no dates, no 3 hour phone calls. I spent my Friday and Saturday nights on the couch, watching a movie or reading a book. My parents never had to worry about what I was getting myself into; all the bad things I did were only done inside the pages of my latest story. While my friends were out partying, drinking, sleeping around, I was safely tucked between the covers of the scores of books piled next to me.

The older I got without ever dating, the more my family questioned if I even liked boys. My sisters asked me first, then my mother. My brother and father never asked, but  I could the question was on the tip of their tongue. My friends asked me, the people in my grade would ask my friends because they were too scared to ask me to my face. I am a 1000% supporter of the LGBTQ community; they are wonderful people who deserve to love who they love. I do like boys, and only boys, I just was't interested in dating throughout most of high school. They didn't seem to believe me, because all high school girls are supposed to be boy crazy.

My family didn't understand, though I didn't explain it to them very well. I always told them I just wasn't interested in a relationship at that time. That was only partially true. At times I did like someone, yet I never believed they could like me so I would push the feelings away until they disappeared. I had decided that nobody would want to be with me, so I had accepted that fact. I would be the outlier in my family, no boyfriend in high school, or college. Be a strong, independent woman who didn't need no man.

Freshman year of college, though, everything changed.

Haunting Names

For as long as I can remember, I've been the fat girl. The mean girl. The tomboy, the lesbian, the ugly one. The robot. My father has a saying "if you earn the title, you're going to get called the name". I don't know exactly what I did to earn all these, yet here they are. Most didn't come around until junior high, when everyone is insecure and takes their pain out on the other kids. The fat girl name has been around forever, though.

I cannot personally remember the first time I was called fat, but I've been told the story so many times I feel as if I can. The first time was when I was born, by my mother. I was a full term baby, 7 lbs. 9 1/2 oz. Yet I was placed in the NICU due to an emergency C-section. My mother always remarked on what a fat baby I was. When you place a full-term baby next to the pre-mature ones, the ones fighting every moment of every day to survive, of course they're going to look fat.

The only time I can remember when I wasn't fat was when I was dying. A part of my body, my pancreas, stopped working and my body couldn't do anything about it. I turned ghost white, my skin was stretched across the skeleton I had become. Looking back at those pictures, of the time when I was skinny, makes me somewhat angry. I was dying inside, and nobody told me. Not until I passed out at a girl scout outing at breakfast, my bowl of cheerios saving my face from colliding with the wood table. My best friend sitting beside me, only 6 years old, freaking out because I was laying in my breakfast. Not moving, not doing anything to help myself. May 16, 2003 was the last day I was skinny, the last day I was dying. I was diagnosed and starting getting healthy again.

After that day, the day my body almost gave out, I have never been skinny. I can remember at almost every doctor's appointment being told that while the average child needed 30-45 minutes of exercise a day, I needed more like 45-60 minutes. I remember my mother telling me to not eat so much, for I'd need to take more meds if I did. I remember her commenting on my sisters when they lost weight, yet never me. I remember not being able to fit in my older sister's hand-me-downs anymore, the clothes started going from my oldest sister to me, then to my other sister. I remember getting clothes from my brother and my cousin, because they were more comfortable than my sister's stuff.

I have struggled with this name for years, really since I was six. And I will always struggle with it. It's just another thing I have to deal with.

The Power

                                   "I am my problem and my solution."

This quote has been my go-to throughout this semester. I never truly understood the gravity of what it means until now, though I fear I still do not completely understand. 
 I am the only one to decide how my life goes, if I succeed or fail. If I allow others to dictate what I do, say, go, act, think. If I give someone else the power over me. 
I have the power to decide to go, to stay, to make the change or learn to live with it. To tell the truth, even when it's difficult. 
To help my friends, or make them suffer alone.
To reach out when I need help, or subject myself to the torture my mind endures. 
Only I can choose to change my life.
 

The Pieces of Me

I am from books. Countless pages filled with the words I long to hear. Shelves stacked with stories I may never get to read.
I am from messy tables and counters, the plans of the day being too full to accommodate cleaning.
I am from my corner of the room between my two sisters; all our stuff spilling into each others because the room just couldn't hold it all.
I am from long summer days picking mulberries and cherries from the rows of trees out back.
I am from dark winters, when the only light source were the candles spread throughout the rooms.
I am from the lake, spending hours watching the pontoons lazily flow by, as the passengers wave  good-bye.
I am from memories, each one heavily photographed so we can never forget.

I am from my mother's looks, my father's thoughts, my grandmother's attitude.




I am not from money, from getting everything you want simply because you asked for it. 
I am not from immaculate rooms, for both my parents worked full time and we were babysat by my grandmother.
I am not from perfect holidays; there's been an argument or disagreement at almost every holiday for as long as I can remember.
I am not from a doctor-free life; I've visited one every 3-4 months since I was 6, and will continue to until my demise.
I am not from a picture perfect family, where everyone laughs and smiles all the time.
I am not from failure, my parents have always tried their best to do what's right, as have I.
I am not from anger; though sometimes we blow our tops, the unconditional love of family is ever-present.

I am not from pettiness, from an artificial life, from a facade.




I am from real life, with all it's ups and downs. And I wouldn't have it any other way. 

Regrets

The older generations look at us and say we'll regret so many things.
We'll regret our tattoos, our piercings, our music, our lifestyle.
But what they don't understand is that these things- our tattoos and piercings, our music, our art- help mind us together as a generation who's breaking the barriers.

We are the generation to enact change. We stand up for what we believe in, we rebel against the unfair stigmas that have been implemented for centuries. We are here to change the world for the better. What the older generations say we will regret are the things we will rejoice.

Our tattoos are a symbol of our individuality
Our piercings are a symbol of our strength
Our music is a symbol of our voice that demands to be heard
Our lifestyle is a symbol of change

When we are 70 years old, we will not regret the infinity tattoo on our collarbone, the industrial bar pierced in our ear. We will not regret the music we listened to or the lifestyle we chose. We will learn from everything we do, say, experience, and take those learning moments to make the world better for generations to come.

You say we'll regret what we did, but that's not the case.
We'll only regret what we were to scared to do, to try, to say.
And who wants to look back on their formative years with regrets?

Not our generation, that's for sure.

Happiness

Happiness comes...
When you least expect it.
Out of nowhere.
Suddenly.

Happiness leaves...
When you need it the most.
When you're clinging on.
Painfully.

Can we keep the happiness we strive for?
Or are we fated to live in a state of perpetual contentedness?
Never to feel elation, but never to feel sorrow.
Destined to live in the grey area, never drifting too far one way for too long.

Or are we simply too scared to face the sadness looming around?
Too scared to realize that we're not happy, not really.
Too scared to make a change, make a decision.
Too scared to move out of the grey, into the light.

And are we every truly happy? How do we know when we are?
When our eyes sparkle as we talk, when we can't help but smile while thinking about it.
When it's the only thing on our mind, the only thing we want to do/be around.
And how long can this happiness persist?
For a day. A week. A month. A year.
Forever?

Happiness comes...
Happiness goes...
Does it every stay?

If the Studying Ends

Sit in class for hours upon hours
Learn this subject, learn that one; remember this, this, this, this.
Out of class, do these homework problems, write that paper, do that lab report.
On the weekends, don't forget to study for the test, finish your final draft, read the chapter.
When you don't have anything assigned, still look over the information for when there's a quiz
Over the break, review these subjects, finish that paper, don't forget about this obscure topic that was mentioned once and then never again.

Over and over, day after day. The studying never ends.
Even after you graduate, classes never end.
Six months of training, yearly classes to get updated on the new testing coming out.
Take a test every few years to make sure you know what you're doing.
Read this book of new tests, look at this website for the information.
Look up what the code means, search the diagnosis because you never learned it.
Ask someone what the doctor wrote in their atrocious handwriting.
Is that an "a" or an "o"? Maybe its a "d".

Is there ever a break from studying? A break from the stress that comes with learning?
Can we ever revert back to when learning was fun? When we ached for new topics to fill up our mind
When learning happened at school, with maybe 20 minutes of studying at home.
When the only focus was school, not every other responsibility on top of school.
When sleep is lacking because everything has to happen before we can allow our bodies the rest they are craving, aching for.
When you have to eat on the go, or just not eat, because there isn't time between class, lab, work, studying.

Will that moment ever come, when all the studying ends?
Only time will tell...