contrary to popular belief, i am alive, and why i quit fashion

I'm not sure why I haven't been blogging so much anymore.

I mean...I've been writing lots (but really, lots. Like, I can almost see my story in solid book form now and the thought is both terrifying and exhilarating. Of course I am not delusional enough to think it'll be that easy, but there's a tiny sliver of hope that someday it'll happen for me). I've been working more. I've been running more. I've been reading a ton (currently on a Sylvia Plath kick and I just can't get enough).

I haven't really been doing that much schoolwork because, well, this is my last semester and to be honest with you my schedule is kind of a huge joke. I did get positive feedback at my fiction workshop this week which was so encouraging. I'm starting to think sometimes that I don't really suck so bad.

um yeah. So tomorrow I go on my spring break which is incredibly exciting because Syracuse is so gray and sad sometimes.

***

I never thought I'd say this even a year ago, but I am so excited to move on with my life. I am so excited to start that next chapter. And here's the crazy part: I don't even want to know how it all turns out. In the past not knowing made me so anxious...

...but now I'm like, wow, I am so looking forward to finding out what's in store for me.

last year I never would've thought I'd be writing fiction again like I am now. I never would've thought I'd want more than anything to become a writer again. I never would've thought I'd be thinking of going to grad school and teaching creative writing in the future. Never.

I had this clear-cut plan inside my head and no matter how unhappy it made me I forced myself to stick to it. I thought: magazines. I thought: New York City. I thought: fashion.

that's what everyone thought I'd be so that's what I felt that I had to be.

here's the truth, friends -- why I decided that stuff wasn't for me: fashion magazines triggered my eating disorder. I now realize I was only ever drawn to fashion because in that world it's not only acceptable to be a bobble-head, but it's kind of the norm, too. So there. That's the truth.

I'm sorry but everyone knows that's a f*cked up industry.

for years I've been so sad. And, honestly, sick. So sick.

maybe I wasn't thin to the bone like I was once, but I wasn't any better. I was miserable. I was jittery and anxious and scared. I was never, ever, ever good enough.

holy crap I was such an empty shell of a person.

I went to my internships and to my classes and I thought: I need to lose weight I need to lose weight I need to lose weight. Or someone would make a comment and I would think to myself, f*ck, I'm so fat and so inadequate.

I remember my senior year of high school thinking that all I needed to do to find happiness was leave home. I mean, it worked for a while. Until the novelty of college wore off.

it's true what they say, guys. Your problems will follow you wherever you go. I wish I would've listened.

the only thing that's ever made me happy is writing (okay, and Simba and my friends and my dad and my sister and my boyfriend but you know what I mean). Like, at my job I get to write a lot and although it's not fiction, it's the best part about the work I do. Years ago I abandoned this crazy pursuit to become a novelist because I feared rejection and I feared not being good enough and I feared everything.

so I'm glad this year I was like, what the hell am I doing? I am a writer and I've been a writer ever since I was 12 and wrote my first novel, tragically titled "My Little Pigeon" (books with birds in them freak me out, so I'm not exactly sure what was wrong with me but just pretend I never said that, okay?). I can do this.

it may take forever but I know I can do this.

and you know what the best part is? I don't know how this all ends and that's perfectly fine with me.

I mean, life takes some interesting twists and turns, doesn't it? For all we know twenty years from now I'll be a world renowned biologist or something...(HAHA NO).

thank you, zoe

here's a little story for you.

when I was little I wanted to be a writer. I mean at one point I wanted to be a gymnastics coach but I think that's just because I liked practicing with my sister and bossing her around. But anyway I wanted to be a writer. It all started with J.K. Rowling, really. I love that woman. I'm actually kind of sad I didn't come up with Harry Potter myself, but that's another story for another day.

so I wanted to be a writer and I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. I wrote all kinds of stories, set in all kinds of places, like Hogwarts because back then I didn't understand what copyright meant (I was young, sorry). I even finished one novel once when I was 12. I only ever showed my sister the stuff I wrote and she said she liked it but obviously I forced her to say that, so who really knows.

then some really bad stuff happened when I was 14 and I lost every last bit of confidence I had, which wasn't much in the first place. So I stopped writing.

in high school I stressed about the future way sooner than I should've. I didn't know what I could be now that I thought I'd never be good enough to be a writer. At one point I thought of studying psychology and becoming a therapist but then I realized I couldn't even deal with my own damn problems (and there were plenty, let me tell you) so really I had no time or patience for anyone else's (but that's not true because I think I'm a pretty decent listener).

then I joined the high school newspaper and decided I could be a journalist because I'd still be writing, which is my favorite thing to do ever ever ever, even though it was real stories, not stories I made up in my head. But it didn't matter because writing real stories was fine too. Also, I was deluded and thought being a journalist would be a more, you know, "stable" job than being a "novelist." Clearly I wasn't paying attention because the internet happened and now no one really cares about magazines and newspapers anymore. Oh and also the economy jumped off a bridge and all that. So getting a job as a journalist wouldn't be that easy or anything.

but whatever. I came to college and took my journalism classes and learned how to write better articles. Then this past summer I had an early quarter-life crisis (I say early because I'm not even a quarter of a century old yet) and it was just like, is this all I have to look forward to in my life?

and my dad whispered, "Novels. Your real passion was writing novels."

I was all like nah nah nah nah because nothing sounds scarier than trying to become a book writer, especially when you just don't think you're good enough (I always think my sister is so brave for following her dreams of becoming an artist or a yoga instructor or whatever she's up to these days. But then again she says she's a Jew-Buddhist so it's not like this is her last chance at life. So if she messes this one up real bad she'll have plenty of other incarnations to make up for it, right?).

but my dad kept insisting.

so I tried. And good God my stuff was so terrible. I got really discouraged.

but then Zoe said to me that just like anything I needed to get back into practice. Keep writing fiction. Keep trying.

and by some miracle I listened (I'm usually really stubborn, ask my boyfriend) and kept practicing even though I wrote some crap that almost made me cry, it was so bad. I even signed up for a fiction writing class this semester.

and I wrote and wrote and wrote every single day.

this week I even submitted a few short stories to writing contests. Which I won't win. Because unlike Alyssa I never win anything (obviously I secretly hate her). But hey.

anyway, I can sort of half get behind my writing now. I kind of like it, almost? I'm no Kurt Vonnegut, obviously. And I never will be.

but maybe there's something to following this crazy dream after all.

or at least I hope there is.

i am sick of being sick

like everyone and their mother, I am sick. I feel terrible, and on top of it, now I am really antsy too, having been cooped up at home for several days (ugh, I miss running!). So, to avoid sinking into a deep depression, the following is a list of reasons why life doesn't totally suck at the moment:

{1} I just recently reorganized my room at school, and I pretty much love it now. I suppose I'll share pictures when it's totally done.

{2} I've been reunited with Simba.

{3} I am about halfway done with my rough draft for my novel, and I am very excited about it.

{4} I have a pretty sweet schedule this semester: class on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays; work on Tuesdays. Every other day and time is mine to do as I please. Second semester senior year, #YOLO (I hate when people say #YOLO. Gross).

{5} I've been reading the Child 44 trilogy by Tom Rob Smith and it has blown my mind (and it's about Russia, duh).

{6} I am taking a fiction writing workshop! After nearly four years of taking nonfiction writing classes, this is, like, really exciting.

{7} I had a dream last night that I think was supposed to be, like, the next episode of Pretty Little Liars. It was pretty cool, actually. Spencer was on the "A" team (there's something sketchy about her, I swear) with Mona and Toby, and Alison was not dead, she'd just been kidnapped along with two African American twins. WEIRD. I guess I should be embarrassed that I have dreams about a teenybopper series, but you know, whatever.

{8} yesterday I realized that I have not cried in 2013. Which is a big deal, since I'm a huge baby. Yay me.

{9} snow is pretty.

{10} it's almost my birthday and I'm getting really excited about it.

what's in a name?

"Debbie! Wow, that is such a pretty name," the curly-haired Starbucks barista said as she took my order.

no one has ever said that about my name before.

I couldn't take the compliment. I just couldn't. I hate my name. I always have (sorry, Debbie. You know I love you. We've talked about this. The name, you know).

for one thing, it's ridiculously old-fashioned. Other than the Debbie linked to above, I do not know any fellow Debbies in their 20s. I know plenty of nurse Debbies. And cafeteria lady Debbies. And while they are all (mostly) lovely people, they are in their 40s, 50s, 60s. So being a 21-year-old Debbie just feels plain...out of place.

I feel that, with my background, I am entitled to a cooler name...you know, something more ethnic. Or whatever. But maybe I'm just a brat.

I always thought the name Debbie belonged to an early '80s high school cheerleader. One with purple mascara and a really dreadful perm. Preferably with a mullet.

and then there's high school, when all the awkward, oh-hello-my-voice-is-cracking-and-I'm-growing-an-ugly-mustache-just-because-I'm-finally-hitting-PUBERTY boys concluded that old pornos were, like, the best thing since bra straps, or something.

"oh hey, Debbie! Debbie does Dallas!" they'd yell down the hallway and explode in a fit of ridiculous guffaws. And I was like, what? So one day I enlisted the help of my trusty old friend, Google, and then it was, like, OH. I see.

don't even get me started on Little Debbies. Yeah, I'm short. No, I don't like Little Debbies, even though, hardy-har-har, my name is Debbie and I am little.

and "Debbie downer"? Please. It's as if I was never even given a chance (Negative Nancy, I feel your pain).

I always felt bad admitting to my intense dislike for my name for fear of upsetting my dad (my mom, not so much. She's done enough harm for me to consider sparing her feelings on the matter). But then, a year or so ago, my dad told me that he didn't really have a say in my name. "I wanted something more Israeli," he said.

FIGURES.

{can we pause for a second to discuss the fact that my sister, Ariela, got the pretty name? What is that nonsense about? Ariela. Ugh, such a beautiful name. And Debbie? Blergh}

let me explain my life story. Or, like, my pre-life story. I was born in February of 1991. During the Gulf War. When Saddam Hussein thought it might be fun and games to shoot Scud missiles Israel's way, unprovoked.

anyway. My parents lived in Haifa at the time, spending many a night in a bomb shelter with gas masks strapped to their faces (there was a fear of biochemical warfare, or something. I don't know. I need to brush up on my history). My mother was pregnant. Her father, a Polish Holocaust survivor living in Costa Rica, freaked out. So my mother flew to him, at least until things settled down in Israel.

my father had just been called on reserve duty, in case Israel decided to retaliate (it didn't).

I was born early, after my mother's water broke at a Chinese restaurant.

my mother's family called my father in Israel. "You have a daughter, and her name is Debbie."

and that was that. Cute turtle that he is (my dad is a turtle. I promise), he was too thrilled to have a child to even care what my name was.

so that makes me feel better. Because at least my horrific name is not exactly my dad's fault.

sometimes people ask me why I don't go by Hannah, which is my actual first name. I like Hannah better, after all. Well, nobody has ever called me Hannah. My parents always called me Debbie. And so if you were to go, "Hey, Hannah!" I'd be like, who are you even talking to? A ghost?

which is why I don't think I would ever change my name, whether it is to Hannah or anything else. How does one get used to a new name, anyway?

did anyone seriously just make it through this word vomit of a post?

p.s. NO OFFENSE IF YOUR NAME IS DEBBIE. Promise. I'm sure you're really nice.

my goals; december {a little late}

November was an odd month. There was both really, really good, and really, really bad. There was illness and loss. There was love like I've never known before. Life is very strange sometimes, isn't it? And so I'm just trying to deal with the day to day...

let's review my November goals, shall we?

{1} keep running! I've recently fallen in love with running, and I really hope to get better and faster. There's really no greater feeling than after you're done with a run...serious endorphins there. -- minus the time when I got horribly sick (seratonin syndrome is dreadful and deadly, by the way), and minus the time I spent a week in Albany with no access to a gym, I ran like a champ. So go me.

{2} do well in school. I don't know why this has fallen down the wayside this semester...senioritis? -- I'm trying. I really am. But when bad things happen, motivation tends to fall by the wayside. Luckily, I think I did well in my sociology final today. And I hope I'm not jinxing this now. 

{3} write something for my novel every day...even if it's just a word. Just something. -- big, fat, huge fail. But in my defense -- somedays I could hardly muster the energy to get out of bed. 

{4} look into more (hopefully paid) freelancing opportunities. -- yes. I wrote plenty and even made a little money.

{5} eat healthier. -- I mean, if you forget Thanksgiving.

{6} laugh more. -- despite all the heartache, it might surprise you to hear that I have laughed like I have never laughed before in the month of November. And I have my incredible boyfriend to thank for that.

and on to the next...my December goals:

{1} write fiction. I have a new novel forming itself in my head (actually, I have three, but this one seems almost imperative that I write now), and although I am not quite sure how I feel about juggling two novels at once, I think I'm going to give it a shot.

{2} do something each day to relax. Even if it's a little thing, like read a book for pleasure, or indulge in a glass of red wine.

{3} get through the semester. Just get through it.

{4} reach out to my friends when I am hurting more. I have so much trouble with this.

{5} stay active. Staying active makes me feel great, whether it be yoga, running, or skiing. 

{6} advocate for peace. In little ways, maybe, but in any way that I can.

lessons learned, hospital edition

someday in the far and distant future, I will be older and wiser (debatable), and I will gather my grandchildren around and tell them stories about my youth, always with the intent to teach them a valuable life lesson. The following is a list of important wisdom I gathered the last couple of days while at the hospital. Hopefully it will come in handy to one of you, and if not, well, you get to laugh at my stupidity, so there's that.

{this is me being sad, by the way}

never ever ever ever (get back together...just kidding; I can't stand Taylor Swift) take a drug that was not prescribed to you. Even if you are a life-long insomniac desperate for some sleep. Don't do it. It might have a deadly interaction with another one of your (prescribed) drugs and give you a seizure (or maybe that shit just happens to me).

while scared and frustrated and lonely at the hospital, hold on to every compliment you receive for dear life:
"ooh, I like your tattoo! Is it a jellyfish?" (No, no it's not. It's a hamsa. Funnily enough, my friend Alicia asked me if it was an elephant the other day. I didn't mind that one so much because I love elephants)
"you were so good in the MRI machine!" (Thanks, I've had a lot of practice)
"wow, you're 21 and a senior in college? You must be doing something right!" (or not, because I ended up here)

keeping things vague so that your father does not freak out is a good way to make him freak out.

if you are having the worst headache of your life, there's a good chance it's not just a headache. Do not ignore it.

try not to feel too ripped off when you are not given morphine like you were the last time you stayed overnight at a hospital (hey, I've only had it twice - at the hospital, yes - but that shit is like walking on clouds, so don't judge me too much). Don't ask for morphine, because then the nurses are really going to think you're a drug addict.

if you think riding in an ambulance might be cool (like I did), you're wrong. It's bumpy.

when the ambulance EMT asks you who the president of the United States is, say Obama, because you are sick, not stupid. When he asks you if he is on his first or second term realize that it is a trick question and say first, because again, you are sick, not stupid.

yo, ambulances are really expensive. If your university offers a free one, take it. If you are not a university student, I'm sorry, but you're screwed (see, it's good to go to college).

next time you think about getting a new piercing, think of how much of a bitch it's going to be to try to take it out if you ever need an MRI (yeah, my nose piercing closed, yet again, and my roommate and I had to pull a Parent Trap to re-pierce it...)

and speaking of, when they tell you you do not need to remove your piercings for the CAT scan of your brain, do not think you're off the hook just yet. They'll want an MRI later; you just wait and see.

don't hold your pee for over 12 hours because you are too lazy to walk to the bathroom with an IV in (I will be getting a UTI in 3, 2, 1...)

wonder why in the world the guy in the bed next to you is just so jolly about being in the hospital. Mentally punch him in the face.

crying to your father on the phone about wanting to go home will not make anyone discharge you.

texting your roommate, your boyfriend, your sister, and everyone's mother about how much you want to go home will not make anyone discharge you.

earplugs inside an MRI machine are useless. To pass the time, pretend you are at a Skrillex concert. Or, if you are not one for the Skrillex, time travel back to 2000 and pretend you are trying to connect to dial-up internet.

when you finally get hungry after not eating for an entire day, realize that you don't have to eat the sad hospital turkey sandwich and can order pizza like the guy in the bed next to you. Get angry that you didn't order Chipotle, and then remember that Chipotle doesn't deliver. Get even angrier.

always carry a phone charger with you, lest you end up in the hospital with a dead phone and no other form of entertainment.

wonder who projectile vomited onto the ceiling right over your bed, creating that lovely shade of putrid yellow.

try not to worry too much about missing class and work, your professors and boss will understand. Right?

trying to sleep at a hospital is a joke.

and on that note, I'm off to take a nap.

lately {things that make me happy}

things have been pretty low-key around these parts lately, so I apologize for the silence from this end. I've been feeling a little meh physically, and I just had Simba neutered this week, so I've been taking care of my little guy that I love so much. But anyway, here are a few things that I am loving lately:

{1} I generally could not care less about politics (I know you're not supposed to admit to that, but seriously, I just don't care), but I am so relieved that Obama beat Romney in the election. Like my friend Alyssa said, "vote for your daughter, not for your dollar" (and also, can we not forget that it took this country 16 years to dig itself out of the Great Depression?). Americans, my uterus thanks you. And also, my student visa slash immigration status thanks you.

{2} fall is so beautiful lately! Although it is getting a teensy teeny too frigid outside...oh, Syracuse.

{3} my runs. I love running. Love love love it. And running to Beyonce? Totally a plus.

{4} overcoming anxiety and depression. I'm not perfect yet, and maybe I never will be, but I am -- dare I say it? -- so proud of myself.

{5} I signed up for a fiction writing workshop next semester. I'm so excited! So far throughout college, I've only taken nonfiction writing classes (which I have loved, of course, but there's something exciting about really truly pursuing this fiction thing).

{6} being in love.

{7} my little guy Simba! Even when he misbehaves, I just adore him so much. It's so great to get home to a happy dog, wagging his tail.

{8} my relationships with my dad and my sister make me so happy.

{9} oatmeal, peanut butter, coffee, tea. Never fails.

{10} as much as I am sad to leave Syracuse after four years, I am so excited for what is to come in my life. I couldn't be luckier.

{11} I really, really, really love my job.

now

something happened last weekend that shook me to my very core. Hard. And I realized: this needs to change. The way I've been living; the way I watch life pass me by, always looking to the future, thinking, hoping, praying things will get better. Completely neglecting the present. Holding on to the past.

it needs to change.

and ever since that fateful, terrible night, I feel that my eyes have been opened wide, once and for all. For the first time in a long, long time, I meditated and prayed, making my way to Hendricks Chapel, an all-faith house of prayer at Syracuse University. It was empty, and I felt shockingly peaceful and serene, at home. And I realized, it's okay that sometimes religion makes me so angry, but it's also okay to believe in something greater than myself. I cried and cried and let it all out and finally I smiled so large because I felt that everything and anything had been lifted off my shoulders.

since then, I've been more introspective than ever, looking at myself, in the now. Not the past or the future. But the now. And I look at myself in the mirror, and I think (and forgive me if this sounds conceited), I'm pretty now. Not when I lose five pounds. But now.

and when I go on runs, I enjoy them now. I don't think, if only I were faster. I am as fast as I am now, and that's okay.

it's really strange living in the moment.

and also incredibly freeing.

I need to let go of the past. I need to stop holding on to the future, using it as a crutch, like, when x happens I will be happy, or when y happens things will finally fall into place.

I am happy now, in the present. It's so incredibly freeing, I can't believe I didn't think of it before. Being happy now, as things are! What a novelty thought, no?

I'm lucky and blessed and I deserve to laugh and dance and run and joke and kiss and hug and eat and travel and be the best version of me. Now.

i am an awful blogger

...but in my defense, I have strep, and I am stressed out, so I guess I will blog again once I find my groove.

oh, and also, yesterday I was paralyzed with the irrational fear that my novel sucks, and that I am a terrible fiction writer, and now I just can't seem to find the words. So I haven't been very productive on that front, either.

meh.

in which i write fiction

this summer, I found myself in the midst of a quarter-life crisis (only a couple of months prior to my senior year of college -- how cliche). I was living alone in New York City, working very closely with the fashion industry, as I did the summer before that, and suddenly, the city of my dreams was no longer this magical place that would make me, but rather, overcrowded, grimy, disgustingly humid, much too large, rude, and most of all, awfully lonely*.

and, as much as I tried to convince myself otherwise, I did not want to work in or with fashion or beauty. Not at all. I found the industry cold and fake and pretentious and shallow, and that's just not who I am as a person. That is not to say that some in the fashion industry aren't incredibly creative and artistic and insightful, but in my experience, it's just an industry that will knock you down to your knees and never look back. And it's all well and good to endure it if it is what you truly want to do, but for me, it just isn't.

I knew what I wanted to do, of course. I wanted to write. I always have. But writing -- well, it seemed so hard, so unemployable (and here is where my logic fails me, because it's not like the fashion industry is any easier, really).

so in a moment of panic, I turned to my dad. He came to visit me, and we chatted over dinner at an Italian restaurant in the West Village. I admitted to him that, well, I hated the direction my life was going in. Hated it. I felt terrified that I would be trapped in this misery forever. Thankfully, he was more than understanding.

"so what is it that you really want to do?" he asked.

"write."

"about what?"

"um, I don't know. Mental illness. People with interesting stories**"

and then he threw me a curveball.

"what about novels? You used to love writing novels."

I froze. "Um, sure. I guess."

here's the truth: Novels were the reason I wanted to be a writer in the first place, ever since I read that first Harry Potter book in the third grade. By age 12, I used to lock myself in the upstairs room, typing away furiously, and I even completed a couple of novels. I wish I could recover them, because although I am sure the writing was atrocious, I remember the stories, and I think they were quite good. I'd love to revise them. Or I suppose maybe I could try rewriting them...?

but somewhere along the line, I guess around the time that I started hating my body and doubting every last thing about myself, I figured that writing fiction would never happen for me. It's too hard, I thought. I'll never get a novel published. I guess I won't be a writer, but a journalist, instead.

lame***

and then, recently, I decided I was bored with my life and that I would give novel-writing another go...

...and all over again, just like that, I fell in love. It was incredibly difficult at first. I didn't know where to start. I went through periods of intense writer's block, something which I hardly ever face when writing nonfiction. But now...I cannot stop writing. The words are pouring out of me, and it's kind of the best feeling in the world. I want to be a fiction writer. And I know it's going to suck and that I will be rejected over and over and over and over and that I will second-guess myself, but man, I swear there is nothing more satisfying for me than writing fiction. I can't believe I ever forgot this.

also, I am now looking into possible creative writing MFA programs to apply to in the future (like, two to three years from now), because I think that I might want to teach creative writing at a collegiate level someday. Who would've thought?

...and this concludes my most footnoted post, ever.


*I don't mean to diss the city. It really is a fabulous place -- it's just obviously not the place for me.


**my college admissions essay was precisely about this, about how much I wanted to write about people with amazing stories. It was based on someone that I admired very much at the time, although unfortunately this person mistreated me horribly two years ago and never showed any remorse and chose to play the blame game instead, so that's that, I guess. Also, I don't quite know how I accidentally "fell" into fashion over the past few years -- I suppose I just thought it was what I "should" do. But it's not me.

***that is not to say that I do not enjoy writing nonfiction, because I do. I love it -- as long as it is on a topic or story I'm interested in.

the day i decided to write a novel {again}

last winter, while waiting for a flight to Athens at the dingy, food-less (the horror) Mykonos airport, a lightbulb went off in my head. Sort of. But really, I suddenly had this novel in my mind, this main character, and it was all unraveling (or, rather, I was spouting off word vomit to my dad and little sister, who, to be fair, were really good sports about it). We all got really into it, actually, offering possible scenarios and characters and ways in which the plot could thicken even thicker (it was already pretty damn thick, but you know).

then I got home, and I may have tried to start writing, oh, you know, once or twice. But then I chickened out. C-O-M-M-I-T-M-E-N-T. P-O-S-S-I-B-L-E F-A-I-L-U-R-E.*

*wuss.

when I was 12, I wrote crappy novel after crappier novel after crappiest novel. My sister pretended to read them. My main characters had cool names. Like Sanne and Emma (hey, I thought that was real original back then, okay?). Not like Debbie, which I still think is a name better suited for an 80s high school cheerleader with one of those poofy perms that is just out of control.

obviously, at the time, I thought I was a way better writer than I actually am (and certainly than I actually was).

anyway! Today I realized how bored I am on a daily basis. I go to class. I feed Simba. I yell at Simba. I tell Simba to stop shitting in the house. I go on a run. I contemplate signing up for a 5K and then think of how embarrassing it would be to be the last one crossing the finish line. I ditch the 5K idea. I go to class again. I eat peanut butter. I nap. I blog. I work, if there is any work to do. I yell at my boyfriend for not texting me back. I text Simba pictures to my boyfriend's sister and my sister and my dad and every single one of my contacts. I read. I watch Mad Men (or Teen Mom or Dance Moms. Real quality television). I do homework. I drink coffee.

buuuuuut I am bored!

the truth is that life was so much more exciting when I was doing gymnastics. But I am not anymore. Because I cannot will my back to un-injure itself, as much as I try to pretend. I guess I will write about this some other day. Maybe. It's upsetting.

so so so!

I have officially decided to put my big girl panties on and write the stupid novel. Yep. I'm putting it out there so that I can be kept accountable. Possible internet shame should be enough motivation, don't you think?

okay. So I'm doing it. I'll write in my room and at Starbucks and from the balcony with a side of coffee or chai tea. P-E-R-F-E-C-T.

dog shaming

I always vowed not to be that mother that shamed her children in public -- or on the internet, obviously. But guys, I have to do it. I just have to. I have a story about Simba that is just too good not to share.

{I hope that he will learn to forgive me someday, and I pray to the dog gods that he will not be scarred for life. He's a good kid -- puberty and all. Dropping balls make for one crazy little puppy. Ask my roommates. Or his bed, which unfortunately has been on the receiving end of most of the humping.}

for the past two days, my little man has been constipated. Which is kind of nice, actually, because it means that I hardly ever have to pick up poop. Except, sadly, this also causes me so much anxiety because if he doesn't poop when I take him outside, I start hyperventilating, thinking that maybe he didn't have to go just then, but he'll certainly have to go later, when he's on my bed. You know, I've got white sheets. I think my anxiety is perfectly justified.

anyway, tonight after dinner, I took him out for his usual walk. I thought he'd for sure have to go, since he didn't this morning.

oh, he had to go all right.

{this is about to get graphic.}

in fact, he squatted for a good 30 minutes, straining his little body, a turd very visibly stuck inside his butt.

after a few minutes of this, we got an audience.

frat boys. Girls coming back from the gym. Couples. Everyone.

"come on little dude, you got it!" the frat boys cheered.

it was the most mortifying and most hilarious moment of my life. I'm laughing now, writing about it.

once he finally finally pooped (you guys, 30 minutes later! I had to go to class!), the poor dog got a standing ovation.

a freaking standing ovation!

and judging by the frantic tail-wagging and tongue-licking, I daresay Simba liked it.

the thing about anxiety

it is not pesky little butterflies in the pit of your stomach as you wait for test results or open a college acceptance letter or await your favorite gymnast's performance on the balance beam. It is not nerves before a big exam or your first day at a new job. It is not "excitement" or "motivation" or any other euphemism that might make it just a little bit better.

it is ten sleepless nights in a row and bad dreams about evil mammoth rats and the certainty deep within your soul that everything will fall apart; everything will come crashing into you so fast you will not have seen it coming, not even a little bit. It is the world being much too large and much too small at once. Claustrophobia. Lost lost lost.

it is choking because you cannot catch your breath. It is caught in your throat and you just cannot recover it. It's too tangled up in ugliness to exhale. It is only feeling safe when every inch of you is covered in blankets or wrapped around someone you love, and even then you look back to make sure the fear -- that fear! -- doesn't come back to get you.

it's fear of this, fear of that, fear of everything. But not little fears, no, you see, the world will end, it's not a little problem, it's a big problem, and you are so certain beyond measure that it will happen to you; oh you just wait, it will happen to you.

and you hate it but you cannot seem to explain it and no one seems to truly understand because the nature of it is completely inexplicable.

once when I was younger, I read a blog written by a young girl crippled by anxiety, completely paralyzed. And I thought, how silly, can't she hold herself together? But then it happens to you, and by then you've been completely blindsided.

you don't want to depend on little blue pills for the rest of your life, so you put your big girl panties on and take a deep breath, or ten, and try to ride it out. Just ride it out. It will get better, not immediately and not even soon, but eventually it will get better, and of this you are certain, just as certain as you are that your worst fears will come true.

it will be okay, because it always is. And that's the good thing.

so i write

in a somewhat strange turn of events, I am no longer working full time like I was -- a week earlier than I expected. I am now mostly in bed, with medication, trying to will myself into believing my foot and my stomach don't hurt.

yesterday I was really shaken up. This is not how I expected this summer to go, you know. I thought I'd have the best summer. I didn't. And now I feel horrendously guilty for being physically unable to work (I grew up with a mother that taught me that you were "bad" for being sick or hurt), and I keep hearing the all-too familiar words inside my head: failure lazy waste of space.

thankfully, Zoe was able to give me some perspective: "You sit. And soak in that discomfort until it rides its way out of you." Probably some of the best advice I've ever gotten.

she also said "you've rarely ever been given the luxury to do absolutely anything you wanted (which can mean absolutely nothing but sitting and writing)."

so here I am, writing. And not just for this blog, or for freelancing gigs (not very fancy ones, but I've had a few. A sign of good things to come? I hope!), but I have finally started the novel that I've had locked away in my head since I was 14 years old. The words are pouring out of me; it's just so cathartic, I can't even explain.

okay, so I am only a little over a page in (not so impressive), but it feels so good to finally feel worthy enough to put this on paper. The last time I wrote (and finished) a novel, I was 12 years old (it was a really bad novel, obviously). It's a little (a lot) scary, but I can do it. My goal is to finish it within a year.

and Zoe, I hope you know that I wouldn't have gotten through this summer without our daily texts. So thank you.

so tell me

how precisely does one find peace within herself?
is it possible to feel an absolute, all-encompassing sense of okay-ness merely by sitting down and being you?
I do not know.

I am in a strange place.
It has been a strange summer.

why i write

The thing with me is that I don't ever suffer from "writer's block." I don't say this to brag, or in a woe-is-me-I-don't-have-writer's-block-my-life-is-so-hard kind of way, but I simply state this as a fact. I don't have writer's block. Ever. Much like I've never had a brother or like I've never been good at math. It is what it is.


I wrote my first novel when I was 12 years old. It was about a young girl in Austria during the Holocaust (I went through a Holocaust phase, you see). The thing was over a hundred pages, and realistically, it probably sucked pretty bad. At one point, the document got so big that it crashed my computer and I lost it all.


The truth is that I always have way too many words in my head - sentences, sometimes, or paragraphs, even - that are just begging to be put down on paper. I form the prose in my thoughts before I've even considered that, hey, this would be a good piece to write. Life happens, so I translate it into words. Sometimes these words sound pretty. Others, they don't. But they must be written down. It never feels like a chore.


untitled
by me


She finds
Nothing
Quite as satisfying
As the hours spent writing
Poetry
Inside her head

Take the other night, for example. We're out and about, at a club in the West Village. My best friend from high school, Erika, dances with a hipster and grabs him by his suspenders. We all laugh. It's really hilarious, isn't it? But all the other girls move on. I don't. I make it a story in my head; I give it words. I think, this is something worth writing about.


On Friday, while out on a freelancing assignment, I met this photographer. He asked me what I hoped to do with my life. Write, I said. I can freelance. I can write fiction. Whatever. Preferably, a mix of both. Perhaps it's ridiculous, and maybe even a little pretentious (because who am I to make it as a writer when so many others haven't?), but I want to make a living off of writing.


"What do you want to write about?" he asked.


I don't know, I said. I like art. I like travel. But mostly, people. I want to write about people. 


And the things that happen to people. Their stories.


I hope I'm good enough to do that.