Stardust

If I could trade my art and writing skills for physical strength and a strong understanding on math, I would become an astronaut.

It seems better to just be in the void of space and learn about the stars instead of staying on this little marble.

If I seem disillusioned to you, it's because it feels like a better outcome than just being angry, even if in anger I can still feel the potential for home and change.

Or maybe I'm confusing anger for passion.

Instead of becoming passionate about the world against all odds, I'm just becoming sad.

Which is even more depressing, since I cant help but view those who don't care as bad people.

"But why would you view them as bad people?!" No one said I chose to. I'm a human being with a very narrow and linear thought process--anything highly against my ideals is viewed as "less worthy" or "bad".

If I seem nutty to you, it's because I am. We all are. Take solace in the fact you're not alone in this madness.

And because I become angry at those less compassionate than I-- because I valued that passion that came with compassion for so long--I became a nuisance.

Do I care less now? No. I'm just tired of no one understanding or being as upset?

Should this have passed years ago with me integrating into society with everyone else? Why is compassion and thinking things can and should change seen as childish, anyhow?

I can tell you now what I'm passionate about isn't a coincidence. And that it really does effect a ton if people--namely me, and everyone I've ever cared for. I'm a female minority in a state with no voting power! I focused on making myself educated because I deemed myself unlovable as a baby!* What else did anyone expect me to do?!

Maybe someday the people I live with will understand, or I'll move in with people who do.

Who knows. I'm only 18.

With love
Nick Strange.
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*what I decided the first time in picked up a Harry Potter book (elementary school; six or seven years old) is a telling sign of what we teach young girls and what my personality is: I was not barbie. I wasn't going to be popular or beautiful or loved by boys, so I decided I wanted to smart and powerful instead. I wanted to command boys and demand things from them like a boss.

And I decided I'd focus on good stuff, too.

To this day

A friend sent me a video today.

It was gorgeous.

I trembled. And I cried.
And I remembered. I remembered all the stupid things, and I remember feeling pitiful over hurting at all. I still feel pitiful. It was never much. What I was, and what I went through, wasn't nearly as bad as what the people went through in the video. I don't even feel right saying "what I went through". It was more just . . .an experience.

I remember stupid name-calling, and I remember stupid friends. I remember each and every time I felt a bad thing at home. I know it was unknown to everyone else, especially at home. It still isn't known.

And To This Day I tell myself it was nothing and that I should feel nothing to run away because it's nothing and I should feel nothing and I genuinely believe this is true.

What I heard at school was nothing. I genuinely don't remember what it is.
What I was told at home should be nothing. I genuinely know I can change what's being said.

Yet I feel hurt.
I hurt.

Yet I know it's not so bad anymore. Not when I don't let it get to me--whatever "it" is, really. I know I'm hurt, but it's not that bad. I have a smug look, I have a smug smile, I look at myself and I don't just say, but I know that "Damn, I'm gorgeous!" I love myself. I can think that and mean it.

And that's more than can be said by others.

I went to shower afterwards, and I thought to myself of that cast wrapped around our hearts and the words written. And I knew they were wrong. I smiled. And I thought to myself "If my friends and I were all single, I'd be first to get a girlfriend--I'm perfect! In all my imperfections."

And then I cried. I curled myself up and I cried into that black hole I had newly resurfaced in my chest. And I told myself  "Don't cry, don't cry don't cry  . . . " And that the sun was ever tailor-made for me by a man or woman was just such an unattainable dream then. And that if someone was ever like the sun for me, then I knew I'd make them hurt. I thought "Johnny Cash", and the comprehension resurfaced. And now I feel better.

I genuinely do.


When I first saw the video, it was an emotion so strong I tried to suppress it. But I knew I could relate (even if I don't have the right to be such a baby). I re-watched it, open, to try and absorb it in--grasp at the idea of the video. And I felt myself gasping for breath. Until the tears rolled down my eyes.

And I smiled. And it was the most beautiful smile I've ever smiled, and I wished someone had a camera, and I said "I'm so alone."
I felt like Snow White.

And for just a second, I could see someone to sweet inside me. Someone I forgot I had. It felt like velvet. Like warmth.

And I felt light.

And I wondered, has there ever been a person on this green earth that hadn't been bullied? Some, glorious individual with all the great things in life? Someone that wasn't self-conscious about their makeup after being called pretty so many times and receiving no compliments when they had none on? Someone who hasn't had a lecture dumbed down because they were a jock and thus expected to be stupid. Some beautiful creature not called a bitch or a slut when being a prominent member of the cheer squad?

And what're we doing with these kinds of videos? Is it a vicious lineage on a food chain because everyone is called names and thus calls names to others until the poor suckers at the bottom have no one else to pick on? Are we catering to those persons? Will they ever forget what it was they went through and raise healthy strong children who in turn bully others?

What are we trying to do?

Who is it we are trying to teach?

We as a nation, and as a species, need a re-education on these type of things, because no one who has ever been hurt by this calls it "bullying", because bullying is such a small word. It's the idea of a stereotypical fat big guy in a black shirt and a mean scowl spitting on your face in a movie that ends okay. And even if we root for the underdog, and that's the point of the movie--to give hope to the real-life survivors--it still undermines everything that word implies and everything those implication do in reality. The scars never really do go away, and the mold and the grime and the hurt never really does fade forever. And the triggers are always there and the memories are always burned into the back of your eyelids, but you do learn to just turn away. Or so I've learned.

I don't think it's working too well.

I want to live here one day. Breath free.

But I know they were wrong.
I know they were wrong.
I know they were wrong about me,
And I know that I am going to do so much better than they could ever have hoped for. And if they ever become my boss, I am not just going to suck it up and hope they do not remember me. I won't sit there and look away and pretend not to care. I won't let it start up again.
But I know I won't have to. Because I remember them way more than they remember me. They don't remember me at all.

If fact, I'm willing to bet he'd find me pretty.

What is innocence?

My sister and I were hanging out today. Whenever I'm with her, the car rides are always long and quiet. Of the two of my sisters, I think I'm closest to this one. She's the second to youngest (there are three of us), and she seems to care the most.

I tried to start a conversation to mentioning I actually enjoyed watching CSPAN, and that I'm a major nerd for it.

She told me she thought I watched it to fake being smart. I agreed, and joked about being a "highly educated stupid person".

It got quiet again, and she just repeated herself. "I just--I don't know!" I just agreed. "I had a job at your age, at 18 I was engaged--" I laughed and said I didn't like people. "I'm not saying you need to be engaged, but. . . .  I dunno." I sorta got where she was going with it. "You need to get a job. You need to go to school. You need to grow up, you know? You're still so innocent, and it's starting to annoy me." I'm 17. And she has a point. 

"You're going to be an adult in a year--"
Young adult, technically.
"No, you'll be a full adult under the law. You can drive, you can vote, you can do everything! Why don't you drive."

She went off over how I'm going to be able to do everything under the eyes of the law. How I'm not looking for a job, and how I don't do anything.

I kept thinking she was in learning center at my age, and how I'm taking a top of higher level classes, but in the end she still has a point. I don't do anything, really.

I mentioned FAFSA and how I needed it done for scholarships, which I guess is only partly true. But you also have to be living in the US for a lot of these, so. . . .
She said I was too dependent on others and don't take responsibility. And that I need to learn the world doesn't revolve around my room.

Today was my nephew's first day of school. My sister cried for about 30 minutes after leaving him, and got to the school about 10 or so minutes early. She waited at the gate for four, claiming we could never understand how close her and her baby were.

He has a slight speech problem, because he never interacted with other children. I genuinely hope he doesn't turn out to be like me.

With love
Nikola Strange.

A continuation.

With the sudden influx of death in my life, true to my generation’s nickname, I can’t help but reflect on myself. As an individual.

How selfish.

Does it matter much [if I’m selfish right now]? I don’t know. I like to think it does.

My view on the topic at hand is not a common one in my family. In fact, it might just be mine alone—I don’t mourn the deaths of others. In fact I’m happy their sufferings are over, if they were suffering to begin with. I’m happy they lived their lives, and they had their happy moments and sad moments. So long as their lives were, for the most part, pleasant, I’m happy they’ve lived at all. And I’m happy they’re now resting. Or in a heaven. Or reborn. Or simply gone. Whatever suits their taste while alive.

I don’t know how my family would take that.

I pity the living instead. That’s the real reason why I cry in funerals.

How strange, maybe.

Mulling over these beliefs brought back memories: memories of childhood—a bookworm, refusing to put down novels twice her size, itching to get out of the kiddie’s section in the library. A loaner, whom spent time talking to imaginary, opposing sides of herself. An outgoing kid who loved to show off victories—something as small as being a “super student”—like trophies on a shelf. A kid that hated being told what to do if it wasn’t a teacher instructing her. A kid that liked work, most odd of all, I think.

I remember a teacher once asked what we had to be thankful for on Thanksgiving. While most kids said they were thankful for their toys, their rooms, their parents playing with them, I remember thinking those were stupid things to be thankful for. I raised my hand and proudly said I was thankful my parents worked for me. I was interrupted by a kid I don’t remember (lies. I still know his name) shouting “You’re mean! That’s like your parents being slaves!” I never got a chance to mention I was thankful I was fed and clothed before receiving toys (which I did receive whenever my parents could afford them, mind you).

Was that a strange thing to say? I’m not sure. I wonder what that says about me.

I don’t think I was that off. I still liked childish things, and I still love them now! I was never allowed to like Belle from Beauty and the Beast because my older sister claimed her as her favorite. Being the darkest of the three sisters, I was always stuck being Jasmine, whom I couldn’t relate to. I tried instead to be like Cinderella: she was a hard worker, and I liked that toil more than I liked her ending with Prince Charming (his name is Henry, by the way).

I remember I tried to learn to wash clothes or scrub the floors on my hands and feet, or dust the house. Mother never let me.

I also remember trying to lighten my skin with flour, and contemplating if the material would sink into my skin if I dipped my hands in egg first.

Esmeralda’s my favorite now.

Mother once said I was so sure I was a princess as a kid, I would tell her about running off to England to meet my relatives and be friends with Anastasia (bonus points if you can tell me what my favorite childhood movie was*). I remember that. I remember thinking I was a lot of things, because a gap existed on both ends of my family, grandfathers on both ends. I’d spend ages trying to imagine myself as a wizard or princess or superhero because of those gaps. I look onto those memories fondly.

God I love stories.

Mother found it strange I preferred my imagination to people most of the time. She insists to my older sister her baby boy is perfectly fine, since he’s largely the same as me. “Every child is different—you three are as different as could be. He’s just fine.”

Love you, mama.

Daddy always tried to soften the blow, though. I wasn’t your average kid, and my family has the bad habit of saying “not normal” over “not average”. He’d always tell me that wasn’t the case with me, “You’re different”.

Normal is just a state of mind, and “different” doesn’t mean bad.

Thank you daddy. I wouldn’t have come up with that without your chats.

In fact, there are times where the strange things are truly the most beautiful.

                Yet I feel that in certain situations, like a death in the family, whether it be good or bad is irrelevant.

With Love,
Nikola Strange.

*it was Jurrasic Park.