Archive for October 2013

Home Archive for October 2013

My very first favorite book was called “Chrysanthemum.” It’s a great story, even still, about a girl who feels self-conscious because her name- the titular Chrysanthemum- is different and unique. She’s afraid to stand out, and afraid to show others who she really is. Chrysanthemum, of course, learned to love and be proud of who she was. It’s possible she was my first favorite weirdo.

I’ve always had a thing for the weird ones. My friend group has always more off in the corner, or more accurately—off in another room entirely, playing a weird game with super complex rules that we made up 5 minutes ago while our favorite teacher looked on and laughed, and everyone else was in the cafeteria eating lunch.

I like the girls who wear sundresses in winter and cloaks in summer and wear their slippers to 2 pm classes because they damn well felt like it. I like boys with bright colored hair and people with interesting tattoos and the kind of folks that listen to angsty music and write really good poetry. I like the people who like what they like, and don’t care who knows it.

And I think part of that is because I’ve always held a deep admiration for people who seem to not care because I care so much. I over-analyze and over-judge myself like crazy, and I am super envious of the people who know how to shut off the ever nagging voice in their heads that is worrying about what other people will say.

Being friends with people who live the lives they want to live- public opinion be damned- has taught me a couple of very important things. The first of these things being that everyone cares sometimes, even if they seem like they don’t. And there isn’t shame in caring, as long as you don’t let that care stop or define you.

I want to do the things I’ve been afraid of. I want to wear weird clothes and do stupid karaoke and write even more emotionally then I already do. I want to paint my nails dumb colors and wear really bright lipstick and read novels in public even if the covers are super embarrassing. I want to do the things I want to do, judgment be dammed.

I’m working very hard not to get caught up in that paralyzing fear of other’s opinions. Luckily, I’ve got some really great weirdos to help me work it all out.

I can’t really move my left leg right now. Not like… permanently or anything, but I am currently sitting on my bed unable to move. I skipped class today because I could not physically move myself to get there and I feel really guilty about it, but also I feel guilty for feeling guilty because I can’t move my leg.

Six days ago I had knee surgery. I had torn my meniscus and my ACL over the summer, and the crutch life and constant tiredness and inability to function like a real human being that came from those months of crippileness had worn me down, and the surgical option seemed like the way to go. So I did it.

I spent almost a week at home on the couch at returned to campus Sunday morning ready to face the world. I could walk places! I could do things and meet people and explore all the places I hadn’t seen yet due to my inability to get around like a functional human being! Except I can’t move my leg.

It’s very possible I tried to do too much too soon. I ditched the crutches and walked everywhere on my first day back, and now the consequences are biting me in the butt. Getting to class yesterday was hard… getting back from class yesterday was torture. As disabilities services would like me to remember, this is a “small campus.” But it sure doesn’t feel small as I am slowly and pathetically dragging myself from one end of it to another.

I feel guilty. Like I’m not trying hard enough or fighting valiantly or doing whatever thing the stoic injured person is supposed to do to earn respect. I’m sitting, meekly, on my bed, taking a lot of advil, reading, and trying to convince myself that it’s going to be ok that I miss class- because honestly, there isn’t really another option.

I’m (clearly!) not an expert in knee surgery. This might just be what the healing process is like. Maybe I’m just a whimp, and everyone else is able to fight through the amount of pain that I’m feeling. I don’t know. I don’t know if I would feel better if I did know.

These three literal scars are the only outward proof of all the physical
pain i'm going through. It doesn't seem like much, but it sure
feels like it.

But it’s also pretty clear that I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now. I can’t just sit here forever. If I wait till the pain dies down, am I going to be waiting too long? I’m scared, and I’m unsure, and I don’t know what my next step is, or even (physically and emotionally) when I’m going to feel comfortable taking another step.

I’m trying to keep on keepin' on.

Daniel's high school graduation

When my brother Daniel was born I called him Alec for a solid week. It had been on the list of possible names my parents had come up with, and it was my favorite, so I just continued on like that was the one that they had picked. I confused a lot of people, though probably not Daniel who was too young to really tell the difference. Somehow he found it in his heart to love me any way.

When we were in high school I called my brother Dork a lot. Almost always affectionately. My brother has a tendency to get carried away with the things he is passionate about, and before anyone realizes it, it’s 30 minutes later and you’ve learned more than you ever thought you would about Kanye West’s upbringing, or the differences between types of soccer cleats.

I called my brother THE WORST a few more times than I had any right to. Two teenagers under the same roof can be hard, and Daniel and I definitely clashed more times than I’m proud of. All siblings do, I suppose.

I call my brother Bud, for reasons I don’t even quite understand myself. It feels comfortable and warm, and kind of weird and jokey in a way that makes sense in our warm and weird family.

I called my brother “the boy” whenever my parents asked how we were doing. “I’m downstairs reading and watching tv, the boy is in his room playing video games.” Growing up in a crazy, busy, house like ours, sometimes a simple descriptor is all you got. The girl. The boy. The dog.

I call my brother a superstar, though usually when I’m explaining him to someone else. It’s hard to describe Daniel without being impressed. He’s smart and funny and successful, and manages to do it all in a way that seems casual and relaxed, even when I’m well aware of how hard he is working.

Daniel making a short joke. Me getting annoyed at a short joke.
The proper balance of the world

I never called my brother Danny. Danny was reserved for the Kessler family, who seemed to insist on it, and basically no one else. When Daniel tried to switch over to Danny in high school, I never seemed to get the hang of it. It wasn’t out of spite, promise. I didn’t even make fun of him too much, when I heard his friends call you Danny in the hallways at school.

I call Daniel my little brother, even though that’s really true only abstractly. I might be the older one, but Daniel towers over me by a good 8 inches. This, of course, doesn’t so much mean that Daniel is tall as much as it means that it is really really easy to tower over me. Also, it’s very possible we are reaching the end of the period of his life where I am allowed to refer to him as ‘little’.

I call my brother family, always. Even when I’m mad at him and even when he’s mad at me. Family isn’t a nickname that you can grow out of, it’s too solid to be broken and too fluid to be defined.

Daniel's bib says "future Democrat" because OF COURSE IT DOES

Today is my (not so) little brother’s 18^th birthday. A fact which seems almost impossible to believe. I haven’t seen him for almost 5 months now, which is the longest we have ever been apart. Skype dates are great, but I can’t pretend that I’m not counting down till I get to see him at Thanksgiving.

I love my brother a lot, and I am extremely proud of him. He’s accomplished some pretty incredible things in the past 365 days, and I’m sure the next year will be even more amazing.

So happy birthday, Daniel. I love you lots, even if the nicknames I call you don’t always make it seem that way.

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Weirdos

Attempting to Keep On Keepin' On

Things I Call (And Refuse to Call) My Brother

Happy Birthday Dad