Almost every time I see my sister she says the same thing.

“You really should start journaling.”

And to this very day, I have resisted. I have chosen to not follow my sister’s advice, something I usually regret later on. Instead, I have developed ways to kind of journal. My newest favorite being a quote book.

I thought of making it when the storage filled up on my phone due to the massive collections of screenshots of quotes I’ve found on Instagram. So, naturally, I used a notebook my sister got for me. 

Since then I’ve been writing down quotes on what seems to be a daily basis. However I feel, I’ll pick a quote matching it. If a quote resonates with me, I’ll write it down.

The most special thing is I can write some of my own poetry or incorporate my ideas into other poems. Each page has a different layout, design, and meaning.

So, in a way, my sister’s dream has come true. I write almost everyday, but not exactly the way she likes it.

 

It used to be white.

The yard was a little greener, and my dog was usually tied up to my tree.

My backyard was concrete and it would burn my feet in the summer time.

My living room had this ghastly green carpet that crept up the stairs and into the hallway.

There were pictures hanging up of my sister and I leading up to the second floor.

My room had light blue walls and white furniture with rose decals.

I used to sit on my knees when I ate dinner with my mom because the dinner table was too high up.

I remember watching Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune every night on the same black leather couch.

 

Now my house is brown.

The front yard is full of dirt and my tree is dying.

My backyard no longer has hot concrete, but cool stone.

My living room has dark wood tile and my stairs have no carpet.

The pictures have been taken down and the white walls of my house are too white.

My room is the same, except all my stuffed animals and toys have been crammed into a box that now resides in my garage.

I can reach for the salt and pepper on my dinner table without having to stand on my chair.

My black leather couch is gone.

 

And so is the house I spent my childhood in.

The frame is still there, the same white walls and grey tile.

All the pictures that graced the walls are in the same crowded garage.

But now I’m too big to hid behind the black leather couch when a movie gets scary.

I’m too old to play with my old toys.

My house is still there but it is no longer my home.

 

I love words. They are my sanctuary. I love writing stories with them and talking to people with them. Except I hate the words that carry bullets. The ones that once they leave the mouth, they leave a gaping wound. The one’s that leave nasty scars.

Depressed. Three times a week, I sit in an either too hot or too cold classroom. Mostly in the afternoon. This class is my English class and right now we’re reading Romeo and Juliet, a tragic tale of star-crossed lovers who take their lives. Except it’s not tragic, it’s pitiful. I personally feel bad for the hate the Montagues and Capulets have for each other. That book is just sad and to top it off, every class the word depression gets thrown around. That word pierces through my heart, every time it escapes the mouth of one of my oblivious classmates. Romeo and Juliet aren’t depressed, they’re in love. Depression is lying awake at three in the morning because you gave up telling yourself to go to sleep an hour ago. Depression is going to a movie or a concert and regretting getting out of bed. Depression is emotionally, and sometimes physically, demanding to the point where it ensnares you. Depression is not being able to cry because you just did three minutes ago. Depression is not to be uttered left and right.

Retarded. I sometimes sit in the library and my mind strays from the story in my hands and to the conversations behind me. I guarantee that nine out of ten times I hear someone say “You’re being so retarded right now!” However, that isn’t the case. The boy being called retarded is an able-bodied and able-minded person who maybe got a C on their last test because they fell asleep while studying the night before. That person didn’t fall asleep after crying for three straight hours because they got bullied at school again. That person doesn’t feel incapable of normality. That person isn’t looked at or treated differently than others. That person can wake up and walk through their day without a thought of hesitation. Being retarded isn’t a punchline.

Panic attack. “Oh my gosh, don’t scare me like that! I almost had a panic attack!” Panic attacks aren’t a synonym for being scared. Panic attacks are lack of air in your lungs. Panic attacks are your body not being able to stop shaking. Panic attacks are not being able to shake away the stress. Panic attacks are about the test that you don’t have the will to fail, because the next time you do, you won’t be able to fix. Panic attacks are arriving at the gates of school and telling your mom to turn back and drive home as fast as possible. Panic attacks are like a demon sucking every last bit of peacefulness out of you and flushing it down the drain. Panic attacks are serious.

Words have meaning. The reason we’re trained to keep defining words is because we need to know how to use them. You
wouldn’t say someone’s eyes were ocean blue if they were actually brown. You wouldn’t say you’re happy when you’re sad. Some words take a while to master, but sometimes it needs to be mastered faster. So the next time you are at a loss for an appropriate word, pull out a dictionary instead of pulling the trigger.

Holidays are such precious things. I remember when I was little I could barely fall asleep before Christmas Day. I remember popping out of my bed Easter morning and running downstairs to find the eggs the Easter bunny hid. I remember so many holidays with such vibrancy that it’s almost blinding.

Over the years, holidays have started to lose their significance to me. Only Christmas and my friends’ birthdays are important to me now, mainly because I can give people gifts.

I miss being able to have days of pink, red, and white hearts on Valentines Day. Spending hours on my mailbox and Valentines I would hand out to every one. I miss drawing two extra hearts on my best friend’s valentine and eating all the candy when I got home.

I miss my birthday. I miss waking up with a special breakfast and birthday cake in the freezer. Looking back, I really do admire how much my mother could surprise me in little ways, even with working a full-time job. I miss going to the Lazy Dog with my whole family.

And in these ways, I miss all the other holidays. Every year, Christmas, Valentines Day, Halloween, Mother’s Day, and Father’s Day comes around and they’re the same as any other day. I miss how special these days were to me.

This year’s Easter, for instance, was quite normal. I woke up and talked to my sister. Then I cleaned my room and watched a movie in the lounge. We did egg dying, but only for about 5 minutes. I wish that Sunday was special. A campus-wide egg hunt or a van trip to eat brunch. It wasn’t a bad day, but I just wish it were more special, more memorable, like the ones I used to have.