As a kid, I was a huge crybaby (apparently in Japanese, crybaby is 泣き虫, which literally translates to crying bug). Not crybaby in the sense that the littlest thing would set off waterworks. I cried mostly because people would say mean things to me, not to say that I was bullied – I wasn’t. I just didn’t have too thick of skin. Something happened between then and high school though, I randomly decided to toughen up, and crying in front of people became embarrassing.
I’m still a crybaby, Little Miss Sunshine, Australia, and The Hobbit among other movies made me cry like no other, but those three were the most notable. I cry because I’m frustrated. But I don’t cry about things that one would suspect someone to cry about. I hate crying in front of people, and someone being mean to me or hurting me isn’t going to make me cry. Missing someone will make me sad, but for the most part I’m not going to cry, and if I do it’ll be in private.
I was telling someone the other day about our mutual friend who was crying essentially every day because some of our best friends were moving back to the states. ”You’d have to be a huge asshole to not want to immediately comfort a crying person,” I told my friend, and it’s true. But to me crying puts all focus on yourself. And I hate that. I don’t want people cooing over me. I mean, I do, but it’s embarrassing. I understand being upset about someone leaving, but crying to them everyday about them leaving isn’t going to change a thing.
My poor crying friend said to me the other day that she was so upset “she felt like a part of her heart was missing.” And I get that. I felt like that at the beginning of this teaching adventure. Not only was I homesick, but one of my best friends had just moved away, and we were in that starting period where we were getting into our cliques, and I began to realize as much as I have friends here, they were superficial friends. I could spin it so that we sounded closer than we were, but when it came down to it, they knew nothing about me and weren’t interested. I couldn’t argue with them and guarantee that we’d still be friends afterwards. The first half a year of my stay here, I suffered from isolation and was a tad depressed. I would cry pretty much every night, severe homesickness sinking in mostly due to self-pity. And because I was now without the one person I got super close to. I felt like I was missing a part of myself then.
So when she tells me she feels like that, I understand! The difference is, I kept it all in. I didn’t let it show. Which I guess is problematic in itself, but I don’t want to share my troubles and my disappointments and all that depressing shit. Maybe that’s why people don’t know me too well, I’m not great with emotions. And if I feel shitty, I avoid people for as long as it takes for me to not feel shitty.
I guess that’s why I’m not close with a lot of people, because people only know the part of me that I choose for them to get to know. And what kind of person actually thinks that someone is happy all the time? It’s just when I talk about “struggles” in my life, it feels like anything going on in my life pales in comparison to everyone else’s. I’ve lived a privileged life. Any struggle in my life has been nothing compared to other people’s. I mean, come on, as a kid probably the worst part about it was being a crybaby. And people making fun of me occasionally. That’s nothing.
Unrelated, but I just realized back in April when I went back to Seattle for a visit, that I essentially went to school for 13 years with a bunch of privileged Republicans. I’m surprised that it hasn’t ruined me for life. I know that sounds like I hate Republicans, but it’s more of the privilege and richness that goes along with it. I recognize I’m privileged, whereas most of the people I went to school with do not. I managed to leave my small town, whereas most of them did not. I avoided getting pregnant young, whereas most of them did not. The more I think about my elementary and middle school life, the more I realize how much I romanticized it, until I had a sort of awakening. My mother, who is one of the nicest people I’ve ever known, barely interacted with any of the other mothers at that school. And my school was an interesting one because parents had to come into the school once a week and help out in the classroom, so I got to know all of my peers’ mothers. It never occurred to me that parents could be cliquish too, until I got older. My mother was not a part of that clique. And thankfully, my friends’ mothers weren’t a part of that clique either.
I guess what point I’m trying to make is that I don’t want to make it seem like I’ve had it so bad, when there are so many more people out there who have it/have had it worse than me. I still feel like I’m wandering about lost with no direction, but when it comes to complaints I have none. I’ve got no attainable dreams or aspirations, and no idea what I want to do with my life, which will probably piss my father off immensely when I go back home in April, but it’s my life. The only person this affects is me. The only thing I know for sure that I want to do is travel, and somehow make enough money so that I have a means to do that. And I’ll probably cry out of frustration, and most likely cry at the beginning of The Desolation of Smaug. But it won’t be out of a want for attention.
(P.S. I think it’s because my mind jumps from one topic to another that ending blogs are the most difficult thing ever for me. Not ever, but you know…Or maybe you don’t? Anyway, I can never tie things up in a nice little bundle, because one topic inspires another – related in my mind but maybe not related in someone else’s – and so on and so forth until my blog has completely shifted in point and I can’t remember what I was originally talking about, or can’t think of a way to end my blog so that it makes sense.)