What tales these tell...

I was an avid journaler as a kid. Journals, diaries, whatever you want to call it, I kept it. I started with a tiny pink one with bears on it that had a lock and key. The entries were of the “Today, I …” sort. In middle school, I moved on to bigger books with no lock, even though the words carried more emotion, drama and secrets. Through high school and partway into college, I filled three more journals, my handwriting improving from those formative cursive-style days to a hurried, but focused combination with print, the color of the ink settling on black or blue only, the stickers and doodles disappearing one by one.

My journaling is now more or less this blog, and although I still write about very personal issues, I can’t help but notice the changes over time between those secretive, scribbled escapist entries on paper, and these well-thought out yet similarly emotional typed essays — and the differences.

I was reading through the old journals the other night, which I’ve done before, to pull out specific points in my life. I used to mostly laugh at how silly I was about my many crushes, the stupid fights with friends, and the endless lists I compiled of my favorites. But this time, as I read through the entries in late middle school and high school, an overwhelming feeling of sadness came over me. Sadness for the girl that I was, and sadness for the girl that I thought I was at the time. I wasn’t struggling with an eating disorder, depression, or hurting myself physically.

But I realized how much I was hurting on the inside…and how much I continued to let others hurt me for so long. Those of you who know me and my story, know of my baggage with some family members. So if that wasn’t enough — the years and years of trying to understand why my father didn’t love me enough, the years and years of trying to understand how to make it work with the man who had become and remains my true father — I spent an insane amount of time and effort trying to make everyone like me. Girls, guys, teachers, adults, whomever. I wanted so much love, so much acceptance, and it killed me every time I didn’t get it. I was trying so hard that I made it worse for myself without even realizing it. And it pains me to think of the things that people might have said about me, because let’s face it, kids are mean to each other in those years.

When I look at the relationships in my life now, and what I’ve gone through in the last year, reading about my adolescent years reminds me of who I am, where I’m headed, and what I need. I’m reassured and comforted by the changes I’ve gone through for the better, by the cleaning out of the toxic situations and people in my life, and I’m happy to know that even if EVERYONE doesn’t like me, I have a handful of amazing people that very much do, and that I don’t have to try so hard anymore. I don’t have to be prettier, or thinner, or more athletic, or smarter, talk less or talk more, play soccer or be really good at math. I don’t have to know everything or be everywhere or be everyone.

I may have changed a lot over the years, and so have the circumstances and relationships in my life, but one thing will always be the same: I’m still me – just a girl who likes to write and cook, who wants a best friend to share secrets with, parents to hug and cry with, dogs to cuddle with, and a boy to like me in spite of it all.

I wasn’t sure how much of my private life I would share, or if I cared if anyone actually read it. Now more than two years later, I’ve shared quite a bit, and although I don’t know my exact following, I’m pleased to see that I have a small group of loyal readers, some who know me closely, and some whom I’ve never met.

100 posts later, there are many days I don’t know what to write, if I want to write, or if what I wrote was good enough to go live. In starting this post, I had no idea what to write. I suppose I could have just said “100 schmundred!” and not cared about a theme or making it a big deal, but I’m a dates and anniversary and recognition type person, so that wouldn’t have lasted very long.

With 100 posts comes at least 100 reasons I decided to write something down and make it live. With 100 posts comes ten times more memories and moments that I did not write down, because they were too fleeting, too private, too confusing, too indescribable. With 100 posts come many lessons learned over the last couple of years… and that is what I wanted to share with you today:

• There is nothing more fulfilling, comforting, or stress-relieving than cooking a meal for yourself at the end of the day and savoring it. Even better if you are sharing it with people you care about.
• Not all of your colleagues at work are meant to be your friends -  they may be just that – colleagues. For the ones that do become friends, cherish that, but don’t let it get in the way of your working relationship.
• Your parents are people, just like you. They always mean well and always want what’s best for you – but respecting them and loving them doesn’t always mean agreeing with them or them agreeing with you. Finding a mutual understanding is key.
• You can’t change other people – they can only change themselves. Waiting and wishing on someone to change will only stress you out. Work on what you can control. (This lesson is still being learned.)
• Some people won’t have the same idea of what a friendship/relationship is as you – decide how much you want to invest and accept it if it’s more/less than the other person. End the relationship if you can’t handle it. (Still being learned…)
• No one can truly know what’s best for you except you. Not your best friend, not your therapist, not your parents. Unless it’s a medical situation, or life-threatening, you usually will figure out what’s best for you. (Thank you to everyone for their guidance! Keep it coming.)
• The loss of a pet can take more out of you than you may ever imagine, but will leave you so fulfilled all at once. (Thank you, Casey)
• If you have a best friend who is like a sister or brother, don’t ever let them go. That’s the person you can call at 3am, even if they go to bed early. That’s the person who will drive 7 hours to spend the weekend with you, even if everything you called them crying about is better by the time they get there. (Thank you, Molly)
• Knowing you need help and asking for it are two very different things. Both are important. Both are necessary for self-improvement.
• A relationship that causes you more pain than good is not worth maintaining. But knowing when to let go can be even harder.
• Never assume the other person will know what you really feel – just tell them.
• It’s true what they say about family – you may love them, but you don’t have to like them.
• For some people, a job is what pays the bills and keeps them busy during the day. If you have a passion and it can be your job, then go for it. Don’t hesitate to figure out NOW what you want to do for the rest of your life. It may be your only chance.
• The power of perspective: from taking a step back, from stepping in someone else’s shoes, from an outsider who doesn’t know you – it can change everything.
• Life is too short to focus on the negative. A favorite quote that was on my mom’s fridge for years: “If you don’t like something, change it. If you can’t change it, change the way you think about it.”
• At your job, other people and circumstances will frustrate you. But if you take care of what you can, and do your best, that’s all you can worry about. And you will get recognized for that. (Thanks, boss)
• The people who truly care for you and are there for you will make time for you, no matter what. Those who don’t aren’t worth waiting around for. Cherish those who are there for you when you need them – not just when they need you – and be there for them back.

I could go on and on, but that’s why I keep this blog, because each new post is a new lesson, a new reflection, a new celebration, a new success. Feel free to peruse through my posts from the last two years, and share any thoughts you have with me in the comments or getting in touch with me directly! Thank you for reading. More lagniappe coming soon.

As I was a chatty little thing, and didn’t have any companions on these trips, I easily made friends with the people sitting next to me on the hour and a half flight from CVG to MSY and back. One nice lady shared her popcorn with me, while another gave me a Susan B. Anthony coin that I treasured for years. Flight attendants and crew loved me – so much so that on a tiny flight once, I was led into the cockpit and hung out with the pilots for about half an hour, telling them my life story.

But there was one flight, and one particular woman that I formed a connection with that lasted more than just a flight. On one of my trips down to NOLA, I sat next to this older lady, someone that could be my grandmother. Of course, my whole story came spilling out within minutes – how I was born in Louisiana, but now live in Ohio, I was visiting my biological dad, I go every summer, blah blah blah. Mercedes Duplantis, short gray hair and glasses, wearing a flowered shirt, was was from Chauvin, La. I heard her story, too, all about her kids, grandkids and husband. By the end of the flight, we had exchanged our home addresses, saying that we’d keep in touch.

As Rick says in Casablanca, it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

For years after, Mercedes and I exchanged letters every few months. I told her about school, my family and how I wanted to be a writer someday. She told me about her grandkids growing up and how her husband was getting sicker over the years. When my grandmother died, she sent me a card of sympathy.

A few years ago around Christmas, we had a message on our answering machine – it was Mercedes. Her husband Lloyd had just passed, and she was wishing me a merry Christmas. It had been awhile since I had written her – I’m not sure how soon I did after that phone call.

In 2005, I received another letter. It was written by someone, I think a volunteer at the nursing home she was now in. She reminded me of her husband’s passing, and told me that she had been afflicted with cancer, and a broken hip. Her last line asked me to write her sometime. Her name was the only thing in her handwriting.

I came across that letter last night, as I was going through other cards and letters stored in the bottom drawer of my nightstand. I remembered our penpal years fondly, and looked at the date, and felt bad that it had been so long since we had talked. I couldn’t remember if I had ever written her back, but I immediately got out some stationary, and stamped an envelope, and put it and the letter in my bag to take to work. I was going to call the nursing home and see if she was still there first.

This morning, I Googled her to see what I could find. First, I found the obituary for her husband, so I sighed in relief when I saw that she was a survivor of his passing. But then I looked a little more – she had indeed passed in December 2005, only 6 months after she wrote me her final letter.

I told my mom, who knew of my penpalship with Mercedes – this kind woman who listened to a little girl’s story on a plane and became a confidant through pen and paper. I said that I felt bad because I couldn’t remember if I had ever written her back – and why did it take me this long to realize it? She said that knowing me, I probably did write to Mercedes once more.

I may never know the answer to that. And maybe it doesn’t matter. I know that Mercedes was loved very much by her large family, and that it was nothing for her to write to me, as if I was her own granddaughter. I never saw Mercedes again after that flight years ago. But I hope she knows how much of an impact she made on my life as I grew up, just through a little snail mail.

Although I was only writing those pieces about 3-4 years ago, it seems like a lifetime ago. I’ve been out of college for more than two years, but it seems like it was in another decade. It seems like another lifetime when I got a call in the middle of dinner with a friend and ran out of the restaurant with a half-eaten burger to cover a fire in Springfield, Ohio. It seems like a different person wrote the package about sexual assault on Miami’s campus, or the piece about male babysitters that was picked up by MSNBC’s The Most. Getting a cover story on Cincy Business magazine when it was in its inaugural issues almost feels like a dream.

Despite all of that, if I take an extra minute to think back, I can remember getting assigned each and every article. I can remember my interviews, my first drafts, and first seeing my name in print. I remember carefully cutting out each article, spending hours scanning them into the computer in the basement at home, putting together portfolio after portfolio to send out for another internship, and later, jobs in DC.

Now, the clips seem so small and innocent with a few years gone by. As the writing I do now is so different, it’s hard to compare. But I do try in everything that I write to maintain that sense of curiosity, the urge to find the answers, to tell someone’s story. More importantly, I can look back on all of those clips once a year or so and remember my journey – all part of being a writer, someone I’ve wanted to be as long as my memory goes back.

You can view a few of my old clips here.

This isn’t about the gumbo though. Julia is also a writer, and we often talk shop on different ideas, writing styles, and the like. I even shared with her a story I wrote in high school that was a hit with my family (and that also helped me earn class credit for my college application) called Cajuns, Crabs and Comfort. What was great about Monday night was going back to where we both began as writers.

I shared with her my two Young Authors books, these little stories some students would write as a library project in elementary school. You would write a short story, illustrate it, and moms would come in to type them up and bind them. My second grade story was about my first dog, Rocky. A year later, I modeled a story The Babysitters’ Club series, naming the girls in my “job-care club” after my cousins, drastically improving upon my illustrations, and using big words and lengthy dialogue. Julia had a good time ribbing me about these books, but it was funny to think of how far I’ve come as a writer. I keep those books because they are a reminder of where I started – of my first achievements. I also still have my first-ever published article- a story about my neighbor who served in WWII, and that was one of 6 student stories chosen to be published in the local paper. Julia and I both knew we wanted to be writers at the age of four or five, and except for us each having a slight detour of the imagination in high school down another career path, we’ve stuck with that dream ever since.

Now, we’re both working in online communications at a non-profit. It may not be exactly where we envisioned ourselves, but we’re still writing. And we both know that someday, we’ll be doing what we always thought we’d be doing on a more full-time basis. Julia hopes to write children’s books, and I hope to write a book and maybe be a writer for a magazine.

There was a time when I couldn’t rest from writing poetry and fictional stories. I wrote fake newspapers about my family and stories for my cousins. I wrote endless lists of the titles of the books I was someday going to write. Of course, much of this was when I was younger, and didn’t have a job, or a boyfriend, or other things I was involved in. But, everytime I look at those little bound books on my shelf, I remember where I came from, and remember that my bio from back then still rings true: my favorite food is still macaroni & cheese, I still love baseball, and I still want to be an author when I grow up.

Where did you begin?

So that means only a few weeks left in my current place. Yay for being able to have my own space and not worry about my stuff being messed up or doors being left unlocked at all hours!

I finally went to the batting cages this weekend when Dan and I went to Syracuse. I had been wanting to for awhile. And boy is it harder than it looks! I did the slowest possible level of baseball, and it took me a few rounds until I actually hit a few. I was much better at the slow softball. And now I’m crazy sore in my arms and back. Another first- we went to a drive-in movie. It was pretty cool, and cheap compared to today’s theater costs. We saw Hancock – it was not bad at all. And the last fun thing we did was stop in Hershey, PA on the way home today. We did the Factory “tour” and then got a few things in the gift shop and had massive sundaes and should have just shared one.

Next weekend: Baltimore aquarium and Orioles game