Things That Make Me Smile

Being home alone.
Nearly completing chapter one of what I think is a brilliant idea.
Being an apparently fantastic salesperson.
And this:

Sarah makes me smile.

Often.

Typical Teenage Rant

Ooh, is it that time already? I wish I were more prepared.

What, then? Shall we be adventurously cliche? Ah, but what fits the bill? Shall we speak of the pleasures moving out promises? Although, not having someone threatening bodily harm for switching off the air conditioner is rather enticing. . .

Less Than Human

Humans are born hardwired to connect with their parents, so they usually adapt to whatever family situation in which they find themselves. Introverts who are raised in a home where everyone else is extroverted, or one in which the parents are introverted but feel as if they shouldn't be, the child can feel lots of pressure to be "outgoing." The introverted child may be criticized or shamed or made to feel guilty for needing or enjoying solitude. Cara, a teacher, told me, "My mother would walk into my room, take the book I was reading out of my hands, and make me come out and be with the family. I never could rest by myself. I wondered why I was so tired and overwhelmed so much of the time. I needed seclusion, but my family thought I was avoiding or withdrawing." Care, like many innies, was influenced by her parents into concluding that she shouldn't want to be alone, she should want to be around people. She didn't understand or connect her low energy to her lack of private time.

Children who don't feel accepted go one of two ways. They decide to ignore their own feelings and let others influence them too much, constantly molding and reshaping themselves to other people's wants and needs, like the shape-shifter character on the television show Deep Space Nine. Or they decide to pretend their family didn't influence them at all. Since adults learned these coping mechanisms as young children, they are not aware of them--they are just unconscious reactions.

The Introvert Advantage

If you haven't noticed by now, I'm more than a bit of an introvert. Actually, the test conveniently located in that book called me "pretty darn introverted." Of course, it only provided three options--I was deep within the highest. I will not typically speak in class unless my best and longest friend has the same class with me. I could be doing the same exact thing as you, watching the same show on television, but I will want to be in a separate room. If someone enters the room in which I am resting or doing something I will likely leave in a few moments. The list goes on. And, yes, I consider simply being around people in school a draining social activity.

This friend of mine, though, asked me recently if I ever feel inadequate. Well, I fell into the second group the excerpt mentioned. I do not like to think that my family shaped me. In fact, I hold a great deal of hatred for most members of my family. However, they still make me feel horribly less than perfect on a day to day basis.

My father will not rip a book out of my hands, but I am often yelled at for how often I enjoy the seclusion of my room. In fact, I am accused of many things. My staying hidden away is suspicious activity, bad, incorrigible--what could possibly be going through my mind? Well, I certainly don't want to know what's going through his.

Also apparently tied to my being an introvert is how slowly I like to undertake things. I will teach myself something--such as juggling, but I do it very slowly. I procrastinate inbetween feats and I have to work up both the energy and the courage to continue. It's far worse with cooking as I've injured myself quite a few times. My father does not understand this. He complains, scolds, and yells at me for not knowing how to make something complicated enough to suit him.

Of course, I know I am not the first to feel such. There's mention in a book as introverts are such predictable creatures. And I know that this is hardly the only way to feel less than adequate. It's not the most pleasant subject to think about, but what bothers you? What makes you feel less than human? And how do you beat it?

Of Fear

What are your fears? For how long have you had them? Do you respect them, or are you forever trying to beat them? Do you know why you have them, or have you felt them for so long that you no longer truly remember?

I am a nest of irrational fears. I am afraid of windows and of cars. I am afraid of strangers and terrified of gatherings of more than a few people. I am afraid of cars and also of most change. I am claustrophobic and also, most recently, have grown horribly fearful of a bridge near my home.

Some of these I respect, such as the claustrophobia that dates back to infancy. However, with the world in which we live, who would ever be able to evade every fear? Perhaps that is good for us, but surely every fear is created for a reason. I do not like the bridge, I've nearly tumbled into the road twice now, but I have to bike across it daily.

Perhaps this is good. What good can possibly come of a life of fear?

Afraid! Of whom am I afraid?
Not Death - for who is He?
The Porter of my Father's Lodge
As much abasheth me!

Of Life? 'Twere odd I fear a thing
That comprehendeth me
In one or two existences -
Just as the case may be -

Of Resurrection? Is the East
Afraid to trust the Morn
With her fastidious forehead?
As soon impeach my Crown!

-Emily Dickinson

Is it fitting that I should look to a poem written by a famous hermit? One who decidedly would not set foot outside. Oh, the heroes and models I aspire to become.

More?

My apologies, great people of the Internet. Earlier I forgot two pictures I also really wanted to post. (Yes, you may call me names.)

A freakish swing-set:














And a dancing snail.

Art?

My friends like to draw. And are rather good at it, actually. Me, not so much. I'm the writer. One of these lovely friends, however, has been having a series of "drawing" parties, to which I have always been invited. (I love her and her inclusion of me.)In light of these, I've spent a whole few minutes to express my lack of talent. Shall we?

Exhibit A: Random legs. Badly missing detail legs. Are look at those feet. Are they even human? Eek, mutations.
Really though, legs?
Yes, legs. That's not creepy at all. They're mine, I promise.















Exhibit B: An eye. My eye. From a picture the aforementioned friend took.
Apparently my attempts at shading and laugh lines became random pen clumps?



















Exhibit C: The most basic leaf in human history.
I'm thrilling, aren't I?




















Exhibit D: An iPod.
(Don't judge me. I have a Zune. My dear, sweet Zuney. My sister told me to draw this.)
And yes, that circle is horrible.

Inquiries.

The joy of knowing I'm writing. Again.

Things I wonder, though:

Does the ability to do something you often yearn to do disable you of something else? Whenever I'm able to write poetry (generally once a year now, actually) I lose my ability to write prose. I have to strain myself for ideas and once I start writing somewhere along the lines it becomes a piece of poetry.

How often do you try to teach yourself something? Does anybody anymore? Or is it merely my surroundings, the people where I live? I'm currently teaching myself to juggle--or attempting to, but I keep procrastinating once I've done something I consider noteworthy. This is only because of something my friends and I want to do though. I got stuck with the character that has to juggle--the one thing none of us can do.

Who's patriotic? Within any country. Could you please explain it to me? The more I learn the more I refuse to call myself an American. (Why is the term American? I live here and I don't understand it. The country is the United States. The entire hemisphere is composed of the American continents.) Honestly, I've always loved Canada and England. The more I hear about American armed forces, and my parents against "socialized medicine" the more disgusted I am.

I like the world of writing. It's far less confusing. Although I do still have many grammatical inquiries. . .