Month: December 2015


I was too young to understand what it means
I couldn’t wait til I could be seventeen

I don’t want to grow up.

I find myself rushing the natural order of things. I want the respect, the prestige, but I don’t want everything else that comes after. How can I be told what to do, but not understand all the reasons? When we’re young, we are in a rush to get older. Every thing is better once we hit a certain age. Life happens when you get older. Life comes together when you reach a certain age. Everything makes sense and nothing ever hurts. Reaching all those certain milestones in our lives. We rush to grow up, rush to get older. We want to experience every single thing we are missing. Because life out there is happening and we are missing it! Grow up to get older to tell these amazing stories about our lives. I couldn’t wait. I wanted everything and then nothing to happen all at once. The fear of new experiences and the reality of expectations. It didn’t matter what age you were, you were never quite a grown up. It didn’t matter how much you felt you were living, you still weren’t there yet.

I thought he lied when he said take my time to breathe

I wanted to bypass everything. Fast forward through the school years, jump forward to the years where I felt like something was actually happening. Away from this stuck feeling. Away from these four walls that no matter how many pictures are put up, they’re only there to be torn down. All the boys that I thought I would never forget and now I can’t even remember what their faces looked like. To my friends that said we’d be friends forever, now a days we don’t even talk anymore. All those things I thought I didn’t love, now I just want back in my life. I didn’t know that what I wanted then, would turn out differently in the end. What I thought I wanted changed through the years, to make me something I would have hated when I was younger. I crossed these bridges to burn them down, only to slowly patch them back up again. Only to rebuild the bridges brick by brick. I wish I knew then, what I know now. I wish that I could go back and start this all over again.

At Seventeen, I thought I had it all figured out. At any minute life would change before my very eyes, and I would be someone completely different.  I didn’t know all of this was the beginning. How silly and foolish to believe I could rush these memories. Rush these experiences, when now I am just playing catch up and make up. I thought I knew exactly what I wanted. I thought I had everything I always wanted. Now I cherish every memory like a photograph sitting in a frame. Now I have to make amends that you can start over at any age, but you’ll never go back to being seventeen again.

And sometimes I miss it.

Now I wish I could freeze the time at seventeen


What’s in a name?

I hate my name.

I hate it with every fiber in my being. The mere sight of it, the six letters in their exact placement, hate it. I know its the person that makes the name. The person that brings life to everything they associate with it. I just never felt that way with my name. It’s a part of my identity that I wish could be taken away. Parts of my life that I wish I could erase from people’s memory. I am not that person anymore. I am not that name. Still the legions of people who knew me before, thats all they can say.

My name makes me feel like a second choice. That my name had never been chosen for me, which in reality it hadn’t. Sometimes I wish I didn’t know the backstory of how names are given. If I could go back I would change everything. Change my name and the stories that go with it. Maybe I would be less afraid. Maybe I would be less timid. Instead I sit and watch my hands shake, and shoulders cringe when people call me by my name. I hate the way people say my name. I hate that people think they know me. I hate that no matter how many times a person can change, their name seems to follow them. That’s not me, thats not even close to who I am. Still this name follows and I can’t help but try my best to escape it.

The more I make excuses, the more I lose a part of myself. A name doesn’t make a person, but I don’t feel like myself anymore. Names make you lose a sense of your identity. Names make you into someone that people expect you to be. I just can’t be that person anymore. Every new person is a chance to start fresh and new with a new name. A chance to be someone bigger than my past expressions. My past follows in the form of introductions, between people who think they know me best. I cringe, then smile, and hold out my hand and pretend I don’t hate the sounds. But I hate the sounds. I hate that, I hate my name. This name isn’t who I am anymore. It never was and it never will be.

That’s not my name, even if you say it and I answer. It’s not my name to me.