I'm a Hypocrite

I wish I could go home.
I wish I could wake up with my cat next to me.
I wish I could read The Cuckoo's Calling.
I wish I could read Sherlock Holmes.
I wish I could read Lord of the Rings.
I wish I could finish rereading The Fault in Our Stars.
I wish I could eat gelato in Riomaggiorre.
I wish I could move to England.
I wish I could finish writing a book.
I wish I could talk to Payton every day for the rest of my life.
I wish I could have a MacBook.
I wish I could see The Fault in Our Stars movie.
I wish I could lay in bed for the rest of my life.
I wish I could play Skyrim.
I wish I could stop feeling this way about Noah.
I wish I could forget our brief infinity.

But at the same time:
I don't want to ever forget.
I don't want this feeling to go away.
I want one more day with him--just the two of us, happy and in love forever.
I don't want to play Skyrim.
I don't want to lay in bed.
I want to climb the Schilthorn again and constantly be doing something productive with my life.
I don't want to see The Fault in Our Stars movie.
I want to live in an infinity of constantly rereading and wondering what the film would be like.
I don't want a MacBook.
I want to donate my money to the poor.
I don't want to live with Payton forever.
I want to move on with my life.
I don't want to finish writing a book.
I don't want to move to England.
I don't want gelato from Riomaggiorre.
I want to live a simple and easy life.
I don't want to finish rereading The Fault in Our Stars.
I don't want to read Lord of the Rings.
I don't want to read Sherlock Holmes.
I don't want to read The Cuckoo's Calling.
I want it all to remain a mystery forever.
I don't want to wake up with my cat.
I want to never have to say goodbye to him again.
I don't want to go home.
I want to spend the rest of my days anywhere but home.

And that's me. That's who I am right now.

My Great Perhaps

            Vandana Shiva spoke about nuclear physicists in The Lottery of Birth and how they felt so accomplished when putting their life’s work into something as destructive as nuclear warfare. In an interview, she mentioned her time getting a master’s degree in physics and that she noticed “how unthinking nuclear scientists were about the question of radiation hazards” (“Vandana Shiva”.1). They had been training so hard to achieve massively destructive pieces of war that they completely forgot their affect on others. My mind has been reeling about what my life would amount to and my effect on others. Surely not something as horrific as the death of thousands, if not millions, of other people. But what if my life ends unnoticed in the long run by society? What if I make no positive impact on the world and my body lies restless in its grave? In thinking up what to write about for my three essays—a memoir, a lyrical essay, and a cultural criticism—I thought back to my favorite author: John Green. In his Printz award-winning novel, Looking for Alaska, the main character remembered a famous poet from the French Renaissance named François Rebelais. There’s a lot of debate as to what his last words could’ve been, but most people, including the author of Famous Last Words Laura Ward, believe that with his last dying breath, he uttered, “I go to seek a Great Perhaps” (Rebelais). Looking for Alaska follows a teenage boy that goes to a boarding school not knowing what he wants to do with his life. He’s neither great nor terrible at any subject, he didn’t have any close friends before he went, and he didn’t have anything that he was truly passionate about. Rebelais’s last words guided the character to the boarding school and to figure out what he’s supposed to make of his life. After reading the quote myself, it guided me as well. I started thinking about what my life has been and what it could be. My three essays are a short but very important part of my journey. My memoir relates my dad’s effect on my depression and how I found myself through a terrible part of my life. To capture the raw feelings of depression and loneliness, I chose the lyrical essay. Finally, my last essay’s major theme is something that makes me extremely happy: travelling. These three essays line up to form how I found happiness, the happiness that will lead me to my “Great Perhaps” (Ward).

            My memoir depicts a part of my life when happiness was not something I had at my disposal. In The Lottery of Birth, they often talked about having a greater purpose in life which correlates with someone trying to find their happiness in life. Without having gone through my depression, I never would have realized that writing was my true passion—not acting. My depression was absolutely life-changing and although it provided some of the worst times in my life, the appreciation I now have for myself, the people and world around me, and for happiness is something I would never give up. I have never felt happiness the way I do now before my depression. The choice of a memoir really helps support how I wanted to convey my depression and my journey to “seek a Great Perhaps” (Ward). It was simple and with just enough voice to represent my feelings about it without whining like a helpless brat.

            I chose to do a lyrical essay for several reasons. The first was that it was mainly about a break-up and the loss of friends, and any other kind of essay for something like that wouldn’t capture the audience’s attention—they simply wouldn’t care. Another reason was that the vagueness and metaphorical aspect strongly aided my motif of loneliness and hopelessness. It also gave readers the right to interpret it in a way that it could mean something to them. The last reason was that I already wrote a song called “The Wanderers” before the social catastrophe and a song called “Stereotypical Love Song” after everything had happened. I wanted to mesh together both aspects in a unified representation of my relationship with that particular friend group. One of the topics brought up in The Lottery of Birth was how short our lives really are. Why waste time on a career or people that aren’t perfectly happy with? Although I still miss my previous friends and I had a lot of good times with them, they caused way too much pain in my life. I didn’t fully realize how happy I could be without them in my life until I started writing about it; in songs, in my journal, and now in this essay. Of course, if any of them needed me, I’d be there in a heartbeat, but for now, I’m much happier and much less lonely without them in my life. I can move on to bigger and better things, spread out in the world to find my “Great Perhaps” (Ward), and let go of the past.

            A huge part of my family is travelling. We’re not happy unless we’re planning something—either the next big vacation, or a bunch of weekend camping trips throughout the year. When my sister and I got the opportunity to travel through Europe, we took it. It was an eye-opening experience that filled us both with happiness, adventure, and curiosity. Culture was one of the main topics in The Lottery of Birth. In fact, that’s where the title of the movie came from: nobody chooses what life or culture or family they’re born into—it’s all chosen by chance. Most of my life has been resenting all three of those elements. The light at the end of the tunnel for me was recognizing the opportunities I was born with. My parents worked hard to create wonderful opportunities for my sister and me and without having realized that, I wouldn’t be able to plan my future the way I want it to end up. Right now I am seeking, and later my future will be my “Great Perhaps” (Ward) that I am building up my life to.

            A human life consists of minor details and events to create the overall picture of what makes someone who they are. My life has had a lot of surprises that have led me to who I am now and I will lead myself to my “Great Perhaps” (Ward). Writing my memoir, lyrical essay, and cultural criticism helped me get a bird’s-eye view of my life and truly appreciate the happiness that I’ve experienced from high school till now in college. I am proud of who I am and hope that one day my writing will have a positive effect on someone, anyone. My words are the details that I weave into the fabric of my own world and show to anyone who is willing to appreciate my work. I will not allow myself to wake up one day and suddenly realize that I spent half of my life working on something destructive to the human race whether it’s physically or mentally. My “Great Perhaps” (Ward) will be successful and something to look back on as I lay dying when I’m old and be able to truly appreciate my life for what the lottery of birth gave me and how I managed to make it work for myself and my happiness.

The Stereotypical Wanderers

            I am dipping my toes in. I am testing the water. Is it warm or cold? It is lukewarm. It is a lake. It is deep, but only in the very middle. Walking in, it is shallow. Wading in, at a steady pace, it takes a while before it gets past my ankles. Once it does, the slope under my feet increases exponentially. Somehow I end up so deep in that the water level is just under my nose. I stand here for a while. How long am I standing here? How long have I been in this lake? Not long, but it feels like years. Years and years of knowing this lake. I know where it is. I know where it has been. I know how big it is. But I do not know how deep it is at its deepest. Does it get any deeper than this? I do not know what is in it. But I am standing there. I am standing there and I am singing the song of the whispering wind in my ears. I heard it, growing louder and louder, on the long trek here, to this lake.

            I am wandering. I am wandering although I already know where I fit in.

            There was a knock on the door. At first it was soft—almost like a tap. Then it became louder and more persistent. It thundered and rattled in my brain till I opened the door. We stood there and stared for a minute. I looked at the faded blue eyes. They looked into my eyes. Not blue. Brown, hazel. Whatever. I watched as the eyes flickered around and I heard the echo of my name ricocheting around the room, bouncing off the walls and ceiling and floor and windows and door a hundred thousand million billion times.

            And it worked.

            You were there and I was there.

            But  there was space between us. No matter how close we go, there was always space still between us.

            And there was no avoiding that.

            Whatever is in the lake starts nipping at my toes. I stand and let it happen long enough to get used to it. It is not a big deal. I am fine. Everything is—not okay. But only just long enough. It starts to hurt. The water, instead of caressing my body, starts to make me prune. And I do not like that. I slowly grow more and more uncomfortable. I try to tread further, deeper, into the water, but it just pushes me out further—closer to the shore. I step out. I realize I do not belong here like I thought I did. I curl up and lean against a rock. It hurts my back. I can not sleep, I have no reason to eat. I let the lake win.

            I heard a pen hit the floor. What was it? It was just a plain, black ball-point pen. Okay. So normal and simple. I could’ve easily ignored it. I should’ve ignored it. But I picked it up. I got a sort of thrill. A frenzy thrill. For the first time in two weeks, I was happy. Happy enough to live. Happy enough to breathe. Happy enough to try skipping rocks on the lake.

            It didn’t work.

            They sank.

            Something is attacking me. Everything is attacking me. I’m drowning, but I’ve dried off from the lake. Why am I in this forest? Why am I still next to this lake? Why am I awake? Why do I care? I should change my clothes and walk away with my dignity but—OWWHH! Oh, ow. No. That thing. . . . It’s killing me. No. I need to conjure what little pride I have left and—RUN. Hide the tears, wipe away the pain just long enough to get out of this cruel forest. It was so warm and welcoming for a time. I seriously thought I belonged. I was comfortable. Far away from civilization and responsibility. But I was wrong. And now I’m running. Not so fast and only far enough. Just far enough to break down. Stop and break down in the middle of a freeway like an old car.

            My toes were in, for a short time. They’re dry now. For so long I missed those treacherous waters. Then for even longer, I was happy to be on the land, to be dry. But now I’ve found the ocean. I’m fully immersing myself to get used to the cold. It’s refreshing. The heat and humidity battle the chilly water—the water wins. I’ve never like just jumping in. The air always won. Now it’s the water’s turn to win. Because this ocean needs me and I it.

            No more faded blue eyes. Only bright hazel.

            I can still see the forest in the distance. I know that lake is sitting on the other side. Sometimes I get close to it, but I will never go back. Those tall looming trees sway in the heavy winds. One fell a while ago, another looks like it is about to break, but I may never know whether it actually falls or if it simply gets cut down and taken away. Meanwhile, those woods will continue to taunt me for the rest of my life. But I will simply smile and wave politely from the distance of the ocean. Because I am happy, and those woods are whatever they are.

Memoir: The Journey of the Trek

            Years and years have stretched my father around my life like a rubber band around the earth. His voice is thunder and his eyes are fire. Sometimes they’re the only things that keep me warm at night; other times they burn every life source for miles. Every day I make the trek for more. Although the trek is easier for her, my sister must do it, too.

            I believe I was in seventh or eighth grade, making my sister a junior or senior in high school. I walked downstairs, thinking that meal would be no different than any other family dinner we’ve had: Quiet, except for my sister’s tea caffeine-fueled ramblings. But it was different, because even my mom’s delicious spaghetti with her homemade meat-sauce couldn’t make up for my father’s terrible mood. He interrupted her talking about school or her friends or her clothes or whatever the topic was that night, and targeted my sister, calling her vain, and slamming his hand on the table. I flinched. My mom told him to calm down, but she was always passive and quiet, and that night was no exception. He yelled at her to shut up and continued yelling at my sister. Silent tears flowed down my cheeks and dripped off my chin and I just watched my knuckles grow white through the glass tabletop.

            It’s not like he has a drinking problem. He definitely didn’t drink more than usual that night. He actually gets happier and goofy when he drinks, not angry. He was just naturally like this. It was normal for him to be disappointed in his daughters or make fun of his wife. It was normal for him to leave the TV on during dinner and yell at anyone who didn’t wait for a commercial to talk. It wasn’t normal for him to cry. It wasn’t normal for him to say he was proud of either of his daughters.

            Every once in a while, he did. But it wasn’t until after that night that he made any sort of true fatherly effort. There was one night when I was fifteen and I had come downstairs to get some ice cream. My mom was getting the coffee machine ready for the morning, and my dad was sitting on the couch in the living room watching TV. He got my attention and referred to a song that I had wrote and posted on Facebook called “Slip.” He had tried calling it “Spill.” This song was interesting because it could sound like some sort of suicide-note-type song, but it wasn’t. It was about a boy. I rushed to change his mind, thinking he was going to criticize me for writing something so depressing and posting it online for the world to see. Instead, he complimented it. He told me it was really good and that I shouldn’t post what I write online in case the wrong person sees it and tries to plagiarize it. I was so taken aback that all I could do was say thank you. Had my dad actually read something that I wrote? Had he actually liked it? Had he actually told me that he liked it? I believe he had. It was one of the strangest moments between us. I wasn’t exactly what my parents had expected in a daughter.

            My sister, however, was perfect in my parents’ eyes. She was athletic, smart, and an all-around amiable person. She had played basketball for six years in elementary school and ran track in middle school and high school. She was a straight-A student in several advanced placement and honors classes. At school, she was cool and had many good friends that she only lost if they were unfortunate. She was simply stylish, very pretty, and yet didn’t have her first kiss until the night before she left for college.

            Because my father is an electrician and my mom spent most of her life either in retail or office work and my sister was an international business major, I’ve always considered myself as the ugly duckling in the family.

            At about nine years old, I started writing songs—granted not very good songs, but songs nonetheless. In fourth grade, I had my “first boyfriend.” Although I had considered him my first back then, I no longer do, because fourth graders can’t have very successful relationships. And it wasn’t. Two years later, I decided that I wanted to be a famous actress.

            I was different and because I was different, I didn’t really know how to communicate with my family and in return, they didn’t know how to relate to me. I had many issues with my father growing up, my sister would just tell me to get over it because he’s my father and I love him no matter what, and my mom always took my dad’s side because she said that I blamed him too much. Maybe I did. But then again, when I needed a father, he wasn’t really there for me. Instead, he was a great father figure to my sister’s best friend Anna. She had had a rough home life with a step father that didn’t like her and a father that was barely in her life. As all daddy-problem girls go, Anna also had a tough time in relationships. She kept forgiving a guy that cheated on her and lied about it several times and ended up marrying him without a genuine wedding ceremony. He got stationed in Japan for the military and they were supposed to be there for eighteen months. Barely half a year in, however, he started getting abusive and saying that the reason he was in the military was so he could kill people for fun. Needless to say, she divorced him and got out of that relationship and Japan as soon as possible. As usual, we invited her over to dinner and I heard my dad talk the whole way through and for almost an hour after we had finished eating about what a wonderful young woman she was and how she needs to forget about guys for a while and stick to trying to figure out her future. I had never gotten a talk like that from my dad.

            Something weird happened more recently, however. It was my first break home from college, and we had invited my sister and her boyfriend Bryce, Anna, and my dad’s best friend of over thirty years Phil over for Thanksgiving dinner. There were several times throughout the evening that Phil had stepped out to smoke a cigarette and although this didn’t mean a lot to me, it hit my dad fairly hard after Phil left. My dad cried more than I had ever seen him cry and he explained to me what was going on with Phil. Apparently, back before my parents had even started dating in the 1980s in Santa Barbara, California, Phil had gotten into cocaine and was addicted. My dad and their group of friends didn’t like being around Phil anymore because he was either high or wanting to get his next fix. My dad was the only one willing to talk to him about it and Phil had promised my dad that he would stop. However, a couple weeks later, my dad went to his house and found some of it in the bathroom and called him on it. Soon after, Phil met his future wife Georgia who also had a cocaine addiction. They managed to get over it together, however trading in their addiction for an unhealthy diet, smoking, and drinking at any hour of the day. Georgia passed away within the last year, and both my parents can tell it is only a matter of time until Phil kicks the bucket as well. My dad said he had basically been waiting for the call, and when Phil called and my mom had picked it up, all she told my dad was that she was pretty sure it was the call.

            That Thanksgiving, Anna hugged my dad and told him everything would be okay. She comforted him and tried to lighten the mood and was very good at it. However, all I could do was sit there and wipe my own tears away, still thinking about the small piece of turkey leg stuck in a back molar. I didn’t know how to comfort a man that had shown me barely an ounce of compassion my whole life. I wanted to, I almost reached my hand out to pat his arm or something, but I couldn’t. I didn’t know how. Instead, my hands stayed folded in my lap under the dark wood table. I could feel my knuckles whitening because he was my father, but he wasn’t really my dad. And I was his child, but I wasn’t really his daughter.

But it was my sophomore year that things really got shaken up. I had my first real boyfriend, the same guy that I had my first kiss with at the homecoming dance. After we broke up, my best friend started dating him. I didn’t even find out through either of them, my friend had seen it on Facebook and told me about it. I had already been slipping into depression, and this news dunked me in, head first. I told my parents that I had thought about committing suicide. My dad laughed. He thought I was just pretending to be depressed to manipulate people and make them feel sorry for me. This same man had blamed my sister only two or three years prior for making me cry at the dinner table, when I had actually been crying because his fiery eyes burned holes in my heart and his thundering voice echoed in my ribcage.

Now when we eat dinner and I look at those wine-themed placemats that my mom made, I think of that night from five or so years ago and I think about how it might happen again. Sure my dad is better now and I get along with him better, but we’ll never be close and anything can trigger his anger. Sometimes lay in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering about day after. I remember having to run laps around the gym in P.E. and telling a friend or two about it, but I can never remember which friend. Someone out there has this terrible memory of my father and they weren’t even there I don’t even know who it is. But I suppose that’s just another reason that I have to warn my friends every time that they meet my dad that he’s not the most sociable person in the world.

            I never cut myself or even came close to attempted suicide. I might be depressed, but I’m a coward. I supposed cowardice is what saved me in the end, but dark thoughts will always haunt my mind, even when I least expect it.

            I suppose I was fifteen or sixteen when the worst thing seeped into my mind and filled my whole being with evil. I’m not sure what day of the week it was, or even what homework I was doing, but it was probably geometry on my bed and I was getting too stressed to control my thoughts. My precious cat sat on my bed next to me down by my knees like she usually did while I did my homework. I was pretty much the only person she liked anymore. She’s always been scared of my parents, and my sister was away at university a lot. Annie was tiny princess of a cat that never ate and thought she was the most gorgeous cat in the world. I’ve always called her the Paris Hilton of Cats. I loved her more than anything and considered her my ultimate best friend. However, in that moment, I wasn’t myself. My soul had gone, and all that consumed me was a need to wrap my fingers around her tiny neck that was about the size of my tiny wrist. Although I wasn’t touching her and I didn’t even reach out, somehow I could still feel her unfeasibly soft fur between my fingers. After a minute, the sensation passed. I petted her and scratched behind her ears the way she liked. And with that, it was all over.

            My mom took me to see a therapist. I learned new things, not only about myself, but about the world I lived in, the people that surrounded me every day—the man that I thought was stronger than Hercules as a kid.

            Dr. Campbell taught me that if I couldn’t change him, I had to accept him and adapt. If I couldn’t change the world, then I had to accept it and adapt. But she also told me not to change myself for one man—not even the whole world. Not only did I have to accept my father, but I also had to accept myself. Slowly, I started to embrace the artist within myself. I knew I would never be good at school or sports or socializing, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be good at other things.

            The day I started accepting myself as a part of the world and a part of this family, was the first step not on a trek, but on a journey. I discovered myself in a new group of friends. I discovered myself backstage rather than on stage. I discovered myself in Girl Scouts. I discovered myself with a pen and a notebook. I discovered myself in Europe. I discovered myself watching special features, rather than imagining myself in front of the camera. I discovered myself at college. I lost myself, but only for a couple months. And I’m rediscovering myself now.

A Nameless Story: Prologue

Prologue

                Sooo this is my life. The idea of it is quite comical, but living it—it was fucking terrifying. Once I realized how screwed up my life was I started documenting it in this computer journal. Some may believe every word I say, and others may label me as a good story-teller—but this is my life. Exactly how I lived it. Okay, I may exaggerate here and there. Like when I say my shit don’t stink? It totally does. So there’s a warning….

            Just a little bit about me (so you’re not just, like, creeping on some stranger’s life, or whatever): I was adopted. Sort of. When I was about two years old or something, my “parents” said that I just floated down the river. I don’t believe them but they swear there was a baby in a basket while my dad was fishing. Conveniently, they couldn’t get preggers, SO HERE I AM. Whoever I was before, no one knows. But fifteen years later I am Jacey Stirgo. My parents have an odd idea for good names, I know. But then again they fell into the fate of the last name Stirgo in the first place. Whatever. Anyway, my favourite colour is grey and I enjoy long walks on the beach in the sunset. HAHAHAHA just kidding. I live in a great place called Vancouver, British Columbia. I am a wonderful Canadian that eats bacon and chops trees down and drinks beer daily. Ha ha ha. Another funny. Sorry. Anyway I’m finishing my spring semester of my senior year of high school. HURRAH or something. I’m not super smart with perfect grades or anything, but I’m not a complete failure. I really don’t know what to do with my life. I’m average at many things but other things I just plain suck at. Science, math, and English being just a small part of that. Who am I kidding? That’s practically everything in the world. I SUCK. Cool. Now that we’ve established a basis of my character let’s move on to the actual meat of the story, shall we?

            Let me just reiterate: No matter how comical and great or lame and unoriginal this may sound, IT WAS FUCKING TERRIFYING.