Tag Archives: myspace

The piece of the jigsaw puzzle that didn't fit.

via weheartit.com

When I was fifteen, I refused to fill out surveys on MySpace that asked anything related to kissing or drinking. Those words become taboo, completely off limits. Not because I particularly feared kissing someone or knowing how it felt to consume alcohol, but because I’d never done either of them. Rather than lie or broadcast to the world that I was “uncool,” I avoided it altogether.

I thought that nearly every girl who wandered past me in the hallways could see through me. Like a frosted glass. Not entirely clear, but once you squinted, all the smudges and scratches were intact. To them, I might as well have been a black and white cutout in a colored world. The piece of a jigsaw puzzle that didn’t fit, no matter how much you wedged it in.

And that right there might be the reason so many thirteen, fourteen, seventeen, twenty-five year old girls hurt themselves. I thank God that I never went down that path, that I did not let myself take a piece of metal to my bony wrists, watching red liquid pool at the bottom of the drain. I thank God not because there is something wrong with the girl who believes that to be her only outlet, but because I don’t know if someone would’ve known. If someone would’ve stopped me.

If I could lose twenty-five pounds in eighteen months, what else could I have concealed? I’m afraid to answer that question.

I have not known too many girls who sliced that metal through their skin, but part of me desperately seeks to understand. Perhaps by letting part of their insides out, they could filter the bad and keep the good? Unfortunately, that’s not how it works.

Maybe it was just to remember they were alive. Just to take the internal pain and externalize it.

What I do know is that my heart breaks for these girls. I’m not your average hugger. I don’t reach out for someone and pull her close instinctively. I’m the girl who stands with her hands jutting into her waistline as someone else squeezes the life out of her. As she fights to breathe through all that love. But I just want to give them a hug right now.

I want to track these girls down and sit them in front of me with a cup of coffee or hot chocolate and have a heart-to-heart. I want them to line up one by one and each individually file into my imaginary office, sitting on my couch for half an hour until I’ve begun to understand.

“Write me letters,” I would tell them. “Whenever you reach for that blade, pick up a pen instead. Keep your hands busy, your mind active. Write until your wrist aches. Let that be the pain.”

And maybe I would spend my days with a pile of letters from girls. And boys. And I would write back, and we would have a conversation. Because this is the sort of thing we need to start conversing about.

If tomorrow I wake up to an e-mail or a message or a handwritten typewriter letter from a girl who wants to share her story, who needs an ear, I will close my eyes and take a deep breath.

And then I will begin to tackle it with an electronic hug of sorts.

Maybe it's a collection of small moments. And an active decision to save certain ones.

letter 29 – someone you want to tell everything to, but too afraid

via weheartit.com

Dear Mike,

Sometimes, I wonder what I ever saw in MySpace. It’s such a mess of a site.

Sometimes, I wonder what I ever saw in cross-country. It’s such a lonely sport. But then I wonder what would’ve happened if I never joined MySpace or ran cross-country. If our paths had never crossed.

I wrote ten different letters in my head before I settled on this one, but maybe that’s what this whole thing’s about. I knew that when I started this challenge, you deserved a letter. I just didn’t know what it would say.

This is a thank you for never judging me when you found out where I’d been. Who I’d been. For seeing me the same way you’ve seen me for the last five years. For reminding me why I like being friends with guys. For being in my life for these last six years, however sparse at times.

That’s my fault—not yours.

Thank you for arguing with me about who had a better boy’s varsity team well past midnight all those years ago on AIM when I should’ve been doing homework. Thank you for keeping me up until two a.m. and always telling me to have sweet dreams when I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore.

You’re one of only a handful of consistencies in my life. And I don’t think I ever tell you that, but you deserve to know. You deserve the truth.

For some reason, whenever I listen to Hands Down by Dashboard Confessional, I think of you. And sometimes, I want to call you and tell you how many songs I imported into iTunes (just so you know, it’s 5526 songs).

Sometimes, I feel like I’m back in your red Jeep on the way to the King of Prussia mall and you’re making fun of me for playing 3 Doors Down because it’s the first artist I recognize when I scroll through your iPod.

It’s funny, knowing someone for five years and only having a handful of tangible, face-to-face memories. But each one is stuck in my memory. You’d be surprised by the details I remember. I’m surprised by the details I remember.

But maybe that’s life. Maybe it’s a collection of small moments and an active decision to save certain ones.

I guess what I’m trying to say is thank you for giving me memories worth remembering. Thank you for being the kind of friend that sticks around for five years, stringing together conversations from 300 miles away. Thank you for knowing me better than I probably know myself and for always driving me crazy with your incessant debating and god awful nine-minute instrumental metal songs.

That’s what’s real. Driving someone crazy until you’re stuck in her life.

Love,
K

We're all a conglomeration of our own secrets.

Taylor Swift’s newest album, Speak Now, has the coolest concept ever.

“Each song is a different confession to a different person.”

Sound familiar? Reminds me a little bit of those Myspace days, blogging about people in your life that were important in those Guess Who posts. Each person had a sentence dedicated to them, and people were free to comment.

“Am I number seven? What about three?”

It’s times like this that I wish I wrote song lyrics. There are people I would like to talk to, to tell something, but like most of humanity, I keep it inside. And I have more than a few such secrets.

Why do we do that?

PostSecret’s a great example of this. Perfect strangers find out that you resent your family, that you flitter between sexual orientations, that you’re afraid of love, but your own friends are in the dark. post secret

Maybe we’re afraid that the people who know us most won’t accept us if we’re not the person they think we are. But we can’t know that for sure. We can’t.

If we’re going to make some grand assumption, why not make it something to hope for? Probably, it’d be so much better to think that it can’t go wrong. Because here’s the kicker. Here’s something I’ve learned from my family:

The people who love you, who truly care, won’t turn their backs on you when you tell them.

For all you know, they already know. Or they’re going through something just as bad. Or they’ve been there before, and they can help you. There’s a reason there are so many people out there writing memoirs and personal essays and giving speeches. They’ve been there before, that indefinable Somewhere, and they want you to know that You’re Not Alone.

We’re all a conglomeration of our own secrets, our own confessions, so we better start owning up to them.