Monday, December 31, 2012

The Obligatory New Year's Post.

Who even reads this blog anymore? Who even blogs anymore?

Anyway. There's a part of me that just wants to write about destruction. All I do is destroy. Run things over and absolutely demolish. At least, that's how I feel this week. The thing is, I don't even have the excuse of saying I'm into destruction because I don't like to hurt myself, it's basically just that I have trouble learning from my own mistakes. Basically because I'm 17 and selfish.

Whatever. You live and you learn. C'est la vie. Life happens. Young and foolish. (That's what I'm singing this week.)

But to write about destruction would be close minded. I build a lot of beautiful things this year, even if I managed to ruin a lot of things lately. And I didn't even really destroy so much as misplace a lot of things. The point is, even the things I did really actually destroy are lovely even in pieces. They're smoky and gilded and full of things I've never gotten a taste of before. Yes, I screwed some things up, but I don't regret it one bit -- which is not to say that I would do it the same if I was presented with the same situation again, but simply that I've learned from all of it. I learned from skinny legs and shears and Spanish and silence. The shears are so summertime, back when everything started. I miss the Spanish. I hate the silence. I'm over the skinny legs.

The New Year's post feels even more obligatory to me than the Christmas post. Christmas posts feel too cliche and I can't ever bring myself to write them. I'd rather just celebrate and let everyone else post pictures of angels and tinsel. (I love your angels and tinsel, though. Don't worry.) The point is, I feel like I can really write a New Year's post. It's cathartic on my end. I worry less about being cliche for some reason. I did it last year (you can read it here), and it was good. I'm proud of that. It's so exactly who I was then. So I'm back. This is an obligatory New Year's post. Or something.

The point is, this was supposed to be my year of risks, and I don't think I took enough of them. It's whatever. How many of you actually went to the gym every single day after resolving that? New Year's resolutions were made to be broken. Yes, I took an entire day of ski risks last week, and yes, I spoke French to the Parisian at Zenkoji. I took risks, yes, but I didn't take enough conscious, healthy, in-the-spirit-of-a-new-year risks. That's my resolution for this year, to take conscious, healthy, in-the-spirit-of-a-new-year risks.

It's going to be a huge year. HUGE. It simply doesn't get any bigger than this year. Gradution. Move out. College. Gosh. Don't even get me started on all the things this year is going to bring. I read through parts of my journals from this year and I don't even know how to put this year into words. I didn't know what was coming. And I don't know what's coming this year, either. You just never know what's coming. That's what I've learned this year, pretty much.

This year: Love and loss and heartbreak. Weight gain. Weight loss. Kisses. Lies. Recoveries. Tears. Cancers. Remissions. Iphones. Groundings. Senior year. Blonder hair. Longer hair. Makeup. Snow. Job. You. You. You. A thousand times you and missing you and wanting you back and wishing this time was the right time, but I'm 17. I'm 17 and it just isn't the right time for anything at all it feels like. Spanish. French. Kittens and hoodies and nope, I'm not wearing a bra right now. TMI? Who cares. Rent. Mourn.

This year made me tough. While 2011 taught me to be soft, 2012 taught me to be hard. This year was the year I did whatever I wanted. And yes, that ruined a whole lot of things, so 2013 will have to be a year of discovering how and when to be soft and how and when to be hard. Sandpapery.

"Last year I abstained
this year I devour

without guilt
which is also an art"

This year was combat boots and coffee. Dye my hair, kiss boys, run faster, drive faster, punch harder, yell louder. Defy. Don't answer the phone.

And this year was heartbreak. Both a beautiful year for love and an absolutely awful year for love. Platonic and romantic. June was perfect. A handful of days in December? Perfect. One day in January. But there were some awful heartbreaks and mess-ups and break downs, but at least this was a year of love, you know? At least I had a little love here and there.

And here's a thing I didn't write, but I could've, for the most part. It makes so much sense to me: “We are the girls with anxiety disorders, filled appointment books, five-year plans. We take ourselves very, very seriously. We are the peacemakers, the do-gooders, the givers, the savers. We are on time, overly prepared, well read, and witty, intellectually curious, always moving… We pride ourselves on getting as little sleep as possible and thrive on self-deprivation. We drink coffee, a lot of it. We are on birth control, Prozac, and multivitamins… We are relentless, judgmental with ourselves, and forgiving to others. We never want to be as passive-aggressive are our mothers, never want to marry men as uninspired as our fathers… We are the daughters of the feminists who said, ‘You can be anything,’ and we heard, ‘You have to be everything.’”

But this year. This year I will at least resolve (and maybe, if we're lucky, keep to the resolution) to turn soft and lovely anytime I have the chance, but also remember to act my rage. Passive aggression won't solve everything. I can replay situations over and over in my head and come up with the perfect thing to say, but that doesn't change that I didn't say it in the moment. Sure, I was roughened up, but I certainly wasn't the girl who stood up for herself. I will stand up for myself this year. I'll be a New Yorker soon enough and I'll die if I don't.

I have no idea what's coming, I have that much figured out at this point. I have an empty journal, and it's time. I always know when it's time for a new journal, because they come at a new chapter. So here I come. Watch me fly, watch my sky-write, watch me pass the AP Calc test. Combat boots and coffee, soft and lovely, armed with words and hair and all the things my parents taught me, the things I forgot and remembered and destroyed, and here I come, here I go, let it snow, watch the rain, wait for the mail, I'm as ready as I'll ever be.

PEACE OUT.
All my love,
Addy

4 comments:

Chair 139 said...

I like your boots.

That One Redhead said...

This is fantastic, Addy.
I am so excited to see what you will do and where you will go.

<33

Brooklyn Renshaw said...

i love the quote about our generation of girls. so true.

and i'll read as long as you'll write, my love :)

Taylor Mefford said...

WOAH!

So, I'm like this, y'know, kid who always was kinda hungry for Addy's poetry. Like, I'd be in line to get the ticket to be in line to see Addy perform.

And she's got this little blog over here.

Why does every site not link to this blog? Because here are all the world's problems solved. The muses send us bottled messages through Addy's words.

Thanks, dear.