All Things.

Hm.

Anyhow.

Januray. Tense. I knew I wouldn't get into the show. And pit was a very close shave. I walked into the room with the lowest expectations and the most obviously forced smile. That secret was still a secret, relatively. I'd gotten over the concept and had moved to the actual content.

February. Started this blog. Thought I'd be clever and was not vague, talking about things in real sentences, with proper nouns. Reflected in an easy, superficial way, and I began trying. I also began feeling a little more than butterflies. A little bit of fear. I fell in love with pit orchestra. I could hold my own with the other musicians. I liked my section and I found a friend in that little eighth grader.

March. I acknowledged the object and objectification as a problem. I started ditching class and talking to that guy in my boat and not caring about anything but trying. I spent a lot of time waiting and watching. I memorized my music in the space of a week, and that secret started slipping out to people for no particular reason. The fear settled into the pit of my stomach, something I got used to but hated.

April. Fucking April. Began rehearsal with the cast. The oyster caught my eye and a second, different fear sat down next to the now old one. Opening night was everything I wanted it to be in my small child's mind. My lovesick teenaged mind, however, was left wanting. I took a chance that one Thursday and did something incredibly stupid. I was very much a sixteen-year-old girl that night. My secret got out on closing weekend without my knowledge. By that time, I had closed myself off to everyone save for two people. One person really. I was open only to those who were entirely unreceptive. I was further intrigued by the events of the closing party, and thought I was actually getting the attention I longed for, finally, but I actually wasn't. The weird looks were just pity with a dab of caution and a hint of amusement. 

May. The fear intensified and I noticed the small flower. I still thought I had a chance, but time was running out, and that deadline was a bigger weight in my gut than anything else. The flower wasn't frightening though, a thought I dismissed at the time, but came to realize that the absence of fear was me slowly realizing that a flower, at least, can't hurt you. On the days I had the nerve to walk near them, I planned out the time it took to get to third period and walked at a pace relative to what would give us a chance, a chance that we, inevitably, never took. I was more concerned with who was sitting below me than who was sitting next to me, but the fascination was there. I just disregarded it because time was running out. I was counting.

June. I walked quickly, all the time. I constantly felt like everything was closing in all at once. Every few minutes I had to remind myself to focus on right now, that if I didn't, I would eat myself from the inside out. Time was running out in everything, but the only thing I cared about was having time to try, again and again. Grades weren't even a second thought by then. I convinced myself that my dad would understand, if only I could bring myself to explain, and that I was a victim, a helpless sixteen-year-old girl and that it wasn't my fault. I came thisclose to telling my counselor what the hell was wrong with me. I got into Advanced Women's and got my iPod stolen in the same day. I watched my name come up on a page that wasn't mine in a sentence, an accusation, that literally paralyzed me with terror. I found out that they all were told back in fucking April, and was humilated. I felt the need to apologize profusely to everyone but that little flower. I chose to walk away at graduation, to walk off that field and to celebrate with seniors I actually know. A few days after school got out, I organized my thoughts into somewhat understandable sentences and explained myself. Second moment of paralyzing terror: when her name appeared on my screen in the form of a chat box. Lucky I was home alone, that I could express my frustration with my own lack of ability to speak clearly and confidently. A few days before spring training, I got a call telling me I was the ADM. I finally had something else to think about. I was dumb and held on as tightly as possible to the graduating class. I realized the beautiful and knowing oyster was just a clam, was only ever just a clam. The flower was still a flower, and is still the only thing I can think of without letting myself be afraid again.

July. Band camp. I came back to the best thing that has happened to me in my high school career unsure if I was welcome. I made amends with the boy who has good intentions and remembered that boy who makes me smile. Things were looking up. All the while, I was alternating between embracing and ignoring that ever-growing minor crush, and that fascination was always present. I thought about how I don't drink soda but had three root beer floats anyway and we talked late into the night. It's a girl, I said. haha ok then. I read The Little Prince and saw insanity in beautiful words.

August. I fucked up summer school. Really, really badly. Where before I was focused on trying, here I was focused on not trying, on relaxing and healing. I broke my parents' hearts yet again and it didn't surprise me one bit.

September. Fresh start, but without my closest ally. Three days in I get a drunk message that made for a decent conversation where I didn't second-guess my every word. Choir made me smile, makes me smile, every day. My crush on the senior was just there, not ignored or embraced. I didn't want or expect anything from it, and reveled in the fact that I could feel and not feel a need to act on the feeling.

October. I started talking late, to the point that I would be sternly reprimanded for still being up. I told someone about the senior crush that I shouldn't have, and things fell down. It wasn't a big deal though. I wasn't at fault this time, so I didn't freak out or cry or anything. I still hadn't cried all year. I was only beginning to leak a very little bit.

November. I almost relapsed into cutting class. It was such a close thing, it scared me. I pulled myself together though, and walked to history. The boy who sits next to me is great. We're going to watch The Breakfast Club. I cried on the way to school that one day and almost didn't get out of the car. I cried on and off through zero period and then went home and cried in the safety of my room and then slept all day. The night HP7 came out I performed with my choir for the first time, and admitted my dishonesty and fell asleep at the best and and worst point in the conversation.

December. That conversation happened. Apparently, I was very obviously flustered all the next day. Which I was, with good reason. I turned seventeen. I was in my first choir concert and faced a physical reminder of last year and I was fine. I realized that the clam is a sad and empty and bitter and fundamentally flawed thing who happens to look like she has a pearl. Christmas was a let-down and I realized that when the small things charm you, the bigger things lose their shine. A mixture of emotions almost let me end it. The only reason I didn't is because we got off the freeway and it wouldn't work on a normal street. I cried in the rain for the first time in my life, in front of my house. My favorite Christmas gift, by far: 

If I had a thing to give you, I would tell you one more time that the world is always turning towards the morning.