Viewing entries in
Memoir
This week I took a chance. I stepped out on a limb and decided to write these words without any obligation for editing. No editing makes me cringe. The incorrect grammar and secret emotions that might slip out through the ink of my pen, the type of my hands, worries me. But lately I’ve been so focused on being edited, that I haven’t allowed myself to be free, to be open, to be wrong, and to still be okay.
I found out the hard way, receiving awards and impressive remarks often becomes an addiction, an enslavement of the mind. The more you do, the more you feel the need to do, to stay ahead of others and your past self. And when you're not doing, you feel worthless to the world. It's one thing to be build a resume to get into college or to get a good job, it's another thing to believe that resume gives you self-worth. We live as social profiles unable or unwilling to admit that Saturday night we did nothing. Looking back, tennis was trying to free me from those future expectations. [Excerpt]
I’d already been to hell twice in my life by my 18th birthday. My first trip was near the end of high school, back when gas prices averaged a buck thirty-five and Kelly Clarkson was busy being crowned the first American Idol. These factors coupled together would eventually equal my escape from childhood: my first car on the wide open road, me inside belting ballads.
But not before I first paid one hell of a visit to American Legion Boys State in The Sticks, Tennessee. If inside my car was a place I could reinvent myself, then Boys State was the place where I could try just being ‘one of the guys’. And that’s all I secretly wanted for my sixteen-year-old wretched self. [Excerpt]
Growing up I never knew quarter-life crises were a legit thing. I’d only ever heard of the mid-life variety that gifted men with new red sports cars. Recently I’ve learned that the quarter-life strain of crises are far less shiny, except for the shine of prematurely balding heads. The quarter-life crisis isn’t a secret because it’s uncommon. It’s a secret because we’re not ready to admit that we’re breakable.
Every now and then I still have horrific flashbacks to the seven seconds that set off my own quarter life crisis a few years ago.... [Excerpt]
Secretly I like to think that the hope of the gift and what it represents is really what we’re after. To know that we are loved. When we feel loved, we want to become the best versions of ourselves. And Jess makes me want to be my better version. [Excerpt]
I never expected to be the gay one. In between all the Sunday school, youth group and Fellowship of Christian Athletes’ events, being gay wasn’t quite outlined in my plans. [Excerpt]
We feared getting the same diseases, sometimes talking ourselves into panic attacks, not realizing that we already had the worst of them. The disease that is fear. Now pictured as the fear of growing older, or the lesser fear of dying. The fear of being alone. The fear that decisions that we made yesterday, or last week, or last year have somehow led us to a place that isn’t quite what we expected. That they now haunt us as we’re running out of time. [Excerpt]
There’s a tree outside my apartment window in New York. I have no idea what kind of tree it is, but it looks like a million tiny ferns crawled up onto its branches and planted themselves into its bark. A million tiny ferns that were now bright yellow, as if they were protesting the summer sunshine to return to our street. [Excerpt]
The belief that anything is possible, and that your friends really are the best. Because, well, they are. And in this moment, you're reminded of why that's so very true. Eventually, we'll get the chance to do it all again. But in the meantime, my suitcase sits like a time capsule on the floor of my bedroom. Reminding me of the fun that was had. I'm not prepared to unpack just yet, I need the memories to reside here. [Excerpt]
It's in that moment that I realized there are two kinds of flying people. The first kind get annoyed by everything when traveling. Each delay, each slow walker, each person who jumps ahead in line. Then, there is the second kind which has learned to love (or at least embrace) the unexpected. [Excerpt]
