In my life, I usually have kept a journal. Well, actually, I usually keep many journals all at once. One is usually the "honest" one that nobody sees, one is the "public-esque" one that wouldn't be a crying shame if a lover happened to drop in on it, and there is typically at least one more that wouldn't cause any harm if people, online or not, saw it. This little baby falls in between the second and third categories; while I'd prefer it if the majority of people who see it are already friends with me or at least on friendly terms, I won't feel like running far, far away regardless of who reads it.
My name is Sam and I'm nineteen years young, though you probably already know that if you're reading this. I sing, I can't dance, and I go to college for creative writing/political science/communications. I'm easily annoyed with strangers; I hate watching people in classes highlight everything on a page rather than just the important things, I can't stand people that don't realize how incredibly loud they speak in public, and when I see parents, I judge them based on whether or not they seem like they love their kids enough. But I'm still extremely friendly to strangers (this tends to get me into trouble in places like airports where creepy older men decide it's okay to sit next to me because I smile, then proceed to offer me places to live...with them). I have really fantastic friends that I don't see much right now because I'm in California for school rather than where I grew up, central New York. It sucks to be 11 states away, but when I do see them, it's pretty fantastic.
I love love. I love writing about it and thinking about it, singing along about it and discussing it. I love watching movies about it provided it's not the romantic-comedic type of love because I swear, if I see one more film where quirky-cute Jennifer Aniston/Reese Witherspoon/Meg Ryan falls for a fellow that's oh-so-different than they are as they struggle to find themselves...I'll shoot all of the writers in the kneecaps.
I believe everyone should love their bodies until they start hating somebody else's body. Then, they absolutely deserve to hate their own bodies because, hell, if you hate somebody else's, you probably never loved yours in the first place anyways. In my case, I am a (barely) 5'7" girl who, despite being half-Hispanic and having extremely wide hips, has a very small derriere (though I compensate a few stories upwards, and my face's cheekbones are big enough to take over my entire body, anyways). I'm also extremely pale (again, I'm half-Peruvian/Chilean so this makes absolutely no sense) and look far more normal when my hair is bright blue as opposed to it's natural state of dull brown. I like piercings and tattoos; I always have, so I'm not sure why people occasionally write this off as a stage. I currently have a few of each, all of which I enjoy thoroughly and take good care of. I think of it as customizing my body to my liking, the same way people get cosmetic surgery but far, far less expensive as well as having a need for actual creativity rather than just idealism.
I am addicted to words. I literally feel depressed if I don't write for a few days; at first, it's just an itch to grab a pen and scribble, but eventually, I just get full-on saddened if I don't release. And it has to be my own words, not just a technical exercise for a class or something. I enjoy prompts but rarely use them. I've only really had one teacher who understood how much I love and need to write and read (I think he mostly understood this because he (1)paid more attention to his attention-paying students, unlike many teachers who pretend to like everyone equally (2)was addicted to words himself). I see all events like a set of books: while they're open, they're open and you can read them, you can actively participate in the making of them, and you can see every detail beautifully. When you're done and on the next volume, recalling things gets considerably harder and the finer work of each sentence is near-impossible, though sometimes you'll remember a quote or two. But you still have the general idea of it all in your head, it's just quite a bit fuzzier. PTSD is like occasionally opening the books back up and flipping through them but only grabbing a couple of pictures at the start of the chapters. It's peculiar, but this really is the only way I can accurately illustrate how I feel about...anything.
Sam
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