Superstitions and ADHD and OCD and Mr. Williams

So, as some of you may know, I’ve been taking a creative writing class for the past four weeks or so, and I’ve written a post about my teacher, Mr. Williams, about how he wowed the class with something.

Today, I’ll talk about how he offended me. Sort of.

Our class is reading The Things They Carried, which is about the Vietnam War, and he was telling us that soldiers have a lot of superstitions. So then, he asked the class if we had any superstitions, and he called on me first because I hadn’t really talked in the class before.

“I like to carry things around in evens,” I told him, which was sort of a stretch but not really, because I don’t care if I have an even number of coins or whatever, I just feel better about something, let’s say a ticket stub for waiting in line, if it’s an even number rather than an odd.

“Okay, anything else?”

“Um…Oh. Every night before I sleep, I look out my window four times.”

Mr. Williams paused for a moment, before looking at me and saying, “Well, that sounds a little OCD….” and then I don’t remember what he said afterward because I was kind of just like, Wait, what?

I was angry. We had a speech unit in our English class this past year, and one of my friends did her speech on quick or immediate diagnosis, especially with ADHD. She talked about how if a kid was really active or just wouldn’t sit down in class, their teacher would talk to their parents about getting them tested. Why are they so ready to jump to conclusions? Can you assume something just because of one trait they have?

Okay, whatever, my thing with evens may sound OCD to him, but I’m not OCD. And he doesn’t have the right to tell me I might be. Does he have any other evidence to prove that I’m obsessive compulsive? No, just my superstition.

What if I’ve had a problem with OCD? What if I am OCD and I don’t want anyone to know? What if being called OCD is a trigger for me? He doesn’t know any of that about me, and I found it a bit rude that he would venture to diagnose me in a creative writing class.

Those are just my thoughts.

~Annika

Dabble Of the Day 7/9: A Quick Rant Inspired by TFIOS

So I’m reading a book for my creative writing class but thinking about The Fault In Our Stars at the same time, and just wondering about Hazel’s favorite book and Anna and how it never ended and how it would’ve been so cool if John Green had ended the book like that, just ended one of the sentences in Augustus’ letter to show that he died. And then I was thinking, what if I wrote a book or if someone wrote a book and then ripped out the last few pages or the last page of said book but told the readers nothing, so people everywhere would just be confused and left without the ending of the book and wouldn’t that just be so cruel but then a few months after it’s released and when everyone’s forgotten about it, the author could go on a book tour and just give out copies of the ending so you suddenly feel this immense weight being lifted off your shoulders and everything would make sense because of those four pages.

Sorry for the little quick thought.

Okay, back to studying now.

~Annika

Un-American Qualms on the Fourth

Today’s the Fourth of July here in the USA, so if you’re American and you’re reading this, Happy Independence Day!

The Fourth of July usually consists of the smell of hotdogs on the grill, bathing suits, awkward family encounters, the only time you can use your blue eyeliner, fireworks, and other festivities to celebrate Our Beautiful Country.

At least, that’s how it looks on tv.

For my family, the Fourth of July is quiet. We still dress up in our red, white, and blue, but don’t go to a big party. We grill, but only enough chicken and corn for three people. We haven’t gone to the fireworks in our neighborhood for the last few years because it’s always been packed, but somehow hearing the pop and crackle as they burst into the sky a few miles away is enough.

To be honest, I don’t even feel American. I learn about them at school, learned about the successes and difficulties and the days that made today, but I don’t identify with the Americans. The very fact that I call them “the Americans” instead of “us” should be an obvious indication.

I’m not from here. I’m an immigrant. I was born in a third world country fifteen years ago, and I love it there. That’s my home. I hardly have any family here, all my grandparents and cousins and aunts and uncles are from back there. I only came here nine years ago, and while I’ve spent more time here than I’ve spent in my home country, it still hasn’t been enough to call the USA my home.

Not that I don’t love living in America. It’s absolutely amazing here. I have more freedom than I would have anywhere back home, great education for a much lower price, and I’m exposed to so much more different cultures and foods and ideas. I just still feel like I’m not an American, even if I’ve been living here for nearly a decade.

I guess what I’m saying is, I’m american by legal nationality, but I’m still living somewhere else in my heart.

Sorry for the cheesiness.

That’s just what I’ve been thinking about lately. Hope this didn’t put a damper on your Independence Day.

Happy 4th! 🙂

~Annika

I just wanted to give a big thank you to everyone who looked at and read my previous post. You all were so lovely with your comments and likes and feedback, and I am grateful for and appreciative to anyone who ever takes a look at my blog. Love you all! xx

The Struggle With Shortness

My first dream job was to be a model.

Okay, that’s technically a lie. When I was a little kid, I wanted to work at a nail salon because I was a girly girl and my favorite thing ever was painting my nails. Then, I thought about a doctor or a veterinarian for a while before I realized that I couldn’t do needles, then an actress before I realized I couldn’t act, and then, after some soul google searching, eleven year old me discovered modeling, and it was the one thing I could sort of do. So, a restatement:

My first dream job that I actually worked toward was a model.

I was a child model for my great aunt’s clothing business until I was around six, so I had gotten a bit of experience. I had always loved pictures, and the idea of standing in front of a camera and getting paid to do it excited me. So I told my mom and my aunt took some pictures, and we sent them off with a cover letter to some agencies in the city. I awaited at home, hoping at least one of the six or so agencies would take me in.

The responses came back a few months later. Some places didn’t even bother to give an answer unless it was yes, some places sent a letter that began with “We regret to inform you…”, and some places even went on to personalize the letter, saying something along the lines of “We have many people of your look at the moment, but you are allowed to resubmit in 6 months.” I tucked the letters away somewhere in my bedroom and awaited the next one until I received no more for a month and assumed I had not been accepted. I tried again, when I was thirteen, this time my resume looking a little bit fuller, my cover letter sounding a bit smarter, and received the same answer: No.

I’m fifteen now, and last week I rediscovered the letters and wanted to prove those agencies wrong, wanted to show them that they should’ve taken me in sooner. I looked up their websites for the address to reresumbit, and realized, that with my age, I now fell in the “women” category instead of the kids. And that, in order to even be considered, I needed to be at least 5’7″.

I’m 5’2″.

So, while my height crushed my modeling career dreams, that’s not the only thing it did. I’ve always felt out of place for being short, felt like I was never good enough or never pretty enough for my height. And it’s not like I’m that short, at least two of my friends are roughly my height, and I’m taller than some girls that are older than me. Still, even then, my height has caused people to think I’m seven instead of ten, ten instead of twelve, twelve instead of fifteen.

I have a little brother, Xav, and he’s going into sixth grade in the fall. He inherited the tiny gene as well, and he stands just around the 4’0″ range. He’s always telling me how he’s the shortest in his class, in his grade, in his school, (which is an exaggeration, he’s a bit dramatic), and how there’s a girl that’s as tall as my dad and he always gets teased for being short. And I always tell him that I was even shorter than he was at that age, and that he has to learn to live with it and ignore the mean people.

Growing up, (hah, get it?), I’ve sort of learned to embrace my shortness and think of it more as a good thing than a detriment. For example, a lot of my friends think that my shortness and tiny frame are sort of cute, and I’m generally shorter than a lot of boys I meet. I can’t make myself taller, so why worry about it? This goes for other things, too, like face shape or boob size or toe length or whatever else I might care about that I don’t have control over.

And hey, if people are going to think I’m an eighth grader instead of an incoming junior, who cares about them? I’m happy with myself and what I was given, and that’s basically the only thing that matters.

~Annika

It’s actually summer?

This week has possibly felt like the weirdest week of my life.

Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but you know what I mean.

Technically, right now, I am in summer. But it feels like I’m not. At my middle school, we’d have these days leading up to summer where we just had school wide picnics and pool parties and the last day of school was only 2 hours long so you were just itching to get out. In high school, you’re surrounded by finals and studying and you’re too preoccupied with all those exams to even think of summer vacation.

It still hasn’t completely settled in. It feels like I still will need to wake up at 7 AM tomorrow, go to school, suffer through some classes, go home, sleep, repeat. My brain hasn’t gotten used to the idea that I will be able to do all that, minus the school, at least four hours later in the day.

I haven’t prepared for summer! I haven’t bought summer clothes. My closet is still full of scarves and gloves and long sleeves and winter jackets. I don’t know what I want to do. I have piles of summer homework. I have my permit test in 3 weeks and I haven’t even finished drivers ed.

Also, is it bad that I don’t want summer to come because it means that I won’t be able to see my friends every day anymore?
No? Just me?

Then again, it does mean no more tests.

Until August, school. Hello, summer. 🙂

~Annika

(Sorry for the rambly post. Hope you liked it nonetheless.)

If I want to hug you, I like you.

One of the first things you will notice upon meeting me for the first time is that I am not a very touchy-feely person. I generally don’t like the types of people that will brush an eyelash from my cheek or grab my arm in fright a few minutes upon our introduction. I mean, I appreciate the gesture, but I will most likely be frightened myself. 

After shaking your hand, (if you offer), expect no other interaction from me. I’ll cross my feet, twist my clammy hands together, and bite my lip, but I generally will not touch you again until I get to know you better. And please know that it isn’t your fault. You’re not offensive, I’m just awkward. 

Considering my friends are theatre people and I’m sort of a theatre person myself, you’d think that I’d grow accustomed to pokes and prods and hugs and kisses and near-lesbian behavior and all that other affectionate stuff. And I sort of have, I guess. I am no longer afraid of hugs. (Yes, it’s true.) Although, I am rarely the one to begin the intimate, friendly behavior, unless I have an ulterior motive: I like you. 

I don’t mean “like” like “liking a boy” or like “having a crush on someone”. (I don’t think I could’ve typed “like” any more into that sentence.) I mean “like” like you’re my friend and I want to get to know you better, or I want to get closer to you. Essentially, I feel comfortable around you and would like to be your best friend. For introverts like me, this is a big deal. We are getting out of our comfort zone and initiating human interaction. Be proud of us. 

For instance, there’s this friend I have, Jas(mine), and I’ve only known her for a short while. But when we met, I immediately thought she was a super cool person, and that I wanted us to be friends. And now, I notice that I’m always hugging her or trying to find something to say to her. I don’t have a crush on her or love her in a way that isn’t straight, but…I don’t really know. 

(Remember how I said that I always want people to accept me? Yeah, this is like that.) 

Furthermore, my mind seems to think that the best way to know if people like me or not is if they show me affection. I don’t know why this is true either; another part of my body that I can’t pinpoint thinks that having people trust me with their secrets/ ask me for advice is a better indication of friendship, but the mind will think what the mind wants to think. And it thinks that if someone I know well/ relatively well/ want to know well hugs me or touches me or something, then they like me. And if they don’t, they don’t….Which is obviously not true, because I don’t show affection to new people.

So, I’m a hypocrite.

Sorry for confusing your mind further with my own odd mind. Here’s a quick review:

Hugs from new people=no bueno, Hugs from friends/ people I want to consider friends=bueno, No hugs from people I thought I was friends with=no bueno. 

Comprendo? 

Until next time, lovelies ❤

~Annika

 

Me.

Hi, I’m Annika.

Your average adolescent blogger that writes angsty, ranty, rambly blog posts in order to scare the internet into thinking she is angrier and sadder than she actually is.

(Sometimes.)

Only, I want to be someone more than your stereotype. I don’t want to be pushed into the category labeled “Teenage ‘Writers’ ” right away. I want to be the person that makes you think, makes you reflect, makes you feel something.

Basically, I want to be different.

Here’s some about me:

I use the word “lovely” too frequently, and since I have been watching too many british youtubers, I have recently inserted the word “rubbish” into my vocabulary, though it sounds quite odd coming out of the mouth of a person that isn’t from England.

I don’t really know if I have friends. Like, I know I do, but sometimes it seems like they aren’t always there for me, even if they are.

I write a bit. Although I am not that good.

I judge people way too easily, and that’s a habit I’ve been meaning to break.

My biggest flaw is probably that I care too much about what others think about me. I always always want everyone to like me, and even though I know that isn’t possible, I try to do everything in my power to have people accept me.

And lastly, online, I’m a lot more blunt/honest/sarcastic/sassy than I am in real life, so if you spotted me on the street, you’d probably be very surprised at the person I am.

Until the next post,

~Annika