we are all our hands and holders

On Saturday, I competed in my last league championship meet.  My last CHLs ever.  I suppose I don't really blog about this type of event very often, this sort of specific post about an event in my life (especially something swimming-related, considering I'm usually just going through the motions when it comes to meets), but this meet brought me back to the idea of last-things.

It's true that I have had my last first day of school, my last first semester, my last floatbuilding, my last fall homecoming.  But I haven't really had any lasts regarding swimming, and so it's strange for this to happen and for me to look back on something I've been a part of for four years and see that it's coming to an end.

My freshman year, we were so much better than the other high schools in our league that we could make CHL champion t-shirts without worrying about someone else pulling ahead for the win.  My sophomore year, however, we won the meet by one point, and my junior year, we lost.  This year, we managed to win, but a team that for the past three years has flown under the radar took second place instead of our usual competitors.

It is all very interesting to look back on because I don't think that as a team we have gotten considerably worse or better.  Yes, we have lost a few key swimmers through my four years, but honestly, the same could have been expected from all the other teams, and we have swimmers who have stepped up to maintain our success.  It has been such an interesting four years, and yet I haven't realized until just now how amazing it is that we adjust to each year's team, find a new balance between us, and try so hard for success.

I can remember years where we have lost key swimmers and have wondered what in the world we were going to do the next year without them -- and yet each year, we have somehow pulled through; we have somehow fostered a bond among ourselves and been what I would definitely call successful.  And I guess that says something not only about my high school team but about people in general: that we learn how to adjust.  We cover our weak areas, are thankful for our strengths.  We look to our friends and teammates for support, and they help us cope.

In a way, I am happy to have had my last league meet turn out the way it did.  I did not place individually as well as I have in the past years, but my times were not considerably worse -- the competition was simply faster.  And as I approach State feeling the pressure to repeat a third state championship, I am trying my best to feel calm, because all I can do is swim fast.  All I can do is swim a time that I am happy with.  If a fast freshman's best happens to be better than mine, then all I can know and understand is that I've done my very best to adjust to the circumstances, and no matter what, my team will be there to high-five me afterward.

It may have taken me four years to realize that, but it brings me so much peace to understand.

photo by Tyler

i remember every sound it made

I've been thinking recently about audience.  I have been discovering more and more that there are actually people out there that read this.  Who enjoy this.  And while that may very well be the most fulfilling notion of my entire life so far -- that people are reading my thoughts and experiences and being prompted to think about their own -- it's still a little disturbing to have to realize (and reconcile) the fact that this is a blog.  With my name attached to it.  That anyone -- anyone! -- can stumble upon.

I'm honestly not so worried about strangers reading this (it's not like I put anything deeply personal on here that could seriously compromise my safety) as much as I am about people that I know.  I wouldn't by any means prefer for a bunch of faceless strangers to read my writing than for people I love and care about to do so, because showing my thoughts to people I know may enrich their understanding of me as a person.  But at the same time, it's disconcerting to think that this understanding of me could actually be warped by what I write.  Or, even worse, they could feel personally attacked or offended by my thoughts.

Though I have learned to not blog when I am very angry at a specific person, especially if my anger cannot be harnessed in a positive, introspective way, and though I have learned that having an audience is one thing that keeps me writing again and again, I still find myself disconcerted by the thought of my mother reading even the briefest mention of the awkward New Year's experience I had (too complicated to explain to anybody, let alone a parent), or the occasional profane word that slips out through my natural voice.  I find myself disconcerted by the thought of my friend's mother reading even a subtle detail of my tone that undermines her opinion of me.  Or my swim coach stumbling upon a post that expresses my frustration with the sport.  My English teacher even came across my blog and read a post in which I specifically referred to a paper that I wrote in her class.  Not that I would have done this, because that was neither the point of the entry nor how I actually feel, but I could have easily written something denouncing the assignment or even the class in general. I could have easily -- even subconsciously -- carried in my tone a morsel of condescension or contempt.

If I had other things to say, I could have been a scandal rather than a girl whose unique endeavor to keep a blog is commendable.  If I had let the power of writing publicly get to my head, I could have been the bitchy girl who trash-talks an authority figure or friend on a public online journal.  It scares me to think that I do  have power within these words.  I do have the power to make people think and reflect and I have the power to show people who I am.  But I also have the power to inadvertently wound, whether it be others or their opinions of me.

I guess I've just been thinking lately about the elements of myself that I cannot control on a blog with the same intricacy that I do to each person I meet.  If my mom stumbles upon my blog, she is reading the same words that a high schooler would, even if these are words that I am so accustomed to being able to manipulate in person in order to be the person she expects me to be.  While taking my audience into account helps me to think about things I have to say that might have a widespread appeal, there is also an element of blog-keeping that doesn't allow me to take into account very specific audiences that have an opinion of me that I'd like to maintain, like parents or teachers or coaches.

So this is a disturbing concept, not being able to have complete control of what I share with people on an intricate, individual level, but perhaps it also urges me to think about the impression I give on a more general level.  Perhaps it allows me to think about -- and become comfortable with -- the person I am willing to show anybody, the person I am proud to be, regardless of which audience I am speaking to.

Perhaps, in a way, this is helping to free me from the confines of the various versions of myself that exist.

did you cut your hands on me?

Last Monday I sat in my seat at the end of my calculus class, overhearing bits and pieces of the conversation going on in front of me.  They were talking about their English essays, how difficult or easy it was to get a perfect score from an AP grader, how we had to rewrite one of the essays from our midterm exam.  Since English class is not very high on the my list of things to worry about, I began to tune out the conversation as it turned toward writing in general, and, as all conversations with seniors in high school inevitably do, the future -- until I heard someone say something that rang inside me loud and clear.

"... I mean, I want to do something real with my life."

Ugh.  I wasn't sure that anyone heard her say it besides me, or if anyone even noticed anything strange about it, but my blood practically began to boil.  I looked around me to see if anybody near me had heard the same thing I had, but not one of them seemed to register exactly the weight of her words.

I want to do something real with my life.  Real.  You could even hear the italics in her voice! And when I looked around me and not one person seemed to be cut by those words the same way I was.  How could they not realize how upsetting and annoying and hurtful that statement was?

I can't deny that I understood what she was trying to say.  I understood that she meant that she didn't want to put so much of her fragile future into so uncertain a field; a field so cutthroat and judgmental and bitter.  Writing as a career is uncertain; it's difficult.  And so, in a way, I understood what she was saying, but that didn't upset me any less.

I couldn't help but take it personally.  Even though I don't think I want to be a novelist or a journalist as a career either, her words cut through my soft skin like a knife.  And I was angry.  Who was she to decide what was real and what was not? How could she thrust a statement like that into existence so easily, so casually?

I guess the reason I felt so personally offended by her dismissal of writing as a career is that I honestly have not loved anything the same way that I love writing.  Writing is not just learning or solving or memorizing.  It is not juxtaposing facts without faces that carry no emotional significance.  Perhaps it doesn't cure cancer; perhaps it doesn't build hospitals; perhaps it doesn't design jet engines.  Perhaps it is little black marks on paper -- but it is so much more.  It is ideas.  It is the preservation of the person I am and the thoughts I am thinking here and now.  And it can convey so much, it can mean so much.

How is the perfect documentation of a person, of a time period, of thoughts and ideas and truth, not significant? How is that not real?

What I am discovering through blogging is that I have something to say.  And writing these intimate, personal thoughts and emotions and getting the reactions that I have been getting has made me feel real in a way that I have never felt in my entire life.  More real than getting an A on a calculus test, more real than winning a state championship in swimming, more real than being accepted to a college.  I finally can tangibly feel that my thoughts have consequence.  I may not be making money or curing cancer or saving lives, but I am communicating.  I am making people think.

And that, to me, is making me real in a way that I have never been in my life.

tangled too tight and too long to fight

Last Thursday morning, I had a fight with my mom about fruit.  We were having a team breakfast for swimming, and I had completely forgotten about the fact that I had told the host that I would ask my mom if we could contribute food to the breakfast, and so when I woke up, I got an earful about being irresponsible and a bad team captain and I, trying to defend myself, made excuses for myself.  My phone wasn't working last night, I wasn't thinking about it.  Nobody reminded me to ask, so I didn't know that food was still needed.  I forgot!!!

Somehow it escalated into a screaming match -- I suppose 6:45am doesn't bring out the best in mothers or daughters.  Regardless of how we got there, we were definitely there, and it was a pretty bad feeling when I left the house with a bag of fresh clementines that we, by some miracle, had hiding in the refrigerator.  Feeling an odd combination of guilty and bitter, I drove away from the house in a bad mood.  I was pretty shaken up (I have not screamed like that at a person in a long time), but I managed to put it in the back of my mind and go on with the morning.

Sometime during first bell I got an e-mail on my phone, presumably from some random college that for some reason (though I've never before indicated interest) thought I cared about its application deadline.  But it wasn't from some random college -- it was from my mom.  In it, she apologized for yelling at me, told me she hoped it didn't ruin my day, and reminded me to always be a good leader and to remember what others ask of me and follow through with it.  I was touched, but because I was in class and I don't get good service in school and because I knew I would see her at home, I didn't reply to the e-mail.

On a typical day, my sister and I drive home from school, pack our swim bags, and go to swim practice without seeing my mom beforehand -- but I had a lot of homework, Daria had a meeting after school, and my mom had errands to run.  I didn't go to practice because I was working on a paper I had due, and I only saw my mom very briefly in the time between getting home and driving to the Y for lifting.  Because I was working on my paper, I didn't think about responding to her apology; we spoke a few words and eventually she left for her meetings.

It had been snowing for a while at that point, but the roads weren't anything to be really worried about.  I talked to her on the phone before I left, and she told me to be careful -- but I drove to the Y without any problem whatsoever.  However, I didn't realize how 45 minutes of snow and freezing rain could alter the state of the road, and when I got into my car on the slick parking lot of the YMCA with my sister and my friend, I knew something was wrong.  The car slipped and slid on the ice of the asphalt in the parking lot, and, foolishly, I assumed that the roads would be better-treated, safer.

To make a long story short: they weren't safe, not in any sense of the word.  As I drove down a large hill on my way home, I felt myself start to spin out of control.  I don't know if I pressed on the brakes instinctively or if I just relinquished control of the vehicle, but I panicked when I felt the front end of the car behind me smash into the back of the passenger side of my car, right where my friend was sitting.  The impact of this crash made me spin all the way around so that my car was perpendicular to the road, and the driver's seat directly in the line of the car that was heading right toward me down the hill.  I knew it wouldn't be able to stop, and at this point I was frankly surprised that nobody besides me was screaming their head off from the shock of the spin, but I was certain that at that moment I was going to die.  I was going to die.

What could I do? As we spun around, I saw the headlights of the car.  But I couldn't look.  I felt a sense of helplessness, as if I was chained to the ground, unable to avoid the car that would eventually kill me.  I couldn't move, I couldn't breathe.  All I could hear were my own ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygods, and as I gasped for air I turned my body away from the headlights and held onto the center console for dear life.  If I was going to die, I just couldn't bring myself to allow the last image I saw to be the growing pair of headlights coming toward me.

How did I end up in a driveway, off the street? It is honestly a blur, but I know that I became hysterical when I couldn't open the drivers side door (which was completely smashed in by the second car that hit).  Screaming and crying, I couldn't even think to call the police -- the first person I attempted to call was my mom.  It felt surreal that I had emerged from the car, along with two other girls, completely unscathed, from this wreck that felt like it should have been the end of the world.

I am honestly lucky to be alive; lucky that I don't even have a bruise to show from this accident.  Lucky that I didn't wreck another girl's swim season along with my car; lucky that my parents didn't have to take one or both of their daughters to the hospital that night.  But what I realized later as I was marveling at my own vitality was that I was also lucky that things hadn't ended the way they did with my mom.  I used to make it such a point to never leave things in a poor state, you know, in case anything happened.  But as I grew up, I almost became immune to the idea that we are fragile.  Nothing bad will happen to us, I somehow convinced myself.  And I stopped feeling the intense urge to repair things before I saw people again -- because I assumed there would always be a next time, in which I could do the same.

I don't know.  I just feel so much more fragile after this accident.  So much more fleeting.  I am a blip on the universe, and I can die (and it wouldn't even bat an eyelash).  But mostly, I feel pretty stirred by the fact that things could have ended so poorly with my mom.  It's not really a realization that can be succinctly and beautifully summarized using words, but I thought it was something definitely worth sharing.

i walked home smiling, i finally had a story to tell

The first words of 2011 from my mother to me (not including the ones exchanged at 2:00am when I got home from celebrating) were: It is a new year, and you are SERIOUSLY grounded.  I could all but form the words I heard next with my own lips, because I have heard them perhaps a million times before.  Your room is a disaster, and you are not allowed out until you have cleaned it.

So, turning over a new leaf from the past twelve years, on Monday I actually decided to take her seriously.  I will be the first to admit that although I am painstakingly neat about all things visual -- handwriting, my bulletin board, any art project that I have ever done -- I am regrettably a failure in three dimensions.  I have never been able to keep my stuff organized, and it has stretched beyond the ground of laziness and simply into bad habit.  It isn't just the clothes that I periodically scrape from the middle of the floor and put them where they belong, it is every single surface of my room (my desk, the shelves above my desk, the large shelves holding books and shoes and art projects, my bedside table) is covered in paper.  Binders. Books. Art projects. CDs. Electronics.  Dust (simply because I choose to pretend that these messes do not exist rather than take care of them).

Am I a slob? Perhaps.  I don't think my thoughts are quite so haphazard and disorganized, but there is just something about me that has been entirely incapable of bringing myself to keep my living space tidy.  It has gotten to the point where I spend literally no time at all in my own room because I can't stand to be around the disgusting mess that I have let accumulate.  It's even more than a bad habit -- it is a deep loathing (for the mess and for myself for letting it get so bad) that I don't like to face because it just discourages me.

But on Monday I held my nose, squeezed my eyes shut, and dove headfirst into a knee-high (maybe higher?) pile of junk sandwiched between my futon and the wall of my closet, hiding behind a bedside stand that failed to conceal its existence.  Beneath a few useless bags and posters that I hadn't had the heart to throw out, I found a mountain of notebooks and binders (from back when I actually used binders to keep my stuff organized -- we're talking like freshman and sophomore year here).

Ultimately, I decided that the best decision would be to simply throw all of it away, regardless of how reluctant I was about trashing an entire year's worth of hard work.  If I was going to find a gem of something in the midst of my old binders from freshman year, I would have already done it instead of letting them sit shoved in the corner and collect dust.  But I did get the opportunity to go through some of the notebooks (just out of curiosity) and I was pretty surprised at what I discovered.

Here I was, thinking that I had found my voice in eighth grade during the Power of the Pen season, when I finally learned how to think outside the box and write about things that meant something to me.  But the writing that I found from freshman and sophomore year was ridiculous.  Of course, I could write a short story if I really sat down and tried to make it presentable -- but my tone was so undeveloped, my style so crude.  Did I even think about words before I wrote them down?

The funny thing is, I definitely thought that I did do that.  And I probably did, probably more than most of the people in my English classes.  But I realized that I only remember the randomly good pieces of freshman-year writing of which I am still proud today -- I forget all of the stupid ones.  I struggled to express my thoughts and feelings and reading what I once thought was eloquent and descriptive and emotional, I realized truly how far I have come as a writer -- and a person -- throughout high school.

Instead of writing nonsense about boys that I was confused about, instead of spewing out my most idiotic and repetitive thoughts over and over and over again on paper, I now write about things that matter to me.  I write about things that will have significance (at least a little bit) in a few years.  I have learned how to express myself and convey emotions in complex and far more eloquent ways.  I don't think this is just development as a writer, though -- I can't help but believe that my improvement in expressing myself has stemmed also from the fact that I have learned how to understand myself.  Reading my writing from freshman and sophomore year brought those days back vividly in my memory, and it is only in remembering them from my senior-year perspective that I realize how much I have learned -- and accepted -- about myself and the people around me.  It happened so gradually, so subtly that I didn't realize it was even taking place.  But today during swim practice when I was thinking about how happy I am to be emotionally stable for my senior year, I realized that I have learned how to stand on my own two feet.

As I came to the realization that I have learned how to be happy with who I am regardless of who feels the same, I felt at peace.  I felt mature.  I felt free.

just nod if you can hear me

So this is the new year.

My new year's eve was interesting at best.  Thank goodness I survived the dreaded Christmas training -- two weeks and eighteen (okay, sixteen for me) swim practices that I have no choice but to attend so that I can perform well at the end of the season.  I had my last practice of training on Friday morning, stumbled out of the water, and felt immensely thankful that I wouldn't see a pool or smell chlorine for more than two days.  I went to a party, and it was fun, but weird.  That is all I will say because I don't really have too many reflections on it specifically at this time.

I keep seeing people posting these facebook statuses that express their relief or sadness that 2010 is finally or already over, so I suppose I will go over my year and think about what 2010 means to me.

I started off 2010 rough.  I was reeling from some personal and emotional issues, struggling with apathy about schoolwork and my grades and starting the college search.  This utter exhaustion about everything in my life translated into complete apathy also about my swimming career.  I felt an immense pressure to perform well every single time I swam; an immense pressure to win sectionals, districts, and the state championship in the 100 backstroke as I had in 2009.  I made myself miserable in the one place where I didn't have to feel miserable.  The water didn't lead me on, or criticize me, or make me feel bad about myself.  Still, I made myself hate it.  My teammates felt uncomfortable around my negative attitude, and thank god I managed to pull myself together for the end of the season and enjoy myself, because I had nothing to worry about.  I succeeded in the water and had a good time with my team, and even though by the summer I felt burnt out and emotionally exhausted by my tumultuous season, I learned a valuable lesson: swimming is as serious as I make it.  Freaking out doesn't help me; it only makes me miserable for something that I would otherwise love.

Around spring break, the college search for me began, and I went into it knowing nothing about what I wanted.  I have changed my mind a million times; I have visited many schools; I have struggled more than I ever thought imaginable with the fact that the economy sucks and my parents are architects and I might not be able to go to an expensive school without going into serious debt.  I think I got my first taste of the real world -- the real, harsh, mean world, where life isn't necessarily fair.  I watched my friends consider expensive schools and I felt entitled to do the same.  And although my top three schools are still very expensive, there is still the thought of debt and the less expensive schools from which I am racking up acceptance letters that I needed to apply to, just in case, looming in the back of my mind.

On a more positive note about college searching, though, I realized through my college visits that I want to swim in college.  I love swimming, and I love what a team can be for me, and although I am not the best practicer, I am excited for the new atmosphere that a college team will provide.  I am excited for a group of people who love the same thing that I do, and I am excited to meet new people and have a life of my own in a new place.  And I have loved writing college essays and seeing how much I have grown (shoutout to Elizabeth!).

Two thousand ten was also the year that I feel I learned how to branch out.  I have felt myself discovering friends in new people, and the ability within myself to talk to new people and relate to them.  I have become less introverted and more able to learn and have conversations with others, and I feel that this is the area in my life in which I have taken the biggest strides.  I feel more comfortable around others and I feel like I have built a lot of meaningful relationships with people to whom I will unfortunately have to say goodbye relatively soon.  Which makes leaving harder, but definitely more meaningful.

I ended 2010 more comfortable with my swimming, my schoolwork, and my social life.  And, ultimately, I ended 2010 more comfortable with myself.  Maybe the most important thing I have moved toward realizing this past year is the fact that I have something to say.  It doesn't matter what I look like, it doesn't matter if I don't have a boyfriend, and it doesn't matter what other people think as long as I am happy with myself.  And, for the most part, I think I have been taking steps toward learning how to be.

photo by tyler