Damn.
A month ago, I couldn't even imagine myself being here. It's really the last day of March? Crazy. Tomorrow's April Fool's, but honestly, I slacked off so much this month, expect a normal post. This month has been insane for me if I haven't reiterated that enough. And, now we're under this coronavirus lockdown. It's just...wow. We were supposed to go back to school yesterday, but I guess we're not anymore. They set another return date but honestly, I'm doubting it now. I'm not sure when or even if we're going back. And we're still waiting for my mother's test. She's currently in "self-quarantine" while we wait for her results. I had to call her to sing her happy birthday the other day.
So, with the future being so uncertain, I decided to write about it.
...
There, I did it. Happy April Fool's.
Seriously though, I'm not saying that there is no future. It's just, I keep thinking about it. People keep telling me to. Well, I'm told to think about my future specifically. How do I want to end up? Well, not like this, that's for sure. There have been so many points in my life where I felt absolutely certain about what I wanted to do with my life. Honestly, it's crazy how sure I was. Just two/three years ago, I really wanted to be a dancer. A dancer. I love dancing, don't get me wrong. I'll happily participate in any talent show I see. Just, I'm fifteen with absolutely no formal training, not even digital. I could really only go so far.
On the flip side, there are times where I settle so much, I only hurt myself. I get cozy in the present, enjoy what's right in front of me, and wind up losing any ambition I might have had. And once my current reality starts to quake, I quake too. I become dependent on the present and the future becomes this tear in that fantasy. It's approaching--it's always approaching. And it's always just as unpredictable as the last time it hit. It's scary.
These past few months, I settled so much. I would occasionally think ahead, but then immediately shut it down. I knew that things would eventually have to change, but I didn't want them to. Instead of embracing the change, I insisted on continuing on as normal. So, naturally, my world shattered around me.
And here we are again, the future. The future no one ever saw coming. Two months ago we were too busy joking about a third world war to even think about a possible quarantine. Just last month, I was planning on a small school prank for April Fool's. Now, I can't even go. I don't even know when I'll be able to. Three weeks ago, I cheered at two weeks of no school. Still, I planned to visit old friends over spring break and then return to the drag that is high school education. Now, this is my spring break. I don't know when I'll see any of my friends next and I'm starting to doubt we'll even go back to school in September.
Everything is just so uncertain right now and it's so easy to curl up and sleep through everything and pretend nothing's happening. But, CollegeBoard set up daily AP courses that I know I'll need to pass the exam. Third-quarter is ending as usual and there are still assignments I need to complete if I want to maintain my grade. My writing is calling out to me to continue, to reflame the spark I had last year and keep pushing towards my dreams. There's a book I want to publish by the summer of 2021. There's a certain GPA I want to have by the end of my freshman year. There are certain stories I want to finish by this summer. I keep thinking about everything I still want in my future. And, even though the big picture is hazier than I'm really comfortable with, I can still take charge of the gritty details. And I want to.
Just a young turtle, hatching out of her shell.
Tuesday, March 31, 2020
Wednesday, March 25, 2020
Poem Prompt: Changes ('Sunshine' Beat Prod. by ThatKidGoran & MSXII Sounds Design)
All you see is the color red
blossoming from beneath their bed.
The prickly thorns you focus on,
they never bothered me.
I would be lying if I claimed
I was never hurt in your terrain.
But I brushed it off, picked myself up,
it never bothered me.
But your perspective's black or white.
The red couldn't fit in your narrow sight.
And you're convincing that your existing,
it always bothered me.
And like an addict,
you prodded at this.
Couldn't live with it or let it be.
Your new fixation to fix your make up,
you pushed it onto me.
And with the changing,
I'm hesitating--
I'm backing up and you're moving on.
You wouldn't listen and kept persisting,
you pushed it onto me.
You pushed your changes onto me.
*Beat used for inspiration: Mac Miller Type Beat 'Sunshine' (2:41-3:37)
Tuesday, March 24, 2020
Change
Recently, I've had a lot of changes in my life. The definition of life itself might as well be stumbling through different changes. And, sometimes you stumble a bit more than others. For me, I've been stumbling a lot. More than I've ever stumbled with something of this nature. It confused me, honestly. I had been through this type of change before, and had all but accepted it was a part of life. Yet there I was, crippled and crying because I couldn't bear this change this particular time. Not only was the immediate hit more painful than it normally would be, but the sore numbness lingered on for so long. If I'm being honest with myself, I still feel bittersweet looking back.
I doubt I'm ready to be specific about anything here. I'm not too specific about much, so detailing this just feels like too much. It's not that the details still hurt--well, they do. But it's not the same kind of hurt. I can talk about it now. I've opened up to others and myself. I even started a little diary so that I can talk about it as much as I need to. But, these things hurt. They always do. Even if it's just a little pinch, when you care about someone as much as I did, it always hurts. The change feels like a slap to the face--a punch in the gut--a stab in the back. I was stabbed. The knife was in and out before I could process it and it went deeper than any other knife had gone.
But, looking back, it was a bit slower. The more I think about it, the more my perspective has changed. At first, it felt as if I was in an embrace and was suddenly stabbed. But, maybe it was more as though we were accidentally choking each other, and the stab was to escape. Don't get me wrong, the methods used were unnecessarily cruel. Though, I'm started to understand. I think. It hurts a bit less knowing where it all came from.
I managed to bandage the wounds a little while ago. At first, I kept unwrapping them to try and revert back to before I even needed them. I longed to go back and relish in the times I had already lost. My desperation was met with pain and tears. And, after ripping off the previous ones, new bandages become even more painful to put back on. My closest friends had to band together to help me put them back on. After a few stumbles, I learned my lesson. I promised myself I'd let myself heal. I refused to overthink. I refused to hold on. I refused to go back. And I did it. In a low moment, I started to pick at the elastic. Once I was able to see under it, I saw my wounds finally healing. I cried. Not of pain. Not of regret. Not even of disappointment. I was finally healing and I couldn't believe it. I didn't think I ever would. For the first time since my original fall, I went for the new bandages myself. And, I believe I did a much better job.
Each day, I can feel myself healing a little bit more. I'm crying less, regretting less, and crippling myself less. Still, I have those bittersweet memories. But I'm now starting to cherish the positive and accept what went wrong. And, I'm realizing this particular incident was just like any other major change. I've always had to bandage myself afterward. The only difference was how many times I picked at my scabs thinking it'd make me feel good. I'm learning much more this time too. I had a day where I looked back at similar situations and pinpointed how I could've handled it better. I felt so mature. Sure, I cried, but I did it. And that's what change is to me. It's never not gonna hurt. But it's okay.
The hurt will go away.
I doubt I'm ready to be specific about anything here. I'm not too specific about much, so detailing this just feels like too much. It's not that the details still hurt--well, they do. But it's not the same kind of hurt. I can talk about it now. I've opened up to others and myself. I even started a little diary so that I can talk about it as much as I need to. But, these things hurt. They always do. Even if it's just a little pinch, when you care about someone as much as I did, it always hurts. The change feels like a slap to the face--a punch in the gut--a stab in the back. I was stabbed. The knife was in and out before I could process it and it went deeper than any other knife had gone.
But, looking back, it was a bit slower. The more I think about it, the more my perspective has changed. At first, it felt as if I was in an embrace and was suddenly stabbed. But, maybe it was more as though we were accidentally choking each other, and the stab was to escape. Don't get me wrong, the methods used were unnecessarily cruel. Though, I'm started to understand. I think. It hurts a bit less knowing where it all came from.
I managed to bandage the wounds a little while ago. At first, I kept unwrapping them to try and revert back to before I even needed them. I longed to go back and relish in the times I had already lost. My desperation was met with pain and tears. And, after ripping off the previous ones, new bandages become even more painful to put back on. My closest friends had to band together to help me put them back on. After a few stumbles, I learned my lesson. I promised myself I'd let myself heal. I refused to overthink. I refused to hold on. I refused to go back. And I did it. In a low moment, I started to pick at the elastic. Once I was able to see under it, I saw my wounds finally healing. I cried. Not of pain. Not of regret. Not even of disappointment. I was finally healing and I couldn't believe it. I didn't think I ever would. For the first time since my original fall, I went for the new bandages myself. And, I believe I did a much better job.
Each day, I can feel myself healing a little bit more. I'm crying less, regretting less, and crippling myself less. Still, I have those bittersweet memories. But I'm now starting to cherish the positive and accept what went wrong. And, I'm realizing this particular incident was just like any other major change. I've always had to bandage myself afterward. The only difference was how many times I picked at my scabs thinking it'd make me feel good. I'm learning much more this time too. I had a day where I looked back at similar situations and pinpointed how I could've handled it better. I felt so mature. Sure, I cried, but I did it. And that's what change is to me. It's never not gonna hurt. But it's okay.
The hurt will go away.
Saturday, March 21, 2020
Nineteenth Lovely
It was a calm Saturday, a break day for me. I had already spent a good part of the day drinking coffee and reading whatever young adult romance novels I could grab my hands on. Normally, I would've avoided these kinds of books seeing how old they made me feel. Everyone was younger than me by about a decade. It was a nice reminder that I was growing out of the life stage. Also, the romance was always something I'd never really understood. All their relationships worked out, and honestly, I needed a magic spell like that.
But I didn't have that. So here I was, a forty-one-year-old single dad searching for a second chance at love. I didn't necessarily pity myself. I married my one true love. Had two kids with her. Became an artist despite the whole family kicking me to the curb for it. And look, we still had a nice roof over our head. A small rowdy pup chasing his tail at my feet, a moody teenager upstairs in his room--blasting his music for Canada to hear, and a small child charging for me from the hall. "Daddy! I need help!"
Couro's tiny hands landed on my arm as she stopped for a breather. "Help...!"
"What is it?" Instead of just telling me, she proceeds to grab my hand and pull me up. I let my book slip out my hand--which page I was on wasn't too irrelevant--and hopped to my feet. We then rushed over to the kitchen where Couro's project was sprawled over the dining table. She climbed up into a chair while I explored the papers on the tabletop.
"We're doing this project at my school." Couro handed me the rubric. A bright purple paper with pencil scribbles over the borders. It was a chart--a checklist. "It's meant to be a presentation on your family's culture."
"Culture, huh?"
She nodded. "Just...I don't know where to start."
"Well..." I flipped the paper over and saw a poster with a few bullet points that looked like suggestions. One of them was 'food' in bold black. "Do you know what mechoui is?" I half smiled, remembering when Kutu and I would make mechoui together. She always made a big show of it in an effort to perfect it. She would invite her sister, a few friends, and had me bring out the grill for a day talking in the lamb roast smoke. Our grass would always smell of paprika and cumin the day after. I was more than excited to recreate that with Couro and Gora. I smiled at my daughter, "It's pretty tasty and should be a good place to go from."
Still, she made a face. "I kinda wanted to do a holiday."
"Oh." Disappointed, I sat down. I hadn't celebrated a Mauritaranian holiday in years. Honestly, I wasn't big on any of them and just made a show for family on Thanksgiving and Christmas. Kutu had been the exact opposite. Every holiday, down to St. Patrick's Day, she would wake up early and fill the day with joy. She was the one that got me to celebrate Mawlid al-Nabi again. "Did I ever tell you about Mawlid?"
She shook her head. "Does Gora know?"
"He should." I had a distinct memory of the three of us celebrating a couple years back. "Gora!" I waited a minute--no answer. "Gora!" Still nothing. I got up and marched over to the staircase. "Gora!" Absolutely nothing. Sighing, I looked back at Couro. "Guess we're going to his room." She slid out of her chair and followed me up the stairs.
Through his door, I could hear a faint beat of whatever music was playing. I knocked on the door a few times and waited. After a minute, I knocked a second time, much louder and somewhat irritated. "Come in!" As Couro and I filed in, Gora sat in his chair, fingers on his phone. The music's volume went down and his headphones came off. "Hey."
Leaning on the dresser by his bed, I crossed my arms. "Why didn't you answer?"
Unbothered, he glanced up at me, "Sorry, didn't hear you."
Before I could get anything else out, Couro spoke up, "What's Mawlid?" Immediately, his face scrunched up.
"Why?"
"So you do know."
"Mom taught me. We celebrated it." He paused then looked dead at me. "I haven't celebrated in forever."
"Me neither," I muttered.
Couro stood by his chair and tugged on Gora's hand. Breaking our eye contact, he looked over at her. "My project is to present my family's culture."
"Then why is Mawlid necessary?"
Taken aback, I refuted, "It's a part of Mauritaranian culture."
"So?" I looked back at me. "Call me rude, but that's not exactly our culture, now is it? Culture is a way of life, isn't it?"
"Well, yes--"
"Our way of life is the American way of life. Our culture is American culture. We grew up here. We eat burgers and fries once a week, hang up stars and stripes everywhere, and think personal space is the best thing since sliced bread."
"Personal space is nice," Couro nodded.
"I know it is. Not once has Mawlid been brought up in this household since Mom's death. You don't even celebrate anymore. Saying it's a part of how we live is a blatant lie."
Neither Couro or I responded for a few minutes. Eventually, I managed to sputter out, "I don't know what you want me to do."
"Nothing. I'm just saying. Couro and I, we're not Mauritaranian."
"It's in your blood, Gora. I was born in Moka and Kutu in Surinam. We're both Mauritaranian, so both our kids are."
"No. You were born and raised there, right? But you came to America almost thirty years ago. You can't tell me some of your 'pure African' hasn't worn off since then."
Ticked, I went over to his table and bent over him. "It doesn't 'wear off,' it's in me."
"Genetically, yes. Culturally, no."
"The difference?"
"I was raised in Little Rock. I am an Alabaman. Couro was born in Little Rock and was raised there. She is an Alabaman. You are a Mauritaranian Alabaman. If anything, our family culture should be Alabaman culture."
I looked him up and down, flabbergasted. "So you're rejecting your roots now?"
"No, my roots are in Mauritania."
"So what's your point?"
"I am in Alabama."
"You're in Georgia," I spat.
"Whatever." Gora waved his hand in my face as he got up from his chair. He fell onto the bed, glued to his phone. "Get out, would you."
But I didn't have that. So here I was, a forty-one-year-old single dad searching for a second chance at love. I didn't necessarily pity myself. I married my one true love. Had two kids with her. Became an artist despite the whole family kicking me to the curb for it. And look, we still had a nice roof over our head. A small rowdy pup chasing his tail at my feet, a moody teenager upstairs in his room--blasting his music for Canada to hear, and a small child charging for me from the hall. "Daddy! I need help!"
Couro's tiny hands landed on my arm as she stopped for a breather. "Help...!"
"What is it?" Instead of just telling me, she proceeds to grab my hand and pull me up. I let my book slip out my hand--which page I was on wasn't too irrelevant--and hopped to my feet. We then rushed over to the kitchen where Couro's project was sprawled over the dining table. She climbed up into a chair while I explored the papers on the tabletop.
"We're doing this project at my school." Couro handed me the rubric. A bright purple paper with pencil scribbles over the borders. It was a chart--a checklist. "It's meant to be a presentation on your family's culture."
"Culture, huh?"
She nodded. "Just...I don't know where to start."
"Well..." I flipped the paper over and saw a poster with a few bullet points that looked like suggestions. One of them was 'food' in bold black. "Do you know what mechoui is?" I half smiled, remembering when Kutu and I would make mechoui together. She always made a big show of it in an effort to perfect it. She would invite her sister, a few friends, and had me bring out the grill for a day talking in the lamb roast smoke. Our grass would always smell of paprika and cumin the day after. I was more than excited to recreate that with Couro and Gora. I smiled at my daughter, "It's pretty tasty and should be a good place to go from."
Still, she made a face. "I kinda wanted to do a holiday."
"Oh." Disappointed, I sat down. I hadn't celebrated a Mauritaranian holiday in years. Honestly, I wasn't big on any of them and just made a show for family on Thanksgiving and Christmas. Kutu had been the exact opposite. Every holiday, down to St. Patrick's Day, she would wake up early and fill the day with joy. She was the one that got me to celebrate Mawlid al-Nabi again. "Did I ever tell you about Mawlid?"
She shook her head. "Does Gora know?"
"He should." I had a distinct memory of the three of us celebrating a couple years back. "Gora!" I waited a minute--no answer. "Gora!" Still nothing. I got up and marched over to the staircase. "Gora!" Absolutely nothing. Sighing, I looked back at Couro. "Guess we're going to his room." She slid out of her chair and followed me up the stairs.
Through his door, I could hear a faint beat of whatever music was playing. I knocked on the door a few times and waited. After a minute, I knocked a second time, much louder and somewhat irritated. "Come in!" As Couro and I filed in, Gora sat in his chair, fingers on his phone. The music's volume went down and his headphones came off. "Hey."
Leaning on the dresser by his bed, I crossed my arms. "Why didn't you answer?"
Unbothered, he glanced up at me, "Sorry, didn't hear you."
Before I could get anything else out, Couro spoke up, "What's Mawlid?" Immediately, his face scrunched up.
"Why?"
"So you do know."
"Mom taught me. We celebrated it." He paused then looked dead at me. "I haven't celebrated in forever."
"Me neither," I muttered.
Couro stood by his chair and tugged on Gora's hand. Breaking our eye contact, he looked over at her. "My project is to present my family's culture."
"Then why is Mawlid necessary?"
Taken aback, I refuted, "It's a part of Mauritaranian culture."
"So?" I looked back at me. "Call me rude, but that's not exactly our culture, now is it? Culture is a way of life, isn't it?"
"Well, yes--"
"Our way of life is the American way of life. Our culture is American culture. We grew up here. We eat burgers and fries once a week, hang up stars and stripes everywhere, and think personal space is the best thing since sliced bread."
"Personal space is nice," Couro nodded.
"I know it is. Not once has Mawlid been brought up in this household since Mom's death. You don't even celebrate anymore. Saying it's a part of how we live is a blatant lie."
Neither Couro or I responded for a few minutes. Eventually, I managed to sputter out, "I don't know what you want me to do."
"Nothing. I'm just saying. Couro and I, we're not Mauritaranian."
"It's in your blood, Gora. I was born in Moka and Kutu in Surinam. We're both Mauritaranian, so both our kids are."
"No. You were born and raised there, right? But you came to America almost thirty years ago. You can't tell me some of your 'pure African' hasn't worn off since then."
Ticked, I went over to his table and bent over him. "It doesn't 'wear off,' it's in me."
"Genetically, yes. Culturally, no."
"The difference?"
"I was raised in Little Rock. I am an Alabaman. Couro was born in Little Rock and was raised there. She is an Alabaman. You are a Mauritaranian Alabaman. If anything, our family culture should be Alabaman culture."
I looked him up and down, flabbergasted. "So you're rejecting your roots now?"
"No, my roots are in Mauritania."
"So what's your point?"
"I am in Alabama."
"You're in Georgia," I spat.
"Whatever." Gora waved his hand in my face as he got up from his chair. He fell onto the bed, glued to his phone. "Get out, would you."
Wednesday, March 18, 2020
Poem Prompt: Stuck
My eyes aren't opening.
I'm stuck in this daze.
I'm nauseous, I'm spinning.
My feet are flat, but not on the ground.
I reach out in front of me,
all I touch is a puff of nothing.
I can turn around to see what I just saw
through my closed eyelids.
It all looks the same,
but is so mind-numbingly overwhelming.
There's a ring in my ear.
I can't make sense of anything.
I huddle up, lost.
I feel a hand wrap around my wrist.
I blink--
once, twice--
I can open my eyes.
And I can clearly see her.
Her short black curls and full pink lips;
her pale rose wrap dress drapes over her.
She doesn't have much height but stands tall;
her copper brown fingers tighten on my wrist.
Her dark brown eyes look down on me;
she scoffs.
My gaze darts--
what's so funny?
She starts to cackle.
I'm scared.
She laughs louder, leaning over.
Her laugh overtakes the ringing.
It's so mocking--degrading.
I try to scoot away,
but I bump into another of her--
also laughing.
They're identical
with the same dehumanizing glint in their eyes.
I swallow and shake.
I try to crawl away
and I'm kicked.
Right in the side and I tumble over.
I look over--it's another her.
I look down at myself
and see two copper brown legs
sticking out of a pale rose dress.
I freeze.
Another her sees me sitting there
and puts her hand on my shoulder.
I look at her and watch her laugh.
The similarities were
scary.
I pulled away from her grip and ran.
Four others were there waiting,
ready to push me back.
There are more behind me--
they encompass me.
Dozens of them;
more and constantly appearing.
I'm stuck.
I fall down.
And I just want to
cry.
Poem Prompt: My Name
Tobillo was a young girl who was
Often overwhelmed by her future, present, and past. She always felt
Better after writing about it and fell into the habit. She would take various
Incidents in her life, and twist them into fantasy stories. She
Loved it. She wanted to do something with that
Love. So, she went
Online.
Tobillo wrote publically for the first time in her life. The rush, the thrill, she
Hurried through it all. She wanted to do
Everything. She still does.
Tobillo's body was weak. Her schedule was
Ill-timed and left her exhausted. A
Nap wouldn't hurt? And like that, she spiraled. Until,
Yes, she gave up.
Tobillo still wanted this for herself. She sighed and got back
Up. Again. She's done this before. How many times will she
Repeat this? Well, as many
Times as it takes. She loves writing and is filled with that
Love. She wants to do
Everything.
Poem Prompt: Personally
Let me tie my new blindfold before you go.
You think I'm so blind, so to spare your ego,
I'll step aside and tie my hands with your deceit.
Go ahead, run away from your words--
the ones you promised but couldn't upkeep.
I know it's petty--we've met me.
My feelings come and they change up.
Clearly, I'm just not enough.
I'm only some of what you want,
but you won't what's what you want.
You run around like I won't care,
but--
Certain things still mean this much to me.
Personally, I'd never do them with anyone.
No.
Only one can see that side, dear.
It still hurts here.
Certain words are only for the person who
could say them too.
And with my feelings the shit you're pulling,
that's not okay, dear.
It still hurts here.
Tuesday, March 17, 2020
Nicknames
When I was younger, I hated my name. I'm not sure what it was about it, but I just didn't feel it fit me. To quote me, it sounded like "the name of a forty-year-old accountant." I rarely heard compliments on my name from anyone younger than forty anyhow. I chalked that up to the older generation appreciating the maturity ring it had to it. I, however, was a bouncy, moody child who felt uncomfortable with a name that implied any sort of maturity. So, I had maybe a million nicknames to replace it. Especially online, where I took on dozens of internet personalities. Kashyai Bluebell, Maisonae, Princess Marshmellow, Lil T, TurtleNextDoor; they all mark certain phases of my life.
Kashyai (kuh-SHAY-eye) Bluebell was the first big one. Honestly, it's the biggest one, second to Tobillo. In some ways, Kashyai was bigger. If you couldn't guess, it was a result of a key smash plus a little letter-swapping to make it possible to even pronounce. Once I finally said it, however, I fell in love. It was so unique, so wacky. It was something someone would look at and go "huh?" Exactly what I wanted. I picked it up at maybe eight or nine years old--before I was even on the internet. Back then, I was already an avid writer(I wasn't any good), so I started signing my stuff with Kashyai Bluebell. When I did hop on the internet, it was my Roblox account name. My Quotev username was "kashyai," and when I played those group games on SumDog or ABCya I joined as "Kiki." Kiki later went on to be the protagonist in the very first draft of a story I hope to have illustrated and one day publish. Bluebell went on to be the watermark of a group Quotev account three friends and I made in the latter half of sixth grade. Bluebell Productions marks my peaking interest in journalism. We would come up with a question and go around asking for personal anecdotes and paraphrasing them. It barely lasted a month, but I've never really lost that interest and went on to sign up for high school journaling. Kashyai lasted a bit longer than its alternatives as I eventually dropped the "last name." I took it on in the very first podcast I've ever done.* Kashyai became more than just a persona, and I soon created a whole character for her.
Maisonae (May-ZON-ay) is the result of another key smash. Originally, it was just the name I gave my Webkinz pets. I constantly lost my accounts and always named my "new" pet Maisonae. From there, my very first sim baby. Honestly, I loved her and spent hours detailing her and how I wanted her life to go. In the end, she wound up being the version of myself I wanted to grow up to be. I took the best characteristics of myself and exaggerated them to create her. That's probably why her name lingered in my mind for years. When I grew a bit older, I started to dislike Kashyai** and by the age of twelve, I wanted something else. By now, the fantasy that was Maisonae had all but died. Still, I tried to take it on. Though, it didn't really stick like Kashyai did. I moved on much faster.
On to Princess Marshmellow. Somehow, I don't remember, I got into food-based girls. As far as I knew, it wasn't sexual, just fun little drawing themes. (If you're unsure what I'm referring to, here's Ramen: ) Ramen Noodles was the first one I ever saw and I began to spiral a bit. I collected a few of them, specifically the ones by It started my very short drawing phase. While that soon ended--with a few spasms later on--I continued to love a certain one: Marshmellow. I created a character for her where I made her this orphaned princess with a seemingly perfect older twin growing up in a war. If that sounds familiar, it's cause I rewrote an excerpt for it over on my Wattpad a while back. Marshmellow grew a bit, and so did my account. When I was first on Wattpad, I was PrincessMarshy. Marshmellow was kinda my gateway to where I am now.
And finally, Tobillo. There are many alterations(TobilloTheTinyTurtle, TTTT, TinyTurtle, Toby, etc.) that I use just as often if not more. This name, as many might know, is ankle in Spanish. It stems from me hearing Lin-Manuel Miranda named his dog Tobillo. For whatever reason, I just loved that name, and it started with a T. My legal name starts with a T, many of my in-person nicknames start with a T, and turtle starts with a T. So, recently, I've been drawn to names that start with a T. Tobillo was one of them. I've grown so much with this name--and stumbled just as much. I think about all that's happened as I've taken on this name and it's just...wow. I opened up about a dozen accounts with this name. I published a real, paperback book. Started a blog. Joined social media. I'm even back on Roblox with this name--occasionally. I even hear the name in my day-to-day life. It's kinda become a part of my identity in a way. Also, it's the only name I didn't create a character for. I feel like the lack of a separate character is because I see myself as Tobillo. Kashyai was a cooler, "baddie" version of my wacky side. Maisonae was this perfect, talented, "goodie" version of my academic side. Marshy was...not me at all if I'm being honest. The only thing we shared was being small and constantly comparing ourselves to others. But countless people could fit that description.
Tobillo is me. That's all she is--me. It's honestly weird referring to Tobillo in the third person. I used the name once for a competition's protagonist's daughter, but that's it. Other than that, I am Tobillo. There's no backstory character to mold into, it's just me. And, that's what makes me resonate in the "persona" so much. I may grow out of it, but for now, I really can't see that happening.
And, just as a little ending fun-fact, my shortened middle name is the longest-lasting nickname I've ever had. My aunt(dad's older sister) came up with it for herself when she was a teenager. Since I was named after her, I've had that nickname since literally Day 1. It's gotten to the point where my aunt has backed out of it and now mostly uses the pet name my grandfather used when she was a baby. Most of my family now uses it to refer to me, friends use it occasionally, and I used to use it as often as possible. However, since it's such a huge part of my real life, I don't think I'm too comfortable posting it.
*My current podcast is all but dead. I decided I wasn't all too happy with the first one and honestly lost motivation to continue. While a part of me wants to again, another part wants to be sure I'll actually commit to it. So, we'll see.
**I looked up Kashyai to see if it was an actual name people have and I guess it is. I also found my old Quotev account through it and almost cried remembering the hours I put into varying levels of pure cringe. Man, the memories.
Kashyai (kuh-SHAY-eye) Bluebell was the first big one. Honestly, it's the biggest one, second to Tobillo. In some ways, Kashyai was bigger. If you couldn't guess, it was a result of a key smash plus a little letter-swapping to make it possible to even pronounce. Once I finally said it, however, I fell in love. It was so unique, so wacky. It was something someone would look at and go "huh?" Exactly what I wanted. I picked it up at maybe eight or nine years old--before I was even on the internet. Back then, I was already an avid writer(I wasn't any good), so I started signing my stuff with Kashyai Bluebell. When I did hop on the internet, it was my Roblox account name. My Quotev username was "kashyai," and when I played those group games on SumDog or ABCya I joined as "Kiki." Kiki later went on to be the protagonist in the very first draft of a story I hope to have illustrated and one day publish. Bluebell went on to be the watermark of a group Quotev account three friends and I made in the latter half of sixth grade. Bluebell Productions marks my peaking interest in journalism. We would come up with a question and go around asking for personal anecdotes and paraphrasing them. It barely lasted a month, but I've never really lost that interest and went on to sign up for high school journaling. Kashyai lasted a bit longer than its alternatives as I eventually dropped the "last name." I took it on in the very first podcast I've ever done.* Kashyai became more than just a persona, and I soon created a whole character for her.
Maisonae (May-ZON-ay) is the result of another key smash. Originally, it was just the name I gave my Webkinz pets. I constantly lost my accounts and always named my "new" pet Maisonae. From there, my very first sim baby. Honestly, I loved her and spent hours detailing her and how I wanted her life to go. In the end, she wound up being the version of myself I wanted to grow up to be. I took the best characteristics of myself and exaggerated them to create her. That's probably why her name lingered in my mind for years. When I grew a bit older, I started to dislike Kashyai** and by the age of twelve, I wanted something else. By now, the fantasy that was Maisonae had all but died. Still, I tried to take it on. Though, it didn't really stick like Kashyai did. I moved on much faster.
On to Princess Marshmellow. Somehow, I don't remember, I got into food-based girls. As far as I knew, it wasn't sexual, just fun little drawing themes. (If you're unsure what I'm referring to, here's Ramen: ) Ramen Noodles was the first one I ever saw and I began to spiral a bit. I collected a few of them, specifically the ones by It started my very short drawing phase. While that soon ended--with a few spasms later on--I continued to love a certain one: Marshmellow. I created a character for her where I made her this orphaned princess with a seemingly perfect older twin growing up in a war. If that sounds familiar, it's cause I rewrote an excerpt for it over on my Wattpad a while back. Marshmellow grew a bit, and so did my account. When I was first on Wattpad, I was PrincessMarshy. Marshmellow was kinda my gateway to where I am now.
And finally, Tobillo. There are many alterations(TobilloTheTinyTurtle, TTTT, TinyTurtle, Toby, etc.) that I use just as often if not more. This name, as many might know, is ankle in Spanish. It stems from me hearing Lin-Manuel Miranda named his dog Tobillo. For whatever reason, I just loved that name, and it started with a T. My legal name starts with a T, many of my in-person nicknames start with a T, and turtle starts with a T. So, recently, I've been drawn to names that start with a T. Tobillo was one of them. I've grown so much with this name--and stumbled just as much. I think about all that's happened as I've taken on this name and it's just...wow. I opened up about a dozen accounts with this name. I published a real, paperback book. Started a blog. Joined social media. I'm even back on Roblox with this name--occasionally. I even hear the name in my day-to-day life. It's kinda become a part of my identity in a way. Also, it's the only name I didn't create a character for. I feel like the lack of a separate character is because I see myself as Tobillo. Kashyai was a cooler, "baddie" version of my wacky side. Maisonae was this perfect, talented, "goodie" version of my academic side. Marshy was...not me at all if I'm being honest. The only thing we shared was being small and constantly comparing ourselves to others. But countless people could fit that description.
Tobillo is me. That's all she is--me. It's honestly weird referring to Tobillo in the third person. I used the name once for a competition's protagonist's daughter, but that's it. Other than that, I am Tobillo. There's no backstory character to mold into, it's just me. And, that's what makes me resonate in the "persona" so much. I may grow out of it, but for now, I really can't see that happening.
And, just as a little ending fun-fact, my shortened middle name is the longest-lasting nickname I've ever had. My aunt(dad's older sister) came up with it for herself when she was a teenager. Since I was named after her, I've had that nickname since literally Day 1. It's gotten to the point where my aunt has backed out of it and now mostly uses the pet name my grandfather used when she was a baby. Most of my family now uses it to refer to me, friends use it occasionally, and I used to use it as often as possible. However, since it's such a huge part of my real life, I don't think I'm too comfortable posting it.
*My current podcast is all but dead. I decided I wasn't all too happy with the first one and honestly lost motivation to continue. While a part of me wants to again, another part wants to be sure I'll actually commit to it. So, we'll see.
**I looked up Kashyai to see if it was an actual name people have and I guess it is. I also found my old Quotev account through it and almost cried remembering the hours I put into varying levels of pure cringe. Man, the memories.
Overthinking
Funny. I was originally gonna write this almost a month ago. But I gave it a second thought--then a third, and a fourth, and a fifth--and decided not to. But, I'm in a special place in my life right now. I don't know the right word for it, but I just feel like picking up everything I've given up in the past month and seeing how far I can push it.
So, here we are. Overthinking.
So often, humans have aspirations. There are things they want to achieve and reach by the end of their lifetimes. Something like becoming rich or having lots of kids or giving back to a community. Even in a more casual sense, they want to achieve little goals. It could be just making new friends or stepping outside their comfort zones. We make these goals, take the step towards it, and aim to strive.
But, however, we often wind up being our own worst enemies. Through doubt or fear, we shrink our own egos, put hesitation in ourselves and overcomplicate what should be simple tasks. Many people deal with this issue, in many different forms. And the one I'm most familiar with is the one and only: overthinking.
Instead of just doing what I want to do, I'll sit and think about various outcomes, some overdramatically tragic. I'll debate with myself how I could affect others. Usually, this thought process spirals so out of character and context, I might as well be imagining Mean Girls 2. And--it scares me. I'll scare myself out of moving forward with certain tasks, especially social ones. I'll overthink and blow it all way out of proportion and now have to summon back up even an ounce of courage.
But, one thing I noticed, is that I only overthink certain situations. I'm not a really anxious person(it's debatable), I just care more about certain scenarios than others. For example, let's say we have one of my closest friends and a person who I have a few feelings for. Then, let's say I'm trying to ask both to call for whatever reason. I'm able to ask the former without really thinking about it and the phone call will flow naturally and make easy conversation. The latter, however, will require me gathering up some courage and going over what I plan on saying several times. What took barely a minute in a situation I was comfortable was needlessly drawled out when I wasn't.
So? The takeaway?
Like a lot of people, I overthink when I'm uncomfortable. Maybe it's an attempt at a coping method, but due to its lack of efficiency, it flops under that label. But, I've acknowledged this a little bit more in recent times. When my brain goes off, thinking about what could quite literally never happen, instead of letting it scare me, I notice it. I'll see myself flare up and recognize my own discomfort. It helps me to realize that I'm spiraling and to imagine myself in a more familiar situation. Though it's won't be the same, it helps to calm me and help me focus.
However, in favor of all honesty, there are times when overthinking still does cripple me a bit.
So, here we are. Overthinking.
So often, humans have aspirations. There are things they want to achieve and reach by the end of their lifetimes. Something like becoming rich or having lots of kids or giving back to a community. Even in a more casual sense, they want to achieve little goals. It could be just making new friends or stepping outside their comfort zones. We make these goals, take the step towards it, and aim to strive.
But, however, we often wind up being our own worst enemies. Through doubt or fear, we shrink our own egos, put hesitation in ourselves and overcomplicate what should be simple tasks. Many people deal with this issue, in many different forms. And the one I'm most familiar with is the one and only: overthinking.
Instead of just doing what I want to do, I'll sit and think about various outcomes, some overdramatically tragic. I'll debate with myself how I could affect others. Usually, this thought process spirals so out of character and context, I might as well be imagining Mean Girls 2. And--it scares me. I'll scare myself out of moving forward with certain tasks, especially social ones. I'll overthink and blow it all way out of proportion and now have to summon back up even an ounce of courage.
But, one thing I noticed, is that I only overthink certain situations. I'm not a really anxious person(it's debatable), I just care more about certain scenarios than others. For example, let's say we have one of my closest friends and a person who I have a few feelings for. Then, let's say I'm trying to ask both to call for whatever reason. I'm able to ask the former without really thinking about it and the phone call will flow naturally and make easy conversation. The latter, however, will require me gathering up some courage and going over what I plan on saying several times. What took barely a minute in a situation I was comfortable was needlessly drawled out when I wasn't.
So? The takeaway?
Like a lot of people, I overthink when I'm uncomfortable. Maybe it's an attempt at a coping method, but due to its lack of efficiency, it flops under that label. But, I've acknowledged this a little bit more in recent times. When my brain goes off, thinking about what could quite literally never happen, instead of letting it scare me, I notice it. I'll see myself flare up and recognize my own discomfort. It helps me to realize that I'm spiraling and to imagine myself in a more familiar situation. Though it's won't be the same, it helps to calm me and help me focus.
However, in favor of all honesty, there are times when overthinking still does cripple me a bit.
Confidence
Confidence. I struggle with it.
I really wish I could say I noticed a long time ago and have been improving ever since and yadda, yadda--but I can't. Well, not exactly. My self-love has never really hit rock bottom. Sure, there've been downsides to it and times where I didn't show it, but there's never been a time in my life where I truly hated myself. And, I'm lucky for that. I need to work on it, most definitely, but it's not awful. I may doubt myself, insult myself, and hold myself back. But when all is said and done, I am my own first friend and the closest one I'll ever have.
With that in mind, self-confidence is a whole another story. Throughout my life, my levels of confidence have always varied. Part of me wants to connect the zigzags with moving, but another part of me thinks it's a change in personality. As a really little girl, before I started going to school, I didn't have any friends. I clung to mother and father and quite frankly was afraid of the outside world. I'd avoid going outside, run away from kids my age, and sometimes hide from other family members. I grew up a bit and was forced to interact by the school system. I saw people who have been friends for years and were barely six-years-old, and honestly, I wanted that type of friendship. So there I was, desperately trying to find someone to trust my life with, when I could barely hold a conversation with anyone. I started gauging my value by how many people talked to me. With that, I began to shut out others, believing I only needed myself and my family.
We moved, I tried a new method. Instead of searching for people, I just didn't talk to anyone. Honestly, my confidence was higher then than it was before. Previously, I had been so focused on trying to impress everyone, that I beat myself up whenever I couldn't. After my switch, I was suddenly brave enough to be that loner kid, but I still saw myself as my classmates' equals. I kept this same energy when I switched again. Except for this time, I expressed it. I was loud, talkative, playful. Friendly, but abrasive. Yeah, my confidence sky-rocketed. But it moved beyond casual self-assurance and entered a cockiness zone. I'm sure I was a bother to those around me. In the right setting, my behavior lifted people's spirits. In others, it annoyed them to their graves.
This time, it didn't take another move to make me reflect on myself. As a part of growing, I became more self-conscious and did it on my own. I was no longer a little kid, completely unaware of myself. Now, if I was blatantly irritating, I took notice. The next three years were a back and forth with me wanting to be blissfully loud and appropriately accommodable. I claimed being loud made me happy, and I rode that wave until I moved again. I was then back to sitting alone, eating alone, and being alone. I had done it before with ease, I just couldn't remember how. I put so much effort into learning how to be physically alone. By the time I made new friends, I was so used to it. I was, and still am, in the habit of pulling away from a group of people if I felt the conversation didn't need me. When I first did this, I was afraid of being rude. The same fear still hesitates some of my more "anti-social" behaviors. But I'm always reassured by how little other people are affected. On the flip side, I got so attached to those who let me. My confidence just fell flat with them, and I was willing to do anything for their comfort as long as I believed I was okay. My happiness fell into their happiness, and for the first time, I doubt my self-love was still there. Because of this, I made this messier, more complicated. While I believed I was asking for barely anything, pitting my entire happiness on another was easily asking for everything.
In the first two weeks of March, I was met with a rude awakening. Ruder than any of my "walk-outs" have ever been. I spent that time trying to piece together the few shambles of the confidence I had left. The hardest part of it all is to make sure I learn the right lesson and that I thoroughly learn it. My biggest fear is unintentionally rushing what is so clearly a learning minute for me and I have to catch myself sometimes to ensure I don't.
Am I even still confident in myself? To a degree. A month ago, I avoided talking sometimes, second-guessed myself, and always overthought everything. Now, I can safely say I see traces of myself from a few years ago. The abrasive side still appears, especially digitally. But in person, I find myself more comfortable with myself and my decisions. I'm not trying to appease anyone at all times, but I have friends who I'm more than willing to help out. I'm still working on ensuring I'm not too much, but so far, I like how this has gone.
Confidence: the feeling or belief that one can rely on someone or something; firm trust.
I really wish I could say I noticed a long time ago and have been improving ever since and yadda, yadda--but I can't. Well, not exactly. My self-love has never really hit rock bottom. Sure, there've been downsides to it and times where I didn't show it, but there's never been a time in my life where I truly hated myself. And, I'm lucky for that. I need to work on it, most definitely, but it's not awful. I may doubt myself, insult myself, and hold myself back. But when all is said and done, I am my own first friend and the closest one I'll ever have.
With that in mind, self-confidence is a whole another story. Throughout my life, my levels of confidence have always varied. Part of me wants to connect the zigzags with moving, but another part of me thinks it's a change in personality. As a really little girl, before I started going to school, I didn't have any friends. I clung to mother and father and quite frankly was afraid of the outside world. I'd avoid going outside, run away from kids my age, and sometimes hide from other family members. I grew up a bit and was forced to interact by the school system. I saw people who have been friends for years and were barely six-years-old, and honestly, I wanted that type of friendship. So there I was, desperately trying to find someone to trust my life with, when I could barely hold a conversation with anyone. I started gauging my value by how many people talked to me. With that, I began to shut out others, believing I only needed myself and my family.
We moved, I tried a new method. Instead of searching for people, I just didn't talk to anyone. Honestly, my confidence was higher then than it was before. Previously, I had been so focused on trying to impress everyone, that I beat myself up whenever I couldn't. After my switch, I was suddenly brave enough to be that loner kid, but I still saw myself as my classmates' equals. I kept this same energy when I switched again. Except for this time, I expressed it. I was loud, talkative, playful. Friendly, but abrasive. Yeah, my confidence sky-rocketed. But it moved beyond casual self-assurance and entered a cockiness zone. I'm sure I was a bother to those around me. In the right setting, my behavior lifted people's spirits. In others, it annoyed them to their graves.
This time, it didn't take another move to make me reflect on myself. As a part of growing, I became more self-conscious and did it on my own. I was no longer a little kid, completely unaware of myself. Now, if I was blatantly irritating, I took notice. The next three years were a back and forth with me wanting to be blissfully loud and appropriately accommodable. I claimed being loud made me happy, and I rode that wave until I moved again. I was then back to sitting alone, eating alone, and being alone. I had done it before with ease, I just couldn't remember how. I put so much effort into learning how to be physically alone. By the time I made new friends, I was so used to it. I was, and still am, in the habit of pulling away from a group of people if I felt the conversation didn't need me. When I first did this, I was afraid of being rude. The same fear still hesitates some of my more "anti-social" behaviors. But I'm always reassured by how little other people are affected. On the flip side, I got so attached to those who let me. My confidence just fell flat with them, and I was willing to do anything for their comfort as long as I believed I was okay. My happiness fell into their happiness, and for the first time, I doubt my self-love was still there. Because of this, I made this messier, more complicated. While I believed I was asking for barely anything, pitting my entire happiness on another was easily asking for everything.
In the first two weeks of March, I was met with a rude awakening. Ruder than any of my "walk-outs" have ever been. I spent that time trying to piece together the few shambles of the confidence I had left. The hardest part of it all is to make sure I learn the right lesson and that I thoroughly learn it. My biggest fear is unintentionally rushing what is so clearly a learning minute for me and I have to catch myself sometimes to ensure I don't.
Am I even still confident in myself? To a degree. A month ago, I avoided talking sometimes, second-guessed myself, and always overthought everything. Now, I can safely say I see traces of myself from a few years ago. The abrasive side still appears, especially digitally. But in person, I find myself more comfortable with myself and my decisions. I'm not trying to appease anyone at all times, but I have friends who I'm more than willing to help out. I'm still working on ensuring I'm not too much, but so far, I like how this has gone.
Confidence: the feeling or belief that one can rely on someone or something; firm trust.
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