Pre-writing for my narritive

Ok, so what do I want to write about? something that caused me great sorrow or joy; or brought about a significant change in my way of life. What do I want to talk about? what’s changed? what’s the result? I find meaning behind the lyrics, truth behind the lies

there’s meaning in the music
and truth behind the lies
bla
bla opened up my eyes

I could write a plain and simple coming out story. anything I write is going to have to be simplified. They don’t care about the detail and I don’t either. I have to have a point. Do I want to write about him? About what? what has he given me, changed in me? What is my current state of mind? I can answer that one: I’m rather amazed, because I now have friends and people look up to me? or at least they think that I’m older than I am…..

consensus—truth has very little relevance. It doesn’t have to be true, and even if it isn’t that’s ok, it can become true or not, no problem.

Kira thought I was older than her because I had a self-assured manner, I had already decided that I was weird and that weird=cool, I had a connection of equals between me and someone, and that someone had a connection of equals between him and Alex, who Kira liked. Thus, I am on a level with people who catch her attention in the way that Sam and Pelkey and Carl caught mine. I’m going to be assuming that she thinks like me minus the new developments of self esteem. As a result, my instant acceptance of her, along with the many random things we had in common, led to her thinking of me as being at least on her level. The way I used to think, everyone was above me, and the people who deigned to talk to me, well, they were such awesome people that they would talk to me? And thus, their status was raised in my eyes. Also, I’m in a situation where it’s unusual to be 15 at the least. Being PSEO apparently just means that I’m smart, not that I’m young. I also have been tending to use my big vocabulary….
Oh, plus, I used weirdo as a term of endearment. I was like, wow, you’re a weirdo, and then one time she asked me if that was a good thing. I think that the blank look I shot her answered it in a way that made her feel good. “Well, duh! Of course it’s a good thing. Weirdos are friggin awesome!!!!!” I turned something that she described herself as into something that means: uber cool person.
ok, well, this is all very nice. A narrative is a journey. What’s my journey? No one but me cares about all that. Lets see, about 3 pages? .5 page intro, to me and situation, .5 beginning of story, 1 page ‘journey’, . 5 page commentary about what happened/drawing conclusions.

what stories do I have? coming out, falling in love, parents are fucking morons, becoming un-depressed, friends/view on life? view on life…….what does that mean….view on life…..I viewed thins like I was a child. But see, I’m not that old and I’m writing to my peers who are older than me and I am also writing to my teacher who is an adult. So let’s keep it off of there.

Ok, friends? Sounds good.

intro—in general, I have a low opinion of myself. This stemmed from my rambunctious early years, where I acted like a boy and I read a lot. Reading was my excape from the teasing. Moving didn’t particularly help, either. In middle school, a girl decided that she hated me, and turned the entire IB grade against me. Later, I found out that other girls were the subject of such rejection as well, perpetrated by different people. And yet, we never bonded? we were too used to assuming that everyone hated us. Thing about IB is that it’s a ‘smart people’ program. That means that, to get in, you can’t be stupid, really. Also, a lot of people are used to being the smartest, at least among their friends. This is a breeding ground for issues, especially when you will continue to have classes with a relatively small group of people from 6th grade up into high school. Three very long years that turned into 5 for me, even though I got kicked out in 8th grade (not relevant, just complicates. All they need to know is that it’s a bunch of smart people who are in the same group of a hundred or so people for many years.)
Thus: I grew up without a lot of friends. I was basically inept at people. I developed some friends outside of IB who had similar issues, and in high school, I managed to make some tenuous friendships with some classmates. I still had the tendency to view everyone as having a higher status than me, and I would be subservient to anyone. My friends were the ones who didn’t know because they were too used to being the underdog. There were some people who I particularly admired and watched from a distance (I’m not important enough to talk to them) because they had some outstanding talents. They were all 2 grades above me, and about 3 years older. I watched them, enjoyed their antics, and went on. I wasn’t a very happy person, and that just increased over time. My involvement in sports, always trying because I didn’t have much ‘natural ability’ was nearly impossible to manage, and I slipped into a deep depression by the end of freshman year.
I continued my observations of these people, and the admiration turned into a kind of hero worship that I kept to myself. One of the ones I felt I had a personal connection to was Carl. Well, one day at chess club we ended up talking for a long time over a chess game, several hours in fact, before an orchestra concert. Just the conversation made me just so happy. I wasn’t used to being able to talk to people. I practiced all the talk, then listen, stuff I had been taught about communication, and the simple trick worked, as he found me interesting enough to continue talking. So, what did I do? I fell in love. I had just been dumped a while ago, but I had no way to stop it. All I could do was hide my feelings. Well, Carl gave me one of the stories he had written, and (describe exact incident here)

We talked for hours that Sunday. We got along well, shared random things, including some secrets that we hadn’t intended to. But we were just so comfortable talking that it all seemed so…natural.
One of the few things I’ve felt I excel in is poetry, though my confidence in that had dwindled as well. Nevertheless, I wrote two poems about him that weekend. One was about how I was amazed that someone cared about me, and one about how, as a writer, I feel things more poetically. Writers fall in love, in the storybook definition of the word, and I was in love with him.
That Monday, I ran into Carl again. Later, I learned that he orchestrated our ‘random meetings,’ and used the story as a way to give me his number. On that day, he randomly invited me to come downstairs to his pottery class, and (feeling like a dog trailing his master) I followed. I felt just in awe, and very anxious, afraid I would now say something wrong and I’d lose this right to converse with such an amazing person. Through a strange coincidence, the teacher and the other student in the room left, leaving only the two of us. It was then that he handed me the poems he had written about me. His feelings echoed mine so much that I just froze, petrified. It was so amazing. Reading those words, I realized he looked at me with the same kind of awe with which I looked at him.
He called me an angel in those poems, you know. He stripped himself of all protection and left his heart raw and lying on the page for me to read. He saw me as pure, something beautiful, that he had no right to corrupt by being near. To idealize someone else, and then find that they idealize you, is something that shocks the brain.

He called me beautiful. My mind still reels at the thought. Years of trying to dress right, speak right, think right, and coming out feeling completely inadequate screamed in protest as I tried to comprehend it.
I must say, however, that having someone there constantly telling you that you are beautiful does wonders for self esteem. His love did come tainted, as he had much deeper, darker problems than social rejection and a need for acceptance. But, buoyed by our reciprocated love, we struggled through it all.
He’s changed my life. Before him, I was a child, craving acceptance and attention. Now, I know I have it, from him, if no one else. And somehow, that’s enough.

It’s amazing, you know. When you are sure of yourself, when you are comfortable, other people can tell. I’m in my first year of college now, and sophomore year seems a long ways away, but I can still remember how Carl used to put on performances, literally attracting a crowd. He would talk animatedly about something, exaggerating, but in a compelling way that drew passersby to pause and watch the show.
When I glimpsed his soul and realized that there was turmoil inside, I gained a new perspective. Those people, the ones who are always on stage for the world, exert confidence they do not necessarily feel. And yet, it doesn’t matter.

The other day, I found myself having a passionate conversation with someone. As often happens, I went off in a monologue, and was just carried away on my stream of thought. I continued an animated conversation even while simultaneously playing chess. There were a bunch of people around me, all watching my antics, laughing at my jokes, responding to my questions….
It was amazing. After all those years, I really did succeed in emulating him, and yet I succeeded for different reasons than I could have imagined. All it really took was feeling comfortable.
So, if you’re anything like me, stop it. Stop thinking that you’re insufficient, that you have bad social skills, whatever. If you can write, you can speak. All it takes is being comfortable with the weirdo that you are.
Oh, and by the way:
GO WEIRDOS!