a class journal

We sometimes take a few minutes at the beginning of class to write in response to a prompt.. When I wrote this I was sort of directing it to my teacher who I've gotten to know pretty well throughout high school. He's a christian and one of the few teachers whose opinion has really mattered to me.

Prompt: A time that you felt invisible

>>> I, for whatever reason, can't get a quote from Zmolek's sociology class out of my head. "I am not who I think I am; I am who I think YOU think I am." Convoluted, no? Here's what I'm getting out of that: I perceive others to view me as a really outgoing, confident person. That being said, shouldn't the general consensus be, "How could I ever feel invisible?" You and I talked about this yesterday, about what people think of me when they first meet me. I'm sarcastic and loud. I am, but that's not me, at least not in my entirety. Parts of me sit quietly and play gently with small children, did you know that? Parts of me go on walks late at night with my dad and talk about the nature of the universe; parts of me read analytical essays on T.S. Eliot until the sun comes back around. Parts of me play my guitar for hours, alone, until my fingers bleed; nothing but worship songs, singing my heart out. And that part goes hand in hand with the part of me that's scared to death to let anyone listen to me, or let anyone see a painting I've done, or read anything I've written...

And I think those pieces of my soul feel invisible more often than not. My dad said he never wanted to teach me to not talk to strangers, because he didn't want to give my subconscious any reason to go against natural instinct. That always seemed jumbled and filled with meaningless rhetoric. What he meant is this: he didn't want to give me anything to hide behind, I think because he saw potential in me to open up those vulnerable bits of my soul to people I hardly knew. Sometimes that's the way it is; sometimes I meet someone new and those parts, the giftedness and empathy and intellect God has given me, they are right out in the open. And it's a natural, beautiful thing. I feel most alive when I've sharing myself with others without forcing it, I think. Someone once told me that I was a breath of fresh air. They told me that and I cried. They said I was Audrey Hepburn coming home from France in the movie Sabrina. I love that movie. I wish I was Audrey Hepburn. But I'm not; I'm me. And a lot of the time, I don't even know what that means. 'Me', by it's variable definitions, isn't the person you know. I feel like the pieces about me that I actually like have been bogged down by all the shit that high school entails. Or maybe it isn't just the past four years, maybe it's my entire public school career. Or broader than that. 18 years of a little girl's enthusiastic creativity being repressed by culture. Or the wear and tear of life. Or Satan. Or a combination of everything..

I fully recognize that I sound like an angsty teenager right now, but that's only because I am one. Or maybe I'm not, I don't really know. All I know is that beneath this initial cloak of terror at the thought of other people seeing those vulnerable bits of me, there was a little girl who wandered away from her dad at Saylorville lake when she was four years old. He found her an hour later, surrounded by an entire college football team on the beach. They were all listening quietly, captivated by the story about a princess, a magical umbrella and a lonely elephant named Albert that she was making up as she went along. That girl played make-believe with the kids her age and made sure that everyone had an important role to play, always making herself the slave or orphan. She could learn new instruments with astonishing ease and adored performing for anyone who would listen, though she deeply resented the idea that one must take lessons from a teacher if one is to learn to play anything well. She thought she was a sufficient enough teacher on her own.. She sang shamelessly, painting pictures to give away as presents and loved, more than anything, to sit in her brothers' rooms at bedtime, listening to their dad read the Chronicles of Narnia or the Lord of the Rings.

I am drowning in an ocean of nostalgia and tears. There's a song by some girl, I think it's called 2 A.M., and I'm pretty sure it was her only claim to (mild) fame, but there's a line in that song that's like, 2 AM and I'm still awake, writing a song. If I get it all down on paper it's no longer inside of me, threatening the life it belongs to. And I feel like I'm naked in front of the crowd, cause these words are my diary, screaming out loud, and I know that you'll use them however you want to. I don't know if you're collecting this journal entry, I don't know if you're ever going to read this, and I don't think it would make a difference. Putting this into words was for me. I mean, I'm writing to you, but I don't think the value comes from me just gushing out this personal stuff. Vulnerability doesn't counteract invisibility, it just makes those hidden parts more prone to injury. It's okay, though, cause it's a personal journey, me and my tattered heart and God. And maybe it's good for me to share it with another christian. He's going to have to break me eventually if He ever wants to use me; I'm completely useless as long as I'm hiding His treasures, this precious stewardship he's entrusted me with. I'm a selfish, cowardly sinner. It makes me sick sometimes, really anytime I think about it. I don't want to let the better pieces of me hide anymore. Hold me to that, will you? Make me read a poem in front of the whole school or something.

But don't actually, I'd kill you.<<<