January 28, 2016

Happy January 28, the one day each year when I post on this blog and reflect on how I've grown as a person!

First of all, I cannot believe how fast the year went by. I feel like January 28, 2015 was a few months ago, and if I walk outside right now, I'll only need to make a few turns and then I'll arrive at 305 West 29th Street, New York, New York.

My New York City self is so close, I can sense her. But we're not the same person. New York Erika is walking down 8th Ave right now from Lincoln Square. She'll skip past the Irish pub, the bodega with the fancy cupcakes, and the Greek restaurant near her apartment. She's headed toward the clubs in the Meatpacking District, looking for some new friends. New York Erika can befriend anyone, charm everyone. New York Erika is magic.

The real Erika? She's slouched on her bed, double chin to chest, trying to calm down after watching The Fault in Our Stars. The real Erika is unhappy with herself.

The way I'm writing, it sounds like I'm schizophrenic. I'm not, but I did have to leave my almost boyfriend's house a few hours ago because I was on the verge of an anxiety attack.

A year later, and I'm still my worst bully. I spend so much time building other people up; I value everyone. But then I don't have room to love myself. I keep telling myself I'm not good enough. Not good enough for anyone to want to spend time with me. It's all in my head, I know it. But it's a lonely, tragic spiral down to depression and anxiety and wanting to pull my hair out.

I received a lot of compliments this week.

A co-worker came up to me at the end of a staff meeting and said, "You are a great public speaker."
The boy I really like told me, "There are a lot of kind people. And there are a lot of genuine people. But there aren't many kind and genuine people. You're both."
When I left work today, my favorite new friend said, "Don't leave me; I'll be sad."
And still more. "You would have been a great teacher;" "You're kinder than most people. And funnier than most people. And more beautiful than most people;" "You would be the perfect person for Disney;" "I like how your voice always sounds like you're smiling;" "That was the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a while."

I am surrounded by so many incredibly kind and supportive people. I remember what they say about me. And yet I can't stand myself sometimes, the way I convince myself I'm ugly, worthless, no good for anything.

I've grown a lot this year. But I still have a lot more growing to do. A lot more learning about myself.

I have a senior year bucket list: go to Winter Fantasia; stargaze at the Bowl; ask a stranger out to coffee; dine at Butch's; attend a creepy basement frat party; eat at Cook one last time.

I have a phone interview for the Disney College Program in two weeks. And then I'm going to Vienna for three weeks in June to take my senior seminar. The boy I like keeps talking toward the future like, "Let's go to Tulip Time for your birthday; Let's go to ArtPrize; Let's take a day trip to GR."

On New Year's, I told my friends I wanted to be a better friend this year. They laughed at me like I was ridiculous. I bet they aren't laughing now, because I'm blowing everyone off. Not investing in long-distane communication. I'm still a shitty friend to most people.

I'm obsessed with The 1975. They're coming to my city the day after my birthday and I want to see them so bad, but I can't commit that much money to anything. Every time I listen to their music, I'm reminded of my best friend who I'm hurting because I'm not giving her the time she deserves.

I like light beer and IPAs and red ales, and sometimes, after I've drank half a glass, I can tolerate stouts. I like singing out loud when I wait to cross the street to my college house, letting the cars wash out my terrible voice. I like my purple tights with the velvet paisley design the best.

I'm taking a creative writing novels class and we have to write a novel next month. I'm writing about a girl who lives on Roosevelt Island. Her best friend has muscular dystrophy, and she's searching for the guy with dreadlocks she met on the subway. It's not a romance.

I broke someone's heart last year, and I'm still too much of a coward to give him closure. He sent me a Christmas present. I now own two copies of Eleanor & Park.

My mom and I talked on the phone for 45 minutes today about blowjobs and throat cancer and sex. I've decided she's my best friend.

I feel a lot better now. :)

Until next year, keep dancing down the street.

You're a superstar.