You can laugh, but I don’t care.

People think I don’t know when they’re making fun of me. But I know. I just no longer care.

I know I’m a bit weird. Quirky. Odd. Strange. I don’t always pick up on irony and sarcasm, I too often take things too seriously and believe stuff that’s not true. I’m book smart, theoretical, and don’t always understand right away how some of the things that are obvious to a lot of people work. With a lot of things, I’m a bit slow, and I need things spelled out to me.

But I know when I’m being made fun of, laughed at behind my back… I know it. I’m aware that it happens.

But here’s the thing. The thing is, I don’t care about it. If people have nothing better to do than make fun of me, then I feel sorry for them. If that’s what they want to spend their time on, then that’s their time being wasted, their life. I’m not gonna waste my time caring about it, because I lose so much precious time that way. Life may be long, but it might be short. We never know how much time we’re gonna get and I don’t want to waste mine. I want to focus on doing things that are good for me, that bring joy to my soul. I don’t want to care about people who have negative opinions about me.

And I want to share a poem with you. It’s one of my favourite pieces of writing, I’ve copied it down so many times, and I might have shared it on my blog before, but I wanted to share it again:

I love being horribly straightforward. I love sending reckless text messages (because how reckless can a form of digitized communication be?) and telling people I love them and telling people they are absolutely magical humans and I cannot believe they really exist. I love saying, Kiss me harder, and You’re a good person, and, You brighten my day. I live my life as straight-forward as possible.

Because one day, I might get hit by a bus.

Maybe it’s weird. Maybe it’s scary. Maybe it seems downright impossible to just be—to just let people know you want them, need them, feel like, in this very moment, you will die if you do not see them, hold them, touch them in some way whether its your feet on their thighs on the couch or your tongue in their mouth or your heart in their hands.

But there is nothing more beautiful than being desperate.

And there is nothing more risky than pretending not to care.

We are young and we are human and we are beautiful and we are not as in control as we think we are. We never know who needs us back. We never know the magic that can arise between ourselves and other humans.

We never know when the bus is coming.”

—Rachel C. Lewis, Tell The People You Love That You Love Them

Xoxo

Julie

Circle of Life

Two weeks ago today, my grandmother passed away. I’m 24, and the only person I’ve ever lost was a great-grandmother I didn’t know well when I was 9. I cried my heart out. I slept four hours that night, and the following morning I packed a bag and went home to be with my mother and brother, as my dad was 600 kilometers away, with his dad and brother, dealing with everything that needs dealing with when someone dies. I turned into a zombie who wore sweatpants and didn’t shower for days at a time.

It’s been two weeks since my life changed forever. Someone I love, is no longer in my life, and is never going to be again. And for the first time I’m experiencing this in a way that doesn’t involve boys or boyfriends. For the first time, I’m experiencing losing someone who actually, literally, cannot come back into my life. And my heart is broken in a way I didn’t even know was possible.

We drove down for the funeral. The funeral took place, so did the memorial get-together afterwards. Then we drove back. I slept 11 hours, and spent another day being a zombie.

Last night, I returned to my apartment, for the first time in almost two weeks. I dealt with heat and air circulation issues, the fact that my roommate moved out while I was gone, food that needed throwing out, and then I went to bed, cuddling the little plush polar bear I’ve loved for as long as I can remember but was never allowed to take home because he had to stay with my grandma. This morning, I got up and went to uni. I went grocery shopping. I came home and changed my bed sheets, did laundry, dusted surfaces, watered plants, and cleaned my room.

I declined an offer to visit a friend, to do this stuff. I love my friend, I love her apartment, and her boyfriend who always makes us food, but I haven’t been home for two weeks, because I was home with my parents. I’m using the word “home” about both the house I grew up in and my apartment for more than four years, because they’re both homes to me. The house is where I go for comfort, where I can be the child again. The apartment is where I’m an adult who has to fend for herself. It’s nice to combine the two. But I can’t take one or the other for too long at a time. I guess it’s a part of the circle of life. Sometimes I need to be the child who cries herself to sleep with a 30-year-old teddy bear clutched to her chest. Sometimes I need to be 24 and dealing with university and grocery shopping and cleaning. I count myself fortunate, to still be able to fluctuate between the two.

A Note on Weirdness

We’re all a little weird, in one way or another. Many of us try to hide it. We wear neutral makeup. We wear what society deems “normal” clothes. We keep or music volume to a minimum. We try to stay below the radar.

I think that’s wrong. If we hide who we really are, if we all hide who we really are, how are we going to find other people that are like us? Looking for and finding one specific needle in a stack of needles that all look the same is nearly impossible. Looking for a specific color pencil in a pile of pencils of all different colors, now that’s something that can be done. It may take a while (it may not) but eventually you’ll find the color you’re looking for.

We often hear about teenagers and their stages. The hair, the makeup, the clothes, the attitude. I wasn’t like that. I started wearing makeup late. My clothes were ordinary. When I was around 15 I started wearing dark nail polish and a leather jacket, and was then called emo, despite my natural blonde hair and only wearing some eyeliner. I did what I was told. I was quiet.

It was only by the age of 21 I started expressing myself as a more “different” type of person. I had just gotten out of a bad relationship and realized I had absolutely no idea who I was. So I started to figure it out. I listened to music. I made friends online, friends who liked the same music. I gradually started to change how I dress. Gone with the plain t-shirts and normal hoodies. In with the beat up old converse shoes and skinny jeans that aren’t Levi’s and printed t-shirts and band merch and fandom merch and plaid shirts. In with the makeup, the eyeliner, the lipsticks. The hairspray, my god, the hairspray! “Inhaling hairspray” became a phrase of mine. Sounds like a band name, doesn’t it? It was a friend online who pointed it out. Same with “hills and high heels”. Another phrase of mine.

Do your makeup. It’ll make you feel better. This is something I do now. When I feel bad or ill or anything, I do my makeup. Take my time, and do something artistic. I know it’s weird. My mother stares. Sellers in the streets don’t approach me. Perhaps I look foreign. Good. I don’t want to look pretty. I want to look otherworldly and slightly threatening. I wear my individuality on my sleeve (or in this case on my face). Leaving my face natural, to me, feels unnatural. Like putting up a blank canvas at an art exhibition. With all the things I can do, why should I choose to do nothing? I don’t look like this on accident. I want to look like art. Art isn’t supposed to look nice, it’s supposed to make you feel something. Maybe I scare people away. But that’s just so many less color pencils to sort through before I find the right one.

My 23rd birthday is one month from today. I’m an adult. My dad tells me to behave like one. Maybe I should. But I’ve spent so much of my life not knowing who I am. I want to find that person first. Then I can be an adult. I have a few years left before I finish my university studies. I plan to know who I am by then. Maybe someone else will know who I am by then, too. Until then, I keep staying weird. Keep exploring. Keep being me. Keep trying to find the real Julie. She has to be in here or out there somewhere.