This was originally private, but.. ha.

I am a sweet girl. A sweet person, really. 13 Going On 30 makes me feel good. The movie makes me feel better no matter how hard of a day I am having, no matter what happened. After seeing it, even after one thousand viewings, I still feel inspired each time! I feel ready to take on the world, show everyone what I’m made of—what the possibilities of human beings actually are. I think that I can relate to Jenna Rink in the way that I, deep down, really am that sweet person who is quirky and fun, and different, but normal. I didn’t really lose a huge chunk of my life, like she did, but maybe somewhere, I did lose myself. Maybe I took the wrong turn when I started feeling the need to show that I’d be able to embrace myself as an outcast and an outsider. I started drinking and smoking pot when I was fourteen. A year before that, I was “gothic” (however that really went). I don’t really remember much of my life before then. I feel like I stepped away from myself, my truth, and just got carried away, as I do.

It’s nearly uncommon for me to not go all-out if I go at all, I’m well aware. My mom thinks that I have an addictive personality. I don’t. I think that maybe my work ethic just gets out of hand sometimes. A lot of times, probably. I put myself into everything that I believe, that I want, that I plan for, that I think about. I may’ve been scared that I wasn’t the same as other people, and I didn’t want to be afraid of myself, so I took what I knew and transformed it, enhanced it. I enhanced it too much, too many times. I lost who I was, and I’ve become someone new, someone different. A druggy, a girl who partied too much, who got alcohol-poisoning, who was probably a slut (this one is a definite myth, let it be known), a nobody trying so hard to be a somebody, a …failure.

Let me be the one to set things straight, right now, right after having watched my 13 Going On 30: I am not a failure. I am not just a druggy, just a party-girl has-been, I’m more than you know, I’m more than I remember being, more than I know how to show yet. I’m nice, and I’m normal, and I’m regular, and I’m invisible sometimes, and I can be sweet on accident, and I’m sensitive, and I’m slightly misunderstood. I’m not really that different than you, or anyone else, I just …pushed myself to be. A year or two ago, I remember thinking about how it felt to be normal, and I got afraid that I wouldn’t be remembered, or that I wouldn’t matter anymore, that I’d just fade away. There is no reason for me to feel so afraid of those things happening to me.

I deserve to be how I was when I was five. I deserve to just say things, without trying to add some edge, add some sarcasm, add some humor. I deserve to have brown hair and brown eyes, to be 5’6, to be pale, to have tiny hands and cold feet. I deserve to wear pink if I feel like wearing pink, to wear a dress if I want. I deserve to take pleasure in simple, normal things, without feeling naive or looked down upon. I deserve to not have to overthink my actions and words and thoughts and conversations and friendships and relationships with everyone. I wasn’t sure what I really deserved—what anyone really deserves—until right now. I do deserve those things. And I deserve respect, as a person. I deserve to be heard, to be hugged. And I forgot, and I drifted, and I have red/purple hair now, and tattoos all over my body, and I do drugs, and I have friends that mostly all do drugs, and I’m known for those tattoos and for those drugs that I’ve done. I want more. I want less of what I have, and more of everything else. I’m more.

And, I’m going to be honest and admit to having hurt people along the path I chose, and to have done bad things, but I am truly sorry for all of that, and to each of you. I am so sorry for taking things that have been said for granted, and just nodding and saying “yeah, that sucks.” I’m not that air-headed, and you didn’t deserve that. I’m sorry for letting you go so easily. I’m sorry for pushing you away so hard. I’m sorry for holding a grudge against you. I’m sorry for never forgiving you. I’m sorry for never saying sorry. I’m sorry that you never really knew me, that you only knew who I wanted you to know. I’m sorry for lying.