You guys know my story by now. I had a lot holding me back in high school, internally and externally. I keep thinking of a story I read somewhere about baby elephants being trained for the circus: they have a strong rope tied around their necks, and when they realize they aren’t strong enough to break it, they stop trying. Then even when they’re grown, all it takes is a loose rope around their neck to control them, because they still think they can’t break free. As my yearning to go back to school grew stronger, I started to wonder if I was like those baby elephants. I’d been held back for so long, I didn’t know what I was really capable of. If I cut the rope, what could I really do?

Turns out, I think it’s a lot more than a 2.27. My English class has been working on an essay that we just got back recently, and I wanted to cry when I saw my grade: 100. “Lovely work here, Jennifer,” my professor’s note read. For the past week, I’d been hoping for a passing grade at best; I definitely didn’t think I was worthy of a perfect score. Later on, we had our midterm in my Fashion class, and for the second time that day, I saw a perfect score when we got our tests back. It’s only midterm, but I have high hopes for myself through the semester.

Last week, another professor warned, “Some of you are not doing well in this class.” Out of instinct and habit, I looked down at my desk in shame. It took me a minute to realize that for once, such a statement was not directed at me. I’m not struggling to keep up like I used to. For once, I actually feel like I’m on top of things, and that notion is incredibly empowering. I’ve got this.

I’m not saying all this to brag. I don’t want to strut around like a peacock, waving my scores around, saying, “Look how smart I am!” On the contrary: I’ve never thought I was all that intelligent or capable. I spent years thinking I was dumb, that I couldn’t accomplish anything, and my grades in high school reflected that. I trained myself to think I was a nuisance, to apologize for my existence (I should have an “I’m sorry” jar: put a dollar in every time I apologize for something I didn’t do), and to just generally be ashamed of myself. I’m only now realizing that when left to my own devices, without anything holding me back, I can actually accomplish something. I am more than what I used to believe

I am so in love with college life right now. It feel so good to be in a learning environment again, without all the bs of high school. Everything feels so much more alive; it feels like an actual learning environment, where my peers are excited to talk about their goals, rather than just teenagers grumbling “two more years, and we’re out of this hell…” It’s like the campus is its own little community. My first couple weeks, I was content to just sit outside between classes and watch people go by. It’s really fascinating to see the diversity; girls wearing Hijab walk past students speaking in sign, followed by a punk in leather and patches skateboarding past the “no skateboards on campus” notice. There’s people of all different types, and it feels so good to see an environment where people are allowed, even encouraged, to discover and be who they are.

I want to backtrack a little bit, and go on a brief tangent about the weeks before I started school. I needed to buy all new supplies; it’s been 7 years since I was in school after all, and I had nothing leftover from back then. Shopping for my backpack was first: I scoured the internet for days, looking for something that spoke to me. Then I found a beautiful, black and red Castlevania backpack from Gamestop. I wanted it so badly, and the minute I saw it, I could imagine happily trotting to class every day proudly displaying my fandom. Still, I hesitated.

When I was in middle school, I had a High School Musical backpack that I loved more than anything in the world. I used it for about two days, before my classmates mocked me so badly for it that I never wanted to see it again. That shame followed me the rest of my school career; I wanted pretty school things, but I didn’t want to risk bringing more ridicule upon myself. From then until senior year, I carried either a plain bag or a large purse.

I wanted that Castlevania backpack so badly, though. Anxious, I pulled up my friends’ group chat. “Guys?” I asked, briefly explaining my dilemma. “Do people in college make fun of backpacks?” Somewhere in the back of my mind, middle-school me was still there, telling me I’d be shunned for showing personality.

The response I got from my friends was a unanimous “GET THE BACKPACK!” That in itself really kickstarted my excitement for the beginning of the semester. I felt like my cat after I fed her a piece of jerky and she decided it was the greatest thing in the world; all at once, I realized that I could have whatever I wanted for school. I got myself fruit scented highlighters, metallic gel pens, a mini stapler with pink staples, and a white out container shaped like a mummy. I don’t think I’d been that excited since I bought my car.

The biggest revelation, which was met with a bit of confusion from my group: mechanical pencils. At 24 years old, I tried not to tear up and bought my first set of mechanical pencils (which were arbitrarily forbidden during my childhood). As I gleefully trotted through the back to school section at Target, arms full of binders and notebooks, I remember passing by a couple moms groaning about how it’s “that time of the year again.” For me, however, school shopping wasn’t a dreaded chore or mundane cycle; it was an exciting adventure, one that I could finally embark on in my own style. At last, I was the one who could call the shots.

A big part of what has made going back to school special for me is the people around me. I’m fortunate to have one of my best friends to guide me; I would truly be lost without her by my side, and I’m grateful for her every day. In addition, I’ve been welcomed by so many new people that I feel overwhelmed. A friend from one of my classes made cake pops and brought them to school the week of my birthday; it took all my willpower not to sob until after I got home. I made friends with the tabletop gaming club largely by chance, and found that college friendships are started exactly like kindergarten: through the comparison of cool stickers and an exchange of Teddy grahams and Oreos. Even after spending fourteen hours straight on campus (no, I’m not exaggerating), I feel satisfied walking to my car with my “parking lot squad” after my evening class. I haven’t known most of these people for longer than a few weeks, but I am so thankful they’re in my life now. In a way, I feel that my college friends are becoming like another fandom family (Can college be considered a fandom?).

In case you missed the title, a large part of this article is about how my college experience has already moved me to tears on more than one occasion. I’ve cried a lot in my life, and the last 6 years especially. All those times, I cried out of grief and frustration. I broke down because I didn’t know what else to do, and I felt everything crumbling around me. I shed tears of sadness, tears in anger, and tears of hurt. At times, it seemed that there would be know end to the relentless waves of pain. I’m still crying. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t shed a few tears as I wrote this. But now, it’s for a much different reason: these are tears of gratitude. I’m grateful for the support of those who helped me get to where I am. I’m moved by the compassion shown to me by those I’ve just met. Above all, I’m thankful every day for the opportunities presented to me, and I’m determined not to take any of it for granted. I know how much it took for me to get here, and being in school again has filled my life with purpose. I’m taking baby steps toward my goal, and though I’ve got a long way to go, I won’t stop showing my gratitude for every step I’m able to take. I love what I’m doing. After everything that’s happened, I’m truly happy.

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Looking back on it, I know it’s a little silly, but I was absolutely fascinated. I thought Art was the coolest person ever, and you know why? Because his name was ART. Art was my favorite subject in school, and that was his name! How awesome was that?!? I remember finding him a few times that day, and he cheerfully gave me stickers and hugs and signed my little book.

Fast forward to me at 24, working at my day job. You might remember I wrote an article earlier about my difficulties recognizing people (See: Hi, Have We Met?), and unfortunately, my day job involves seeing a lot of people all day, every day, and every one of them expects me to recognize them on sight. So one day, I had this man come in with a little girl, who tilted her head, looked at me and asked “Hi, do you remember me?”

My heart just about stopped. I racked my brain, trying to think of where I would have seen this girl before. A con? A volunteer event? Please, don’t tell me she recognizes me from the city’s Santa Float where I pretend to be Santa’s elf; I didn’t want to have to explain why my ears suddenly weren’t pointy anymore. Either way, I had to tell her I didn’t remember her, and she looked absolutely heartbroken. She turned to her dad and said “But we’ve been here lots, and I remember her! Why doesn’t she remember me?”

Her dad convinced her that I just didn’t remember her because she hadn’t introduced herself to me. So she did, and I committed it to memory. That’s the thing with me; I do learn, it just takes me a while. But I found that a huge motivator is DO NOT UPSET THE CHILD. The next time she came by, she smiled and waved, and I called her by name. I was determined to remember her from then on.

Then I got to thinking. I remembered the trip to Disneyland, and my friend Art the janitor. And I came to realize that to this little girl, I was the coolest person ever. That makes me feel pretty darn special. I wonder sometimes if that’s how Art felt all those years ago, with five-year-old me asking for his autograph next to Snow White.

My day job is not glamorous. It’s not a job that a lot of people look up to; I work long hours on my feet while I get yelled at, hit on, and even have things thrown at me (true story). It’s the kind of job that you start to see a really horrible side to people. But if there’s one thing that makes it worth it, it’s knowing that there’s a little girl out there who will always have a smile for me, and gets excited to see me because I’m her favorite person.

I can’t help but to feel like things really do come full circle. I used to look back and think I was such a cringey kid, having a fascination with a janitor at Disneyland, but now, I hope that I brought a little bit of light into what was probably not the greatest job for him. I hope he felt as special as I do every time that little girl comes by and waves at me.

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I was on Instagram a while back and I got a message. It was a guy who had obviously been going through my posts, and liked what he saw. He asked a bit about my cosplay work, but we were talking for no more than ten minutes when he asked the dreaded question.

“So are you with anyone? Like dating?”

Gentlemen, please… Don’t do this. Keep in mind, this is some random guy from the internet. I had never met him before, and I probably never will. All he knows about me is that I cosplay and he thinks I’m pretty. Now, being a woman on the internet, this doesn’t phase me. This was tame compared to some of the offers I’ve gotten over the years, believe me. But still, to ask about my relationship status when you’ve barely said two sentences to me in your life… Come on.

So I tried to steer the conversation away from the topic, saying that’s a bit of a personal question. What he responded with is what really got under my skin:

“I want to get to know you but obv don’t want to if your seeing someone”

Now, let’s think about that sentence a moment… “I want to get to know you” fine, I’m an open book, I love sharing my interests and getting to know new people. Nevermind the fact that you have a private profile, I don’t know your name, and from your profile pic, evidently you’re a sentient pile of sneakers that can type. And then we get to the second part, “obv don’t want to if your seeing someone”… So… You don’t actually want to get to know me. You’re only messaging me because you want to get WITH me. Therein lies the difference. What that really tells me is that you don’t actually want to “get to know” me, and the only value you see in talking to me is if I’m a dating prospect.

I didn’t get mad. To be honest, I just think it’s funny how self-contradictory that sentence is. I took the opportunity to remind him that I’m asexual (evidently he missed that memo), and that I’m not interested in dating strangers from the internet. Now, I don’t mean to say that my orientation makes me inherently undateable. It doesn’t. But it does mean that if all you’re interested in is getting me in bed, you picked absolutely the wrong target.

I get it. Really, I do. It’s so easy to objectify people online, to forget that there’s another human being on the other side of the screen. To a lot of you, I’m nothing more than a few pictures and a paragraph or two in your browser window. You can put down your phone, walk away from your computer, and I cease to exist to you. But I’m here to remind you that I’m a living, breathing person, same as you. I have a family and friends, I have likes and dislikes, I laugh, I cry, and I have a whole personality that you probably don’t even see.

I’m not here to discourage anyone from talking to me. On the contrary, please do. The entire point of this website, the reason I use Instagram, all my social media is so I can interact with people. I want to talk, I want to share my feelings and my opinions. But if the sole reason you approach me is part of some ploy to get me into bed, I urge you to think again. Please don’t objectify me, and try to remember that I’m more than just my picture.

The post More Than Just My Picture appeared first on Jennifer Lidikay.

2018 has been a long, hard year. I look back on it, and things that happened this January seem so far away, they may as well be five years ago. When I talk about the last couple months especially, it sounds more like the plot of a soap opera than real life. And now, as 2018 comes to a close, it feels like a major chapter in my story is ending. I’ve written about my family and my experiences with my mother (see When Fiction Mirrors Reality and Responsibilities of Being a Parent), but for the most part I’ve been quiet about recent events.

In November, not even a month after the last time we saw her in court, my mother died of a brain aneurysm. Now, before anyone judges me for not playing the part of the bereaved daughter, hear me out. You didn’t live in my house, and you haven’t had my experiences. I spent the last five years coming to terms with losing a mother. I didn’t feel loss or sorrow at the news; I’d long since shed those tears. What I did feel, on the other hand, was all the anger and hurt come back again. I cried because I knew that after everything, she never “saw the light” so to speak. She never apologized, never looked back. Without diving too deep into personal family matters, even right up to the end there were games, rumours, and nonsense.

I was out walking one day, letting my mind wander, and for the longest time I couldn’t think of the last thing I said to my mother. I don’t remember what I shouted at her as I left the house with her screaming at me, fumbling to put on my shoes on the sidewalk. I don’t remember what I said in the argument that ensued when I got back. I said nothing to her in the courthouse, instead channeling everything into the  court room door when I rushed past her as we were leaving (sorry courtroom employees, I do hope I didn’t mess anything up).

But then it hit me: the morning she left us, she took a lot of things. One piece in particular being a snowy landscape painting that hung in our living room. I was in middle school when I made it, with the help of my grandma. Grandma would start on a tree, or paint part of a cloud, and I’d finish the rest. I never really had the time to dedicate to practice, so I never got super into painting, but the couple pieces I’ve done mean a lot to me. But I digress. After I noticed the painting missing, my dad sent her a message asking about its whereabouts. When she replied, I’m not sure if she sent me a copy on purpose or by accident, but my phone buzzed and I saw “I took the Jenny painting because you got the artist”.

It was a long few minutes before I could say anything. I went to my dad, asking what to do, but he had no more answers than I did; it was all new territory for all of us. So after thinking about it, I picked up my phone and typed “It belongs to me, and I am not an object to be bargained for.” And that text is the last thing I ever said to her. I’m okay with that. I lived for 19 years with someone who didn’t see me as my own being, but merely a pawn or a weapon. A bargaining chip. I’m okay with my last words to her standing up for myself, asserting myself as a human being worthy of respect. I’ve got loads of other things I would have liked to say, given the chance, but in the grand scheme of things, none of that matters anymore. I’m fine with what I said. And yes, we eventually got the painting back; it’s since been returned to its home on our living room wall.

I don’t mean for this to be a sad post. I’m not here to throw a pity party and say “look at me and my terrible story”. No, I’m here because I’m hopeful. I can look back at where I’ve been, and I know that there are so many better things to come. This new year is so full of promise and new possibilities, and it’s already off to a great start. This year brings with it a sense of freedom, and is truly a new beginning for me. I’ve learned and grown so much in the past year, and now it’s time to close this chapter. I”m turning the page, grabbing a new pen, and now I get to write the rest of my story. Maybe with a few less plot twists this year, yes?

I think I want to watch the sun rise on New Year’s day. Celebrating at midnight is all well and good, but I think I really want to see this year open with the dawn. Because that’s what this new year feels like: it’s the dawn breaking after a long, dark night for me. I’m optimistic, and I’m ready to walk into this year with everyone I know and love by my side. And for everyone else who’s had a long, hard 2018, we can do this together. Even if an era of our lives is coming to a close, I know something better is coming. It’s going to be beautiful.

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