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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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.

The post Old Goodbyes and New Beginnings appeared first on Jennifer Lidikay.

I don’t know any perfect parents. Everyone has flaws, everyone has problems, and there’s no instruction manual for raising a tiny human. There’s no flawless, surefire way to know you won’t screw up. Everyone makes mistakes, and anyone who says otherwise is a liar. I’m not taking about being a “perfect” parent today; I’m talking about the bare minimum that outright disqualifies you if you don’t meet it.

If your child has to defend themselves from you, you’re not a parent. Physically, mentally, or emotionally; if you make your child feel like they’re going into battle just by being in the same room, that isn’t being a parent. Your child should NEVER, under ANY CIRCUMSTANCE, feel this way. If they’re afraid for their safety, if you victimize them, you have no right to call yourself a parent. Your child shouldn’t feel belittled, worthless, or left wondering if you even love them. I know lots of moms and dads, every single one willing to stand by their kids, holding their hands as they walk this world. This world is tough, guys. There’s so much to be afraid of, but you shouldn’t be one of them. A parent’s job is to be on their child’s side, not against it. Parenthood is not a war; don’t make your child’s home a battlefield.

If you don’t support your child, you’re not a parent. Kids take work. They take time, they take money, and they take YOU. You can’t abandon them or throw them away. They don’t just exist when you’re around, and POOF the minute you change your mind. And that doesn’t even stop the minute they turn 18; if you’re a parent, that means being there for them for the rest of your life. It doesn’t matter if your child is 5, 25, or 55. Having a kid isn’t just having a cute little thing you can dress up to show the world, and put away when you’re done playing with them. If that’s what you want, get a Barbie doll. Then again, I’ve seen Toy Story; Barbie doesn’t deserve that either. If you want to call yourself a parent, it’s not about you; it’s about them. When they need food, when they need a cuddle, when they need help with their taxes, it’s your job to be there. And if you’re a real parent, you wouldn’t even consider otherwise.

No parent I know hurts their child. If you’re breaking your kid down every chance you get, no way in HELL are you a parent. Your child shouldn’t have such crippling self-esteem issues they’re terrified to be over 100 pounds. Your child has accomplishments, goals, and dreams. Sure, being a fairy princess in the kingdom of the unicorns isn’t a logical career choice, but as a parent, you should be supporting and encouraging your children to thrive. And let THEM take credit for what they do. There’s a point where their accomplishments are not yours to claim. If you get jealous or take credit for the things your child does, you’re not a parent. They’ll grow, they’ll learn, and you should feel proud of them.

A child is not your possession. A child is another human being; they have their own life, and it’s not yours to steal from them. Again, IT’S NOT ABOUT YOU. Your child is not beholden to being your dedicated minion for the rest of their lives. Neither are they a pawn in some twisted game to get what you want. They’re not a weapon to be used against your partner, and they are not your property. “I gave birth to you” isn’t something you can hold over your child’s head when you want something from them. They don’t automatically owe you their lives. Your child owes you NOTHING. You don’t get to wave their very existence around as if it magically makes you superior to them. Let’s review the first sentence of this post: just because you had sex one night doesn’t give you authority over another human being’s consciousness.

If you want to manipulate and deceive your kid, you’re not a parent. Your child shouldn’t have to bend over backwards or walk on eggshells to try and keep you happy. They shouldn’t have to look back and wonder how many of your words were lies. That doesn’t even make you a shitty parent. You’re a straight up abuser. If you violate your kid’s privacy, their trust, or their bodies, you are the absolute worst kind of person. We’re taught not to tolerate these behaviors in friends, partners and lovers, but somehow “parents” get a free pass. “My house, my rules”. You don’t have the right to rifle through your kid’s things, read their diaries, or steal from them. It’s their house too. As human beings, everyone deserves to have a corner of the world to call theirs. Your child is no different. Their room, their bags, their locker; keyword THEIRS, not yours.

Here’s where it gets personal: Everything I’ve talked about here is my life. My mother was an alcoholic, and she mentally and emotionally abused my entire family for years. In 2013, she ended up choosing her addiction over her family. I honestly didn’t even realize the extent of her damage until she left. That’s the thing with abuse: if that’s all you’ve known, it’s normalized in your mind. It’s not until you’re free from it that you figure out no, waking up to slamming doors isn’t normal. It’s not okay for a parent to give backhanded compliments to their child, or to scoff at gifts that aren’t extravagant. You’re not supposed to have panic attacks at the sound of dishes breaking. All these are lessons I didn’t learn until the past few years, now that I’m grown. And I’m still learning to accept that. It’s hard, sometimes. It’s hard today. This is probably something I will struggle with my entire life. But I think what I have to say is important.

Parents, take care of your kids. Protect them. Love them. CHOOSE THEM. Only if you do that are you a real parent.

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