Monthly Archives: April 2014

I self-identify as a highly sensitive person (HSP) If you know me, you know this is absolutely true. This means that I come across to other people as “intense.”

If you’re my friend, it’s because I’ve chosen to let you into my microcosm. I like you, I trust you, I find you fascinating, I want to hug you and I think you taste like chocolate. I love my friends a lot.

Because I love you, I’m going to tell you nice things about yourself. Maybe I’ll tell you that you’re a great friend. Perhaps I’ll let you know that you look hot a particular day. I might let you know that you wrote something that resonated with me. I may compliment your skill or ability to do something that I personally cannot do. You get the point.

Some of the people I love love to be complimented. They enjoy this aspect of my personality and have grown to expect me to do it because they know it’s a part of who I am. However, recently I’ve encountered a few of my friends who react strongly to being complimented. Two of my friends actually called me “delusional” for complimenting them. Now granted, I love these people and they meant it in a joking manner. As in “how could you say that about me? It must not be true. You’re delusional.” But still, the idea that they 1. Refuse to accept a compliment and 2. Call me delusional hurts my feelings.

Although, I do understand where this is coming from because I (too) have difficulty accepting compliments. When someone tells me that I’m good at social media (for example) my immediate gut reaction is to prove them wrong. I know it’s fucked up. I know it comes from a place of insecurity, but I have to fight that urge to tell them things like “oh, but there are so many things I don’t know about social media.”

It’s okay to be good at things. Yes, we have flaws but we also have inherent and developed strengths that we can be proud of. We need to learn how to accept compliments, myself included.

The next time someone tells me that I’m good at something, I’m going to simply reply: thank you.

“Thank you” because this person is telling me something nice about myself. And whether or not I believe them is actually irrelevant. They believe I’m awesome. They are telling me I’m awesome and that (in itself) is pretty great. So I’m going to take it. Thank you.

The next time someone compliments you (even if it feels weird) try saying: thank you.

I’m the sort of person who wears her insecurities on her sleeve. I have attributes that I’m proud of and I have sore spots that I’m happy to share with those I’m close to.

Flaws and challenges are what make us fundamentally human. One of my favorite things in relationships is when the other person (this could be a friend or a romantic partner) feels comfortable enough with me to show me their proverbial belly. They’re exposing a vulnerable part of themselves and choosing to share it with me. That is a sign of true intimacy when your friend opens the door to their metaphorical closet and lets you inside.

I let a friend of mine inside my emotional closet. I was scared to open the door. I knew what was inside. There were boxes filled to the brim with old dusty childhood toys. There were stained sheets and snake skins. There were mysterious animal bones with flesh still on them. There were old photo albums filled with pictures of dead people.

I was so scared about what my friend would think. My closet was filthy and scary. But instead of judging me, my friend said:

“It’s okay. Don’t worry. You should see my closet.”

I cannot tell you how relieved I was to hear those words. I felt so much less alone.

We all have emotional closets.

We sometimes let other people inside them.

When their stuff looks the same as your stuff, we’re reminded that we’re not all that different from one and other. And that’s what makes us human.

“””””

CHAPTER ONE

My name is Isis Kechet and I’m 15 years-old. My first name is Egyptian and my last name is Hebrew, it means crown. My father died when I was two. I never knew him. I’ve seen pictures but, I don’t know who he really was. He was in the Israeli army. I live with my mother and my baby brother Avi. He’s six months old. Oh, and my step-father John. He’s not Jewish, not that it matters. I…

“Put your pencils down for a moment.” Said Ms. Gray. She removed her glasses and peered up the clock. It was 9:15. There was one empty seat at the back of the classroom. All the other desks were filled with sophomore high school students.
Ms. Gray was 24 years-old. This was her first English class she’d ever taught, but you would never know it. She’d just completed graduate school, and was eager to impart the knowledge she’d learned as well as to affect and change young lives. She wore a gray knit dress with a brown blazer.
“To clarify, this journal entry should be a reflection of who you are. Ultimately these journal entries will be transformed into a creative writing piece about something that’s happened to you in your lifetime. My expectation is that you’ll be able to reflect upon some fundamental experiences in your own lives and use those stories to create art.”
Isis looked down at her composition notebook. Something was missing. Something in her entry wasn’t there. She couldn’t put her finger on what it was.
Isis was tall and had long straight thick black hair. Her eyes seemed to be as black as her hair. Her favorite color was purple. She dressed entirely in black, but wore purple eye shadow to accentuate her eyes. She was wearing a black cardigan, a black mini skirt, and black cable knit tights. Isis loved to write. Ms. Gray knew that Isis loved writing, but also respected the fact that Isis would not share her writing with anyone except for Ms. Gray.
All at once the door to room 202 was thrown open. All heads in the classroom turned abruptly to face the open doorway and the boy who was standing in it. His name was Sam Kravitz, but everyone called him “Blue.” His eyes were bright blue, so blue that they pierced right through you if he looked at you.
“Blue, please take a seat.”
Isis eyed Blue. He was panting, as if he’d been running all the way to class. Beads of sweat were visible on his face. Blue was tall, and had mostly dirty blonde hair that he spiked up with gel. Since he was a child, he had one naturally gray streak of hair that posed itself right at the center of his hairline. He was wearing a navy blue winter vest, a gray hooded sweatshirt and jeans.
Blue frenetically wiped the sweat from his brow plopped his body down in this seat, the only empty seat in the classroom and searched through his messenger bag for his composition notebook.
“Can somebody please fill in Blue as to what we’re doing in class today?” Said Ms. Gray remaining posed in comparison to Blue’s frantic energy.
Allison raised her hand. Allison had brown short hair cut in a bob shape. She always wore a headband. Today’s headband was bright red. She had never achieved anything below a 97 in school.
“We’re writing journal entries about our who we are. They’re autobiographical.” She said confidently with a smile.
Blue struggled to catch his breath. He removed his vest and took out a pen.
“Right.” Said Ms. Gray. “So start with who you are, and write!”
Blue sighed and took out his pen.

My name is Blue. I’m 15. I’ll be 16 on November 2nd. I live with my grandparents. I love them, but they don’t understand me. It’s okay, nobody really does, understand me I mean. I love to create things. When I’m creating art, I feel alive.

Blue tapped his pencil. He wasn’t sure what to write next. There was a lot to say.

“The period is about to end. So we will continue this assignment at home for homework. Please spend 30 minutes writing your autobiographical entry at home.” Said Ms. Gray.
The students began to pack their bags up.
Isis watched as Blue shoved his notebook into his backpack, grabbed his things and ran out of the classroom. He was gone. Just like that, he was gone.
She walked down the hall to where her math class was.
“Hey! Wait up!” Isis felt hand on her shoulder. She turned around to find Corina standing behind her. Corina was Isis’ best friend. They’d known each other since they were 12. Corina was recognizable by the bright color she had on her hair at any given monet, Her most recent hair color affinity was blue. She’d died her hair jet black with a bright blue streak underneath that you could see if she was wearing her hair in a ponytail.
Corina was the opposite of Isis. She was outgoing, and would tell you whatever you wanted to know, and things you could live without knowing. She work a plaid kilt with black stockings, and white button down men’s shirt that she’d stolen from her father’s closet.
“My dad is pissed at me because I got an 83 on the math test. He says if I don’t get over a 90 on this one that I can’t go to Jill’s party.”
“No!” Isis said, her eyes widening. “You have to go! I can’t go by myself.”
Jill was a Senior. She was rich. Both her parents were corporate lawyers, they owned a townhouse in Brooklyn Heights, and went out of town a lot. Consequently, Jill left to her own devices much of the time. She was notorious for throwing major parties when her parents were away.
“I don’t know what to do. I suck at math. Do you think your Mordechi could help me?”
Mordechi was Isis’ cousin who was a PhD student at Columbia in math. Whenever Isis had any math troubles, she always turned to him.
“I don’t know.” Isis said biting her lip. “He’s really busy with midterms. I’ll ask him.”
“Okay. But if don’t get a 90, you’re gonna have to go by yourself.” Corina said eyes widened. She knew that Isis was terrified of this prospect and hoped that her terror would inspire her to ask for Mordechi’s math assistance.
Isis really wanted to go to Jill’s party for one reason in particular. Maybe he would be there. Blue hated rich kids, but he loved to crash their parties for the food and the booze. Jill’s family had both of these things in abundance.
“All right, fine. I’ll text Mordechi. He’s probably at the library.”
“You wanna go to this party right?” Corina asked raising an eyebrow.
“Okay, okay, stop it.”
The bell rang and Isis and Corina headed into math class. Though he was gone, Isis could still imagine the frantic look on Blue’s face. He was running from something, but she didn’t know what.

Dear Stranger On the Train Who Disciplined My Child,

Hi! We’ve never met before. I was on the 4 train on the way home from Manhattan with my two kids and their best friend. My kids and their friend Jonathan were fighting over the window seat. They all wanted to look out the window into the darkness. I know, it’s funny right? Why would you want to look out a dark window? But, you know, kids. They fight over things we don’t understand sometimes.

Anyhow, you took the time out of your train ride to say:
“Ari should give his sister a turn. Not Jonathan.”
And you didn’t say it once. You kept saying it over and over again while shaking your head.

I’m not sure why you’re telling me this. I’m not entirely sure why you feel it’s your responsibility or business to tell me this. I’m also (frankly) not entirely sure of your intention. I could speculate some potential things you may have been thinking:

• You honestly thought you were helping me with parenting
• You thought you knew better than I did 
• You wanted to seem like an authoritative figure to your friend who was with you and to the entire train car
• You were annoyed that my kids were being loud and wanted to comment on it

My life is in the process of a major change right now. The frustrating thing is, I can’t talk about why. I’m an open and honest person; honest to a fault. Sometimes I’ll actually hold my tongue and not say anything to a person because I know if I say what I’m thinking it will be overly honest and probably alarm them.

Dear Person I Offended,

You will probably never read this letter, because we are no longer connected through the world of social media. I’m going to say these things anyway because I feel them. I wrote about my past. My past is something that haunts me. I feel things deeply. I use this space to express them. Sometimes they’re not pretty things. They are my reality. I told a story: that story involved you. I’m sorry if the way that I told the story offended you.

I am hurt by the way that you treated me in the past. I tried to tell you many times, but you ignored my attempts to express my feelings. I honor your feelings. I am willing to hear them, however, you do not feel the same about mine.

You called me offensive.
You said that I was nasty towards you.
I’m sorry you feel that way.
I feel badly that my truth and my words impacted you like that.
It was not my intention to hurt you.
It was my intention to tell my side of a story.

I am open to hearing your side.

But when you reached out to me to tell me how you felt, I was scared. I freaked out. I told you I couldn’t talk about it. There are extremely scary things that I’m dealing with in my life at the moment. There are harsh life challenges that require my 100 percent focus. My family needs me more than anything.

You say you were upset by my words, and your response was to call me names.

I want to make something clear to you, I did not call you names in what I wrote. I expressed genuine emotions. You may disagree or feel that I’m telling the story wrong, and you are entitled to you opinion, but please allow me to have mine.

Again, I apologize for any anger, pain, hurt and other emotions that I may have ignited in you. But I do not apologize for telling my story.

I wish you all the best.