Now That TikTok is Gone, Should I Start Blogging Again?

 No.

Freewriting on January 7th

Most of the time, I have a plan by now. I know what point I want to make, I know what stories I'm gonna use to get there, I know what jokes I'm gonna throw in here and there...

But I'm just so angry.

And every time I go to type something or post something, I stop myself. What will people say? How will people react? Am I being harsh? Do I have my facts straight? It's better to wait, better to stay quiet. I'll retweet a joke about this, instead, and I'll pretend that catharsis actually works as a coping mechanism.

And I wish, for just one second, that any of these thoughts had even fleetingly occurred in the White House this week.

Normally, I try to stay away from these things online, but I'm just so angry.

Deep in the gut. A physical, stomach churning anger. An anger buzzing across the surface of my skin, vibrating through the keyboard as I type. My muscles are clenched and sore. I don't think I've stood up straight in 24 hours.

Scattered through my mind. A confused anger. There's anger about one thing here, and anger about another thing there, and another, and another, and I don't know which one to latch onto. Do I jump from thing to thing? Do I try to string it all together? How do I form a cohesive sentence about what I'm feeling without somewhere to begin? How do I form a convincing argument when I don't even know what point I want to make?

Throbbing through my fists. A vindicated anger. I've posted before, vehement and dignified, on this very blog about the power of words. I don't think I've blogged about any other topic more. Violent rhetoric begets violence, people will hear what they think something means over your intentions, lying at large has extraordinary consequences -- aren't these the things I've been saying all along? Aren't these the things we were all taught growing up? Did people really need any of this to happen to believe it all?

Ringing in my ears. A frightened, paranoid anger. What happens now? I feel exposed and helpless. I feel unsafe. If Congress can't trust their guards, can I trust my locks? If this can happen in Washington, could it happen in Lansing? Could it happen again? Could it work? I've said the words, myself, "I bet we'll have a civil war in my lifetime." Is it starting?

I know I'm just a twenty something in Michigan with barely a voice beyond a medium-sized friends list and an occasional vote. I know there's nothing I can do. I know there are people who are going to tell me why I should be angry about something else, or how wrong I am, or how disappointed they are to see me saying the things I need to say right now.

But, damnit, I'm just so angry.

A Non-Zero Sum Game of Emotions

Despite everything, it was a gorgeous summer.

I have this cartoon image of an optimist in my mind. They've got this huge head, it's almost inflated. Their wide, toothy grin is five sizes too big, taking up space that should be reserved for cheeks or the chin. Their eyes are glassy, and they're always facing the wrong direction. Does their optimism come from willful ignorance? My mental image seems to think so.

Imagine my surprise at being called an optimist.

And it was surprise. Real surprise. Head-flinching, face-contorting, posture-shifting surprise. I think the words, "What did you call me?" dropped out of my mouth, italics and all.

Alas, no, I heard correctly.

A cursory glance through the (sparse) posts on this blog paints a conflicting picture of my mental outlook. I tend not to post unless I'm feeling a strong emotion -- in fact, a strong emotion seems to be the only thing each of my posts from the past 6 or so years has in common with the rest. The full range is there. From I was clearly in a dark place ("Writer's Block," "I Am So Blank"), to I'm upset about politics and am resorting to talking in code ("Nothing's Juicier than Undercooked Steak," "Make the Internet Great Again," "Negligence on the Internet"), to it's New Years and I'm feeling contemplative (literally the only things I've posted in the past two years, but even before that there were a couple), to overwhelmingly cringeworthy optimism ("An Open Letter to my Diary," "Create Yourself").

I know I don't post a lot. I'm not one to recount my weeks or share little tidbits of wisdom I pick up. I'm not one to get preachy about political opinions. Anymore. Every so often I consider sharing a story I wrote when I was in college, but it takes place on the Fourth of July, and I want to post it on the Fourth of July, and I always forget to post it on the Fourth of July.

Shit, I'm rambling.

My point is: I've never considered myself an optimist, because my mental outlook is kind of all over the place. It's dark and upset just as much as it's trying to put a positive spin on things, and when any of those emotions really start to spill over... I write about it. Which doesn't happen a lot. I tend to keep things in check. I don't like gushing about sappy things. (I'm really not sure how "Create Yourself" slipped through that. Seriously, don't read it.)

And then I say things like, "Despite everything, it was a gorgeous summer."

What the hell kind of a happy-go-lucky, semi-motivational, look-on-the-bright-side pile of word vomit is that? People are either dead or insane, we can't leave the country, half of it is on fire, and I'm fixated on nice weather? Bruh.

(Plot twist: it's an I'm upset about politics and am resorting to talking in code post. Sort of. It's a lot of things.)

That's why people tell me I'm an optimist. I talk more than I write, and I only share the dark places when I'm writing. I'm afraid of going there without some big point to make. People appreciate the happy, though, so I can just let that out all willy-nilly.

Good, right?

Nah. How many of you giggled a little bit when I described that cartoon optimist, up there? With the inflated head, glassy eyes, and willful ignorance. That's not just my mental image, that's the world's picture of an optimist. People don't think about Mother Theresa, they think of Mr. Bean.

Maybe I'm saying everything will be alright, or I'm pointing out that there's hope for this or that, or I'm finding something to be happy about. Sure, that's optimistic behavior, but it's a result of anxiety. It's a coping mechanism. It helps keep me calm, it keeps me in check. It probably keeps me from writing more often.

"But JJ, people don't see you that way."

So why does it make me so upset!?

I know a lot of pessimists. You can usually tell somebody's a pessimist by the inflection in their voice when they say, "I'm not a pessimist, I'm a realist." That line makes me want to smack the contacts out of peoples eyes. Erring on the expectation of negativity is not "realism," it's "self-handicapping."

What really hammers it home for me, though, is that if I bring up a positive with them, they'll always deflect it. They'll argue against it. There could be a clear as day upside, but it's not "realistic" to dwell on that. That's as textbook pessimism as my textbook optimism.

I think that when people hear somebody say something optimistic, they assume that person is being idealist or is ignoring the negative, which isn't necessarily true. I think that's why it upsets me. The pessimists I know will deny any positive you try to present them with, and they think that somebody who says optimistic things will do the same to the negatives.

I don't think that's true.

I think it's been the worst year of my life. I've spent huge chunks of it scared, or anxious, or suspicious, or on edge in some way shape or form. I've gotten in arguments with people I love, I haven't seen most of my friends in months, and I was paying a premium to live so close to restaurants that I couldn't go to. I had to cancel a trip I'd been planning for a year. I haven't been on any roller coasters. I haven't had a camera in my hand in ages.

But that doesn't cancel out the good things that happened. It doesn't negate the happy moments. It doesn't invalidate the joys and the opportunities and the successes.

Why is it so hard for people to see the positives and the negatives? Why don't people see the middle ground between optimism and pessimism? No, not realism. The recognition that some things are good and some things are bad, and those things can and do happen at the same time.

That's why it makes me upset, because it isn't true. I'm not an optimist. I just don't let that stop me from saying positive things.

I stand by what I said.

Despite everything, it was a gorgeous summer.

Tens(e)

The tens end today.

It's always a been a bit of a struggle for me, articulating feelings. The words we assign them are shades of the reality. They can never hold the weight; they're never exact. If they do inspire some sense of understanding, you can never know for sure that somebody else really knows. The common ones -- happy, angry, surprised -- are easy. You know what they look like. You can point them out on an emoji. It's the complicated emotions that are hard for me. What does remorse look like? What about contentment? Vindication?

I get the same feeling every year on New Year's Eve, and I don't know what it is. I always recognize it as "the feeling I get on New Year's," but I've never really tried to explore it. This year, though, I can't avoid it. We're on the eve of a new decade, and I feel it tenfold.

Let me try. It's like a mix of anxiety and nostalgia, with a little bit of regret mixed in, but also pride? It's like the feeling you get when you don't have enough time to finish something important, but also, weirdly, the feeling you get when you're going over everything to make sure you're done? Like I've just finished packing, and I'm trying to figure out what (if anything) I've forgotten while I'm running out the door.

And there it is -- the clock is ticking, time is running out, and somewhere in my mind I need to know for certain if the year has been a success. If there's anything I missed. It'll never be 2019 again, did I finish it on time?

Except this time, it's a decade. It's the whole 2010's.

I know, I know. It's such a stupid thing to stress about. Years are arbitrary, they only have meaning because we assign meaning to them, there's always more time, move at your own pace, yadda, yadda, yadda. I get it. I know I don't need to indulge this feeling, but even if I try to ignore it... it's still there.

The stupid, stupid question that I don't know how else to word: Did I finish the decade?

Let's rewind. 2010. I would have been 15 at the start of the year. I was a high school sophomore, middling on the swim team, still trying to figure out friends, and, wow, like, deeply suicidal. I was in such a dark place at the beginning of this decade. By the time I was a senior (2011-2012) my social life was in shambles, I had multiple health issues, and I'd quit swimming. At least I got into Northwestern, right? But wait, whoops, I couldn't afford it.

On NYE 2011-12, a friend from church texted me, terrified, because the party she went to (with other friends from church) was flowing with alcohol and she didn't know what to do. I felt that new year's emotion at full force. Two competing thoughts: What happened this year that led to me wanting to be at that party? What happened this year that led to me not going?

I went to college and stayed in that dark place for a bit. Was I having trouble making friends, or did I not want to? I had more health issues, another suicidal scare, and then a close friend died. I retreated into this place where I was keeping people at a distance. I'd make funny jokes, and I'd be fun to be around, but I wouldn't open up. I wouldn't get close to people.

But that... changed, didn't it?

In 2015 I lived in Australia for a few months, and I really felt like I was living. The thing is... I missed home. This place I wanted to get away from so badly that I went to the other side of the world. I wanted to go back. I wanted Michigan, I wanted my friends, I wanted my family. I wanted my life. For the first time in ages, I wanted my life.

Because it was good, wasn't it? Or at least, I could make it better if I tried.

I started swimming again. I got a lot better at singing. I helped make a movie that premiered at a film festival. I started -- slowly -- to let people in.

College ended. New years 2016-17 came around. I was unemployed, a lot of my friends were moving away, and the world seemed completely insane after... that election. I felt that new years feeling as I was putting on a pair of glasses that said "Fuck 2016," with the eye-holes in the 0 and 6. I went to a party with some of my closest friends, the girl I went to prom with, and a whole bunch of strangers. I slept in a kitchen chair. I didn't "finish the year on time," but I was happy.

And then the big things started happening. I got a real job. I finally started dating again. I moved out. I traveled the country. I lived.

NYE 2018-19, I walked to the bar closest to my house for a 20's themed "Gatsby New Year." I wore the suit from my sister's wedding, drank free champaign, and (for the first time in my life) didn't watch the ball drop on TV. We took pictures with a disposable camera that I still haven't taken to be developed. It was just a fun night out. The new year's feeling was there, but it wasn't stressful. It was just... there.

So now the decade's ending, and I'm having my "end of the year" feeling on an "end of the decade" scale, and I can't help but see how far I've come. Ten year challenge? It's been a transformation. From the emo high schooler who wanted to die, to the confident twenty something with a life I desperately want to live.

I think that's a good note to end the decade on. Even if it's just time arbitrarily passing that we've decided to celebrate. Even though so many of those years felt incomplete. This decade, I figured out how to do it. I figured out how to finish on time. Maybe I stumbled along the way, but I'm sticking the landing. 2019? Done. 2010's? Done. 2020?

Bring it on.

What have I done!?

I love that sort of whiplash you get when a realization decides to body slam you from behind instead of slowly approaching to flirt for a bit before introducing itself.

The slow-building realization has its perks, sure. It gives you some time to adjust your worldview or make preparations for its implications – but it can be fatal for that same reason. When you don’t have to accept a realization right away, you can deny it, postpone it, or worse, justify invalidating it before reality takes hold. Who voluntarily changes their worldview? Who makes time to prepare for… anything?

That’s where the sudden realization comes in clutch. It forces you to adjust in the moment. There’s no room for denial, no time to procrastinate, nowhere to run. It may be painful in the moment, but you’ll be better off, long term. There’s no avoiding the truth.

This one hit me on New Year’s.

People were posting on the internet about their resolutions, or lack thereof. For a while now, I’ve been a member of the latter group: the lack thereofs. It’s not that I’m apathetic toward improving myself, and I’m certainly not one of those “I don’t subscribe to what everybody else is doing” types. Most of the time, I just already had goals. A new year’s resolution wouldn’t have been anything more than a reaffirmation of what I was already trying to achieve. So, I would typically just ignore the specifics and “resolve to have a better year.” Improving your life isn’t an annual event, I’d say, it’s an ongoing process, and you should make the necessary changes when the opportunities arise or set your goals year ‘round. That sort of thing.

It was during that thought process (this time around) that a little blip of a question popped up in my mind: What are my goals?

Smack. Whiplash. What? What are my goals!? Do I… Do I have any right now?

As somebody who has been extremely goal oriented for his entire life, the realization that I no longer had an active goal hit me like the #3 Grand River bus to Seven Mile as it ran a red light through Cass Avenue (the only difference being that I had time to jump out of the way when that happened in real life). How could this happen? What am I working toward? What is my direction? What have I done!? What am I doing with my life!?

Except, I was doing fine with my life. Things were great. What?

I decided to think back. I used to have goals galore! Real goals – not the fluff, like “read more books” or “lose three pounds.” I’m talking about the big, meaty, life-event-I’m-gunning-for goals. Ninth grade me wanted a leadership role at my youth group. Adolescent me wanted a drivers license. Post-ACT me was gunning for a top tier college. After that it was all, “get your life in order,” stuff – graduate on time, get an internship, get a job, move back out of my parents’ house…

…That was it. That was the last big goal. For years it seemed so distant and unattainable that I never bothered to think past it. Now that it’s done, I’m asking myself, “What’s next?” and for the first time in my life, I don’t have an answer. In theory, I could continue on exactly as I am, and I’d be fine.

That’s a scary thought – that I could, at this moment, choose to stop aiming higher and not suffer for it. That I don’t necessarily need to grow anymore, I could comfortably stay right here. If somebody had told me I’d be afraid of this thought a year ago, I’d have laughed at them. I’m ambitious! I’ve never been stagnant in my life, why would I start now? Now that question has an answer, though. It’ll sneak up on me. I’ll do it on accident. Just like I have been since I moved out of my parents’ house.

Whiplash.

I was searching for an answer. What’s my new goal? What’s next? I need something – anything – to work toward. It motivates me, fills me with passion, keeps me moving from day to day with fervor instead of sludge.

No big overarching goal came to mind. Instead: more realizations. I’d only cracked the dam, so far; The floodgates were about to open.

Smack! Almost all of my goals have been out of necessity. They were aligned in pursuit of self-sustenance, and, whoa, I’m pretty much there. What? Slam! Is that what a big goal is to me? Is that what it’s always been? Some sort of instinctual, keep-yourself-alive drive? Whack! It doesn’t have to be!

That one hit me harder than any of the others and left my brain ringing like a gong. For so long, I was brushing aside, “What do I want to do?” in favor of, “What should I do?”

It’s time to switch questions.

I want to read more. I want to lose some weight. I want to learn Italian, get better at snowboarding, and try out some new recipes. I want to learn how the stock market works and make a dumb investment. I want to write more. I want to find new music. I want to make some videos for me instead of for work. I want to travel, or camp, or sail, or try some stuff I’ve never done before. Like rock climbing or snowmobiling. Tennis, maybe, I don’t know!

When all of that started piling up, it began to look like another big goal (made up of, yes, basically New Year’s resolutions): Be happier; do you.

I’m glad it was a sudden realization. It was painful to realize, but I’ll be better off for it. Who knows how long I would have been stagnant if it had been the slow-building type?

Editor’s note: Did I use “comes in clutch” correctly in the third paragraph? I’ve never actually said that phrase out loud, so I’m a little rusty on the usage, but it seemed appropriate in that context. Really hoping I didn’t just look dumb on that one.

Create Yourself (or: late-night ramblings about individuality)

"Think outside the box" is a cliche, at this point. Interesting, isn't it? That when we want to tell somebody to be creative, we all go to the same phrase, repeated endlessly in english classes and board meetings. It's almost parodic by nature, a way of saying, "Be creative, so I don't have to," or, "Be creative, because I can't." But then, even worse, there are the people who go overboard with it. I remember being one in 9th grade. I would say I was ~*~random~*~, and then I'd ask you what I was thinking about. The answer was always "tacos," which, given that it was always the answer, was decidedly not random... but at least I was thinking outside the bun.

I seriously considered ending this post right there. It's simple, and I think it captures what I want to say pretty well. But nahh, we all know I like talking. Here we go:

It's not a new concept. Everybody wants to be unique and everybody thinks they're special. I'm not talking about the whole "ohh, whiny little special snowflake," type special, but just, you know, everybody wants to be able to say, "I'm not like most [x]." ...which makes them exactly like most [x], whatever [x] may be. Most guys, most singers, most New Yorkers, most communications majors... you get the drift. But in order to differentiate themselves, a lot of people seem to... fake creativity.

They fake it like I did in 9th grade. I knew I was a weird kid (I'd have to have been an idiot not to), so I decided to "embrace it." I was going to be "unique." But instead of creating my own personality, I sort of latched on to this whole "xD" subculture, where "RAWR" meant "I love you" in dinosaur, purple was the best color ever, and of course, I was always thinking about tacos. Sound familiar? Of course it does. I was a regurgitation of everything MLIA.com had to offer. I wasn't unique, I was just different from the preps. Sure, I wasn't like "most guys," but I was exactly like most emo kids. Traded one cliche for another.

That's what I see happening with a lot of people. They're sick of being "normal," but instead of being themselves they just adopt a different pre-packaged personality, complete with social-media tendencies and standard lines that you could practically read off of a script. Instead of thinking outside the box, they've just moved their thinking to another box. Maybe they're not like most [x], but now they're like most [y]. And soon enough, it'll be the same thing all over again, because all of a sudden most [x] are deciding to be like [y], and nobody wants to be like most [x], so the trend-setters move on to be [z].

Sorry, by the way, for the conversational algebra. I know a lot of people hate that.

Probably freshman year of college, I was trying to figure out what drew me to my best friends. Why I liked them so much, you know? And the answer I landed on was that they were all their own people. They were characters, if you will. Personalities all their own, that couldn't fit into any of those pre-packaged aesthetics. A Kanye line -- "there's a thousand yous, there's only one of me" -- seemed a perfect fit (from their perspective). I think that was when I realized what it really meant to be unique.

It's not adopting some subculture.

It's not quoting other people's jokes and pretending you're funny.

It's not romanticizing your "struggle."

It's not trying to impress the people around you.

It's not something you're going to find by thinking outside of the box.

It's simple. So simple that it's almost laughable that it evades so many people.

Stop trying to impress people with your life. When you do that, live to impress, you're living on other people's terms, not yours. Do what you like and pursue what you want. Create yourself out of your own desires and interests. Forge your own personality.

I guess most people would have left it at, "be yourself," but hey, I'm not like most people.

Negligence on the Internet

I used to make up words. I don't remember if they meant anything, just that I would use them from time to time. They sounded cooler than anything anybody else had to say. Googlewhatsersmitch, eh? That was my favorite. I'd say it, and then I'd repeat it under my breath to make sure I'd said it correctly, and then I'd repeat it again because I was just so proud of what I'd created. Point is, I was a weird kid. I liked school, I hated sports, and when people started calling me "faggot," my first thought was, "Hey, they're making up words too! Maybe, they'd like to hear mine."

A phrase I heard a lot, following that, was "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me," which is basically just a fancy way of saying, "Stop complaining that you don't have any friends." I've always hated that phrase. It rests on the basis that words are just words. That they carry no weight, and that they do not affect the actions of others. There is absolutely nothing true about any of those statements. I'll never forget the irony of a sixth grade teacher repeating that phrase, "words can never hurt me," while standing right in front of a poster (that she had sticky-tacked to the wall) which read, "Words are weapons too."

Words are weapons in the way that a knife is a weapon. When used correctly, a knife is necessary, even vital to cooking and eating. It's a useful object, a good thing to have, something we use every day without even the slightest thought that we could slice somebody's stomach open just as easily as the potato we're chopping up. Some people are thoughtless with knives, and you'll find them in the emergency room. Some people are negligent of knives; you'll find their kids in the emergency room.

People are more careless with words. Thankfully, one cannot suffer profuse bleeding from a tasteless remark or a sassy comeback, but suffering is far from absent from the scenario. When everybody in the sixth grade is calling you a faggot, you're keenly aware that they're saying more than a word. They're saying, "Get away from me. I don't like you. You're disgusting. You're not welcome." When everybody in the sixth grade is talking about you behind your back, you're keenly aware that they're not just saying words. They're actively trying to hurt you. When everybody in the sixth grade is asking, "Why haven't you just killed yourself already?" you're keenly aware that you've actively considered taking them up on those words.

I use the sixth grade as an example because it was clear to me, even at age 11, that words held outstanding, overwhelming power. Perhaps, however, it would be more prudent to use a different example:

"Give me liberty, or give me death!" - Patrick Henry

"You must be the change you wish to see in the world." - Gandhi

"Kind words can be short and easy to speak, but their echos are truly endless." - St, Teresa of Calcutta

"Keep Calm and Carry On," - The British World War II campaign to prevent widespread panic after the bombing of London

"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known." - Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities, in quite frankly the single most powerful ending to any work of fiction I have ever read.

These are not just words.

These are carefully selected, well thought out and articulated words. These are words that have withstood the test of time, not because people liked the letters on paper or the way they sounded. We know these quotes because of the powerful message beneath them, and the effect they have had on people, on nations, and on the world.

Yet, "words can never hurt me."

Carelessness with words has always been a problem. Today, that carelessness is running rampant through the internet, the media, and, as we've seen over the past year, the prevailing ranks of power in our society. As we move forward, it is not enough to simply condemn the words of others. We must also be careful of our own.

Though you may not have a national bully pulpit, the words you write on the internet are being read by a vast number of people. The words you speak into your webcam and post to YouTube can be heard by anybody. The furiously typed, pejorative rants you post without a second thought (or even a second read-through) are going to affect people. These could be damaging effects. Words can inspire panic, hysteria, pain, or misinformation. From the yellow journalism of the early 1900's that started the Spanish American War, to the e-mails exchanged between high ranking democratic officials that may have cost them election, words have incredible power.

Choose them carefully.