As Cool As Mint Ice Cream

January 2019: How I’m Changing the Way I Approach Reading

Posted on January 31, 2019 by Ryn PB

What I Read:

An Absolutely Remarkable Thing by Hank Green
A Study in Scarlet (re-read) by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
The Story of Green Day by Doug Small
Winesburg, Ohio by Sherwood Anderson
Part of The Courtier by Baldesar Castiglione
Mrs. Dalloway (re-read) by Virginia Woolf
All Out: The No-Longer-Secret Stories of Queer Teens throughout the Ages edited by Saundra Mitchell
King Lear by William Shakespeare
Some local zines
An Alternative Press magazine from Sept. 2018
Flatmates by Marion Wood (fan fiction)

What I Bought:

Wild Beauty by Anna-Marie McLemore
All Out
The Story of Green Day
Shenanagins by Green Day (CD)
Local zines/chapbooks

Instead of doing normal book reviews, I’ve decided to take a Polysyllabic Spree approach to each month. The Polysyllabic Spree is a series of essays from a column Nick Hornby wrote from September 2003 to November 2004. He listed “Books Bought” and “Books Read” for every month, and then discussed similarities/differences, his life, or anything at all that remotely had to do with what and the amount he read that month. I’m going to try to do something similar, because I loved those essays so much!

To start, let me explain why I’m not calling my lists “Books Bought/Read,” but rather more vague titles. Last month and this month, I’ve been watching a lot of BookTube (videos on YouTube about books), and on my sister’s recommendation, I began watching Ariel Bissett’s videos. She is a lovely Canadian writer, reader, editor, and lover of all things written word. To sum up my experience watching her videos: she has rocked my world when it comes to the way I approach reading. She has a lovely video about how people don’t read things they can’t track, and I realized I was one of those people! I realized I was treating reading like something to check off a list, something to get done as fast as possible, instead of savoring whatever I was reading. She inspired me to read more than just books—zines, magazines, fan fiction, blogs, etc. I don’t want to be stuck just reading books if there are other wonderful words out there that are just not in book form.

That’s why my list this month is pretty eclectic. While most of the list is still books, I have actually read so much more not in book form than I did probably all of last year (not counting schoolwork). I went out and bought a bunch of local zines from a local bookstore (buy local!) and I spent an entire day reading them, listening to music, and poring over their beauty and uniqueness. I kind of want to make my own zine, now… We shall see if that ever happens.

The books King Lear, The Courtier, Mrs. Dalloway, and Winesburg, Ohio have been read for class; I am an English major in my second-to-last semester of undergrad, so I’m taking a weird assortment of classes, but the only two relevant here are my Renaissance Lit course and my 20^th Century Lit course. These are two eras that I have learned are not my favorite when it comes to reading. The Renaissance era is a lot of very formal writing/speaking, and (in an unpopular English major opinion) I’m not a huge fan of Shakespeare. The same goes for Virginia Woolf—not a fan. Virginia Woolf and Shakespeare both contribute a lot to the English-language canon, but I just didn’t find myself enjoying these books very much.

Okay, let’s talk about Hank Green’s book. I’m late to the game (as usual), but I finally read this book after getting it for Christmas. I have to admit, at first, I wasn’t too enthralled with the story. I had high expectations because lots of BookTubers lauded this book so highly that I just knew it must be wonderful—but I didn’t click with it at first. It might have been because this book is about YouTube fame, or marginalized fame, and that is something BookTubers understand more than I do. Or it could just be that the story doesn’t pick up until about 100 pages in. I did thoroughly enjoy this book by the end of it, and the ending made me angry, curious, and confused all at once in the best way possible. I would still recommend this book, just with the caveat to stick with it even when it doesn’t seem too exciting at times.

The last two books I really want to discuss are the anthology All Out and The Story of Green Day. The anthology is one I discovered through BookTube, from another favorite of mine (Cece Ewing). She recommends lots of queer books, and many of them are #ownvoices! Woot woot! Anyways, this anthology has stories set all throughout history about queer characters. While not all of these short stories were the best thing I’ve ever read, they all hold a special place in my heart because of what they represent. My favorite story in the entire anthology was “And They Don’t Kiss at the End” by Nilah Magruder, which is about an asexual, black girl in the 1970s. It takes place on a roller-skating rink and includes my new favorite quote: “Kissing makes me laugh.” For context, I have only kissed one person ever, and I didn’t really enjoy the experience. So this quote made me laugh hysterically, and I even named the next playlist on my phone after this quote.

If you know me, then it is no secret that I LOVE Green Day. I often joke that my proudest moment is getting my dad to head-bang with me at a Green Day concert in Minneapolis (and half the time I’m not even joking). I have collected all of Green Day’s albums, and am now trying to collect compilation CDs that they’ve put out. But I was never able to find a book about Green Day until one fateful day at Half Price Books, when I looked in the music section, and I found Billie Joe Armstrong, Tre Cool, and Mike Dirnt staring back at me. It was fate.

While this book only reaches until 2005, I learned a lot and have so much more respect for this band than I already did. I love reading about music scenes or bands, and this book definitely made the list of best books I’ve read about music (right behind Meet Me in the Bathroom by Lizzy Goodman, about the early 2000s New York City rock scene).

I suspect February will be a slower reading month, because I am not on break for even part of the month, and I turn 21 so that weekend probably won’t involve too much reading. But January was a good month. I’ve re-learned to relax and enjoy reading in whatever form it comes to me in—even if that form is fan fiction about Sherlock Holmes and Hermione Granger.

Posted in new era, polysyllabic spree | Tagged alternative press, ariel bissett, books, booktube, green day, hank green, LGBT+, nick hornby, problemsofabooknerd, reading, shakespeare, sherlock holmes, used books | Leave a comment

Rock Band Wii Blisters: How I’m Gaining Confidence in the Things I’m Good at, Even if They’re Small

Posted on January 6, 2019 by Ryn PB

I’ve been home on winter break from college for the past month, and there have been ups and downs, but I managed to end the break on a high note. My dad, sister, and I went to the basement and turned on our old, clunky Wii. My sister

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Some random Miis

and I creamed my dad in Mario Kart, and then we put in the disc for Rock Band 2, which is my favorite video game I have ever played in my entire life (including Nancy Drew computer games). So many heartwarming memories are attached to that game, especially spending time with my hilarious uncle and getting into rock music that I now listen to for fun. Basically, I was pumped to be playing this game again after so long.

At first, we weren’t sure if we were going to get it to work, and I almost felt like crying. My dad’s “guitar” wouldn’t sync up to the Wii no matter what we did. And then, all of a sudden, it connected, and we were off on our own little tour.

My dad and sister played bass and guitar, while I did the drums, as usual. When we were younger, I was the only one who could play drums well for a long period of time, so it became my thing. It became something I was secretly proud of being gamemode-playa-mobile good at, because I thought it was stupid to be proud of being good at a Wii game. This time around, it only took me one song on the easy level to get back into my groove, and we were off. Not only did I get to do something I was good at, I also got to listen to fun music, sing along, and hang out with my dad and sister.

Well, a few songs into our jam session, I got a blister on my right pointer finger. It hurt. My sister offered to take over on the drums or stop playing. But this was one of the most fun nights of the entire break, so I adjusted my grip and continued to bang away at my fake drums for several more songs. I even got a little sweaty. Rock Band drums are hard work!

As I was wrapping a BandAid around my sore finger later that night, I realized that I had sacrificed comfort (and some of my skin) for joy and confidence. I felt confident banging on the Rock Band Wii drums, and I felt happy, so I hadn’t wanted to stop. Then I began to think about other things I enjoy that require small sacrifices: running, playing guitar, writing, even reading.

I usually find it hard to do things that are unpleasant if I don’t see the capital P whatsthepoint Point, but Rock Band doesn’t have a Point. Reading doesn’t always have a Point, either. Even writing and playing guitar only have a Point if I give them one.

Having fun doing something or being proud of doing it well don’t have to apply only to conventionally accepted hobbies and goals. They can apply to something like Rock Band Wii just as well as they can apply to writing a novel.

Taking this lesson to heart, I’ve started to tell people I’m writing a novel, because I’m proud that I’m trying to create a book from scratch. Even if I don’t finish it, I am, at this point in time, writing a novel. I’ve started to read slower, to take in the books I’m reading, instead of rushing through them just to read a higher number of books, because I’m proud of the quality of reading I do, not the quantity. I’ll stop ignoring my guitar because I’m not very file good at playing it, even though it is fun and I am proud that I made it this far. “This far” is pretty much only the basics, but it’s still more than a lot of people can do.

It’s time to start embracing the things I am proud of, the things I am good at, and the things I love doing (but may not be so good at). I am proud of my Rock Band Wii drumming skills, and the blister on my finger is just proof of how hard I try at the things I love. No matter how good I get, at the very least, I try. And I try because I want to, not because I have to.

I can’t wait until our next jam session.

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2019 Resolutions (a.k.a. doing more of what I love):

Write a book review every month.
Finish the first draft of my novel.
Run a 10K.
Play guitar more often.
Learn how to cook more meals.

Posted in mental health, new era, stories | Tagged dad, hobbies, life lessons, music, proud, rock band, running, wii, writing | Leave a comment

A Hospital, Twenty One Pilots, and a Fish’s Death: How Sadness Has Become Less Negative for Me

Posted on December 17, 2018 by Ryn PB

About halfway through November, I finally visited a friend who had been in the hospital for months. My excuse for not going was that no one invited me and I Its-Okay-To-Be-Sad would figure out my friends had visited her after the fact. But I could have asked to be let in on the plans. I could have gone on my own. Really, the idea of visiting her in the hospital made me nervous, because, though I know that my friend has a chronic illness, it was still hard to believe that she could be suffering so much.

Well, my friend then got moved to a city three hours away (as opposed to one), and it was this move that finally urged me to take initiative and visit her. I had just started becoming friends with her during the previous school year, and I missed her humor and her love of twenty one pilots and her passions for music and school. I made plans to go on a road trip with one of my roommates and her friend.

The day of the road trip came, and it turned out that I would be going with only my roommate’s friend who I did not know very well. Of course, as with any new social situation, my anxiety skyrocketed. Three hours in the car with someone I barely know? That was going to be tough.

But it wasn’t. The person who drove me was extremely nice and, like me, doesn’t think silence is awkward. Once we had parked and walked swiftly through the cold air to the hospital’s main building, I was forced once again to interact with my friendship-day emotions. I met my friend’s parents for the first time, and when we went into her hospital room, it was dark and she was in so much pain she could barely speak to us. So the person who drove and I sat in two chairs (mine being the more uncomfortable of the two) and spent time with my friend. Some moments, she was the good old funny girl I came to be friends with, and some moments during we just sat in silence with soft music playing in the background.

I barely ate anything all day, and my dinner of snack foods was still tough to force down. It was a hard day, but I was so glad I went, even though it had made me sad. Because sadness wasn’t all I felt. I felt proud to be the friend of such a strong girl, glad that I got to finally hang out with my friend, and grateful to have someone like her in my life. By and large, the sadness was the main emotion that stuck with me, and even after getting back at two in the morning and barely sleeping, I tried not to let myself feel it. As we all know, that never works for long.

A few days later, twenty one pilots came to my city, and it was a concert I had planned to go to with my friend who was in the hospital. She had bought us general admissions tickets, and she really wanted to be able to go, because the last time she wanted to see tøp, she was also in the hospital. She transferred my ticket to my account, but kept her own just to stay hopeful.

I went back and forth while deciding if I should go to the concert alone. It was down to whether I would listen to my anxiety telling me that it would be awkward and claustrophobic to be in the pit alone, or my love for my friend telling me that I should go and film her favorite songs and enjoy myself like she wanted me to. I listened to the latter, and I am so glad I did.

I’m not going to lie: being in the pit alone was extremely claustrophobic. But because I had a purpose, because I was there for my friend, I was able to endure the anxiety

and the disappointment that she couldn’t be there with me. I normally don’t take my phone out during concerts, but I took pics and filmed songs for her, and I jammed out just like I would have with a friend. It obviously would have been better to be with Tricia, but the sadness and anxiety for once did not prevent me from having a good time. Tricia reminded me that, in Trench, I’m not alone.

These first two experiences gave me time to deal with the sadness of seeing someone you love suffer and with being alone in a place you would rather not be alone. And pushing through these to see my friend smile and to send her videos that I knew she would love was so, so worth it.

But there’s a third type of sadness this past month has brought me: grief. I woke up one morning after Chester, my lovely better fish, hadn’t been moving much to find him floating in his tank, dead. I sobbed. And I called my mom. And my roommate gave me a hug. And I flushed him down the toilet with a heavy heart. Even though Chester was “just a fish,” I was heartbroken. I love and get attached so easily, and even though he had only been my desk buddy for a few months, I felt like Chester

RIP Chester.

had been with me forever. He gave me a reason to get up on days that I didn’t feel like it, because he relied on me. For someone like me, it’s helpful to have someone else to take care of on those days you feel like you don’t belong in your friend group or family. Chester accepted all of me, and he was a funny guy with a picky appetite. I will miss him, and he was the best fish I’ll ever have.

After this loss, the last couple of weeks of the semester were rough. When I get bored, my default mood is sadness, and this was especially true after the loss of my fish. I faced this intense boredom while all of my friends were stressed about taking their finals. My last paper was due during dead week, so I had a whole extra week of doing nothing before I went home. I had planned some things for myself to do and get done, but because I tend to be efficient with my time management, I finished these all pretty fast and ended up just watching Jane the Virgin on Netflix or catching up on the Avengers movies I haven’t seen yet. I was SO BORED, and I felt alone because my friends were busy and Chester was gone. Because I was bored, I was not motivated to get out my apartment and do things. I sat around with no purpose and my mind defaulted back into sadness.

This third sadness, I just had to sit through and endure. I took my time in cleaning Chester’s old tank and decorations, letting myself go through the grief as slowly as I needed to, ignoring the guilt over putting so much thought into a fish’s death.

This past month has taught me that sadness is not a “negative” or “bad” emotion. During and after the tøp concert, I let myself sit with the sadness without trying to distract myself. When Chester died, I allowed myself tears even though I knew others would think I was overreacting. I journaled and listened to sad music and let myself feel without wallowing. This is a happy medium (or sad medium?) that I have never mastered, and probably still haven’t mastered. But I finally understand what people mean when they say the full range of human emotions is beautiful. Because it is. I’m not trying to glorify sadness or sickness or grief; I’m just trying to accept them as part of my human experience. And I think I’m one step closer to doing this.

Posted in mental health, new era | Tagged anxiety, boredom, concert, death, life lessons, live music, mito, music, pet, sadness, sickness, trench, twenty one pilots | Leave a comment

The Hydra Monster Woke Up Again: How I’m Trying to Look for Happiness in Spite of Anxiety Troubles

Posted on November 15, 2018 by Ryn PB

I haven’t been doing well lately.

This is hard for me to admit, because I never want to add to the worries of anyone I love. And they worry. A lot. I have this outwardly calm exterior—some of my

Writing and apple cider at a local coffee shop is a great remedy for relaxing.

friends have even described me as “chill”—but it’s hiding the turmoil inside.

That sounds a lot darker than I’d intended. I am happy a lot of the time, and I have lovely friends and family. I’m getting a quality college education and know where my passions lie. Outwardly, my life is set. But after a two-week absence (because of a major illness), my anxiety decided to rear its ugly heads again. The Hydra monster is back at it.

Fortunately, I’ve been teaching myself how to be okay, and even have fun, while the Hydra monster is shouting at me from all of its different heads. And I have to say, it usually helps if I’m with other people.

A couple weekends ago, my dad visited me at school, and even though this was right as my illness was tapering off and my anxiety’s heads were waking up, we had an absolute blast. We went out to dinner to eat sushi, got some books from my favorite bookstore (and pet the fluffy cats there!), searched through a cool record store and found some CDs costing 50 cents, and got ice cream at a new shop near my apartment.

It was a near-perfect day. The whole time I was with my dad, I forced my anxiety down, told it who was boss. That felt good. Better than I expected. Telling my anxiety to fuck off is something that I rarely do, and I’m not sure why. I guess it’s

My favorite bookstore!

pretty persuasive, what with all those heads while I only have one. My anxiety has the advantage of playing into my fears and insecurities; it knows me too well. The Hydra monster is strong, but not stronger than I am. I’ve spent too long cutting off heads only for more to sprout, and now I’ve got to go in for the plunge. I’ve got to get at its heart. If I don’t believe my anxiety, if I don’t let it tell me what to do, I win.

I’ve done it several times since, going to Chipotle with friends later than I usually would (and I even homework left to do!) and letting last-minute plans pass through my “rigid” schedule. I got a public library card to allow myself guilt-free book reading time. I even took a night off

Stuffed animals are a surefire way to get comfort when you miss your dog.

just to read for fun while watching The Great British Bake Off.

But this is all easier said than done. I wish a few instances of defeating my anxiety meant I could defeat it all the time, but it’s an endless battle. Sometimes I have the upper hand, and sometimes I don’t. Right now, I just don’t.

That’s okay; I’ll still keep fighting. I’ll make tea, watch fun Netflix shows, read books I enjoy, exercise, and spend time with my friends. These are my weapons. I can finally admit I can’t fight this all on my own, and you know what? If I build an army of friends, family, and therapists, the Hydra monster can’t win forever.

When in doubt, eat cookies!

Posted in mental health, new era | Tagged anxiety, dad, depression, illness, library | Leave a comment

Fall Out Boy, Five Hundred Dollars, and Feminist Authors: How I’m learning to accept the good alongside the bad

Posted on October 8, 2018 by Ryn PB

Over the past few years, I’ve gotten really bad at receiving compliments and accolades. It’s not because I’m modest; it’s because I’m self-deprecating. I indulge in negative self-talk and awkwardness when it comes to noticing good things about myself. Then I went through a series of three very different events that all taught me the same lesson—everything has both good and bad parts, both strengths and weaknesses, including me. And you can’t focus only on the bad if you want to live a comfortable life.

That Cash Money: Winning a Writing Contest

A couple weeks before all of this, I had gotten an email from Omaha Public Libraries (OPL) telling me that I was a finalist in a contest I had entered during the summer. The email invited me to The Pageturners Lounge to discover if I had won.

I took this opportunity to drive home to Omaha and spend time with my mom and dog. I
was trying not to get my hopes up, trying to tell myself I was driving home just to have a fun night, but it was all a lie. I had been receiving rejections from literary magazines for a while, so I really wanted something positive to come from my writing. Even so, I kept telling myself not to get my hopes up, because I didn’t really believe it could happen.

After a homemade dinner and a few snuggles with Reggie, my mom and I drove to downtown Omaha while jamming out to the Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812 soundtrack (which I highly recommend singing along to in the characters’ voices). My mom noticed I was in a weird and overly excitable mood, but she just laughed and sang along anyway.

The Pageturners Lounge was basically a bar for booklovers. We promptly got roped into the literary pub quiz, which is exactly what it sounds like. Despite me being an English major and my mom studying to be an English teacher, we could answer only five questions total (well, six, if you count saying the correct answer under your breath but

The Sleuths!

not writing it down). The questions were obscure and difficult, often allowing us only to answer half or none of it at all. But we joked about it and promised that if we ever did a pub quiz again, we would brush up on our trivia. Team #3: The Sleuths will be victorious!

After two interminable rounds, a representative from OPL took the microphone and proceeded to talk about the contest and the foundation that had put it on. I had peed when we got there, but I already had to go again because I was so nervous.

Then I heard my name. And a judge began describing my short story to everyone in the bar. And someone else came over to hand me an envelope containing a check for $500. I was gobsmacked; my mouth literally fell open. I couldn’t believe that I won, because I had been inundated with rejections and negativity (from myself) as of late. I didn’t even let myself get excited about winning, because I wasn’t sure how. I wasn’t sure how to acknowledge that I deserved the money and the prize; I wasn’t sure how to acknowledge my talent, even IMG_8905.HEIC though someone else had.

I let myself smile and cling to the envelope. I thanked the OPL representative. Then we left, and I sang even more enthusiastically on the ride home. That’s the best I could do at the time, and that’s okay. The more I acknowledge my strengths, the more I will be proud of myself and what I can do.

Fatness and Not Forgiving: A Reading of Hunger by Roxane Gay

The next day, I took off work for an author visit to my campus, changing my night of copy editing into a night of reading and friends. I had only read one book by Roxane Gay, and I only read it because I won it for free in a raffle, but it ended up sticking with me. Her memoir Hunger challenged my views of fat people, pointing out the problematic views I have had in the past, and also made me more aware of the complexities that 41tjM2rqynL every person embodies—which is the best kind of book.

So I waited to get into her book reading for over an hour, standing and sitting with friends from my last class. Gay was funny and strong and opinionated and honest.

Before reading a few chapters out of her memoir Hunger, Gay discussed why she decided to write it. She said the thing she least wanted to write about was fatness, but she knew from experience that the most terrifying intellectual pursuits are often the most rewarding and stimulating.

Then she read three separate chapters from her book—one about hating exercise, one about a chef she loves, and one about the ring-leader of the group who had gang-raped her as a young girl. While she read, I noticed that I was laughing at lines that I had read very seriously on my own. She read her own work a lot funnier than I had, which made me think differently of the memoir. Maybe it should be taken both lightly and seriously; maybe there’s not only sadness when it comes to difficult topics, but also laughter.

But the most informative part of the evening was her Q&A. There are two pieces of advice she gave, to writers and to people in general, that stuck with me—and probably will stick with me for a long time. The first is that we should feel free not to forgive people; it’s not our job to forgive, it’s their job not to do things that require forgiveness. The second is that writers should “be relentless” and take themselves seriously as writers. She said writing can be a thankless job or hobby but won’t feel that way if you enjoy it.

1786126-Walt-Whitman-Quote-I-am-large-I-contain-multitudes Gay reminded me that I should allow myself both sadness and happiness in one space, because we all contain contradictory identities that somehow all make sense. We need to allow space for everything, the weaknesses and the strengths, without sugarcoating or denying them. Gay’s sincere honesty is a rare gift, one not often found even in the most eloquent of writers. I will cherish that gift, because it came at a time that I still felt like I needed to apologize for certain aspects of my existence.

Unapologetic Jamming: The Fall Out Boy M A N I A Tour

After all of this, I still had one more thing to look forward to: going to a Fall Out Boy concert. Pop punk is my favorite genre of music, so I was PUMPED. And Machine Gun Kelly (whose music is a guilty pleasure of mine) was one of the openers. AMAZING! Concerts are one of the few places I let myself be free—I sing and scream as loud as I want, I dance and head bang, and I make funny faces at my friends. I put my phone away and I let myself live in the moment. Don’t underestimate living in the moment—it’s a very rare phenomenon for someone with extreme anxiety.

We were in the nosebleeds, which was a little disappointing, but when Machine Gun Kelly (MGK) came on, I was the only one of my friends who stood up and sang. Then an employee of the venue came around and offered us tickets MUCH closer to the stage. The only bad part: he offered them during MGK’s set. So I took my ticket and ran, leaving my friends in the dust. I ran down the stairs, into people, around people, and finally into our super close (but not on the ground) seats. I stood and sang and jammed to MGK’s entire set on my own, unable to scrounge up any feelings of guilt or shame from something I enjoyed. Usually, I think people will find what I like stupid or strange, but at concerts, all of that goes out the window. I’m not

From my friend’s Snapchat

going to let my innate embarrassment of everything I enjoy ruin a fun time.

Then Fall Out Boy arrived on the stage, and I completely lost any sense of embarrassment left. My friend Bekah and I sang so loud (even mimicking some of the guitar riffs) and danced and jumped and put our middle fingers up. (Okay, I’m the only one who put a middle finger up, but only because these pop punk legends asked me to!) Every song became my favorite song in the moment they played it. I had another chance to dispel my embarrassment, because I really like FOB’s new music. A lot of OG fans hate or strongly dislike it, but it’s so fun to jam to. Sure, the old stuff made eighth-grade me very happy, but all of their music continues to sound awesome. It was just so cool to see a band I’ve liked for a long time in concert.

From my friend’s Snapchat

I exerted so much energy that I almost had an asthma attack, and I was coughing all day the next day, but it was so worth it. What’s a little cough when you get to see two bands you love perform in the same night?

This post is not to brag about my good fortune or my money or my privilege. It is merely to let myself know that I am allowed to enjoy things, that I am allowed to be proud of myself, that I don’t have to apologize for existing. I almost always focus on what I perceive as my weaknesses, and this week was the start of adding my strengths into the mix. I am a good writer, I love learning from books, and I listen happily to new FOB and MGK.

I am learning how to accept myself, both the good and the bad. And if I have to win money and go to concerts just to learn that, well then I guess I’ll just have to deal with it.

FOB took a pic with me… I swear I’m there. I’m the tiny face waaaay back there.

Posted in mental health, new era, stories | Tagged concert, fall out boy, FOB, library, life lessons, machine gun kelly, MGK, music, omaha, roxane gay, writing | Leave a comment

A Letter to My Skin: How I’m Learning to Accept It, Blemishes and All (TW: self harm)

Posted on September 19, 2018 by Ryn PB

Dear Skin,

I have tattooed, cut, scarred, pierced, scratched, picked at, peeled, bruised, burned, and dried you out. Some of these I have done in pursuit of happiness and healing, some in pursuit of numbness, and others through mere ignorance.

I have always picked at you on my lips, sometimes my scalp, and now I feel like I must eradicate every little bump or bug bite. Every hangnail I must pull. Every scab I must pick. Instead of accepting each bump and blemish as part of the new—albeit temporary—topography of you, I feel I must get rid of them, even if it means bleeding or pain. I am no longer looking for the pain that created the scars on my shoulder nor the joy that created the holes in my face that I fill with metal, but instead I’m looking to scratch an itch, to feed a compulsion. It is this compulsion I must fight, because you are worth it.

No matter what I have done to you, Skin, you have turned my bones and muscles into a home I can live in. You have protected me from all sorts of damage, taking the brunt of it yourself. You have burned when I stay out too long in the sun and bruised when I fell off my bike and broke my bones. The little scar on my chin a result of that same bike crash, slamming my head into the ground. I remember Band-Aids and casts and green bruising and you scraped raw on my knees, palms, and chin. But you healed, and you kept protecting me. You still keep protecting me.

So this is my vow to you, Skin. I will no longer see my scars as a sign of shame, no matter if I made them myself or by accident. They are proof that I have overcome pain and suffering in the past, and that I will do so in the future. I will no longer try to blot out any bump, bite, scab, or zit, but instead accept them as the temporary topography of you. Those bumps will become a part of me, no matter how short-lived, and no part of me deserves to be scratched or picked out of existence. I will no longer pick at the dry part of you on my scalp, but instead search for a shampoo that makes you happier there. When I am upset, I will resist the urge to damage you. I will instead take care of you, put on scented lotion or merely admire your beauty. I will wear sun screen and put lotion on to keep you from drying out. I will put on chap stick to protect you on my lips from my roving fingers. I will adorn you with beautiful images and words etched in ink onto your lower levels, and I will do this smartly and with much care.

And if I fail to do any of these things, I will forgive myself and start again.

Thank you, Skin, for being my home. It’s time that I take care of my home once again.

Posted in mental health, new era | Tagged anxiety, depression, letter, picking, self harm, skin | Leave a comment

Chester the Stud: How My Betta Fish Has Helped Me Feel Less Lonely and More Rooted in Reality

Posted on August 29, 2018 by Ryn PB

As Billie Joe Armstrong of Green Day says, “I believe I’m a walking contradiction.” And I am. Actually, I am full of contradictions. I am a perfectionist, but I have several hobbies
I’m not good at. I dislike crafting, but I like to scrapbook. I prefer print books, but I write an online blog. I really want to be more independent, but I text my mom every day asking questions about simple things like doing laundry or ordering things online. I enjoy being alone, but I still like to have an animal around to make me feel loved.

Over the summer, this animal was my dog, Reggie. Unfortunately, Reggie lives with my parents an hour away from my new apartment, so I cannot see him every day like I did

I miss this boy.

over the summer. I can’t bury my head in his fur or hug him when I’m sad or panicky. I miss the way he made me feel unconditionally loved, which made all the responsibilities of looking after a dog well worth it.

Well, as you can imagine, about two days after moving into my apartment, I missed having a pet around. I needed something to look forward to when I got up in the morning, and something to take care of (besides my plants, who cannot show me love).

At first, I was stumped. My apartment doesn’t allow pets. So I toyed around with the idea of getting an emotional support cat or dog. This process was too complicated, and besides, I would feel guilty leaving a dog in an apartment all day. I crossed that idea off the list. Then I thought I might just get a plant that requires more work. I have Gerald the cactus, and Emmett the succulent—both of which do not require a lot of attention. I thought more about how not-green my thumb was—so not-green that it was probably red—and, again, crossed the idea off the list.

Then—ding!—I had a bright idea. I remembered my sister owning a betta fish in college, and thought, “Hey, I should get one of those!” So I found the nearest fish store (titled,

Chester, the stud

wait for it… The Fish Store), dragged my friend Bekah along with me, and bought a dark blue betta fish that can only be described with one word: handsome. (I’m telling you, my fish is a STUD.)

I immediately named him Chester (after an obscure Sky High character), got all of the supplies I would need on recommendation from the store employees, and headed out with my boy all safe and sound in his little plastic bag. I took my time putting the rainbow rocks in the tank, making sure the tap water was clean, and then finally plopping Chester into his new home. Now, he sits on my desk and keeps me company while I do the most stressful thing currently plaguing my life—homework. I’ve put him through the trauma of two tank cleanings (I am horrendously clumsy when I try to clean the tank), fed him a few more pellets than I should (because I give him treats like he’s a dog), and competed in multiple staring contests with him (all of which I’ve lost—he doesn’t blink!).

Even though a fish isn’t the most cuddly or affectionate of pets, I do feel like Chester loves me. He swims over when I put my face close to the tank and will get close to my finger if I don’t startle him. I say good morning to him (I’m not crazy! If talking to dogs isn’t crazy, then talking to my fish isn’t crazy!) and watch him swim around in his little glass home. I even bought him a fake plant, which he was afraid of for a few days before he began to like it. Just today I found him resting in the middle of the plant.

Whenever I clean his tank, I feel proud that I’m keeping his home clean just like I should

Photo of other handsome betta fish from the store (plus care instructions!)

keep mine clean. His rainbow rocks have to be taken care of just like the carpet in my room. He has to be fed regularly just like I should eat regularly. He reminds me that self-care sometimes involves someone else.

Chester gives me the responsibility I need to keep myself going. When no one relies on me, I get in my head and harshly criticize myself, rather than feeling proud of taking care of something so wonderful as a living creature. Having another presence around keeps me rooted in the present moment, and his beauty gives me something to celebrate when I can’t find anything else beautiful in my life. Chester needs me, and, you know what? It feels good to be needed.

Soon, I want to undertake the task of training Chester to do a few tricks. Apparently, betta fish are very smart. I picked a fish that I can treat like a dog, and it wasn’t even on purpose! I think betta fish may now be my second favorite animal. Fish are definitely underrated pets.

So even though I’m a walking contradiction, I’m a walking contradiction that loves their fish pretty much the same amount that they love their dog. And I believe Chester loves me back unconditionally. Anyone who says that’s crazy is spewing a load of dookie (get it? Green Day reference number two?).

Update: Chester is staring at me as I upload this. Maybe I should let him read it first? 😉

Posted in mental health, new era, stories | Tagged anxiety, betta fish, fish, life lessons, pet, pets | 1 Comment

I Can Lift a Car: How Walk the Moon Inspired Me to Meditate More and Keep on Trying to Make my Own Happiness

Posted on August 3, 2018 by Ryn PB

Going to a Walk the Moon concert has been on my bucket list ever since I heard their music, which was a surprise even to me. My typical music is angst-ridden pop punk, angry rock music, and the occasional musical soundtrack if I’ve seen it performed live. (And let’s face it: most musicals have their fair share of angst.) So the fact that I like this music that exudes positivity was absolutely foreign to me, but I decided not to fight it. Instead, I embraced it.

With all of that in mind, one can imagine that I was super pumped to go to their concert last year, but they ended up cancelling the rest of their tour because the lead singer’s dad was sick. While I was disappointed, I have mad respect for the lead singer, because nothing should come before those who make you a better person.

So I waited patiently until the following winter, when my mom got me tickets for my birthday.

The only catch was that I would have to drive from Omaha, NE to Minneapolis, MN for this concert. And it was February. And in February, it often snows. And it just so happened that it snowed a lot that weekend. And even though I was willing to brave the icy roads and poor visibility, my sister was not.

I spent the whole weekend sad, disappointed, and a little angry. I didn’t feel like I had a lot to be happy about at that time, so cancelling the one event I was looking forward to felt like the end of having positive experiences anytime soon. I forgot the one thing that Walk the Moon wants their fans to remember: Stay positive.

Going through that double disappointment made my experience last Monday even better.

Walk the Moon had released an album on which was the song “One Foot.” Honestly, I usually would be cynical about a song like this. How can a positive song make a difference to my eternally tortured soul? was a thought that probably went through my brain at some point. But it got me into a better headspace on those days when I could barely get out of bed. Then Walk the Moon announced a tour, and I snatched up tickets to their concert in my city.

Last Monday, despite the fact that it rained as my sister and I drove to the venue, I knew that nothing would go wrong. This experience was meant to be. Three has always been my lucky number and third time’s a charm, right? I stayed positive, and I embraced the rain. Lo and behold, it paid off.

Not only are they amazing live, Walk the Moon also has the weird ability to give you permission to let go of everything that holds you back. Even if that something is you. They literally lead you through a meditation in the

My sis and I!

middle of their concert right before convincing you that you can lift a car up (all by yourself!). I smiled, sang, and danced more than I ever have before. And I started to feel a little like my “old self,” which basically just means I let go of the anxiety, perfectionism, and sadness for once. I got to experience this all with my sister, a.k.a. my favorite person in the world, which made it even better.

The night after the concert, I couldn’t sleep because I was thinking about how much fun I had and how much I had smiled. I never smile that much, but I think I’m going to smile more now.

The meditation in the middle of the concert made me feel so positive and free from worries, not just the tentative “calm” I usually experience from meditation, so I decided to pick up the habit again. I’ve never been good at meditating or journaling regularly, but I now know that it can actually benefit me. I’m convinced that even if meditating doesn’t work every day, it will work in the long run. Even when it’s not Walk the Moon leading me in the process of getting rid of everything that makes me feel “argh,” I think I can make do. I have to make do, because living in my brain has been a horrible thing to do these past few years. It was full of negativity, harsh critiques, and hopelessness.

Well, not anymore. Now, I’m forcing the negativity down and replacing it with positivity. The harsh critiques are being crowded out by pride and promises to be my best self. The hopelessness now has to vie with its much more likeable brother hope. I still have to remind myself that it’s okay to have bad minutes, hours, days, nights, even weeks or months. But what is not okay is wallowing in the negativity, letting myself fall down that rabbit hole of helplessness.

I just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other, and I’ll be able to lift any car that my brain and life decide to throw at me.

Pictures from: https://www.omaha.com/go/review-walk-the-moon-s-energy-turns-show-at-sumtur/article_49336aa6-76fc-5628-a43f-1cc803e2e584.html

Posted in new era, original writing, stories | Tagged anxiety, concert, happiness, live music, meditation, music, walk the moon | 1 Comment

To The Homeless Man on Michigan Avenue with Swollen Legs

Posted on July 22, 2018 by Ryn PB

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry I pretended to look the other direction, all the while gaping at your legs. Your legs that looked like they should be on a different body. Cracked, dry, swollen to twice the size of your emaciated upper body.

I’m sorry I walked by like you were less than a person as you hid your face from those you needed money from. You hid your face from me, head bowed low like the people ignoring you were sucking out your humanity. I wish I could look into your eyes and tell you:

I’m sorry, because even though I pretended not to look, I saw the gaping wound on the side of your leg—pink and white flesh opened up like a flower blooming in the desert of your dark, dry legs. The hole was as wide as two of my fists, and I saw how maybe your head was bowed in pain, as well as humiliation.

I’m sorry, because even if a doctor took your legs—and maybe some of the physical pain along with them—you will never lose the memories. Memories like a mom whispering to her child that you are disgusting, just because of fluid in your legs and a sore you didn’t ask for in the first place.

I’m sorry that that child only quietly corrected their mom instead of turning around and putting money into your outstretched hand. Instead of validating your humanity with a smile. Instead of offering words of consolation. I whispered, “That must be painful,” but I did nothing.

I’m sorry, because you are just as human as I, but I gave you less attention than the cute dogs trotting by or the paintings displayed in the museum.

I’m sorry, but sorry is not enough.

Posted in original writing, stories | Tagged disease, homeless, poems, poetry, sorry | Leave a comment

“For which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?”: How Shakespeare Finally Became Relevant to Me

Posted on July 8, 2018 by Ryn PB

You know how everyone talks about how Shakespeare is still relevant in this day and age? Well, it’s not that I didn’t believe this, but I never really saw evidence of this in my own life. I couldn’t imagine how Shakespeare would ever be relatable to someone like me, living in the twenty-first century U.S. That is, I thought this, until yesterday.

I’ve heard so many people tell me that you don’t know if you like Shakespeare until you see the plays live, and I agree. One of my friends has invited me to Shakespeare on the Green every year since I have known her, and it’s always been a blast. Even that one year she had to keep poking me awake during The Tempest because I was jet-lagged from a trip to London. I would wake up to some Shakespearean character rapping or singing; it was so odd but so fun! Shakespeare on the Green does their own adaptations of two plays every year, and somehow makes them so funny or relatable or sad or all of the above. And while I didn’t hate the Shakespeare I read in school, I certainly wasn’t as entertained by the text as these performances.

This year was different. This year, I wasn’t just entertained. I learned.

Before the first play, we all tried on the Shakespearean outfits in the little costume tent and took silly pictures with swords and hats with feathers and masks. Then we were all coerced into “sword fighting lessons” by my friend Kateri. Four of us, all in college, stood behind the little boys who were

Silly pic at Shakespeare!

learning the beginnings of swordplay—five defense positions and five offense positions. And honestly? It was so fun making funny faces and pretending that I could actually swordfight. My inner child burst out; I’d been hiding that part of me for a while. I missed the carefree version of me, and I’m glad I got to bring it out for a little while. No stress, no anxiety—just swords!

The first play we went to was King John with a punk-rock twist (Green Day music during the intermission was the best!), and it was both funny and heartbreaking. The scene when the young prince dies was absolutely horrible to watch. The young girl playing the prince was one of the most talented actors in the entire production, hands down. No matter if the prince spoke much or not, she was always in character and always believable. I wanted to protect the prince so much, even if some of the other characters were ridiculous as villains. I followed in Hubert’s footsteps, learning to love the prince the more I spent time with him.

The girl who acted as the prince showed me that it doesn’t matter what part of your life you’re at; you can be so good at the things you want to do if you put yourself out there and try as hard as you can. Prince Arthur was not the main character of the play, but he was the star for me.

The other character in King John that intrigued me was the Bastard. As you can tell by his name, he wasn’t the most morally upright character. He didn’t have childlike innocence behind him like Prince Arthur or good intentions to back up his poor choices; no, he was just a blind follower of the king. But he interested me because he had chosen to give up his title and land to become known only as “the Bastard,” the son of the deceased king out of wedlock. I wanted to know more about his motivations to choose this title rather than a more noble one. I wanted to know if it was because he wanted to be different or wanted or loved. If he wanted to know who his true family was.

Unfortunately, the actor that played the Bastard got injured during Act I, so

Ready for a sword fight!

the director had to read off a script for Act II. This distracted me from the Bastard’s character and what I may have learned from him. We all worried that the next day’s play wouldn’t be as top notch because this actor was also playing Benedick in a 1950s version of Much Ado About Nothing—not exactly a small role.

The next night, we packed up our chairs, blankets, and food anyway, figuring we could still have fun dressing up in the funny Shakespearean outfits and sword fighting with each other. Our inner children refused to be disappointed.

Then one of the people in our group went up to ask the director about the injured actor. Apparently, he had injured his calf but would still be acting with a cane. Now, I had no idea that straining one’s calf was so horrible, but Kateri had had the same injury in the past and said she could barely walk on it. So the fact that the actor crouched and danced and moved around during the play, albeit less than he would have before the injury, was amazing (and confirmed my idea that passionate people are sometimes the most empowering people). All of the physical comedy was hilarious, and he added to it by poking people with his cane and using it to point at things. He not only 9-0753-84 performed through his injury, but also used it to make the play even better. (And, I have to admit, he looked just as suave with a cane as without it. That takes skill!)

Thanks to that actor, I realized that everything that I think holds me back should not. It only holds me back because I let it. And I need to stop holding on to that comfortable feeling of not having to try as hard because of those obstacles. Instead, I will take those obstacles and turn them into something that will make me, and whatever I do, better. If I can’t run as far because my asthma is getting worse, well, I’ll try new things and that will help me with my fear of the unknown. If I am anxious about new social situations, I will direct that nervous energy into something creative or meditate on what I am feeling in order to channel it into something positive.

As a character, Benedick is kind of a shitty womanizer—until he is fooled into falling in love with the woman he always banters with about never getting married. (As the Biebs would say: never say never.) I often write off romantic love because I’ve almost always been indifferent to it, but if I’m the Benedick

justin-bieber-never-say-never-theme-theme-1

Thanks, J. Biebs, for the wise words.

of my narrative, it means that I shouldn’t write it off completely. I shouldn’t write anything or anyone off completely, not just romance. I shouldn’t write myself off, either. Someone loved Benedick, and he loved her back against all odds. Now I know I can have success if I don’t shut out certain parts of life.

Basically, what I’m trying to say is: Shakespeare really can be relevant to my life. I love reading and I love the written word, but Shakespeare’s plays were meant to be performed. And I connected to the stories much more with real people attached to them. I can’t say that I love performance more than the written word, but I can say that any art can touch you if you let it. Especially if you’re in need of a life lesson. And I definitely was.

Posted in new era, stories | Tagged anxiety, happiness, life lessons, shakespeare, swords, theater, unique | 1 Comment