Today, I sat in Spanish class. We watched a cheesy soap opera made by academics to help teach us the language. It was cringe-worthy, and I was often only half-listening, having watched the majority of the soap the semester before. But then the teacher paused the story, and I looked up.

Someone raised their hand, and the first thing they said was, "What does Lo Extrana mean?"

"I miss her."

There was some sort of heavy weight in that moment, one that sat on my chest and had me staring down at the questionably drawn squirrel on my paper. I miss her

Sometime lately I have gravely understood I have to slowly pull myself away from my parents. The pain they gave me, and the expectations they have of a person I never really was, is not worth the little joy they bring. They loved me as their daughter and legacy, not as Grace.

But the heavy weight was not for them, its an acceptable ache by now. The words in my head and the weight were only from the realization that without them, there was no her.

No more slobbery kisses or sneaking into my room to see if I'm ok. No more cuddles and begging for food and long walks while singing way too loud. No more defending her against my harsh father, or giving her treats when no one was looking. It only makes it worse the fact I know she misses me.

My mother tells me she sleeps in my room now, with her head on a blanket I left behind. Every time I leave she lays sad in the closet or a bed, giving me the eyes that beg me not to leave. When I come home she runs around and jumps on me and gets so excited I ignore everything for her. But I think she knows I'm miserable there, too. She seemed to want me to walk her every time I was starting to sink lower.

I feel harsh wanting my baby puppy more than my family, but when all the world turned on me she was the one who would try to lick my tears away. And it cuts me deep to think I left her behind in a home that yells at her a little much and give her the things she needs, but not the connection she wants.

Mom and I always joked that she was the mother, but I was the best friend of that beloved dog.

And now I've left her alone, and it breaks my heart. Yet there"s nothing I can really do.

Lo Extrana.

Winter seems to pull us together, doesn't it, love? Its as if the times things seem to want to pull us apart we get stronger.

Last winter, I gave you my heart, and you haven't left since. This year it seems my cautionary head, always so untrusting of itself and others, has decided of one certain thing: it wants to spend forever with you.

Its funny to me, how I never go all googlie-eyed as my high school friends always told me it would be. They would ooh and ah over some boy, and I'd always roll my eyes. I always thought such cooing was silly. Their bitter response was often that I didn't understand, and once I really loved someone I'd feel the same.

But now here I sit, more certain than anything that I love you more than anyone else. And you know what I'm doing? I'm not cooing, I'm not boasting of your infinite wonder. I'm not getting at all googlied-eyed.

I'm sitting here shaking my head, laughing to myself, as if to say "****."

****, I did not know it would be like this. That you would be like this. That there could be rhythm and method to an unpredictable, spontaneous, messy relationship. That I would feel more connected and in sync with you than I feel adoration or reverence. You're not some hunky guy in third period, you're basically just the best tumor I've ever gotten attached to my hip. A tumor that I'm better off keeping.You make me better. And I, you.

They were right, I don't understand. But not because I don't how to love, its because that's not how I love. I love in nose kisses and **** grabs, in steamy texts and playful jabs at your brilliance. And yes, by god, you are brilliant. But I don't worship you. I just wish to be able to fall asleep to your face and stand by your side.

And those googlie-eyes are in no way how you love either. You don't rub my feet and call me princess. You kiss me hard and tickle my neck, read my writing and break me down when I'm irrational. But you do love me, still. You love me in the way that you try to understand and not be so stubborn. You love me in the way that you sing to me when I'm moody. And my favorite way you love me is the hand across the table when I'm fighting the tears I never want to let fall down my face.

Love isn't just about adoration and attraction and compatibility. Yes, we are attracted to each other, admire each other, and are compatible enough. But I guess our best asset is how stubborn we are to keep on loving each other that gets us through. And I think that's my favorite way we love each other entirely.

Maybe love works different for other people, and I'm fine with that. But these winters just seem to show me that we're different. We both know we've always been different. You're the lonely genius and I'm the unstable creative. But I help make you less lonely, and you help make me more stable.

And now I find it hard to picture a day without you.


So winter distance may keep us apart, but I think I've learned by now its going to take a lot more than a little distance to tear us apart. Or maybe its just the stubborn in me saying so.

Regardless, I hope the stubborn in you thinks so too.

My eyes hurt after I cry. Every time. Did you know that?

Its like my head is telling me to close them, and maybe I won't see the blood strewn across my childhood walls, my childhood hands, anymore. Their assailants were little secret cuts made each day, desperate to ask for help.

Years after they stopped, my eyes can still see them. My walls talk to my head and remind me how many times I wished I were dead. And I don't feel them, I can't fathom them, but they eat at the frays of my sanity, the few weak threads, and start tearing the life I've put together for myself apart. Who am I? I can't tell if I'm a death-lusting 15 year old or a stable and happy 20 year old woman. My eyes get so blurry here.

Its so hard with this picturing mind, to not remember how picture perfect we could be sometimes. I forget the calling and crying and cutting for those little snapshots that make me think I ruined all of it. That its my fault we're not picturesque enough to send perfect post cards for Christmas anymore. Its hard to convince myself it was never that way in the first place.

I mean, cmon, Grace, open those burning eyes of yours. You've felt like an outsider since you were young. Your father joked that with your starlight hair and sky eyes you were an alien that they adopted one day, but the odd part is you kind of understood why it could be true. Not just because of the celestial features, but you never belonged. The daughter they wanted and made you to believe you needed to be was never you. You walked on glass shards of your own shattered heart to try to reach the strange plain where your parents resided, but the more you bled the further you felt.

But they lied, you're their flesh and blood, that part can't be undone. They gave you special recessive genes to a T and made you suffer as a child for having them. To top it all off they gave you this ****** photographic memory that traumatizes you too well. Its like you can never leave the blood behind.

Yet tonight your eyes hurt, even too much to picture the blood, so maybe its time for some rest. The memories, the blood, even they can wait. For now what you need, god forbid you admit this, is some silence and rest. There has been enough clatter between your ears for one night. Who knows, some people might not even be able to withstand such clatter and chatter for a lifetime.

Guess your just a special recessive alien like that.

It seems in this day and age everybody expects so much of everything, and it all seems to be a disappointment. They are either too afraid of being disappointed, or expect the disappointment. Its like nothing is good enough. Its like entitlement to the best lies within our veins.

But maybe the best isn't what we need, or honestly in the end what we really want.

Every young person is expected to go to college, to be educated, to get a degree and then get large amounts of money and get the acceptance of those who expected so much of them. Maybe if we stop expecting so much we wouldn't have such hard burns from falling down the steep ice hill that is the "American Dream". And who says you need to want that anyway?

Expectations are an unfathomable dream in itself. I dream of a world of peace and everyone getting to do what they wish and all people mind their own business and hurt no one else. But some people wish to be better than others, to win, even to hurt others. There is no such thing as perfect, and no expectation will be perfectly met.

What if we just dreamed but took life as it was and be thankful for every left turn to happiness that rights all the wrongs? The light in the world, the dreams, are not real without the darkness. We try to shun it, to put the bad part of the world in a constructed part, name it the shadowy place we must never go. But the shadows are everywhere, and they tend to cut deeper when you refuse to see them.

Expect nothing, but hope. Hope things will get better. Expectations can be ruined. Hope can be everlasting if you keep your heart just that; hopeful. Expectations are specific and are therefore begging to be broken. But hope? Hope is a broad mist in a dark world, that can endure all the disappointments because it can change with time.

Hope is the greatest thing one can do to combat those expectations they may not fulfill; it is the one thing keeping ships afloat and religions alive and life from death.

Hope is a superpower not even expectations can take from you.

Its such a funny thing, isn't it? They can mean anything and everything under the sun as long as you have a different perspective on them. It could be work or exercise or mental stability or social life or family or whatever can be done.

But in the end it all seems to boil down to one thing: happiness. That seems cheap and simple, but its true. The only complex part is the balance between long-term and short-term happiness choices to work towards actual happiness.

Long-term obligations that you care about tend to not always make you happiest in the moment, but if used right, can make you so happy for far longer. And the opposite is true for short-term. Quick happiness traded for possible long-term pain, if abused too often.

No matter how spontaneous I enjoy life and how scared I am of that, it all seems to boil down to that one word. Balance. It never seems that anyone can or should ever completely erase a habit or trait from their life. Its finding a balance to sate yourself without killing it in the process.

This week has felt comforting and strange and new, but also very oddly omniscient, almost like a social experiment where I attempt familial relations. Good job team, this week has been a success. You can all go home now.

Obligations can be boring but important, and seem frivolous but be important as well. It depends on you and what keeps your boat afloat.

Life is strange, but its interesting to observe it and learn it and try to figure out just exactly how to live it without being hurt. And honestly there is no fool-proof way, but for now, a sense of balance and working towards that seems good enough.

I am thankful that I am not miserable, actually quite happy, and that my family is well, and that I am well, and that this break is unlikely to break me.

The last time I remember enjoying a Thanksgiving break so fully is relatively never. There are always terrifyingly large bursts of joy, but never a continuing follow-up. There has just always been something about my family that is overwhelming and, in the end, hurtful.

It seems this year after a long time of deep contemplation, I know. Maybe not all the intricate problems that behold my family, but it seems to be clear to me why I seem to be unable to handle this time of year. And it even seems silly now, looking at it, why I didn't see it before.

My family breeds contempt. Not utter hatred, we spend time together and love one another, but we hold micro-aggressions, we assume things of one another, we bicker and gossip about other family members and nitpick their actions until its hard to not give each person an endless "I love them, but", a fact that I find silly and even a little pathetic.

They spend every year cramming time together, acting like this big, fun, hysterical family when every five seconds someone turns their back they are turning on each other. I hate it. I hated it even before I realized it. Every year left me exhausted and frustrated and at some point in tears. I've never been exactly a follower in my family, and I was always torn between being like them and having as little as possible in common with their actions. And I can't put all blame on their shoulders, I was sheep when it came to them. I let myself be angry and hateful and spiteful because of stupid things each person had done.

Yes, my grandma gets jealous and out there. Yes, my dad is extremely homophobic and close-minded. Yes, many of the older family members are bitter about each other. And ******* yes is the majority of my family at least a little bit racist.

But you know what? Stupid opinions are not the problem, and they shouldn't be. Its the way we act towards one another. And yes my family literally acts like the characters from Mean Girls, but its the big picture things that are the problem.

I think my Grandma knows she's a little crazy, but I doubt she gives a **** anymore and still loves people just as deeply. And my dad is determined in his ways, but if he persisted to love a mentally ill daughter even when he didn't believe in it, I'm sure he'd get his **** together if my brother or I were gay as well. He doesn't understand, and he won't try, but love is still something that matters. And hell yes my family is racist, but they're more ignorantly and blindly racist than intently. They'd likely never say the things they say to someone they say these things about. Guess its a "I'm a privileged white person but I'm not mean" type thing. Though what they say is ******, I can't fault them for never attacking or hurting or working against these people either.

There are some I can't forgive, like those who don't even bother to try, but its not worth my happiness to suffer through their high school agendas.

So you guys can go gossip about Grandma being crazy. I'm going to write songs with her and talk about books. Complain about my Aunt being all messy after her divorce, I'm going to talk to her about our futures. Make fun of my cousins husband who is a little weird but he at least makes so very happy. I'm going to send her letters and learn more about the woman I lost touch with ten years ago.

They're probably yelling at football and being their difficult yet beautiful selves, but its enough for today, to spend most of the day with them and tonight for myself. Its all right to be the weird one. I kind of even want to be the weird one. I hope they question all day why I go on adventures and do crazy things and write novels and make art. Maybe I won't be as close to them anymore, maybe i won't understand their gripes and frustrations, but maybe at least this way they'll know me better when I'm crazy than the quiet girl who got frustrated with them but felt silent in the corner.

No one is ever quite certain they'll feel a moment where they can't stop uncontrollably crying just because they are so happy. Especially not in their aunt's dark and cold basement, but I guess I've always been different like that.

I just watched a movie I never thought would effect me so much, one about growing up and loving people and loving yourself. Normally I find them sweet, and this one wasn't even particularly spectacular, but after it I just started crying.

I was picturing all the wonderful things I would write, and the beauty I could create. What wonder the future may hold. About nights where I could fall in love with myself and writing all over again. Being alone terrified me, and having no one is so frightening, but the idea of spending time alone with someone merely a touch away?

I can learn to do that.

I can learn to paint. I can learn to be a mom. I can learn to speak other languages. I can learn to work in an office. I can learn to work from home. I can learn to love myself. And the best part is that if I work at it and figure things out, I have already found the person I want to show all my projects to like a little kid for the rest of my life and that makes me so happy I can't even fathom it.

Its like that fear that rides on my shoulders constantly has quelled. I know it never will be gone, but its like there's this calming in my head and I can see how wonderful my life just might be. I will do things I love, with a man I so very love, wherever we may see fit.

A moment like this is something I've never felt before. Where I don't feel perfect, far from it, but I feel I'm in the place I'm exactly meant to be. I'm so excited for the future, for the now, for everything.

I don't know who I was yesterday. Honestly I've probably changed at least three times today. but right now just feels right.

I can be stubborn and scared and complicated but in this moment, I feel so capable. Who knew a cheap teen-flick and a "*******" nightshirt would feel like the world has shifted.

I was crying on the toilet merely thinking about how much I love me and how much I love him and anything we might create or grow along the way.

I've always been paranoid and abandoned, but lately the fear has never been that they will leave. Its that if I take my eyes off of  them the person I love will suddenly be gone.

But I've been through a vicious fight with him, and I still woke up the morning after smiling at his sleeping face before dealing with the problems of the night before and coming out stronger.

And God knows the wicked fights I've been through with myself, and normally its hard for me to look in the mirror and be OK. But even with my annoying long bangs right now and a little more weight than I'd like, I know I'm changing. It'll get better. I can almost see it in my face, that things will change and be crazily new in such a better way.

I am aware there will never be no fights, but there's something magical about loving even through the ugly sides.

I am content. There is no mania in my veins about being godlike and perfect, or hyperactivity. There is only steady words matching the steady smiles and tears upon my face. I thought mania was happy, but this. THIS is happiness.

Maybe from now on I can have more moments like this. Moments of pure, unadulterated love that just fill me so to the brim I find it falling out my eyes and through my fingertips. Love that is so intoxicated in my veins that for a moment, I don't feel broken anymore.

I needed a moment like this, and it feels like a new beginning.

The best beginning I could ever wish for.