This was the first family gathering I had attended in recent years where I was not fighting depression or feeling completely overwhelmed and unexcited. I looked at myself. I was slightly glowy from spending so much time in the sun, my hair was smooth and natural-looking, and I had taken the time to apply neutral make-up and don a flowy, bright colored, top.

When my relatives spoke to me, I felt interesting. I described biking around Canada, my excitement at leaving for California tomorrow and South Korea in three weeks. We laughed together–exchanged stories. I felt older and more mature than I ever have in the past. It was sunny out. I was happy.

I am happy.

In a beautiful church for reflecting, in old clothes, once more my homeless man jacket and I seriously don’t care. I love this moment, I love the ornate wooden carvings and stained glass windows… the way the church is silent aside from the creaking of pews and rustling of papers. I wonder if I almost feel religious. I have been to the Vatican, confession in the Notre Dame Cathedral, and completed four sacrafments–all of which propelled no religious feelings, but the kindness of these bucolic Nova Scotia inhabitants and sights have sparked greater reflective curiousity.

I am still partly humbled and pleasantly surprised at the caring ways of strangers. When we are on the road without shelter or the comforts that mark every other mundane day, a man allowing us to stay in his barn until a storm subsides or a priests letting a group of sore and dirty sixteen year old girls into his church–not to mention bringing over bakery fresh desserts–is astounding.

I still feel completely removed from my life in [city] in the best way possible. While we bike, everyday is a new adventurous voyage into nowhere, against weather and pavement. I do not know the occurrences of my own home, what my family and friends are doing, or even what the weather is like in Massachusetts. And I don’t care. Here, it doesn’t matter. It’s about seeking out beautiful views of coastlines and finding strange little treasures and trinkets along the way.

I can admit that I am not entirely sure how to give back to the people I meet. Materialistic items surely do not suffice as reasonable gifts–people deserve excitement, positivity, something unusual. One of my favorite things to observe is the bemused expressions and curious smiles that people share when we bike past. That alone helps me to think that somehow, I have brightened someone’s day even just slightly.

Once more, I see this church in a small Canadian town that before today I did not existed. I see a church that I wouldn’t have seen otherwise, while I sit in an old man’s worn out jacket. I am in awe. I am in awe of all the overlooked places that are always available yet so many people fail to see. But places and appeareances alone amount to little, for it is the kindness of others and self assuring notion that there is always a population in the most unexpected places willing to help. That alone gives me faith in how the world works.

This dimly lit arched church, these sunlit downhill roads, and my companions are beautiful. This is beautiful. I love the women of [omitted]. I love exploring, inquiring, and adventuring. I have been spared, even if only for a few weeks, from a gritty, exhaust-fumed city into a brighter and more natural world. This trip has changed me.

But it’s all okay.

I’ve honestly never been more excited for summer in my life. I passed up an internship with my congressman in order for a few slightly more de-stressing activities: embark on a biking trip around Nova Scotia for three weeks (I leave next Sunday), spend a week in California with my sister, and there’s a possibility that I may venture off to study for two weeks in South Korea come August (fingers crossed for the application process!).

In the weeks between trips? I plan on dedicating myself to my passions that have been pushed aside in favor of insomniac and depressive bouts: late night adventures with friends, running, day-hikes, writing poetry, studying French and over-looked history topics in depth. Even the work for my classes next year (American Literature, Environmental Science, Economics, Philosophy) that I must accomplish over the summer is intriguing.

So yeah. It’s going to be a great next few months; I just have to survive another two days of cramming and report writing.

Despite spending much of yesterday hunched over the toilet in a food-poisoned fetal position, I did manage to, in my adviser’s words, “climb out of my sick bed” by 5:00 PM for my school’s graduation. I only have a few friends this year who were seniors (and were mostly busy with family matters anyway) so I honestly wouldn’t have made the effort otherwise, but I was forced to participate in a plethora of student governmenty tasks and what not. OH THE FUN NOT REALLY.

The whole ceremony was nothing short of a vomitatious barrage of every cliche you might expect to come across at a high school graduation. Our principal spoke to congratulate a number of clubs that I’m fairly certain don’t even exist and went on to boast about the numerous awards that the school has recieved, of which I am also certain are a figment of the dear man’s imagination. The honorary speakerthingperson, Corrupt State Official, started his speech off with “When I was graduating, MTV had just started playing music videos. The Celtics were hot- the Patriots and Red Sox were not.” At this point, E leaned over to whisper that Corrupt State Official had used the same reminiscent speech at his graduation the night before. Typical.

I guess the running theme last night was to never lose sight of your goals and follow your childhood dreams–a concept that I think is entirely bullshit.

Guess what? I don’t have goals. I don’t know what I want to do in another five, ten, twenty years. And why should I? I’m young, the world’s right in front of me, and in these past few months I’ve been having the time of my life. I’m at least decently succesful and I have a whole fucking lifetime to figure out what I want. So don’t tell us to “follow our dreams” when the majority of us have no idea what those are. Sir, please don’t tell us to chase after manufactured concepts scrawled in speeches that you don’t really care about–’cause it’s getting old. Also, MTV isn’t cool anymore.

Thanks, and congratulations 2009ers. The pressure’s now on you to change the world now, or whatever.

I guess I was almost euphorically happy for a few months. I had the best friends, the best life, and my parents rewarded me with promises of trips to Europe and summer programs for my academic and extracirricular pursuits. My brother would come in drunk on weekend nights where I sat sober and cheery and grumble about “the perfect child.” Somehow, despite his struggles I took pride in this as well–I was successful. For once.

I should have known things would get worse when I injured my back.

While I’ve always been a decent runner, I’ve never really been excellent. Yet this year my coach informed me that I had placed well enough among the team to participate in the Championship race. I honestly knew that my contribution to the team wouldn’t be so significant, but it was still a nice opportunity. Still, things had been different. Back pains that had gone away would come back during practice, and I’d take shorter routes than the rest of the team and come back equally sore and exhausted. The November chill had taken over the streets, and one day, overwhelmed with a trip the next day for student government and the piles of homework that awaited me at home, I walked down my driveway in my stupid short shorts and stupid tank top for stupid cross country and cried. I feared the neighbors would see me, so I went into my kitchen where I cried even more.

When it came time for the championship race, I was so worn out and my back had begun to throb in pain so much that I questioned participating. My coach advised me to run and take a week off–and it was the worst decision ever. I eventually hobbled over the finish line with a 9:30 pace and a crowd of sympathy-clapping onlookers. I later recounted how awful I was to R, who replied with an honest “yes, but that’s okay.” I changed on the bus home into my stupid brown slacks and stupid blue blouse and sat until 10 at fucking night at the City Hall as a student council representative.

But it was all worth it. It had to be all worth it.

At the end of November,  I had a panic attack. If anyone is reading this who’s followed me since the old blogs–well, first off, congratulations for sticking through all of my emo bullshit–and second of all, you might remember this phase from around that time period:

Long story short, I flipped a shit on everyone during a student council meeting and then launched myself into a full-out panic attack. After a few heart-racing, short-of-breath moments, I ended up sobbing hysterically, apologizing for how much I suck, and finally leaving through the cafeteria door with Nichole so that no one would witness my disheveled state.

This scares me.

I do not like to cry in front of people, and I can actually only pinpoint one time in the past few years- excluding yesterday-that I have done so. I fear weakness, and I fear my emotions being linked to my femininity as a sign of weakness. Passive aggressively bitchy I may be, I am not normally a confrontational person, so the whole “screaming and swearing at my friends” tidbit just makes it worse. Last night as I lay in bed, head throbbing and terribly exhausted, I relived those few moments. I’m not sure what I expected to find, but when I rolled over, the only thing in my presence was a quickened pace and a shiver.

Honestly, what else am I looking for? Shit happens to everyone, but most of my own is self-inflicted. Why should I attempt to seek solace in self-pity when I am the source of my own predicament?

Quite frankly, this is just a wake up call. It’s like a tap on the shoulder and a voice in my ear exclaiming, “Hey, you there. You’re fucked up.”

This was probably when I was at my worst. For days I was a wreck, even the usual holiday cheer that surrounds Thanksgiving did nothing for me. I would sit down at night and randomly burst into tears. Something was wrong, and I had no idea what. December turned into January, January turned into February, February turned into family problems, and I started to feel slightly better after that. I was convinced that I was starting to fail all of my classes despite my guidance counselor informing me that I was ranked second in my class.

But second wasn’t first.

In April I read The Bell Jar by Slyvia Plath. For some reason, as I turned the pages of my library-borrowed copy I felt understood. Esther Greenwood was me, in a way. Highly accomplished, a standout among her peers–and yet she struggled with the same boredom at life and feelings of underachievement that I knew for myself. I read the book in one day, during my free period and after my last class across the street at the public library. I sank deep into a chair and poured myself into the novel, and felt somehow understood by the faded pages and deteriorating binding. I am I am I am.

Spring held knew opportunities, spring held promises and ways to feel better. I would be lying to say I haven’t played around with certain illegal activities or done a few things I probably shouldn’t have, but literature and friends have allowed me to grow intellectually and emotionally. Most activities I’ve been involved in are winding down, I’ve quit writing after discovering that I am not and never will be a writer, and I’m accepting that I love the people in my life and I will move on to a great college to do great things.

This weekend I woke up next to an empty bottle of wine and a pile of disney movies. I showered, put on a little white dress purchased in France and dashed off to the common in downtown for a picnic (sandwiches from a cute little cafe in the South End) with my dearest friends. It was a beautiful day, and I was with the most important people to me. I’m beginning to seek solace in the help I’m seeking to battle my occasional depressed moods, and I know the next year will hold amazing opportunities. I’m leaving in a month for a trip of self discovery around Nova Scotia. I’m spending a week in California to catch up with my sister. And next year, I’m venturing to Japan. I’m majoring in something I love with my school’s major program–social studies.

So that about concludes this 1300+ word, probably incoherent and gramatically incorrect post, and good lord that felt great to spill out onto the anonymous interweb.  I guess my conclusion is that I’ve fought through the challenges of the past school year, and I can’t wait for what the future holds to me. I have my entire life to figure out how I’ll impact the world–so for now, I’ll focus on seeing as much as I can see and the occasional lazy Saturday picnic in the park.

I’m beginning to love life.

…where I can consume excessive amounts of wine and gelato and no one will judge me. Where I can speak in butchered attempts at Italian, and locals will smile and old women will shout out terms of endearment. Where every cobblestone street and stone-dressed building is carefully crafted to resemble the most beautiful architecture that denotes the European lifestyle.

I noted that while I was halfway across the world with little communication back home, everything felt okay. I don’t know why, but I really enjoy thrusting myself into unknown situations with people I am totally unfamiliar with. I believe the best way to learn and edify oneself is through life experience. Sleeping in a train car and being awoken at 3 am by the Italian border patrol to arrest an illegal immigrant sleeping on the bunk across from you, or being completely lost on a street in Paris, or drinking too much wine and listening to French boys who tell you they’re famous football stars. These are the exeriences that I’ll never forget–life experiences.

If there’s anything I want do, it’s travel. I love the humbling feeling of not understanding a language or not knowing where to go–I love trying to blend into surroundings and absorb the feel of a Roman street. God damn, I miss Europe so much. I cannot wait until I am older, when I may finally utilize my youthful idealism and venture around  the globe, and see all that there is to see and have things go wrong and meet people, who sometimes the only proper method of communication is a smile and a nod.

Au revoir! Arrivederci!

I will see you later, world.

“Meghan. You’re leaving for France in six days and you have no clothes?”

Then I was like, YEAHHHH, ’cause I’m LEAVING FOR FRANCE IN SIX DAYS.