Smallness Wears Red Hoodies

Smallness is an idea I've been toying with for quite awhile. It's a phenomenon I feel we've all fallen prey to, at some point or another, subconsciously making ourselves palatable. Digestible. Diluting who we are into the person we believe we ought to be. It's all about conformity, really, and self-doubt. This is a post I've been trying to write for a long time, but it's hard. Insecurities and smallness are vulnerable things to talk about. Every time I drafted this, I was just scratching the surface of what I wanted to talk about. I was writing my truth, but that truth had a whole heck of a lot of armor on. It was never authentic enough, or raw. But these are raw topics and I wanted to write them that way.

So here we are. I'm giving it another shot.

A few nights ago, I pulled last-year's bullet journal out of my bottom drawer and started to read, just for the hell of it. It can be interesting to rediscover who you were a year ago. Parts of the journal were really, really cool. I had pasted in pictures and ticket stubs, schedules and notes. I wrote about my friends, what lovely things had happened that day, sketched in recipes and vacation ideas. Other parts were a bit sadder. The very first page of the journal, for instance, was titled 'Rules.' No snacks. Intermittent fast every other day. Exercise every day. No seconds on food. No added sugar, except for dark chocolate. Dark chocolate once a week, max. Low-carb. You get the idea. On this first page, I'd essentially laid the groundwork for my undoing, and for one of the most painful experiences of my life. The thing is, I remember writing out that 'Rules' page. I had just purchased the bullet journal from Barnes and Noble, and my family had gone for a lunch of pho afterwards. I said I wasn't hungry - I can't remember if this was true. While my sister had her pot-stickers, I wrote down my rules. I set the limitations. At the time, I thought these 'Rules' were physical proof of my discipline, something only for my eyes, to remind me of my goals. To remind me what was important.

It both disgusts and horrifies me now that avoiding seconds at every meal was a goal. Not to make the school musical, not to read three books a month, not to volunteer at the Senior Center, but to make myself small. Because really, that's all what all of those rules could be condensed into. Smallness.

Thinking about who you've been tends to be a bit of a rabbit hole, and a bunch of stuff you've forgotten about resurfaces. For instance: I remembered that last year, my outfits comprised almost entirely of an oversized red hoodie from my mom's college days and black leggings. My failure to remember my everyday garb of last school year was sort of baffling to me. It wasn't that long ago. But I feel like I've changed a lot.

About a year ago, my evenings were entirely occupied with Doctor Who, thanks to my friend Adam. I had creative writing class every day, sat in the middle of the upstairs hallway for lunch, and was looking forward to a fall break spent in New York. I had made the best of friends and fit in pretty well. My bed was never made, I had a personal vendetta against denim, I couldn't figure out for the life of me what the heck I was supposed to do with my hair, and I wrote. All. The. Time. Today, my evenings are entirely occupied with trying to write but failing, and old rom-coms. I have rehearsal for the musical almost every day, sit alone (either in the cafeteria or by the school garden) for lunch, and am looking forward to a fall break spent in Florida. I am pretty lonely and don't have any close friends yet, and don't really know where I fit in. But it's okay. I may be a little sad right now, but I'm also an optimist. You can be sad and hopeful. That I know for sure.

About a year ago, I didn't have enough clothes to go a single week without doing laundry (donating things is fabulous, but, as I've learned, it is unreasonable to donate everything). Now, I am mildly obsessed with thrift shopping and, according to my sister, people at school know who I am because of my clothes? That's weird, let me tell you. That's a really freaking weird thing to be known for. Even though it hasn't been too long, Red Hoodie Maya and Yay-I-Found-Corduroy-Pants-At-The-Thrift-Store Maya feel like strangers.

Here is the thing about being a teenager: you begin to question the world around you; if you think about it, we bitter, hormonal adolescents are natural philosophers. We are horrible to our parents, not because we hate them, not really, but because subconsciously, we are testing the limits of love. Often, it is with our families we are truly ourselves. We want to see if we will be accepted there, as we are, rough edges and all. And finally, your typical teenager will hate themselves. They will hate the way they sound, think, present themselves to others. They will hate the way they look, interact, and feel. It's sad, but it's undeniably true.

On top of the dilemmas of teenage years, we are also human. And to be human, I've decided (so have, quite frankly, all other artists and poets and dreamers of wacky dreams), is to feel strangely alone. We know we aren't. Motivational quotes and counselors and friends tell us this much. But somehow, it seems impossible that any other person can think, experience, or feel as deeply as we do. We are trapped inside our own heads. What a roller coaster, life, eh?

My point, I suppose, is that I'm no different from any other teenager or human in hating my self, questioning the world, and feeling unlovable or lonely. I am no different in when it comes to making myself small. It's just that I feel these things get better. And Yay-I-Found-Corduroy-Pants-At-The-Thrift-Store Maya is definitely doing better than Red Hoodie Maya. My doing better-ness is, to me, most evident in regards to smallness. I don't buy into it anymore. In retrospect, my hoodie wardrobe was a result of hating my body. I was ashamed of who I was. You know how Holden Caulfield wears his red hunting hat to protect himself from the world? Yeah. My 2018 equivalent was my mom's red Body Equip hoodie. It was way to big for me - drowning in fabric too-big. I wore it so much that my friend Maci was continuously patching up holes in the sleeves for me. It completely hid my body. And because my body is probably my biggest source of insecurity, it completely covered up my insecurities, too.

Covering up your insecurities isn't going to solve anything. Confronting them? Battling smallness, either literally or figuratively? That'll do the trick.

And I feel like I'm doing that with, as trivial as it may sound, my clothes. They are more colorful than before. I wear different fabrics. I actually wear short sleeve shirts, and shorts, and no longer have a vendetta against denim. In fact, I am in love with a good straight-legged jean. Oh, also, crop tops. I wear them now. And I like them. And I am working on not being ashamed of my body, or the way I sound, or talk, or how almost comically awkward I am.

So here is my new personal mantra: smallness wears red hoodies, discovery wears corduroy. I am discovering who I am. We all are; discovery doesn't ever stop. I still have that red Body Equip hoodie, if you're wondering. It's still there, in my closet, front and center, but I don't really wear it anymore. It's more of a reminder, kind of like an old bullet journal. A little note of who you were. A little look into who you can be.

My name is Maya. I am almost sixteen years old. I love history and can find middle 'C' on the piano and watch Sleepless in Seattle on bad days. I have depression. I love my little sister and my friends, and am working on not being so lonely all the time. I have anxiety. I want to help people. I make a mean blueberry smoothie. I consistently make myself small. But I'm working on it.

So, finally, I've written this post. It's a great long ramble. While editing, I recognized half of it probably won't make any sense. Oh well. I'm sure you, my friend, have mind and heart enough to navigate the bizarre land of my thoughts. Thanks for bearing with me.

Step 1: No wearing smallness.
Step 2: Starting a blog post with a ridiculous picture of myself, because this is me, this is my face and my personality, and these are my words, and I am figuring it all out. That's something to be proud of.


With love,
Maya

Weird Selfie by Maya #1, Photo by Alexander Schimmeck on Unsplash, Photo by Vlad Tchompalov on Unsplash,
Photo by Samuel Zeller on Unsplash, Photo by David von Diemar on Unsplash,
Photo by NordWood Themes on Unsplash, Weird Selfie by Maya #2