excerpt from the journal of a 16-year-old tootie:
i want to be strong enough on the inside to accept things the way they are, but i don’t want to be so strong that i am heartless. i want to cry, i want to laugh, i want to be angry — but at a whole different level.
i often wonder about this 16 year old.
after almost 12 years of learning and growing and stretching into a grown-up skin, i still feel a commonality with her. 15-year-old tootie? too socially awkward. 17- and 18-year-old tooties? both entirely too boy crazy and quick to please superiors.
but 16-year-old tootie… now, there’s a girl i can get behind.
i guess it’s largely because she was almost there. she almost had it right.
every once in a while, i feel like i channel her. i know how ridiculous that may sound… seeing as how i am her. but there’s really not a better way to describe it. she makes me remember what it feels like to pour the soul onto paper. yes, paper. with an ink pen. real old-school style stuff.
and i remember what it felt like for her to be alone with her thoughts and this paper. to reach down, down deep until she struck a well, and her hand couldn’t keep up.
to 16-year-old tootie, the reality she lived in was only a figment of something larger — something she couldn’t quite place, but was still as real as ink or trees or books (all of which she loved).
this is the tootie who wanted to feel deeper, no matter how hard it hurt.
she wasn’t afraid or ashamed or embarrassed by what spewed forth from her gel rollerball.
because once it was out there, for all the world to see, it became everything she needed it to be.
and then she could turn the page.