Pen to Paper.

I've always been vocal. Wehther it be typing up my daily revelations, casting my vioce to an anonymous audience of laptop screens, or scratching my favorite ballpoint through the crisp pages of yet another Mead college ruled notebook. I feel that I can compose myself so much better on a piece of paper. Which isn't to say I'm not eloquent in person, because I am. I just thoroughly enjoy the ability to backspace. To cross out. To change my future with a bottle of White-out.

I've needed to write out my feelings for as long as I can remember. A few days back, when looking through an old box of nostalgia, I came across a 12 year old's version of a love letter. Scribbled on a piece of paper ripped out of my science composition book, this letter to Joey was swirly cursive and love poems, complete with hearts dotting the I's. I proclaimed my love for him in the most passionate way my gangly preteen self knew:  commenting on how I loved his new shoes, how i wanted to hold his hand, and how his new girlfriend was a "beeyotch". And yes, those were the exact words. I knew, that if I found some cute, clever way to slip this message to him, he would be mine. Unfortunately, I majored in Shy and Awakward in middle school (as did most of us, I'm sure). So instead, I folded the note up, wrote some desperado love song on the outside, and threw it in a giant plastic Rubbermaid box, swearing up and down that when the time was right, I would make sure he knew just how I felt.

It's now been eight years, long and gone. I haven't seen Joey since the day of our high school graduation, and I most certainly never proclaimed my love for him, mostly because it evaporated the moment an attractive new boy transferred into our school. But something much better, much more powerful, came from my unrequited middle school crush. And that would be my most personal love, my writing.

That same rubbermaid container is now sitting in my garage, in my brand new home, where I had vowed to leave the past behind, and start over with a fresh piece of paper.When I originally made my move, I left the box behind, saying that the memories were too old, too unimportant, too distracting from the shining sun I was driving into. I then made my way in my new life, 500 miles from the box full of memories. And I didn't give it a second thought until I went back to my hometown to visit. When I realized it was still there, tucked away just where I left it, I couldnt resist pulling it out and rummaging through. Two hours later, I was surrounded by an ocean of letters, journals, essays, secret notes and poems. It absolutely amazed me how thoroughly I had documented every event, every thought, every passing day-by-day habit. I wrote an entire journal entry on whether or not I should tell my best friend how much she had been bugging me one day. (for those curious, I did let her know :)) I wrote an overly wordy note to that same best friend detailing my feelings on every piece of choreography in our dance show. I had recorded every scandal, happiness, and heartbreak that shaped my high school years. I wrote double entede papers for my English Literature class,  which seemed to be a descriptive narrative of a trip to Carmel, but upon a closer reading,  revealed how alone and outcast I felt in my circle of friends. Without even meaning to, every word I wrote was a mini-autobiography of my day to day life.

It's been a few years since I've been locked in a classroom with nothing to do but put pen to paper. Over these last few years, I've written some, but not as much as I should. Most of my prose has been triggered by a major life event, breakup, family crisis, or a "reinvention" of my life. I've still clung to that urge to process these moments on a piece of paper. I've still had the need to scream out the things nobody needs to know, and my journal has been my savior. Luckily, these little life earthquakes have been fewer and farther between, as I've grown consistently older and wiser.  But however much that's benefitted my overall demeanor in life, it's torn away, bit by bit, from my writing. And I'm slowly realizing how much I miss this routine being in my life. So often, I feel like I don't have anything to say, anything to write about. But being an intelligent creature means I possess a whole lot of brain, of which only 10% is being used at any given time. (I'm sure at some times, 10% is being generous). But a lack of words isn't the problem. It's allowing myself the moment of peace and clarity to work through my thoughts, to find inspiration from them, to reflect on my musings and have them lead me into new directions. I have a lot to say. Like I said, I've always been vocal.

I'll miss my lemonade, Dan.

There comes a time in every young adult's life where they feel the need to change the world. We experience the parties, the romances, the friendships, and all of the landmarks of adulthood. We make bad decisions, and try to fix them all on our own, which usually leads to worse decisions. We set out with empty pockets and hearts full of dreams, hoping to leave our handprints in the cement  of society. Unfortunately, youth does not often aid to wisdom or experience, and these handprints often end up being nothing more than lines in the sand, washed away by the tide. Of course, there's always an exception, always someone who stands above the crowd, someone who turns everyone's head, and makes them think twice about everything they've accepted so far.

I strive to be this exception. I strive to pay my own road, and influence this world in some way. Not because I have a desire for fame or glory, not because I want to  have my name on everyone's lips, but because I know I can. I feel like i have an entire fountain of untapped potential, and that is so disappointing to me. There is so much i feel I'm capable of, so much I feel like I owe this world, and I haven't quite figured out how to share it. I think many of my peers share this anxiety. Struggling to find an identity in this world of 6.8 billion people. Finding out what it is that sets us on fire, and putting everything into into it. I don't know what sets me on fire; I have passions, I have skills, but what makes me a standout?

When I stop and think about it, everything that makes me Tonya, is what makes me a standout. It's my skills, my passions, my friendships, my history, it's all crafted me into a life-changing individual. I can consider myself a great friend, a sharp thinker, a comic, a free spirit, and more than anything, an adventurer. Its my refusal to let anything burst my bubble or crush my dreams. I have grown into a woman who takes everything she does seriously, and doesn't give up on her goals, no matter how far away they seem at times. My heart makes me Tonya, and being Tonya makes me a standout. Being Tonya makes me influence people, in ways I can't even imagine.

I recently lost someone who influenced my life in a small, but powerful, way. Dan Stimson was a server at my favorite local coffee shop back in Sacramento. He was there every week when I would meet my girlfriend there, and he always had a kind smile and a funny story. While never being close through high school, these weekly visits gave us a special kind of bond, that I always looked forward to. He knew what I was getting before I would walk through the door, Because he was that considerate and observant of everyone he encountered. He could always make me laugh, no matter what "crisis" I was enduring at the the time. And most of all, he never let anyone feel like a stranger. There aren't many people I can say that treat everyone like an old friend, but Dan was one of those rare breeds.

We lost Dan on Saturday, 11-13-10, to suicide. Being 500 miles away, and out of touch with most of his innermost circle, I am unaware of how or why he was driven to this harsh end. But I can understand the feeling of being lost. Sometimes, this world is overwhelming. It's unpredictable, unimaginable, and sometimes, downright cruel. But what I can't understand is why he wouldn't reach out. I know it's hard to feel alone sometimes, but It's amazing to see who's there when you actually need them. It's equally amazing to see who you've influenced, who's world you've changed, even in the slightest way. I wish I had told Dan, every time I saw him, just how much those 5 minutes we spent once in a while brightened my day. I wish everyone who loved him and thought of him had told him. But more than anything, I wish Dan had loved and trusted all of his loved ones enough to let us in on his hurt and sorrow. Because everyone who's been left behind is blaming themselves. We're all wishing we had noticed, had said something, had somehow known this was coming, and done something to stop it. We're all wishing for the hurt to go away. We're all wishing we had our crazy silly hopeful friend back. And we know it can't happen, we know he's in a better place, but we want him back.

Dan, you had so many people who loved you. So many people who remembered you, thought of you, and cherished your very presence. We know you're resting happily, away from whatever torment you faced, but we're angry and hurt. You left this world, without leaving us any answers or options. You've left behind family, friends, and a girl who's going to love you till she's with you again. We all ask ourselves, what could we have done? But you're the only one who can answer that, and you aren't here anymore. All we can do is pray that you're happy in your Paradise. I hope the pain is gone, and I hope you're looking down on everyone who's surfaced, everyone who loves you.

Always missed, never forgotten

Daniel "The Man" Stimson
7-17-91 - 11-13-10