L'Americana --

I would like to talk some about what it means to be an American in the eyes of people I have met around the world and how it differs drastically from the way I feel about my heritage.

First of all, let me just say that while I hate being in the USA, I don't necessarily hate my country.  I just don't fit in here.  To put it simply,

I'm just

a crappy American --

I've never fit in.  I've never really had friends.  I've never been "cool."  I've never been like everybody else.  Unfortunately, I come from a beach part of the country, and I am just not made for the beach.  Even when my weight was no longer an issue for me, I just can't stand the sun.  It's hot.  It's uncomfortable.  It's the sun.  Don't get me wrong, I am a water sign, and I love the water, but I just can't stand beach culture.  Or, for that matter, heatstroke...

When I moved to the North-East for my sophomore and junior years of high school, I did fit in a little bit better, but it probably had something to do with the fact that a great percentage of my school was non-native.  And, apart from this, the people - even American - that I was lucky enough to attend school with seemed to be just as diversified as me.  Of course, there were the popular cliques that I had nothing to do with, however they did not see themselves as "the cool kids" the way it had been for me previously - those were just their groups (and not mine).  And I didn't mind.

As a senior, I was lucky enough to attend school in Italy.  I have many humorous anecdotes, misconceptions, and just plain crazy moments to share, but I will save those for future posts.  What I would like to share tonight is just how different Italy felt to me than the U.S.

For the first time in my life, 

everything just felt

right --

Just like me, everybody was open, honest, and straight-to-the-point.  There was a warmth and an acceptance that I had never felt in my mother-country.  I felt loved by the family I was living with, in a way that was different even from my real family.  Sure, I don't doubt that my blood family loves me unconditionally, but with their expectations of me for my future, it didn't always feel that way.  I guess deep down I knew that my parents would love me either way, but the pressure to become a law-practicing-brain-surgery-ing-stock-breaking-millionaire was always on.

In Italy, it seemed like people loved their kids no matter who they were (or weren't).  People live at home long after their 18th birthday, people experiment with many different fields (many unconventional or fiscally unpromising), and, for lack of a better word, some people just fucked up.  And nobody cared!  They were still loved and la nonna always made sure that they got a second-helping at dinner.

When I didn't get into NYU early decision, I was heartbroken.  I cried.  I wanted to go home.  I felt like a failure, and I wanted to give everything up.  It didn't matter that I had gotten into Vassar, Sarah Lawrence, the New School - none of this mattered to me, it felt like my life was over.  I wasn't able to achieve what I had wanted to.

But with a choice 

"Vaffanculo!"

from la nonna

I was 

reborn --

Suddenly, the conventions of my upbringing no longer mattered.  Suddenly, I was free of my emotional shackles.  Suddenly, for the first, brief moment in my life, I was me.  I still had time, so I applied to an American university in Italy.  They didn't have anything I wanted to major in, but I didn't care.  I just wanted to stay in Italy, this ancient country that had liberated me from the land of "freedom and liberty."

Suddenly, 

I was

L'Americana -- 

University started, and though I eventually left it to "travel the world" (big dreams, big failure - but more on that later...) with my Italian dog and the Italian boy I had met (who would eventually become my husband), that period of my life was the one and only time I can say I was completely and utterly depression-free.  I was far away from the expectations of my loving family; I was alone in one of the oldest cities in the world, and yet everything seemed so fresh and new; each day I was inspired by the people I met and situations I encountered.

I danced - boy, did I dance!

I had never felt the freedom to dance before.  And though I was in an American university, I had no American friends.  I was completely immersed in Italian culture (and, honestly, before my husband, many Italian boys ;).  For the first time in my life, being "L'Americana" was something cool.  I was cool.  Though, in all honesty, that being the American meant nothing to me.  I could care less about the fact that I was cool.  And, maybe it was all the dancing, maybe it was just my happiness, but

the more pasta I ate, the skinnier I got --

I had real relationships.  I mean, apart from the boys (that had never paid attention to me Stateside), I had my first real friendship.  Then there were a few.  But there was that one girl.  And, as sad as it is that we hardly speak anymore, I still think of her all the time.  I actually just recently sent her a message in a very emotionally unstable moment because I was thinking about what could have been in my life had I not made the uneducated decision to put our friendship on the back-burner for the new things I was experiencing with my (later-to-become) husband.  My ancestors on my grandmother's side were from the part of Italy that her family is from, and we often joked that

we understood each other 

so easily

so perfectly

that our great, great grandmothers

will have certainly been

the best of friends --

But this was certainly the only time in my life that being American meant anything (useful) to me.  I was an expat (and, at heart, I will always be).  It was a conversation-starter, a reason to stand-out, when being different finally meant being something good.

And, as soon as possible, I'm out of here again with my copy of The Sun Also Rises in my backpack.

xLoJu

Always been crazy --

Throughout my childhood, I suffered silently through feelings of self-hate, paranoia, and the fear of disappointing my family.  Although I performed well in school - performed being the operative word - I was never truly happy.

My fear of doing "something wrong" stopped me from truly experiencing the life I was, at the time, blessed to live.  My childhood passed me by without any meaningful friendships - or, for that matter, really any friendships at all.  At an age where I should have had innocent relationships with my peers in order to understand myself and really blossom into the person I would have become, I studied hard, had manners, and always did the right thing.

But I was fat.

And this was always held above my head as the ultimate failure.  My wealthy relatives on my father's side insisted that my mother had "made me fat" out of spite to embarrass them amongst their friends in high society.  My father asked, although out of concern for my health, whether I did not want to sit in a chair without taking up the whole thing.  And my mother continued to feed me.

Ironically enough, I was never really bullied in school or made embarrassed because of my weight.  I mean, not that I was not an outcast - believe me when I tell you I was - however it was because of the fact that I was, rather, mentally and emotionally different from my peers.  Irony comes into play because what did make me feel bad about my weight was those same wealthy relatives asking me "if I even cared" about the fact that I would be bullied at school.  

Early on I realized that there was something 

going on with me that was not quite right.

For some time I believed it was just part of growing up.  But this faded quickly as my friends moved through the passes of puberty, making mistakes, and experimenting all the while coming out on the other side unscathed.  I did nothing for fear of the consequences.

Each emotion hit me like a ton of bricks.  I hated myself.  I was a failure.  I was fat.  I was ugly.  I sliced my fears into my skin.  I didn't understand.

But I was perceptive enough to know I needed help - so I asked for it.  Although I wasn't taken seriously by my family - you're healthy, you have enough money, you have everything you could ever want and more - they eventually gave in around age 14 and let me see a therapist.

That lasted about three sessions.  My mother, also being emotionally unstable (I hear these things run in families), fed what information she saw fit to my doctor.  My doctor never seemed to remember my name, what grade I was in, or much of anything we talked about - at, I'm sure, hundreds of dollars an hour.  The one thing she did seem to remember, however, was that she was convinced that I was

pretending to have multiple personalities.

This will have had something to do with the fact that I told her I blacked out and found myself 12 miles away from home on the doorstep of the one woman I knew whom took the time to accept me.  And something about the fact that I might be "slightly depressed."

Whether I was taken out of therapy or stopped going, I can't recall as is the case with much of that period of my life.  What I do remember, however, and what has remained the same to this day is my family's belief that I don't need help, and that I'm only really suffering because "I'm just too smart."  

Well, I think if that were true, now 11 years later, I would have somehow found a way out of this mess.

One day I will.  As it is now, I am (almost) 5 years married to the love of my life.  They say that opposites attract.  Well, not in our case:

I think when you're nuts you exude some sort 

of energy that attracts others

exactly like you.

From my husband, my family, and even down to the few people I am fortunate enough to consider true friends, they are all completely out of their minds.  Every last one of them.  And I say this with love.

This journal will be comprised of my thoughts and anecdotes as I try to understand what's wrong with me, what's wrong with my husband, and what's wrong with our relationship--

xLoJu