Today’s entry reflects on the tumultuous events of seventh grade and how they have ruined my life.

The short version of the story is that I had a huge girl-boner for Ryan since the sixth grade, and to show my love, I decided to write him a poem and give it to him during the Groundhog’s Day Dance. (We weren’t allowed to have a Valentine’s Day Dance, because our principal thought it would “encourage dating.” But I think invoking fat, furry animals in this story makes it even better.) Needless to say, it did not end well. Avoidance and extreme awkwardness followed, and I continually referred to this day as “the worst day of my life.”

This groundhog is mad that Ryan didn’t understand the subtle beauty of Diane’s poetry.

11/27/00

It’s drawing closer to the anniversary of the Grounhog Day Dance, and the terrible bout of depression that followed it.

The world seems so changed since those long-ago days when all that mattered was a certain person and my friends. Everything seemed like a big party, and when it all ended, I had to clean up the ruins of what had happened. Now that I have confidence and a niche in the round of life at (My town) Middle School, the months have flown by. But in the quiet, I remember the world that used to be. But had none of this ever happened, I would not be who I am today. Here are the events that changed my life.

1. 6th grade class
2. meeting Ryan
3. <3ing Ryan
4. Dance
5. Depressed
6. found “Gundam Wing”
7. reunited w/Emily
8. met J, R, B
9. Me Today!

So everything has somehow lead to who I am now. But I wonder what would have happened had I not done one of those things if I had been in another class, where would I be right now?

Oh lord, maudlin Diane is maudlin. I love when things that were once tragic become hilarious in retrospect. I also love that I credit “Gundam Wing” as bringing me out of depression. However, I will always believe in the Power of Being a Fan, which is to say that being a fan of something (be it a movie or TV show or god forbid, anime) has helped me through some of my toughest times, as well as lead me to meet some of my greatest friends. Being a fan is a lifestyle, and it’s one I’ve had since the fourth grade, when my mom rented “Star Wars” for me.

Another hilarious sidenote: I have no idea who J, R and B are. I have a theory that those initials must be my friends Jessie, Rebbeca and Brittany, but it’s pretty weird that I would have credited them in this life-changing events list, considering I barely spoke to them before or after that year. I do, however, continue to have a friendship with Rebbeca (Becca). She’s still awesome, despite the fact that she apparently wasn’t invited into my ideal fantasy world.

I believe the Worst Day of my Life was a landmark occasion for one reason: it was the first time during my love life where I realized — moments too late — that I’d made a Terrible Choice. The second I gave Ryan the poem, I knew I shouldn’t have done it. (I believe I gave it to a friend to give to him, truth be told. That’s how we did things in eighth grade: note-passing style.) Right away, the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach told me this was a poor life choice. I’ve grown to remember this feeling, and I think every time I make one of these decisions, a little part of me remembers standing inside a darkened gym at four in the afternoon, watching helplessly as my feelings traveled toward their intended target on a piece of notebook paper.

I would remember this moment throughout high school, when I turned down a boy I actually did like because I didn’t know he was asking me out. I would remember it when I did my second and third confessions of love, both of which involved the internet instead of notebook paper. (One of these was to a gay man, so I’m not sure it was a total fail, just more of a “sorry, your genitals are on the inside of your body.”) I would remember during my freshman year of college, when a tiny lie grew out of control, and I found myself creating elaborate deceptions to get out of seemingly simple situations. I would remember this summer, when I tried to resuscitate a relationship that was already dead.

As funny as my 13-year-old self seems today, it’s disrespectful to deny the pain. Pain is something that’s irrevocably honest, no matter how hilarious its packaging. I won’t pretend that, almost ten years later, I handle romantic rejection and sadness any differently. In my heart, I’m still the same girl for whom friends, chocolate and a great hour of television heals all wounds.