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Social Justice Loser

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There are things I like and despise about getting my women’s and gender studies minor. On the one hand, I like how women’s and gender studies opens my eyes to the problems in our society that I might not have ever fully comprehended. On the other hand, a lot of pompous, arrogant assholes take women’s and gender studies classes. I guess it’s a tradeoff.

See, after a few years of participating in The Vagina Monologues I was all, “Yes! Feminism, equality, fighting against social injustice is for me!” Everyone on cast was so friendly and welcoming, and lots of them seemed to be into the same things I were. They were almost intimidatingly cool. I wanted to be just like them. But, the more involved I became, the more issues I encountered. Any of the queer cool people who had a past with my girlfriend became someone to secretly despise (and since everyone gets passed around or hit on repeatedly in the queer community, it was a growing list). The hippie types were big into the drug scene…the academic types were too scholarly to have a normal conversation…the eccentric types a little too eccentric…some of them seemed angry and scary, some of them seemed critical and opinionated, some of them sorted into cliques, some of them seemed to know everyone… They were all so different. From the outside it seemed like I’d fit in, but as time passed and I became more integrated in the Women’s and Gender Studies world, I felt like maybe I didn’t belong there after all. I got angry sometimes, but let it go quickly. I had opinions, but I kept them to myself. I wasn’t engrossed in scholarly work like the others, I wouldn’t do any drug harder than pot, I wasn’t into anime or was a vegetarian or knew sign language. Hell, I wasn’t even that gay. But I stuck with the classes anyway.

How are the classes? They’re okay I guess. I never do the readings but I go to all the classes. One of my professors is super interesting, but her lecture is so big that it’s hard to talk to her. My other class is taught by an opinionated TA who scares me a bit. I hate writing the papers. I hate speaking up in class; I always feel like I’m about to say the wrong thing. Everyone in those classes is so politically correct that it becomes hard to know what’s the right language to use anymore. And as a white, cisgendered, middleclassish person I often feel like everything is my fault…no matter how hard I try to understand, I’ll always be part of the ‘bad guys’ it seems.

I even wrote a poem about being white, but I’m too afraid to show it to anyone. Even though I’m critical of my own race in the poem, I’m still nervous that it will come off the wrong way… I’m beginning to think that no matter where I go or what I do, I’ll always feel like an outsider.

Even though I feel stable emotionally, I still think I should go to therapy to address some of these insecurities I have. I always think my friends don’t want me around or think I’m too weird for them, and it’s a thought that won’t go away. I always worry that I’m being shitty to my girlfriend, because I don’t want to make the same mistakes I made over the summer. I get sad that I’m being a bad daughter to my parents because I won’t pretend to be straight. They don’t want me around, I tell myself about my brother and dad. You aren’t like them, I think in my women’s and gender studies classes.

I remember coming to college believing that I’d thrive and entrench myself in the material I learned. In reality, I feel so distanced from everything I do and just go through the steps to make the necessary grades. My passion is buried under stress and failed expectations. (That last sentence could sum up all of college in a nutshell, I bet.)

Alone in a Crowd

My life is lived behind a piece of glass. I look out, and no one (except a rare few) looks in. I wish I could step out of the glass, to break down the wall, but I’m afraid that if people see the real me all the time, that they’ll have the same opinion I have of myself.

And God, that is something I could not bare.

I’m not trying to rag on Women’s an Gender Studies people (although some of them are truly full of themselves and think they know everything about everything). I know just because people are different than me doesn’t mean they are bad people. But I wish I could be different with them. I just want to feel like I’m an okay person—that I’m even capable of liking and hanging out with. Isn’t that sad? It’s like I’m back in fourth grade and wishing I could sit with the popular girls at lunch.

Maybe if my family would accept me I’d feel differently. Maybe if I had more friends I’d feel validated. Maybe if I made more of an effort with the friends I already have…But I digress. One step at a time, right?


Sex, Feelings, and How They Fuck Up Your Mind

Sex is a funny thing. It’s a conversation without words, a dance to music that is only playing in you, your mind and body. There is so much tied to it: romance, self-esteem, reputations, possible diseases and pregnancy, sexual frustrations, trust, and a chance to escape your life and live in that moment. But life is funny too; life catches up to you.

My first time was not what I thought it would be. I thought I would put more thought into it, for starters. I thought it’d be about love, about trust, about commitment and security and the relationship I had with the other person. But nah, it was with some guy I didn’t really care about, who didn’t really care about me, and it was on some squeaky futon and I ended up being on top. It wasn’t painful, physically or emotionally; it was just sex, which was what I wanted. See, before that I had been in my first real, serious relationship with a guy I loved who loved me. I thought that Charles and I would be together for years, he thought we’d someday get married. That was the relationship I was supposed to lose my virginity in, according to all the books and movies. So I wanted to do it, I trusted him, I loved him, I was a horny teenager. All signs pointed towards yes, except him: he said no. He didn’t want to have sex, he didn’t want to hold my hand or kiss me or put a label on our relationship. So I said fine. And then I picked the first cute guy that came along and let him do the job. And even though that sounds terrible, I don’t regret it. Sex the first time is awkward and bad no matter who it is with, where it happens, or why it happens. At least that’s what me, and every other woman I’ve talked to think.

When I really had that “first time” was four months later, in the arms of a man I loved who loved me. He taught me what sex really is, why some people call it “making love”. (Personally, that phrase makes me gag, but I’ll use it anyway this time.) He made me feel special, beautiful, strong but vulnerable in the best sense, and I had never felt closer to another human being than I did to him. It wasn’t just sex with him, it was letting our souls connect when words wouldn’t suffice.

But not all my sex experiences have been good. Luckily, I haven’t had any extreme bad times, but when it’s bad, it’s bad. Sex involves so many complex emotions, especially for women, and once they catch up with you, there’s nothing you can do but ride them out. The first time I had a bad experience it was with the same person I was with in the above paragraph. It wasn’t necessarily about him, because he obviously treated me with respect and love. It was about me, it was about all of my experiences with sex before.

So why all the talk about sex? I had a discussion with my girlfriend a few nights ago about how sex can make you upset. We’ve both had this experience with each other, although it wasn’t necessarily about each other. Whenever I became upset, she didn’t really understand why, although she suspected that part of it was realizing I was in love with her (she totally called that one). Whenever she became upset, I suspected she was going through something similar in her head as I did a month or so before. It’s a flood of feelings about yourself and your attachment to the other person that completely overwhelms you; an immobilizing wave of emotions you can hardly understand and never knew existed. It’s a moment where all you want is the other person to hold you and tell you it’s going to be okay, even if that’s bullshit. Most guys do not really understand this, and some women don’t either. I’m not saying this happens to everyone, but it’s a lot more common in women than we may realize. And it’s different for every person—which is a big part of why it can be so scary.

Let me explain it a little more, and go back to the story of my first bad experience with emotions during sex. So me and then-boyfriend were getting all steamy, both totally into it. And then the actual sex part started happening. And it was great, there was nothing wrong with the position, or what he was doing or what I was doing. Nothing wrong with the relationship, nothing wrong with how I felt about him or how he felt about me. But it was my mind; my mind was all wrong. One moment I was there with him and the next it was like I was outside of myself, watching all of it happen to me. I was suddenly so detached from my body and the situation and I felt small…I was empty. I felt so removed and alone and just so completely sad. And I tried to push these feelings away, I tried to grit my teeth, go back to feeling pleasure and happiness and breathless with ecstasy…but no dice. Instead I got quiet, and just let it keep happening even though all I wanted was for it to stop.

Experience Number Two: It was a different guy, almost a year later. It was the first time we had slept together, and it was highly anticipated by us both. Everything else we had done had been totally hot, and so expectations were high….too high. It was all around a bad time. I had never set any sort of standards about the male anatomy before, but this was the experience that taught me the awful lesson of size mattering (so you’d better be good at other things if you know you’re not going to be good at the main event–I say this not to be an asshole, because no one can control the size of their dick, but to relay that this guy I was with was not good at any of the other stuff, either). Anyway, but apart the issues of anatomy, as soon as it started happening I felt wrong. Sick. I felt used, like a piece of meat for him feel up for the night, and toss away the next morning. I had no warmness in my heart for him, and only bitter hate for myself. I wanted so badly for this sex to just be sex, for it to be fun and meaningless like it was supposed to be for people my age in college. But instead it was me who felt meaningless, worthless, empty. Once again, I said nothing about how I felt, or how I wanted it to be over. I let him decide when he was done with me.

Experience Three: Different guy, a month later. This guy and I had come close to having sex so many different times, but he had never pressured me. I really was starting to like him, despite my reservations to keep things casual and not get attached. Once again, I wanted it all to mean nothing but harmless fun. Anyway, it was a Thursday night at a party. We both were a little drunk, we both knew it was going to happen. And it was great, actually. It was great sex and he was very sweet afterwords, holding me as he fell asleep. But I stayed awake, staring at the wall. As soon as the feelings of pleasure had faded, the same contempt for myself appeared. There was so much name calling in my head, “whore” “slut” “naive” “stupid” “reckless” “dirty”. I lied there, wishing those labels were not true, but feeling the pressure of them weigh on me nonetheless. My self-esteem was at a new low, I had been downgraded from a piece of meat to a shadow of a person who once had control over her life. I felt sorry for the guy sleeping next to me, because he was wasting his time fucking someone so unworthy of love or affection.

Empty is the one word I can use to sum up my experiences. Do I blame any of these people I’ve slept with for my experiences with them? No. I realize that all of these feelings I’ve had come from myself, because of myself. My self-esteem and emptiness are so tied up in my depression and I don’t expect any person to change that but me. Any all of these experiences have happened in different times, when I felt differently about myself than I do now. One thing I can say about my experience with my girlfriend about a month ago was that I felt overwhelmed with the realization that I loved her, would someday lose her, and that I was still seeing and loving my then-boyfriend Fred at the time. It was a mess of complicated feelings, but not once in that experience did I feel worthless or used.

I guess this is all to say that sex brings up a lot of emotions that we are not always prepared for, and that’s okay. It doesn’t make you weak for being vulnerable with your body and your mind around someone else, it doesn’t make you bad at sex or a bad partner to whoever you are with. It’s okay to be upset, to claim ownership over your body and what happens to it. It’s okay to get scared because you just let someone become close to you, closer than anyone has ever been before. I’m not saying that my experiences are the same as anyone else’s, but I’m sharing them because if someone out there has felt that way, I want them to know they don’t have to apologize for it. You are allowed to take up space and feel your feelings and ask someone to hold you if you need to be held. You are not a burden. You are worthy of love.

Sex can be simple, easy and painless like my first time. It can also be beautiful, vulnerable, and full of love. Those are the two experiences with sex that the world expects us to have, but that’s not always  realistic. As much as we may like to tell ourselves that sex is just a moment in time, it brings out the best and worst of our feelings about ourselves. Handling those feelings is difficult, but for me it was those tough experiences that taught me not only a lot about myself, but also the person I was/am with.

In a way, it was the other person holding me after moments like those that made me feel closer to them, closer than sex I’ve ever had.

Misery Doesn’t Love Company

I just want to cry. I finished my last and only final a few hours ago, and I feel nothing. No skipping down the streets, no screaming in delight, no jumping for joy or even a celebratory nap. Nope, I feel like crap. Maybe the word ‘drained’ would be better than crap…I knew it couldn’t last, this happy streak I was on. When I stopped taking my antidepressants I was calm and optimistic that maybe I could make it a good six months without taking a turn for the worse. I have the feeling now that I was wrong.

To make things simple, here’s why I feel so terrible in a handy-dandy list:

  1. I just looked at my boyfriend’s Facebook page. I always want to throw up after I do this, but I do it anyway. All of the pictures of us have been posted by me. His profile picture is just him, not us. So many pictures of ex-girlfriends that he posted and commented on about how good they look or how much he likes them… I hate that I think these things and compare, because it’s not right or fair to him. And it also makes me look at him and wonder if I really know him. (I hate Facebook)
  2. I never got that boyfriend who posts pictures of us and comments on how much he likes me. Not once. I’m lucky if I have a single picture of me and any of the guys I’ve dated. I never got the sweet guy until now, after I’ve been dumped on time and time again. And I hate that I can’t forget that fact or stop being so pathetic, throwing myself these little pity parties. But it just hurts a lot, you know? It hurts that everyone I’ve ever given a damn about didn’t want to stick around. It makes me hate myself.
  3. My french final went horribly. I blanked. At one point my french teacher sat down by me, patting my back saying, “It’s okay. You know this, trust yourself. You studied.” It’s when she got up that I started to cry. I didn’t know it and didn’t trust myself and didn’t study as much as I should have and that was the first time she had ever shown me any kind of sympathy. I tried my best, but I won’t make it to French III.
  4. I don’t want to leave school, but at the same time I do. I don’t want to move back home for the summer or be stuck in that small town again, but when I’m at school I’m stuck in my room. I want the people at home in my new life at college. But I can’t have it, and now I feel like I don’t fit in either place. I feel like I did college wrong.
  5. I hate this whole list, and every crummy sentence in it. It all makes me super sad, and I hate myself for being sad. See, my boyfriend isn’t feeling too great right now either, and I need to be strong for him. I want to do everything I can to cheer him up, and I don’t want to make him worry about me. I should be better for him, but all of a sudden I feel so out of control of my emotions…it’s the worst.

How do I know this is not just a run-of-the-mill stressful night? Because I don’t want to talk to my boyfriend. I’d rather cry myself to sleep, alone in my room, than talk to him or my friend Caitlin or my mom. I know it’s wrong, but I just can;t bring myself to do it. Sometimes misery doesn’t love company.

The World of Failure

Hello all, and welcome to the world of failure. I am the prime resident here, so I recommend that you jump on the next plane, train, or flying monkey and make your way the fuck out of here–because I’m failing, miserable, and possibly contagious.

This morning I texted a few of the members from my old group therapy. Last night was rough, and so was the night before that. I’ve been doing a lot of lying around, staring at the walls, sleeping, and pathetic cuddling with the stuffed pink pig I keep next to my bed. It hasn’t been too great. I’ve been getting advice from Caitlin, but I’m worried that she is beginning to think I’m annoying and whiny. Which may or may not be a figment of my imagination. But either way, I’m trying to reach out to other people so she doesn’t become annoyed if she’s not already.

Let me explain. See, I’ve been on a down-ward spiral ever since I decided to make more friends–particularly guy friends. That lead to me screwing with my fantastic relationship with my boyfriend, and deciding to make it an open relationship. After that I met a few guys who had a hit-an-run mentality (even if they didn’t hit) which lowered my self-esteem even more. Then my new hobby of running vanished because someone found a body on the trail I run on, making finding a new route to run pretty impossible, because I hate running on the track. And lastly, I’ve been trying to buckle down after I saw the grades of a few exams, but so far I’m still an epic failure.

So, ta-da! My depression is about to take me down like a sniper, and all I’ve got is zip to defend myself. I can’t believe I may have to drop a class. I can’t believe I might change my major. I can’t believe after feeling on top of the world for almost a year, I’m back in the bottom of the barrel. It’s rough, I tell you. This whole life thing is getting rough. Needless to say, I’m looking forward to Christmas break, where I’ll go back to having lots of friends, seeing my boyfriend all the time, and feeling like I am actually worth a damn.

I miss that girl I used to be. The one who was confident, care-free, knew herself and knew who was worth keeping in her life. I feel like she is nothing but an old photograph now…like a dream that almost came true.

Sorry to be so depressing; believe me, I wish I wasn’t. But this is a depression/shit-happens/life-of-a-young-fuck-up blog, so I guess we both should have seen this coming.

The Invisible Road…to Nowhere

Do you ever feel like you’re invisible? Like everyone you keep reaching out to just takes advantage, takes what they want and throws you away? Do you ever feel like everyone who really cares about you is gone?

Lately I’ve been trying to find someone–with whatever criteria suits me at the moment–to fill my time. A friend, a classmate, someone in my dorm, someone I meet at a party…I don’t care who they are, or how much they seem to care about me, as long as they are interesting and will spend time with me. Why did such a search begin? Well, I’m not too sure, but I think it began one day while I was with my roommate. She looked at me, very skeptical, and asked, “Do you ever hang out with anyone besides Caitlin?” “Yes, yes I do! I’ve gone to the gym with some of the girls down the hall, and I used to hang out with those people from the other dorm, and…” She gave me a look of pity. “Don’t feel sorry for me!” “I’m sorry!” she said, “I can’t help it!” “Look, I’m just one of those people who don’t need a lot of friends. Independent, you know? I just do my own thing and am ok with having just a few close friends.” “Uh huh…” She gave me a look, indicating that nothing I said had changed her mind. “Stop it!” “Okay, okay…” But the pity went on after we had changed the subject, after days and after weeks.

Loser. That’s what she didn’t say, and that’s what I felt like. Since then I’ve met more people, but I’ve also felt more shitty, because not all those people have treated me like a person. The thing I hate about college is that to most guys I am nothing but something to have sex with, and then ignore for all eternity. I miss when being with someone meant getting to know someone for who they are, and not just having sex in a drunken haze.

Since I know my self-esteem to be a hazard to my mental health, I’m trying not to think that the problem is that I am a crappy person, but that I have crappy taste in other people. No matter how genuine my intentions, it is the other person’s intentions that seem to matter. I feel powerless in social situations, a pawn in someone’s game of chess that will be sacrificed in the name of something better. When I want to become friends, I always agree to invitations to hang out, always am eager to talk again or help out. But it is the other person doing the inviting, doing the talking, needing help with a problem. I go along with things, I listen, I help others with their problems and don’t bother them with mine.

It’s a crappy situation, so you can see why sometimes I’d rather be mostly alone with a few friends…but it feels looked down upon, and it is. There’s only so much you can do by yourself before you feel lonely, and loneliness is a problem. For me, loneliness=depression. So there it is: all of this leads to preventing depression and being insecure.

You know, usually knowing the causes for my stupid action makes me feel better, but this time it sort of makes things worse. After all, how am I supposed fix this? Find someone who cares? Fat chance. Hope my depression doesn’t come back and do nothing? Better hope I don’t kill myself (or some other stupid thing), too. Stop being insecure? I’ve been trying to do that since I was 12, and clearly it’s working out great. :p Where does this lead me?

Nowhere. East Jesus nowhere, and headed there fast.

The FML Zone

Welcome to college, where a guy in a gorilla suit is playing the accordion in 86 degree weather, where you get paid a dollar to watch a video on animal cruelty, where you make buttons to put on your backpack that say “No thigh gap, no problem!” all in one day.

Earlier I went to this event sponsored by the Women’s Center called Stitch And Bitch, where you literally sit around knitting and talking about whatever is on your mind. I went with this girl who lives down the hall from me who is in my French class, and then afterward we just hung out in her room and talked a bit. It’s funny, today I’ve been talking to a lot of people around me, people I may have said a few things to, but never really thought would give me the time of day. And here they are, giving me the time of day. It makes me wonder if maybe I should put myself out there more, instead of assuming I’ll get stressed or people will blow me off. And yet, here I am, in my dorm room, and I can’t help but feel alone. Since last Monday I’ve been on a whirlwind of “hangouts” “dates” (whatever you want to call them) with this guy, and last night I slept with him. Suddenly, I don’t want to text him, I’m afraid to ask if he wants to hangout. It wasn’t good sex, but I miss the company, the few moments where we would tease/joke around with each other. It felt nice to have another friend. And now? Now I don’t know what to do. I feel like we’ve hit a roadblock, like there’s nothing left to say or nothing left to experience together. What would we do if we decided to hang out, but not at his place? What would we say? It makes me feel real shitty inside, like I’ve cheated myself a genuine relationship, and let someone have me too soon. But at the same time, I don’t want to be this guy’s girlfriend. I just want…What do I want? I guess I just want to feel wanted–like that someone gives a shit about me besides the people back home. I want someone to like me for who I am, and not what my ass looks like in my jeans. I have that someplace far away, but now I need that support here. I need someone who will wash away my worries of becoming locked in my shell. Maybe these people in my classes that I talked to today are the answer, but my heart doesn’t want to give up on this guy.

In high school, you had your family, your friends and loved ones right at your side. In college you learn how to become someone without their guidance. I’m just scared that my depression will get the better of me and lead me into the dark, yet again. My support system will be far away, and without the closeness I crave I might get to the point where I don’t care if I get better.

After thinking all of this out I called my boyfriend. Just hearing his voice I realized how lucky I was to have him, and to have a relationship where I can even talk about taboo things like this. “I don’t want anyone else,” I told him, “but I don’t know what to do….It’s unfair to just right away change my mind after I went through all the trouble to get things this way.” I told him I’d sleep on it. A large portion of me wants to get back to where I was with him, to being serious and in love and okay with it all, but another part is saying, “So the first guy you tried seeing was a dud. Why are you throwing in the towel when there are hundreds of other people out there?” I just don’t know what to do. My self-esteem is caving, and the stability of my life has vanished. It’s stressing me out, and just promoting the “FML!” attitude in me. Honestly, I just want to get high or get wasted to the point where I don’t even care, to where I feel good about things in my life again. And I know that is definitely not the answer, but my self-destructive tendencies are kicking in hard and fast. Last night cutting sounded so good, especially since I haven’t done it in the longest time. But then out of nowhere my friend Caitlin knocked on my door, and suddenly pouring out my heart to her made the bad thoughts silent. Which was really lucky for me, and makes me wonder if it’s a sign or something from God. But now is not the time to suddenly kick my atheist ways, on top of everything else. I don’t know who exactly I am or am becoming, and I’m worried it is not someone I will like at the end of it all.

Welcome to college. Where figuring out who you want to become and what will make you happy in life happens all in one day, every day.

Barbies & Kens vs. The Real Thing

Where has September gone?! I’m currently lost in a tumble of studying for exams, hassling myself to work out constantly, and getting a grip on how much I miss my long-distance boyfriend. And you would think time passing would make me feel better, more confident that what I’m doing right now in life is going well, but in all actuality it just makes me want to nap for three hours a day. A lot of the time I wonder if my routine is really such a blessing or a burden. After all, there is so much I still haven’t explored…For instance, today I paid my first visit to the campus’ Women’s Center.

What the hell is a women’s center? Yeah, I asked myself that too whenever I first heard about it. Instead of a bunch of girls passing out tampons or whatever, it was actually sort of cool. I mean, yeah, there was stuff about eating disorders and breast cancer, but there were also stuff like free condoms and buttons that said stuff like “I love my thighs!”, which I really appreciated. Not only because condoms are expensive, but that it wasn’t like high school where girls were victimized for having sex. And I don’t know how many times I’ve heard my roommate talk about how much she wants a thigh gap, even though she’s beautiful and muscular as is. Being a female can be great and all, but I am so sick of beating myself up for not looking perfect, and I’m tired of my friends doing the same. I mean, so what if I don’t have 6-pack abs? I still have great legs, especially in heels! And so what if my roommate’s hair is too dark for her taste? She can still rock short hair like nobody else’s business! Another thing I really liked about the women’s center was that it wasn’t all, “women have so many problems and men don’t have a single one”… They had these great posters that spoke up about how guys can feel all this pressure to “be a man”, like they can’t have feelings or need to grow a beard to be considered grown up. In my college experience so far, I’ve felt so much more pressure for both guys and girls to be more like Barbie and Ken.

"Hey ladies, wanna make me a man all over again?"

“Hey ladies, wanna make me a man all over again?”

In high school, we all sort of accepted that there was a limited selection available dating-wise, and didn’t expect much. But in college, with so many options of beautiful available, it’s hard to believe anything less will be accepted and loved as well.

Maybe this is all just in my head, but even if it is, I know people who go through an internal battle everyday when they look in the mirror. Heck, whenever I’m depressed I can be one of them!  I just wish there was an easier way to break down these barriers that social stigma puts in our way. I hate how easily people can hurt themselves when they tell themselves they need to be someone else in order to be “beautiful”. After all, if there is no one else like you in this stinking world, why would you try to be a replica someone else?

Just some thoughts for the day. I’m fighting this whole self-esteem battle myself, so just know that everyday someone else is going through the same struggle you are if you are in the same boat. We can do this guys/girls!


I’m pissed off.

I’m pissed off that I work five days a week and have negative two dollars in my bank account. I’m pissed off that I get yelled at for getting home past curfew because I was crying in a parking lot to my boyfriend, while my brother can have his girlfriend spend the night at our house and have her up in his room with the door closed (did I mention that my room is next door and the walls are thin? Yeah. And meanwhile, my boyfriend can’t set one foot in my room without me getting screamed at). I’m pissed off that it’s been a week of working at my crappy job and the one day where all I want to do is be alone and relax while playing this computer game “Civilization” (my boyfriend got me addicted to it to the point where I want to play it everyday for hours), I don’t have enough money to buy it (or gas, for that matter. Or the spending tickets I’ve acquired. Or the lawyer for the speeding tickets). I’m pissed off that all I ever do is screw up and get yelled at for it. I’m pissed off that I have less than a month left before I leave this place and my boyfriend. I’m pissed off that I have to start taking meds again when all I want is to be normal and stay there. I’m pissed off that this stupid blog is FOR NOTHING, that my friends don’t bother reading it, or anyone else for that matter. Am I helping anyone, or being helped myself? NO. IT’S ALL FOR NOTHING. I hate it. I hate my life right now. I hate that no one in my family wants to spend time with me without criticizing me.  I hate that all my friends are busy. I hate that college is starting. I hate it all. I hate that my boyfriend has had a lot more relationships than I have had, and has slept with more people than I have had, and they’ve all been good and fine and all of my past relationships remind me why I suck and deserved to be treated that way. I hate that I’m thinking all of this and writing all of this, when no one wants to hear it–people want to hear about how being positive is easy and life isn’t scary and that once you have found love it all works out and that confidence will never fail you and your friends from high school will stick by you and won’t end up doing heroin.

And I can’t write about any of that, because I know none of it.

Sometimes, when people look at my scars where I’ve cut myself they joke around and ask things like, “So why’d you carve a giant swastika into your arm?” (which it isn’t, and is offensive), I think, “You’ve never hated yourself like I have, have you? And you’ll never know how sad you can feel inside when you look at your scars and not regret it. Because deep down somewhere I know I took it easy on myself, and if I truly were honest when I had that knife in my hand I wouldn’t be here right now. So go ahead, look concerned or laugh. If you knew what this was like you wouldn’t say a word.” That’s how I feel writing in this blog sometimes. I feel like I’ve put my scars out there in these posts, and in response all people want to do is judge rather than understand.

I don’t need advice and I don’t need sympathy. I need support, I need to know you people are actually there.

(If you even are.)

Positively Difficult

This whole being positive thing is harder than everyone says. A lot harder. Being positive means ignoring a lot of thoughts that my depression filters into my every brain wave, and sometimes it can be exhausting to cherry-pick the things you want from your own brain.

Being positive means ignoring my girlish instincts to be jealous of all of my boyfriend’s ex-girlfriends. The thing is, it’s all a big mystery with him. He hardly says their names, but every once in a while we encounter remnants of their presence. Today it was a box in his truck, complete with two bras, a DVD, a pair of shoes, and a can of Spaghetti O’s as far as I could see. All items he has yet to return to Miss No-Name. Look, don’t get me wrong. Part of my brain is rational, reasonable and tells me that ex-girlfriends have the “ex” part for a reason. After all, if it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t be with this guy now. It just sucks to have that other part of my brain in my head, noticing that he has a missed call for one of the guessed ex-girlfriends. Hip hip hurray for insecurity time! It’s bad enough I have to occasionally be reminded of the pictures he still has on Facebook of relationship’s past…but then again, I’m being harsh. (But then again, I don’t have any photos up of me and my old boyfriends.)

Being positive means ignoring the fact that my grandparents are old and dying and want to see me all the time. But because of said age and health, they can’t visit me, which means I must visit them. But I’m always so damn busy, I never seem to find the time. When I do, however, I am filled to the brim with so much sadness and love that I promise myself to visit more often. Then I return to my life, and am swallowed back into the teenage world of grad parties, going to the movies/out to eat/park/mall, having a crappy part-time job, my boyfriend, and hours upon hours of sleep. And they call, send their love, and I drowned in a vat of guilt. They couldn’t go to my graduation, and so my grandma left a card at my house that she’d hoped to give me in person. Where was I? Not there. That card will have illegible, cursive signatures that wish me luck and love, and have money that was set aside for me, and me alone. And I can’t remember the last time I saw them, just that my grandpa teared up as he asked me to not stay away for so long.

That just kills me inside.

Being positive means ignoring the tears that were falling down my face yesterday at dinner when I realized I couldn’t pay for my meal. I had plans to meet my friends at the movies with my boyfriend, whom I was so excited to see. Then bam! out of nowhere I remembered that I couldn’t even fill up my gas tank, let alone my stomach. I’ve been in the process of looking for a second summer job for maybe three months now, and I haven’t landed anything. So right now, all my expenses are being supported on a job I work one day a week at, for three hours or so. I felt like the biggest failure in the entire world, because not even McDonald’s will take me.

Being positive means ignoring all this shit on my shoulders, and I don’t know if I really have the capacity to cut myself that much slack. At least not now.

Whoever said that their struggles encouraged them to stay strong obviously didn’t have much of a guilty conscience.

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