For the recordFeb 15th, 2018 1:05:22 pm - Subscribe
I'm hoping this isn't a full blown depressive episode. Felt a bit manic a few days ago but nothing too destructive. Now I'm not eating because I feel too overwhelmed to go to the store. I'm not particularly busy or stressed, just withdrawn. I have a date on Sunday but it's just kind of dissolving into the sea of all the guys who have been pressuring me to see them again. There really isn't anything I want to do or anyone I want to see. Things just feel so much harder than they are. My apartment has been a mess for a few weeks now. Knitting, cooking, reading have all been on the back burner for a couple days. My mind races and I can't focus. I just can't right now.
Last of the AcidJan 21st, 2018 9:13:19 pm - Subscribe
Perched upon my mountaintop.
Looking down at all the people I once knew.
My influence is so weak, yet here I sit, watching it all. I know more than everyone but my voice isn't loud enough. I can tell everyone what I know but I'm too far away.
They see me here. They wave.
I wave back.
They love me.
But they're so far away.
So far away.
Deflated MattressDec 12th, 2017 1:58:02 pm - Subscribe
Lately things have been great. I wake up early and do little things to stay busy. I buy groceries, meal prep for the next few days, do dishes, put things away, do puzzles, yoga, drink countless cups of delicious tea, check the mirror to track my weight loss, enjoy the shows and hobbies that I put off while I was too sad to focus. As I leave for work in the evening, I look around my apartment and think "I'm nailing this."
I write down positive affirmations and short term goals. I'm rested and content. I'm ready for visitors at any given moment.
Today my insides are screaming. I'm exhausted and lonely. I can't even get in the shower so I just washed my bangs to look presentable for work. I probably smell bad. Nothing is wrong or different. I'm just not okay today. And that is okay.
ShhOct 22nd, 2017 8:48:48 pm - Subscribe
I once slept with a married man in my old life, in a different town and state. He stopped by once again. I was his indulgence. An escape from his reality. He made plans to see me, now, in a different state, a different part of my life.
My past is so foreign. Even the oddities and novelties won't approach me.
I have no idea who I was or who I've become.
I have always been a secret.
319Jul 8th, 2017 10:01:31 am - Subscribe
A light sandwich and an orange for lunch
Twenty minute nap
A handful of peanuts for a snack
Example was his only means of authority.
Never a raised voice or fist
His absence was never a result of anger.
Numbers and logic
rather than emotion and gossip
I can only cite a few of his countless accomplishments
And acts of kindness
From the tear stained words of strangers.
Never mentioned within the house
Not for fear of boasting
But because restoring a historic hotel
while cradling the dumb, derelict, and dying
are as obligatory and trivial to him as paying bills and folding laundry.
We never knew
but were never surprised
when the neighbors told us how much his actions meant.
I want to beg him to stay.
He has to because I still need him.
But I won't let him know
he failed to prepare me for this.
These things don't happen to men like him.
I should not have to accept his Ninth Step.
I don't want to admit that I deserve it.
UnlockedJun 26th, 2017 9:49:50 pm - Subscribe
Lucas or Bill
But still no job.
AppsJun 15th, 2017 9:17:11 pm - Subscribe
Sometimes tinder dates lead to streaking with your hookup's girlfriend in a rainstorm.
I'm less unhappy than I was a few days ago.
Never Have I EverMay 22nd, 2017 4:49:55 pm - Subscribe
I've never felt so sad, tired and lost that when a cop aimed his gun at my face I thought to myself, meh this is fine.
UpdatesDec 15th, 2016 3:17:47 pm - Subscribe
I spent ten years of my life finishing my degree, working in housekeeping, and living in less than desirable apartments. Friends have come and gone. Mostly gone. Romantic relationships have ranged from complicated to abusive. I can't remember a time when I had confidence that things would be okay.
Three months ago I moved to South Dakota. My boyfriend graciously allowed me to move in to his small apartment for the time being, and to keep my boxes piled high in his living room. The boxes do not contain anything valuable. Useless antiques, dresses that don't fit, craft supplies, and a ridiculous amount of makeup that I bought during a manic episode over a year ago.
I was optimistic. I have a college degree and proof that I'm a hard working, loyal employee. I had no doubt that I would be able to get a decent job right away.
I applied to over thirty jobs since I got here. Mostly receptionist jobs. I don't want to be a receptionist. I want a career that I care about. I want to work for an organization or a non-profit. I want to help the mentally ill, disabled, addicted. I want to assist the marginalized, the ones society gave up on. I want to go to bed at the end of the day and feel like I made a difference. I want to matter.
No one will hire me. I've had four interviews out of the endless applications that I filled out. Only one hired me. I couldn't commit to that job. I couldn't justify putting that much of myself into something I didn't care about. I don't want to go back to housekeeping. That's not why I came here.
I kept looking and applying. It was the first time in my life that I didn't immediately give up.
Now I'm giving up. I feel worthless.
It's so cold here. Trump is the new president. His cabinet is full of garbage. Standing Rock won a small victory only to have their water destroyed by an existing pipeline. I have no hope. The country is dying. Racism and misogyny are fighting full force.
I'm losing my health insurance next month. I'm running out of money. Food doesn't taste good. I haven't slept in my boyfriend's bed in weeks. I don't sleep well anyway. I'm stuck inside my head day after day, and I can't stand the person in the mirror. Every second that I'm awake and sober feels like an hour. I don't know who I am or who I want to be. I'm running out of options. I'm so tired. I feel like letting go.
UtilitarianismJun 13th, 2016 6:24:01 pm - Subscribe
I never mean to hurt people. It just happens. I know my actions cause pain. Things aren't black and white. There is no longer a right and wrong like there was when I was a child.
Don't take things that don't belong to you.
Share with others.
Don't say mean things.
Keep your hands and feet to yourself.
Don't cut in line.
Treat others the way you want to be treated.
It was simple. Don't hurt people. There is no longer a line separating the two. Now I try to go by the rule of "cause minimal suffering."
There are not enough words in the english language to describe different types of love or the way it can change over time. People can fall in and out of love. People can love people they never thought they could love. Love can fluctuate rapidly over periods of time. Love can surprise and frighten us. People can love multiple people equally. Some people only love themselves.
I loved someone but not as much as he loved me. Some days I felt like my love for him could grow into what he felt for me. I just needed more time, I thought. There was not a single thing I disliked about him. We didn't always see eye to eye and I didn't see a future with him. I knew my heart wasn't in it but I didn't want it to be true. I wanted to feel the same way. I felt defective. While I felt comfort, I wanted passion. When we were together, I wanted to be alone. When he initiated sex, I wanted sleep.
He told me it was the worst thing that anyone ever did to him. He called my friends "faggots" and accused me of wanting to have sex with an asexual. He told me I "shit on" him and repeatedly asked why I was doing this to him. He told me I was phony and that I am a different person around my friends. He said I try too hard to be cool. He said I used him. He told me to fuck off too many times to count.
In three months, he gave me too much power. He expected too much. I didn't mean to hurt him.
I believe everything he said. I feel like an uncaring monster.
Dear DiaryMar 13th, 2016 5:37:26 pm - Subscribe
Things really fell apart these past few weeks. I tried to cut ties with a toxic person who was sucking the life out of me when she announced that my best friend raped her.
I tried to comfort her. I offered to take her to the police station. Though her story changed several times, the details didn't add up, and it was drastically out of character for him to do such a thing, I believed her. Unfortunately, his side of the story made more sense. He didn't change the details or the sequence of events. He showed me text messages that contradicted things that she told me.
She threw a fit when I told her I needed space. I never told her that I doubted her story, rather that I was having trouble dealing with the fact that someone I knew and loved for six years is a rapist and that this was just too much drama for me to handle right now. She accused me of abandoning her and screamed about the fact that he and I referred to each other as best friends. I suddenly realized that she was completely obsessed with me and this was her way of getting him out of the picture so that I would have more time to take care of her.
I'm terrified of her now.
Meanwhile in my life, I finally decided to stop doubting the state of my relationships, to simply love my significant other and trust that he loves me. It was time to end the relentless distance and move in with him. I had never been so ready for anything. It was the first time in our relationship that I ever made a decision without first begging for reassurance. It felt like a major milestone for me.
He broke up with me while I was driving.
I cried for hours, knowing that our good times together had to come to an end, but also mourning the life I had envisioned for myself, escaping this town and becoming the person I honestly believed I could be, relaxing into stability and comfort of the only man I ever truly fell for.
Instead I reverted back to my old ways. I smoked dope, popped pills, and drank with Keli, like I always do when I can't handle the truth. I slept with old friends and bartenders. I'm the same person I was before I met him. He was a five-year pipe dream.
It seems as though my life has completely fallen apart. I'm stuck. I will never have enough money to leave this place on my own. The most important person in my life finally realized that he is better off without me. My best friend may or may not be a rapist. I unintentionally hurt an obsessive, unstable woman while trying to do what was best for my well-being.
When I told Bartender that I don't have any friends left, he said "Sure you do." I looked into his eyes, pleading for compassion. He pointed to my drink and said "You have a friend right there in front of you."
InterpretationsJan 10th, 2016 10:09:18 pm - Subscribe
Last night I had a thickly veiled dream about Hays. I was sitting on my couch watching a movie when Frank tapped on my window. My heart raced and I jumped up to let him in. I'm always excited to see him. But as I made my way to the door I saw Chris's van parked out front. I looked out the window and saw Chris grinning and waving at me. I asked Frank what the hell he was doing there and he just kept insisting that I let them in. I stood at the window, conflicted. If I allow my old friend Frank to come inside, I would have to let the worst human being possible inside as well. I closed the blinds and paced around my apartment, unable to make a decision.
Frank represents the comfort of staying in Hays. He never changes. I'm never disappointed because I never expect anything. Our relationship never blossoms into romance, which means he can never let me down or hurt me. There are no risks with Frank.
Chris is my shitty job, shitty apartment, racist coworkers, all the people that I run into on a regular basis, but wish I could never see again. He is the bad experiences and the complete lack of growth.
If I stay in Hays, I cannot have one without the other. I can't allow one in while slamming the door on the other. If I take a risk and leave Hays, I'm leaving behind the comfort and familiarity of a place I've called home for nearly ten years.
But I would also leave behind this lazy, unambitious person I've become.
Die YoungOct 26th, 2015 10:33:29 pm - Subscribe
I couldn't even make it two weeks on the lithium. I knew that there would be tradeoffs. I knew I was sacrificing my character for my safety. I did not anticipate that I would lose my intelligence. That my thoughts would dissolve as quickly as I produced them. That I would spend hours looking for my keys, only to get distracted and go into a trance, glancing at the clock and wondering how the time slipped past me. That I would often lose control of my jaw and would not realize my mouth was gaping open until I walked past a mirror. That the lack of emotion would not follow me to bed and my dreams would be filled with terror and sorrow. That I would lose the ability to read and write. That mania would still occur, it just would not be as pretty. That the sadness would come in as crashing waves, rather than a steady stream to wade through.
But I felt alright. For the first time in my life, I felt just alright.
Little MotelOct 12th, 2015 11:06:29 pm - Subscribe
is about my parents.
DiagnonsenseOct 7th, 2015 10:47:50 pm - Subscribe
I always knew. But I didn't expect it to come out so bluntly from a complete stranger.
"Does this run in the family?"
Every breakup song sounds so familiar. Not because I was dumped, or because someone just doesn't fit with me. But because I'm saying goodbye to her. To the beautiful times. To the long nights of writing my novel or screenplay, or painting my masterpiece. To putting my wallet, keys, and phone on the top cabinet out of reach. To sex with strangers. To superpowers. To the only person who said "You can do anything."
I get my meds on tuesday.
I'm not ready to say goodbye.
I can't stop crying.
I'm afraid of who I am without her.
But I have to kill my character before she kills me.
Babies Full of BabiesSep 19th, 2015 9:57:15 pm - Subscribe
Fucking in the place I was raped didn't make me any less raped. But it helped the sad, scared, little girl with dread locks, smoking cigarettes in the band room. Fucking there held her lifeless hand. It gave her control over her life for a few seconds.
I saw her in there. Her dead eyes staring back at me. She whispered. I couldn't hear her. She touched the glass, I withdrew. She walked across the football field and laid down, secrets crawling beneath her frosted skin. I couldn't help her. Her tiny, frail body was still too heavy. I couldn't convince her mother to love her. I couldn't find her brother. I couldn't face her father. I couldn't drive her to the police station, begging them to take this seriously. I couldn't brush through the matted, curly hair that she would cut off the next day.
So I fucked for her. I showed her that it didn't have to mean anything. It didn't have to define her. She might not ever be the person she could have been, but she would gain the control she longed for. She would be her own person. She would make her own decisions. Even if she was wrong, the choice was hers.
I'm sorry, Sea Biscuit. I wish I could have been the adult you needed. I'm not going to tell you they care about you because they don't. I'm just going to tell you that all adults are imperfect, and I'm sorry they brought you into this world.
TrustAug 11th, 2015 10:26:17 pm - Subscribe
When people ask me "How do I learn to trust again?" the answer is simple.
The same way you learned to believe in Santa again.
Trust, as we once knew it, is a myth that we believed during a simpler time. Age and experience tells us that people lie, cheat, and steal. People are imperfect. They do not always meet our expectations. We know this through experience. We can still trust people, but not the way we used to. It frightens us that we cannot return to the naive comfort of believing in others.
Instead of asking "How do I learn to trust again" ask yourself "How do I learn to comfort myself when I am unable to trust?"
WorthlessFeb 23rd, 2015 9:23:40 am - Subscribe
What's the point of being smart if no one will ever take me seriously?
I have to have my ideas translated by Cutey McBabyvoice to get my point across because nobody wants a fat, ugly woman with a deep voice to disagree with them. The 90 pound beauty with with suspiciously bouncy hair holds more weight with what she has to say because she phrases everything like a question and uses the language skills of a third grader. She isn't intimidating. She isn't threatening. She's a viable sexual candidate so she deserves respect.
Because of the way I look and speak, I am a man-hating feminazi who thinks all white men are racist. Someone half my size and a chirpy voice can convey the same ideas in a playful voice and they all calmly decide that she "might have a point but I still disagree."
I don't deserve respect because I don't know my place. I can have ideas as long as I don't take up too much space, depend on men, and pretend to be stupider than I am. My ideas will gain credibility as long as I dress to please men. I can earn respect by lacking confidence, and making suggestions, rather than just stating my opinion or saying "I disagree."
To say "I disagree" is to say "you are fucking stupid and everything I am about to say is going to piss you off so you might as well stop listening now."
Chirpy Mcbouncyhair can translate everything with a bunch of maybes, ums, and y'knows, and suddenly everyone turns to listen, nodding but not agreeing. No presumptions. She has earned their respect.
RealityNov 26th, 2013 2:15:04 pm - Subscribe
When the officer asked her where she lives, the woman motioned in front of her. She drew circles with her hands in midair. She waved frantically as far as her arms would reach.
The men tried specific terms like "residence" and "address" but the woman was not incorrect.
Perception is reality.
The police perceived the woman as part of their job. A menace to society that needed to be removed from the situation.
The beauticians saw their clients' discomfort. Disorder in their business. They saw problem that needed to be removed in order to maintain their revenue.
I saw a woman. I saw a situation that needed to be resolved before a woman fell to the floor, seizing, comatose. I saw a brain, desperately needing sugar to continue functioning as mine, as the polices', as the stylists' and their clients'.
The woman saw her life in front of her. She could not see herself and that did not matter.
We see what's in front of us but we imagine the rest to the best of our abilities. We imagine the world around us, functioning in the distance without our help. We imagine what we've done and what we are going to do. We imagine how we appear to those around us. We imagine their thoughts and feelings.
The woman, whose sugar-deprived brain prevented her from the presence most people perceive, saw only what was in front of her. For those brief moments, her eyes were her only means of vision.
Perhaps the rest of us see too much.
KitesSep 27th, 2013 2:44:11 pm - Subscribe
When I was young, I wanted to fly a kite but all the kites I bought were broken and torn up when I got them. None of them would stay in the air for very long but I'd keep trying.
Several years ago, I spent everything I had on a beautiful, new, well-constructed kite. The string broke and my beloved kite blew away. Occasionally, it would come back and I'd try to tie the strings back on but it would just blow away again.
So I bought more kites. They were cheap and broken like my early kites. They wouldn't fly high enough so I would get bored and throw them away. Sometimes I'd keep them in a closet because it was better than not having a kite at all. Sometimes I'd fly a kite once, and leave it at the park, pretending it was never my kite at all, hoping someone else would come along and give it a good home.
I always kept the strings from that kite that flew away. Now I have invested in a new kite, one just as perfect and sturdy. I just don't know what to do with the extra string.
Best Friends, Best Friends, Making a CakeJul 27th, 2013 1:51:28 am - Subscribe
I've become incredibly lonely and depressed since Michael and I parted ways in New Mexico. I keep lamenting my lack of friends. More importantly, the lack of a best friend.
I haven't really had a long-term best friend. M was my best friend in grade school. That was easy. We were the smartest girls in class with a similar sense of humor. By seventh grade, I wasn't enough for her. She wanted to be cool. I was depressed and difficult to be around. She once referred to me as one of her "hard friends" because I had problems and she couldn't just relax and have fun with me.
At some point M got too wrapped up with her social life and extra curricular activities to be my friend and I started hanging out with her younger sister. She slowly earned the label of my best friend. We had similar personalities and interests, plus she had problems too so we spent most of our time talking about our feelings and the rest of our time goofing off and making fun of stuff.
After high school I met Chelsea. That was the weirdest relationship of all. I knew when I first saw her that I wanted to be her best friend. Somehow, despite my awkwardness, she accepted that role and we spent every waking moment together.
After our falling out, I never really found anyone to take her place. I latched on to Shannon for dear life, though I realize that she always meant more to me than I did her. Part of me always knew that but it didn't quite hit me as hard as it did the day I left her house.
At some point during Shannon's absence, I started spending time with Keli because she always had pills and weed. We also had a weird falling out when I started dating her ex. We're still on good terms but I don't really see her anymore.
When I met Michael, I started hanging out with Aracelli because we had similar life experiences. Though, like Shan and me, we too had an imbalance in our friendship. She ended up sucking the life out of me. After her, I decided I don't really need a best friend.
Then along came Zeta. Though I absolutely adore her, I couldn't relate to her the way I did with other girls. She has distinct interests that I don't always understand and I often felt like I was too shallow for her.
Then she moved.
So I have Cami. She lives a few trailers down. She's a 53 year old alcoholic that constantly bitches about her coworkers, boyfriend, and her boyfriend's son. By the end of the night, she's usually pretty plastered and I can never get a word in edgewise. A lot of times I have to hear stories three or four times because she doesn't remember telling me something the night before.
I long for a new girl. Someone like Chelsea, that I can tell from across the room that I want to be friends with her. Someone I can spend every moment of my life and share every detail of my past without judgement. Someone like Aracelli in the sense that I can escape from my roommates to just hang out and watch tv in peace while swapping stories about work, school, family, etc. Someone like Shannon who knows me so well that we can openly discuss and joke about personal hygiene and bodily (dis)functions. Someone like the entire Ford family, who always offers encouragement and compliments, even when I know I don't deserve it. Someone like Keli, who, despite her age, still has the anarchist fire in her and knows how to have a good time on a Friday night. And who I feel absolutely secure around when I'm high.
Or just Michael.
Goddamn, I fucking miss him.
PleasantriesJul 12th, 2013 4:09:17 pm - Subscribe
I hate it that I've been avoiding my friends and extended family because I'm insecure about my weight, job, location, income, degree limbo, and shifting plans.
I feel like I make people uncomfortable with my lack of success at everything.
I want to curl up in a hole forever.
Fuck all of you.May 27th, 2013 3:53:54 pm - Subscribe
Sometimes when I come home from work, I just sit on my bed and cry.
I realize I'm only paying $300 on rent every month but why does it have to be so noisy? Why can't the kitchen be as clean as I left it in the morning? Where the fuck did all the dirty dishes come from? I've only been gone for eight hours. Why does the TV need to be so loud? Why are there so many people in this house? Why is there so much furniture? Why are there so many cards and board games on the floor? Why do all of your friends need to come over? Why is the TV even on if you're going to sit there and discuss your role play games. WHY DOES WALTER ALWAYS HAVE TO YELL? Why don't any of you have jobs? What makes you think eating an entire gallon of ice cream is appropriate behavior for a 30-year-old? Why can't I have an hour of peace and quiet after work? Why do I have to do a sink full of someone else's dishes before I can make myself a meal or get a glass of water?
This is why I don't want kids.
UntitledFeb 17th, 2013 3:06:34 pm - Subscribe
New dress and headband. A ring in the mail. A delayed letter to my parents. A new job next weekend. So much to do between now and then. So much to do before July.
Is it normal to start having second thoughts after the novelty of engagement has worn off? Though, one might argue that the engagement hasn't even begun.
I'm starting to feel like a child again. Like when I logged on to this website eight years ago and announced that I was engaged. My boyfriend had proposed and I paraded around for weeks, my head held high, possessing an undeserved belief that I was so much more mature than my peers because of this silly interaction between someone as childish as I.
I wonder now, if this is just a mutual fantasy between two people who are drunk with distance. The longing has created a deeper sense of desire and we're compensating with excessive commitment.
Or maybe the distance has made us realize how much we dislike being apart.
Either way, I can't help but listen to the opinions and wandering thoughts of others, subtly suggesting that this is not a meaningful relationship, that I shouldn't trust him simply because I cannot keep an eye on him, that long-distance relationships never work and that I'm simply a dreamer for believing that some day I'll move to California and live happily ever after.
I could sit here and say that I'm different and that even though the whole situation seems like a teenage dream, our relationship is different. But then I go back to sixteen-year-old me, who sported a cheap amethyst ring, truly convinced that I would buck the odds and marry my high school sweetheart some day.
Then I think about my last relationship where we constantly talked about getting married but we broke up every other week.
I have to consider that I've been blinded by a proposal in the past, I really need to think about this one.
Yet, all the other times, there was something that wasn't quite right about the relationship, other people would say "But Ev, you cheated on him" or "But Ev, he's a complete and utter douchebag" And I'd sit there and say "I know but..."
Now, my close friends say he's nice and that they're happy for me. It's the random acquaintances that make the skeptical remarks.
I know, ignore everyone and do what I think is right. Unfortunately, I'm really confused about what I'm feeling.
I suppose I should talk to him.
Holy CatsFeb 3rd, 2013 3:23:37 pm - Subscribe
Did shit just get real? I think shit just got real. That is all.
UntitledJan 12th, 2013 6:27:07 pm - Subscribe
I'm so incredibly sad and lonely. I seriously don't know what to do about this.
Fizzled Spark in the Trailer ParkJan 4th, 2013 9:58:51 pm - Subscribe
I haven't had a home in years. The semester I spent with Chelsea in the dorms seems more like a dream or a summer at camp before becoming an adult. It was the last time I felt secure. Small increments of time while living with Shannon felt safe and homelike.
There were two times when I went through a period of contentment and growth in that house. The first was when I had just moved in. I drove myself crazy pining for Josh. I was sad, lonely, and jealous of my friends who got to "go home" for the summer. When my feelings for him were not reciprocated, I slowly learned to embrace my loneliness. Until the chaos that occurred later that fall.
The second time was after my breakup with Chris. I basically had a three month long breakdown, an addiction to valium, vicious cycle, blah blah. All over some douchebag that I knew I shouldn't have wasted my time on to begin with. As soon as the clouds of addiction started to clear, I grew content with my living situation. I was alright with myself. I enjoyed life. Then Shan sold the house and I was forced to move into the first shithole I could afford.
Since then, I've wanted nothing more than a place to call home. I keep telling myself that when I graduate, I can stop worrying about money, find a nice place to live, and just exist with no resistance. I constantly fantasize about waking up in a bed with a real bedframe, showering in a tastefully decorated bathroom, sitting down at a vintage vanity in a bathrobe and putting on makeup, while deciding what I want to do on my day off. I think about how great it would be to clean the whole house while listening to music, not worrying if I'm bothering the roommates or whether or not the sink is going to drain after I do the dishes. Dishes. I want nice dishes so that when I cook delicious, balanced meals, I can eat off of trendy dishes, rather than some cheap set from Walmart. I long for a living room with matching furniture that I picked out myself, rather than just dealing with some ridiculously heavy, torn-up, beige hide-a-bed that my roommate refuses to part with. I want decorative towels and vintage kitchen appliances. I want a room with exercise equipment and enough space to do yoga and zumba. I want another room, or at least a closet for my craft supplies.
I'm so tired of moving place to place, throwing away clothes, furniture, and possessions like an episode of Hoarders, never replacing the things I've lost. Slowly losing more of myself with every new apartment. I don't even bother unpacking the boxes or decorating my room anymore because I know how much effort it takes to tear everything down and pack it all up again.
A mantle. I'd really like a mantle for all the wacky crap that I used to collect but had to toss over the years of downsizing.
I guess after spending a week in a strange house, I realize how much I live like I'm on vacation. Never really unpacking, just grabbing what I need before heading out. Access to the kitchen, but not actually cooking. Nothing is mine, my stuff is packed up in the spare bedroom. Except I'm not on vacation, I'm not visiting friends. I'm paying to wade through other people's crap.
I'm getting too old for this. I thought I'd make it to graduation but something has to change.
TonightJan 1st, 2013 1:14:36 am - Subscribe
I watched The Nutcracker on PBS for a brief moment as it interrupted the program Cami and I were watching. In my drunken stupor, I believed it was Joanie fucking with me.
I lit a candle for her, as a hundred others did. I watched the dancers on the screen, remembering her breast falling out of her top as she gracefully pranced around the lobby of the senior center.
Tonight, I make no resolutions. I don't focus on the past year, the celebrities, events, or my personal misadventures. Tonight I fall asleep, dreaming about the great person the world lost one year ago.
Rest in peace, Joanie. I've missed my chance to truly know you, but you've impacted my life more than you will ever know.
Anyone?Oct 17th, 2012 5:11:47 pm - Subscribe
First off, I hate the word "bully." I think it sounds juvenile. I prefer terms like "harassment" and "verbal abuse" because it captures the severity of the issue, rather than making it sound like some 90's cartoon character.
This issue with Amanda Todd has gotten everyone talking. Anonymous has tracked down the alleged asshole who drove her to do this and is publicly shaming him. I would imagine this acts as a deterrent for other potential attackers but it does not help the current victims.
I do not understand how a young girl could be moved from school to school, and suffer through such torment alone. Why did no one step in?
I understand why high school students wouldn't step in: fear. They see one person being shunned, and they don't want to be a victim themselves, so they either avoid it or they give in and become one of the tormenters.
I'm not even going to get into the whole slut shaming aspect of it because that I don't want this to turn into a term paper. But yes, slut shaming and gay shaming are probably the trickiest things to deal with in a high school because of our puritan parents and teachers. It's okay to harass someone, if they deserve it. And no one deserves it more than a teenager who is sexually aware.
I digress. I know that when you suffer in high school, you suffer alone. But we live in an age of technology and awareness so why isn't there a mentor program for teens? If Anonymous can put so much effort into tracking down some maniacal pervert, why can't they find other troubled teens and reach out to them? Why isn't there a program that I can join to mentor a teen who is going through the same hell that poor Amanda suffered? Let's face it, she's not the only one out there who has had to go through with this. We can sit there, post an image for Bully Awareness Month and feel like we did our part, but there is a high school where I live, why am I not reaching out to those students? First off, I don't know any high schoolers. I'm in college. It's creepy to hang out at high school events and say "Yo, you look troubled, wanna go out for coffee?" But why isn't Fort Hays starting an organization for college students to adopt a high schooler? I mean, sure we have Big Brothers and Big Sisters but that is for At Risk students and children from "broken homes." If the school counselor talks to a student who is troubled, sad, and lonely, they should pawn that student off to someone closer to their age. Once a week, I would gladly give up a few hours to go to Pottery Works or Gella's and just talk to a kid about their problems. I'd give that kid advice and tell them that life goes on after high school, because it does, and they won't always be that girl who showed her boobs on the internet, or the boy who asked the quarterback to prom.
How do I, in a non-creepy, semi-professional way, reach out to troubled teens? How can I prevent teen suicide?
No, seriously. Does anyone know?
KamikazeMay 17th, 2012 11:10:03 pm - Subscribe
I scanned the bar, looking for someone to take me home. I was lonely. My boyfriend is halfway across the country. There were no takers. After two and a half pitchers of liquor and several other mixed drinks, I walked home, looking forward to my vibrator.
There was a massive party outside of my apartment. One man pushed through the crowd to talk to me. He was charming enough, I figured I could have a quickie with him before heading home to sleep. We talked, I flirted. He knew I wanted sex.
I walked upstairs and found that I had left my keys inside. I obtained a hanger from my neighbor and went to work on the lock. The nameless face appeared and offered to help, informing me that he “used to be a crook.” I thought nothing of it until he invited himself inside. We flirted a bit more, I knew I was going to have sex with him. For a brief moment I even wanted it, mostly so that he would leave. His presence made me nervous and I regretted talking to him. I agreed to sex, informed him that I’m in a long-distance relationship, had to work early, wanted him gone by morning and that I didn’t want him to call me, ever.
Then he started to run his mouth.
We sat on my bed. As he touched me, he told me this would be the best experience of my life, multiple orgasms, blah blah blah, I’ll forget my stupid old boyfriend and he’d fuck me until morning.
Fuck that. I told him I just wanted a quickie, wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, gtfo.
He told me I had to give him head, when I protested he told me I’d be so turned on that I’d be begging for it. I could tell he’d done this a million times, taken advantage of women who were extremely drunk and slightly afraid of him. The more he talked, the more I wanted him to leave. I allowed another rapist into my life.
By this time he had most of my clothes off. I never reached out to touch him. I told him I had changed my mind, I’m really tired, give me your number and we could do this another time, I’m really uncomfortable, I’m scared, I don’t want to do this.
He shushed me and proceeded to explain and repeat why this was going to be so great, how I’d be begging for more and I’ll never want it to end.
I wanted it to end right there. It crossed my mind, leave now or I’ll call the cops. But then I thought about the whole “crook” bullshit. He literally just broke into my apartment. He saw the bat and the mace by the door, he saw the knives and blunt objects surrounding us. If I pissed him off, he could easily come back another day and do a lot worse to me. Or he could kill me right then and there. He wasn’t happy when I told him I didn’t want to do this, he only grew more aggressive.
I laid back and quietly let him take me.
It was painful. It felt like my first time. Everything he said made me want to vomit, everything he did caused unbelievable pain. I stared at the ceiling, motionless, wishing he would see my discomfort and offer to stop. Instead, he ordered me around and I obeyed as if he had a gun to my head. I shook, cried, and pushed back as much as I could, this made him angry. He started calling me “crazy bitch” and other obscenities. He finally asked me if it was my first time, suddenly compassionate. He assured me that he would slow down and go easy on me, blabbing about how he would do anything to please me. His condescending bullshit made me cry hysterically. I couldn't believe that he wouldn't just stop when I was clearly upset and in pain. When the condom broke, I curled up into a ball and screamed into a pillow. He walked around my apartment, searching for the other condom that he had, telling me that he was going to fuck me so much harder this time. When he couldn’t find it, he climbed on top of me, despite my begging him not to. I started screaming and trying to fight him off of me. He finally stopped after I calmly informed him that this feels an awful lot like rape. He stood in front of me, his massive penis in my face and said: “The least you could do is give me some fucking head, you crazy ass bitch.”
I vomited all over the carpet and begged him to leave. He kissed me and touched me, reassured me that he's a good person, convincing me that I was insane for not wanting it, his last attempts to coerce me into consent.
I don’t even know how many times I apologized for “being crazy” and “starting something I couldn’t finish.”
I swore that if this ever happened, I would report it. I owe it to the fifteen year old me and to every girl who might fall victim to this asshole. I didn’t even get his name. I asked my neighbor if he knew him and he said he didn’t. I can’t explain this to the cops, a judge, a doctor, my parents, my boyfriend, anyone. All for what? An investigation that will go nowhere?
Self-pity and such.
I'm scared. Afraid to leave the house. Afraid of sex. Afraid of men. Afraid of alcohol. I could sit here and say "It's not my fault" a million times but I'm aware of the countless errors that led up to this. I should have learned my lesson by now. I pretty much feel like crying all the time. I hate myself and I want someone to tell me it's not my fault. More than anything, I desperately want to tell someone. Every time I decide to tell someone, I choke on the words and my eyes start to burn. It feels like I'm suffocating. So here you go, internet. Thank you for listening.
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Content Copyrighted evie at Aeonity Blog
Content Copyrighted evie at Aeonity Blog