Yesterday

I said a lot. But I don't think I said the right things. I don't think I said all the things that I should have said. I'm only good with words when I can edit them and correct them.


I can be anything. I want to be anything that you want me to be. I can be emotionless, a squirming, sheet clutching moaner. I can be the type of girl who comes over at night, and leaves in the morning. I can look you in the eye as if you were a stranger and pretend that I never traced crooked fingers over your shoulders and held your face in my hands. In the daylight, I can pretend that I never felt any part of you between my thighs. I am a woman. I can lust. I am a woman. I can pretend.

But what good is pretending to me? What good does it do to pretend that's all I want, from you, from anyone. I don't know what I want. But I do. I do. I do. I want you to be with me. Whatever being with me entails. I don't know how to tell him. I should say something. I should say something. Let me put it this way: I hate hands, I hate other hands touching my hands. Hands are gross and dirty, and mine sweat when I'm nervous. But if you wanted to hold my hand, I would let you. That's how I feel about you.

Stop asking why. Not everything has a purpose. Not everything has a meaning.
Existentialist bullshit.

I want him to be honest with me. He isn't making eye contact, and I feel like words are sitting on his lips, waiting to jump out into the air, reach over and choke me. But I love to be abused by honesty. I want him to hit me until I'm black and blue with the truth. Abuse me. And he does. I wonder if he regrets it, telling me about mystery-girl who isn't me. I think  at first he doesn't, but when I start spilling criticisms and "you shoulds" he probably begins to wish he could take the words back up. But I'm already bleeding, bleeding thoughts, imposing on his life.

Why? How did this happen?

Do you want me to say everything has a meaning? I don't believe that. Maybe this means everything, maybe it means nothing, but thinking of that won't help us now. Why is it so hard for you? Why are you confused? I want to force him not to be confused, but I care. I care about him. I realize that even if I'm hurt, I cannot show it. I don't want to guilt trip this boy into anything. I want him to be free of himself, and of me. I care, so I'm not just taking what I want without concern for his feelings.

I know then that I cannot sleep with him. But I want to. I want to kiss him, feel him on top of me and then curl into his arms, resting my head on his chest, listening to his heart beat until I fall asleep. I want to have sex with him. I want to be naked. I want to be selfish, and satisfy my body, draining him of all life; I want to feel. I want to touch him, but I think I've upset him now. I can see some resentment around his eyes, but I can't stop talking. I am powerless. Powerless, because I haven't said a good thing in quite a few sentences.

I've been telling the truth, but not all of it. And I know that it's a mistake. But I don't want to confuse him more. He's confused enough as it is. I want to burst into laughter. Imagine that, me knowing what I want and having a beautiful man sitting across from me confused. Who would have thought. But my urge towards laughter is quickly replaced by a realization of what I am doing and what I am allowing him to think. But I've said too much to backtrack. He probably already sees me as a heartless girl, who only cares about sex and emotionless fucking. Maybe it will be easier for him to think of me that way? Maybe I don't care about him at all, and it will just be easier for me? I mean, it's easy to deny the fact that you have feelings for someone and difficult to admit. Especially for me. Especially when he's confused. Especially when mystery-girl is probably me-but-better.

I wonder if he'll think about me. I kiss him on the cheek. I must not cry. (I've caused a lot of problems by letting men see me cry.) And I want to stay. I want to kiss him again and again and run my hands all over his skin and take back anything that might have hurt him. I want to use sex to make things better, but I know that I can't.  I look at him another time, for a brief moment, revealing my obvious sadness. He notices and says something, but I manage to regain control and leave before things get worse.

I hope she's pretty. I hope she's nice. I hope she's sane. You deserve so much better than me.
I just want you to be happy.
Be happy.
Happy happy happy.

I walk back to my room.

Just tell yourself that you did the right thing.
Just tell yourself you are not sad.
This isn't the worst thing to happen to you.
Strength.
ισχος

But here's a little secret
I don't want her to be better.
I don't want him to like her.
Why can't anyone like me properly.
Why can't I feel.
Why can't I feel.

Drip drip
salty little beginnings of tears
I'm so proud
I was honest

Liar
Hypocrite
You deserve to die.
Die.
Die.
Die. 

You are not your father
I care about you
I think you are beautiful
I think you are wonderful
I want you to like me. That's all I want.
I am not strong.
I am weak. Stay with me.
Stay with me.
I don't care if you are flawed
I don't care about other girls
I don't care about other boys
Just let me kiss you.
kiss kiss kiss

Let me see your hands
Let me see your eyes
I want you. I don't know why.
I don't want to know why.
I only want to kiss you.

Why won't you tell me the truth
Why don't you know what you want
Why am I only beautiful
Why am I only good enough to fuck
Nothing else

I am worthless
I am worthless
worthless
worth-less

Sh
Be quiet
Run away
run away 
run away

back to familiar pain
i did the right thing
i did the right thing?

let me worry about my psyche

just tell me the truth
why can't you tell me the truth

I imagine taking a knife to my arm in my room, because I didn't cry like I thought I would. Girls are supposed to cry. Instead I run to my safe haven, to protect myself and think. There, I realize that I really did like him, because I thought of only him. I didn't do anything for myself. I really didn't. I didn't want to be too much. I could be sexual if he wanted me to be, I could be in a "relationship" if he wanted me to be.

But I realize that he must think I'm crazy. Because I don't know him. Because it doesn't make sense. Because I'm just "a random girl". Because I am not perfect. Because I don't know what I want all the time. Because I called him childish.

I've never been good at being patient. But I know I must be patient now. Whatever happens happens. I have no God. I have no one. I suppose I believe in fate just a little. If he comes back to me, or if I have the courage to go back to him, then that will be what is meant to be. And if nothing happens, maybe that is also meant to be and I will not dwell on explanations, only live and live and live. 

My Gift to You

Free Books to Take Advantage Of!

Nugget #1

Cold and cruel and hateful of men.

But what good has ever come of loving them.

Wednesday's Minutia

Sometimes I feel like there are only two options in life: remain insignificant or do something phenomenal.
Right now, as a part of my teenage existential crisis, I am beginning to question the significance of everything that I'm engaged in. "What's the point?" I ask myself before everything, from going to class, talking to a friend or even getting a cup of coffee. I pay attention to irrelevant minutia and become obsessed with having an impact on people around me.

Yesterday, I got really good advice from a friend of mine, regarding an argument I'd had a few days earlier. "You should just do what I do... and not care." The concept is really simple, and I can't say that I haven't considered it before, but a lot of the time, I need to hear these things reflected back to me from someone else before I can really begin to process them. Is there a correct way in dealing with someone who disagrees with you?

Some things are incontrovertible facts. Evolution is one of them. Another would be the definition of words that are harmful or oppressive to a group of people. For example: the words "f****t" or "t****y" are oppressive to certain groups of people. It is not up for me to discuss whether these words have an offensive definition because these words have not been used to silence or oppress me. If I attempted to argue a "different opinion" about these words, it would be irrelevant. I would not be expressing a different opinion, I would be bigoted and wrong.

So, engaging in an argument where I am 100% correct, yet this correctness is not accepted, how do I deal with the aftermath? Could it really be that simple for me to "not care"? I want to educate other people and I want to be somewhat important. I know there's a limited amount that I can do to promote equality especially in this Middlebury microcosm. A part of me is still hopeful that reading and educating myself and the people around me about topics I really care about (and that they claim to care about) is going to be important enough on my scale of existence for me to continue.

In this case, I think I can take the advice about "not caring" to a certain extent and put it into practice. I can't care about what other people think of me in terms of how "mean" or "harsh" I am. Caring about something that is so important to me and affects my every day life is not something that I should apologize and feel bad for. I shouldn't feel bad for "belligerence" or the way with which I choose to communicate a message. In the long run, it is far worse to be a bigot than to berate one, so I think I can get away with a little rage in the hopes that it will eventually matter.

On Stress

I am a clinically depressed pre-med neuroscience major and Arabic minor. Being stressed out is my primary state of being. On "bad days" this stress consumes me; it is a whispered repetition of you will fail. you will fail.  I do have good days though, and since this is one of them, I will take this opportunity to write some bullet points to myself about "bad days" and stressful times and how to get through them. And bullet point format IS lazy. I know.( But I'm currently skipping class so there's a little glimpse into my laziness for you.)

• Small failures do not mean you are a failure. 
• Working hard really does pay off. Even if you are unhappy, just think about the reward.
• You are not alone. 
• You are not alone. (Repetition necessary because I tend to forget this.)
• Fuck your nihilist / existentialist bullshit. Stop being a little bitch and live in the present.
• Try your hardest. Not like you normally pretend to do, but actually throw yourself into things before you succumb to failure. 
• No more than three cups of coffee. Being jittery is helping nothing.
• Take a thirty minute break. A real one. Not a thirty minute break where you're stressing out about the next thing or worrying yourself sick about assignments due next week. Watch the Daily Show, something happy and just forget about your life for a while.
• DO NOT listen to depressing music. Just don't do it. Dancehall playlists are acceptable. 
• Don't forget to call your parents. They have always encouraged you, make some time for them.
• Change scenery. Go work in Armstrong, or in a classroom. 
• Remind yourself of why you're doing what you're doing. Why do I want to be a doctor?
• Give yourself micro-rewards for accomplishing things. (Ex: If I do twenty minutes of Chem, I can make a cup of tea.) 
• Talk to your roommate (or a good friend if you don't have one.)
• Remind yourself that you are great! You have to believe that you are great.
• Take deep breaths and count to ten. It really works, and you know it.
• There are beautiful things in the world. 

Exhausted

Too tired to write about people who are wrong. It's difficult for me to care when I know I'm right. Life would be so much easier if people educated themselves, instead of spewing garbage.

A Dream I Once Had

Prologue: Seriously. I strongly advise you to not bring this up with me if we know each other in real life. If you feel extraordinarily compelled, do not mention this to me in person. Use Facebook messages or e-mail. 

I write for myself, and I am not ashamed of my writing. People have found out about my blogs by chance / accident / me forgetting that I actually do not post happy stuff all of the time. I am not going to stop you from reading what I write, but I want you to know that you are CHOOSING to read this and I do not have a choice when it comes to writing. If I have something that I really need to say to you, trust that I will say it in person. 

This is also unedited so there may be: spelling errors, bad phrasing and just weird run-on sentences. English nit-pickers be wary.

Alternate title: a series of small scenes outlining the deterioration of an unnamed girl


Remember that nothing is non-fiction.




I've gone back in time and I'm watching a fast forward version of us. This is what they meant by soul mates. I can fix us... I can fix myself in this version of reality. Everything in my life is happening out of order and in this chaotic shift in time, everything becomes clear and perfect. Your eyes are looking into mine. I thought you were beautiful the moment I saw you, but didn't quite process this beauty until I had ruined you and in turn, ruined myself. I want this flawless version of reality to stay with me. I want my ninth grade self. I want to call out your name one last time. I want to feel my tiny body engulfed in your arms. I will never feel safe again. I will never be happy again. You were my last hope at survival but as I feel a retrospective tear roll down my face, the vision unwinds. My stomach knots up into the sickness that now characterizes it. My smile is gone. My perpetual optimism becomes a heavily rooted misandry and unshaken cynicism.

 I'm so glad you found God. So glad you left me behind, leaving me to kiss my guilt for dying behind.

~

Months of monotony. A winter went by where I acted all right. I was strong.

I threw a party. I looked gorgeous and went all dressed up with a ghost on my right arm.

One look at you, and strength melted away. The presence of my ghost did little to comfort me. You were happy. Happy. Happy. Happy. And here I was smiling and laughing and saying why-i-hope-you're-having-a-good-time and taking pictures and being myself. I became obsessed with your happiness. I needed to understand why you were happy.

How could you be?

Take the crazy girl and put her in a gorgeous black dress and pin all her hair back. She's almost ready. Put a frail ghost of a person on her arm and send her to the party she planned. Send her there to see the love of her life (or so she thought) alone and happy and perfect. Send the crazy girl to the party and see if she will snap!

I had you sent out. Shaking with guilt. Shaking with regret. Shaking with the knowledge that I'd closed that door and locked it shut. Good bye. I loved you. Have a nice life.

I will never.
Ever.
Ever.
Send a crazy girl to a party ever again.

~

I don't know how to love.
I don't know how to feel.
Take a drink pretty girl. Light a bowl.
You do know you're pretty right?

At least I'm pretty.

It doesn't matter if you're empty,
As long as you stick a sassy little mouth on it
and call it cynicism.

If your God is so amazing...
God.
Ha!

Six mixed drinks and five cigarettes later,
I had my diploma
cum laude

Sadness is good for something.
"I love you, Thomas. I love you. I love you I love you."
All lies.

But maybe if I say it enough times. Drunk and sincere.
Maybe someone will believe me and love me back.

~
Three years ago I liked a tall boy. He was born and raised in the snobbiest state: a foot taller than me and so many pounds lighter. (This was when I thought that I had a soul.) I cannot really remember his face very much. He had a large nose and eyes that could be blue or green depending on the light and what color Ralph Lauren polo he wore. He was white male teenage angst, and a beautiful, displaced writer. He wanted to be good enough so badly and I wanted him to be good enough too. I read every short story, devoured every word.

Writers are good at seeing beauty in others.

We are still friends. But I haven't read any of his recent works. I dreamt that one day I walked into some Barnes and Noble establishment, hand in hand with soul-mate extraordinaire and we laugh at the days when I thought that writers could make me see beauty or that blue eyes were deeper or more beautiful than any others
~

My three sisters lived with me for a year. I was seventeen and just then learning about destroying my body. My three sisters are beautiful creatures, each one of us destructive in some way or another, none more unjustified than myself. And every weekend we would pick our poison and sit and sip our illicit materials under the light of a shifty colored disco ball. We learned things about each other and about women in general. They taught me how to have sisters outside of my family. They taught me about loyalty. They never spoke his name unless I spoke it first. They never spoke to him when I was around. They essentially killed a man for me. They killed an irresistible and utterly lovable  person for me, the decidedly unlovable and fickle child of depression.

My best friends killed the man I loved. My sisters killed the man I love. And they kept my secrets well.

~

Not even a whisper, to each other or anyone else: She still loves him.

~

I dreamt all the good men were a myth perpetuated by society and then I drowned in my unreasonable expectations. I woke up choking and grasping, reaching out for someone to "be different". But everyone knows you should remain calm when you're underwater.

So I drowned.

~

How can you be my best friend. I don't even like you? Do I?

I can't explain it to anyone.

But you are one of the closest people I have to a brother.

So even if I stop dreaming, I think you'd exist in the real world too.

~

I wanted it all to be a secret. I wanted to be perfect. I want to be perfect. Why can't anyone forget the stupid depression. Forget about it!

Don't let it control your vision of me.
It's a part of me enough as it is.

Fuck your pity.
Fuck your compassion.
Fuck your sad looks.

I don't need any of it.

I am not weak. I am sick.
sick sick sick sick sick sick sick
But I'll get better. I'll get better without you.

I hate men because they always think that the grace of their compassion will be strong enough to cure me. Your compassion hurts more than sadness. Your pity cuts deeper than any knife. And your sickening tendency to treat me like a poor-little-girl brings me closer to nausea than an unfiltered shot of gin.

~

I like when you notice that I haven't eaten in days. I want to force myself to love you. You are so weird. So annoying. You are the worst. "Tell him you have a crush on him. Tell him." So I do and of course it is a bad idea. the worst. But it's not your fault and I just want to sit and watch you and I know it's very odd but I can't help it. I wish I could write you into a book, myself. Authors have such intricate knowledge of their characters. Writer's block prevents me from getting past a thin caricature of a persona.

You're a little 3D puzzle and I can't figure you out and the more time I spend trying to fit the little pieces together, the more frustrated I get. And you, my little puzzle, want to flee from the probing hands trying to piece you together because maybe you want to be a mystery.

Half of what I know about you isn't real. I've dreamt it all. I've made our whole friendship up in my head and when you tell me to fuck off, I pretend not to hear it because I have embraced tenacity as a part of "myself." Every piece of the puzzle I hold between my fingers, twisting around my spindly crooked bones, the closer I am to waking up.

You talk a lot. I know. I know. But it's my dream and I can talk if I want to. And it's my dream so I can control what's happening and if I pinch down hard enough, I know I can wake up. My unfinished business doesn't matter, because dreams aren't real, and unsolved puzzles don't symbolize failure and nightmares always end.

~

She's loved him for five years and I don't know how she does it. My fourth non-biological sister. Sweet and perfect and everything I cannot be. She is patient. She is peaceful. She is kind. I am unruly. I am disorganized. I express rage. I can scream and stab things and rip bits of paper and write letters to boys I'll never see again and then watch flames lick up the sides of papers and laugh the way the nutjobs do.

I am inadequate. You always know what you say. You can make me feel better. You will listen to me speak for hours but I can't do the same for you. I always fall short and we both know it. But somehow you are still there, and I am still here.

I am forever inadequate, but it doesn't mean I don't care.

I don't know how you love him. How does your heart stand it? I can't stand loving anymore so I've convinced myself that I can stop. He doesn't deserve you, but I don't know how to express it any other way.

How can I reflect how different your souls are? You soul is a perfect sphere, Plato's sphere. You are the ideal. And he is an (originally) spherical lump of Play-Doh, handed off to a three year old and twisted and marred so far out of shape, and mixed with all the other Play-Doh lumps to become a hardened, out of shape brown blob. He is indistinguishable from his original beauty and you are still a floating angel untouched by evil.

Maybe you don't believe that you are perfect, but your only flaw is loving too much. Arguably, that is not really a flaw. Maybe I am blinded by sisterly loyalty, perhaps a flaw of yours lurks in some dreamy shadow-land, but in the present I see nothing that ruins you.

I worry that one day you'll wake up and you won't be you anymore. I don't want him to take away your kindness. I don't want him to take away your naiveté. I want to scream at him to let you be and I want to take you and shield you from ever loving boys. I can't protect you, my dear. I can't control everything. But I can write, and wish for you to realize how much better you are than he. My lips are sealed and I am quiet as a mouse, giving weakly supportive opinions because I care so deeply for you, I fear if I allow myself to speak freely, I will terrify you and you will leave me too.

I cannot be short a sister.

Look at me: sweet mix of selfishness and selflessness.

~

Maybe you are thinking it doesn't matter how imperfect he is.
Maybe you love imperfections.

It would explain a few things.

~

There was a moment over the summer when I lay in my bed late at night thinking. It was an odd thing to dream, I admit. My soul-mate extraordinaire popped into my head. I hadn't thought of his name in a month and I was happy. I fell into a deeper sleep, and didn't think of him again for another two months.

~

I have a Smith & Wesson knife in my room. I thought they made guns? Although it is silly, I sterilize the tip of the knife and hold the index finger on my right hand over my knee. I grip the knife with my left hand and try to draw blood with the knife's tip. It isn't sharp enough to make this painless. So I put the knife down and wash my hands. I close it up tight and promise I won't try to do something so stupid ever again. I mean, would you try to draw blood with a spoon? It's the same thing.

~

I had a dream that I liked a boy the normal way and everything went well. It was a nice dream, where things fell into place without me ever trying. And no one had to find out that I hate my New England world and on Friday nights I write and think and try to stab my fingers with dull knives.

~

I'm trembling
It's happening too quickly

But I like his hands

And soon I like more
and more bits
and here I am
stuck liking

I don't know
how to hide
Real me (TM).

Here...
I don't need to

I'm warmer
when he's here.

It makes
no sense

I barely know you.

I don't know
how to be a woman

I can be a girl,
Naked
And craving

Stop shaking 
Little girl

She steadies my body
Calm-me
calms me

Or is it him
The Stranger

I'm shattered
too quickly
for a "sick cynic"

~

How can I think that I am the only girl.

~

Being beautiful isn't enough. Being pretty isn't enough. I am not smart enough. I am not loving enough.  I am not girly enough or sweet enough or innocent enough. I am bombarded with not-enough all day. There is no one but me yelling the repetitive message, but somehow, my worst critic wins.

I can acknowledge things that I can prove. I can prove that I'm pretty. I like my face. (Except when I've been crying.) My hair is long and colorful and I can change it from curly to straight at my whim. I'm small and have just-enough fat in just-enough places. There's your proof.

But bad thoughts crawl into my brain anyways and I see inadequacies everywhere else.

~

I think he likes other girls and I care. The fact that I care scares me. It's not like I don't  start off  thinking the worst of men. I cannot be fooled. I am the misandrist who knows her men well enough to not be tricked by them.

It isn't good that I want only him. Want him for what?

I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.

I try to force my mind to recollect soul-mate extraordinaire, or conjure images of different ghosts, but I have moved on from them, except to emotionally ponder them on Friday nights when depression overtakes my mind. They are not my present, though. For once, I finally want to be in the present, but I feel I am alone there.

Always alone. Forever and ever. Amen.

~

I can't stop thinking about him.
I want him out of my head.

I can't forget what pain feels like.


I need to dwell on the past again
to remind myself that

I am a footnote.

Happy Friday

(Note: I have not proofread this at all, but I am lazy so edits will come later.)


This week has been too much. The fact that everyone thinks I'm on the verge of suicide is certainly a contributing factor, as well as the monotony I face being in this oppressive collegiate environment. I feel as if my creative spirit is being stifled by merely being here. I am accomplishing nothing. Everything I am doing now is inspired by some selfish desire for a better future for myself. But I am nothing. A speck of dust. Some protrusion in the space-time continuum with very little relevance to anything outside of my microcosm. A scratch on the dusty record of time, but nothing else.

When I start thinking with this nihilistic world view, I begin to worry a bit. I wish I had some God to keep me grounded, to help me believe that everything has significance. But I can't believe in old Jesus H. even if I wanted to. Unlike most modern atheists, proud of their grand defiance, and eager to flaunt their "higher intelligence" in the face of the devout, I view my atheism as a curse. That's what it really is; there is nothing to brag about. Egotistical white males who project this confidence in the philosophy that their existence means nothing are foolish.  People are not fooled by their carelessly constructed illusion. No one is okay with that belief; it goes against the core structure of human thought to enjoy the belief that you are insignificant.

So here's to another Friday of insignificance. The Vermont chill soaks through my skin; I wish I had decided on something more substantial than a t-shirt with a scarf thrown over it. Sipping bitter coffee does little to jar me into a waking state. I am still detached and half asleep with a lethargic mind.

How do I fix this emptiness? Although I do not believe in my significance on a macroscopic scale, I refuse to add to the pointlessness of human life by approaching it lackadaisically. Being empty, or believing in nothing does not make you "edgy" or "cool". And it is not something marked only by teenage years. (Attributing nihilism or existential crises to hormones is the adult worlds way of delegitimizing the emotions of the young and trying to force them into their preconceived molds of teenage mediocrity.) Like any problem I am presented with, my dissatisfaction with my existence is something that I need to fix.

I cannot count how many times over the past two weeks I have had the words, "What do you want?" thrown in my direction, emphasis on different words or syllables depending on who was doing the asking. I abhor the question. I don't know. I don't know. STOP ASKING ME QUESTIONS I DON'T KNOW THE ANSWER TO. "I have no idea. I guess I'll figure it out." Calm. Anxiety bubbles beneath the surface as I force my body to reflect definitive confidence. Confident in my ignorance of what I want... what a wonderfully stupid thing to fake.

Everyone around me is right. I cannot be happy until I know what I want. But everything I want seems so distant and unattainable that when presented with the question, my mind freezes up and my instinct is to revert to false confidence, a talent the boarding school crowd is quite familiar with. "I want to be happy," is an almost acceptable answer, but then the follow-up question to that response is almost worse than, "What do you want?"

The things that make me happy seem so few. I like writing on a morning, I like literature, science, figuring out a difficult problem, sitting at breakfast for hours, people watching during lectures, seeing beautiful photographs, the feeling of finishing something overwhelming. I like certain things about people that surround me. I like the way my roommate deals with my tendency to hide my feelings, I like people with giant flaws, emotional frigidity, blue eyes, gentle souls,  and poetic minds. I love the things people are embarrassed or self-conscious about. All of these things make me happy in a temporary sense. But how do I translate that into something permanent? What are long term things that make me happy?

Maybe I think too much. Maybe the solution to my problem is to just do what makes me happy in the moment and let the long run fall into place. But how do I know that this train of thought is not a  representation of my brainwashing into a culture based on hedonism and instant gratification? And there I am again - over-thinking things.

I know that I have bad days, and that I have good ones. Maybe a good beginning for this pursuit of long term happiness is this: my goal for the next week or so should be to have the good days outnumber the bad. Even if the ratio is 4-3 (per week) that is at least a step in the right direction, and hopefully will translate to a greater state of happiness over time.

An Examination of My Destructive Potential

These are the days that I hate. I wake up suddenly with a sharp intake of breath that cuts to unused portions of my lungs. I reach for the time and then flop down on my pillow, almost regretful of the fact that I really did survive another night. I'm not sure what I expect. It's not like I've ever actively tried to off myself. Waking up should be expected. But on days like today it strikes me as an unpleasant surprise rather than normal progression of events.

 It is a bad week already. Tuesday began to pull me into a depressive state, and Wednesday is doing nothing to lift my spirits. I crave a combination of company and isolation. Company would be nice to take my mind off the "bad thoughts". I want to draw just pin pricks of blood from my arm. I want to sit in the rain for three hours and fall asleep, wet and drowned by sickness and cold precipitation. I want to light my bed sheets on fire and watch the flames lick up all my possessions until there is nothing. For this, isolation would be great. Nada, y pues nada. Relating my insanity to my favorite Hemingway story brings a twisted smile to my face that my friends interpret as tired and sad. Not quite, mes amis. I am not tired. I am not sad. I am nothing. For this reason, I feel a compelling need to destroy things: my possessions, my health, my body, my relationships. I want to prove I'm real.

"Prove that you exist". This is how I'd respond to that tired trope of an essay question. I'd spill my blood on a page. Burn the edges of the paper, dip it into a cup of cold coffee. This ability to destroy would be proof enough of my existence. I suppose one could argue that our ability to create proves this as well. But what could I even create? I create sadness. I create anxiety, stress, hatred, irritation. I haven't created anything good in so long. I believe that I have lost the ability, or buried it very deep inside myself. Even my precious words are scattered and disorganized. My metaphors are tired. I cannot make a reader feel my emotions anymore. I can barely feel them myself.

I'm trying to understand my emotions again. I'm trying to make them real, to prove that I can still feel. Going on and off my medication is only confusing me further, rather than helping me to figure my emotions out. I am not sure what is helping or hurting more - the medication or the lack of it. I need someone to take care of me. But all the people who knew what to do are gone now. Even the ones that theoretically remain are so far away that they seem like characters I've made up to cope with being alone.

You can take care of yourself. Little Ms. Kiernan's words were pounded into my skull months ago but it's hard to believe she is still right. I can take care of myself over the summer, when I have no commitments, no people to love or disappoint. What about now? Can I still make myself happy with external factors pushing me to implode?

Although I have nearly forgotten my Groton ghosts, I can't help but conjure them up when I'm feeling like this. A mixture of comfort and guilt. It sits well with numbness.

"I don't think you will ever be happy." A smile. I've become so good at making them genuine. Eyes turned up at the corners. Perhaps throwing in a girlish giggle and clearing my mind of emotion, dedicating every muscle in perpetuating my façade. You may be right. You may be right. I haven't loved in years. I haven't been content. I don't know what I want. Put a voice to my biggest fears. Make them real and cruel by saying them out loud. Give those fears a voice I trust.

I am too angry to really react at all. Rage is contained so well inside of me. Almost an emotion, but so heavily suppressed that I cannot even conceive of how to express it. I imagine taking a fist to your face: raw and shocking.  Or I picture holding your hand in mine and making a gentle and precise incision across your palm just to see dark red blood wash over both of our hands, proving that you too are human. I want to prove that men bleed. Men feel. They are just like us, not stronger or weaker: the same. But just writing about my violent thoughts is not enough to satisfy me and I have a twisted desire to cause pain that takes all of my strength to suppress, especially on the "bad days". My super ego rules my aggressive id unfortunately, leaving me to womanly things like smiling and pretending all is well.

This is it. Proof that I have gone mad. I want to see blood and fire. I want to destroy. I refuse to take my little-yellow-helpers and I've started skipping classes when I damn well please to maintain control over something.

What I normally do next is stop eating. I let my stomach feel empty to distract from bad thoughts. Say nothing. Feel nothing. I must melt into contemplative silence. Maybe the only way to get out of this episode is to let it happen to me, not fighting feelings of fear or melancholy. The only thing I have control of, is what I destroy or don't destroy. I can let my super ego reign for right now, and keep myself grounded in smiles and laughs rather than free myself to the temptations of burning and bleeding. For the good of humanity I will stop trying to create things in my life. For my own good, I will try not to destroy others anymore than I can help it.

Maybe I won't ever be genuinely happy, but if I hope that if I get through this little bit of melancholy, I can work on faking happiness long enough to make it real. If I believed in a God, this is where I would pray, but fairy tales and precious myths stopped satisfying me long ago, leaving me alone without the sweet opiate of religion to fool me into the ignorant joy of the masses.

Weekend Playlist!

let's get fucked up. from braiton on 8tracks Radio.

Sophomore Year (In the Beginning)

My first official week is over.
I am calm and committed to being more successful this year than I have been in the past. I feel like I am in control of my life, a pleasant change from the past. When I wake up on a morning, instead of feeling despair or frustration, I feel capable of handling the upcoming day. I feel flawless and perfect, like nothing can touch me or change that. It has been difficult for me to come to terms with who I am in a number of ways. In a sense, I'm not really sure who I am, because I feel like I am so many different people. I can be who I need to be for a given situation. My personality, my thoughts and feelings are all fluid.

If I need to be the intellectual, I can call upon my knowledge of current events or trivia I've amassed over time. If I need to be a good friend, I can call upon my own experiences of disappointment or pain and create the perfect empathizer. I can be ethereal and mysterious or candid and harsh. All of these facets of my personality exist at once, and sometimes I am confused as to whether or not I am a real person, and not just a robotic adaptation of some underdeveloped child.

My argument for not being a robot, has been my ability to feel things very deeply. But now, I am worried that I am losing that ability and becoming a more rational version of myself. Of course, I still make major life decisions on an impulse, but dealing with the ramifications of my decisions has become a very Vulcan process rather than one propelled by  fueled by random intense emotions. I no longer feel extreme anger or disappointment when someone deviates from my optimistic expectations of reality. I know what I should feel, or what I would have felt months ago, but somehow I cannot bring my expected emotions to fruition.

You are upset. You should cry. Nothing ever works out. Somehow, calling my depressive thoughts to  the forefront of my mind no longer disturbs me. I have developed an internal voice to counter my "devils", to be dramatic about the burden of my depression. My counter-voice reminds me of all the good things. Instead of recalling feelings of abandonment, I recall times when I have felt safe. Conclusions are a natural part of life, and I am slowly coming to terms with that concept. Everything has an end. As much as I would like happiness to be this eternal force dominating my life, I need sadness to define happiness, as a philosophical comparison to keep me grounded in reality.

For the first time in my life, I have felt truly in control, something that I have always aspired to be. I have never really been in control however, because my vision of control mimicked insanity. Rather than being content to control myself or my own actions, I wanted to control everything around me as well. But I can't control other people, and trying to is (was?) a powerful driving force in my depression. I know that it drove people away, and although I tried to convince myself that I was traumatized and beyond repair as a result of other people, I know that wasn't true. That is disappointing to me because I pride myself on honesty above all things.

The classic philosophical question that plagues over-thinkers is "Who am I?" with the close second being "What do I want?" I would love to have the answer to those questions, but I think as soon as I answered them accurately, I would stop living. Being alive is remaining fluid. Wants and needs change overtime as much as personalities do. I can be everyone who I am all at once. I can be Eriche from the Caribbean who loves staring out her balcony and admiring the natural beauty of the mountainside. I can be Eriche the intellectual who will stress herself out beyond belief over work due two weeks in the future. I can be preppy, wearing pearls and white dresses and reminiscing on my fancy prep school days. I can be aloof. I can be quiet and sweet if I need to be, but I'm also not scared to call people out on their bullshit. I'm not scared of telling people how I feel, but I am still cautious about who I reveal my vulnerabilities to.  These aspects of myself do not need to exist independently of each other and realizing this is a big deal.

Answering the question of what I want is a lot harder. What I want changes more frequently than who I am and is also based more on instinct than on rational analysis of my situation. This is something I have felt guilty about. I viewed it as being dishonest or manipulative. Luckily, I have concluded that I am neither of those things. Society paints women as being fickle and unpredictable when they exhibit behavior like what is typical for me, but it is yet another tool of oppression that I see as my duty to rebel against. When men are unsure of something or behaving in a manner that is confusing, we are impressed with them for having emotions but women are criticized for being anything other than demure and simple, serving one purpose of making men happy without any concern for themselves.

Throwing away my concern for men (on a large scale, not an individual one) has helped me to come to terms with my "fickle" (read: very human) behavior regarding what I want. I refuse to feel guilty. I refuse to paint myself as the villain; I have been a villain enough times to understand what that really means. I am happy with myself. I am growing up. And even if I may not know what I want all the time, how many people can really claim that they do?

Writing this started off as an examination of the complexity of my personality, but my thoughts have changed to reflect my place in the Midd microcosm as a function of this personality. Being a womanist is so intertwined with everything I am, and I feel like a part of my personal and emotional involvement in this movement has changed how I view the world. I am no longer interested in being a villain or a victim. I am an individual and proud of who I am and what I want. Guilt and sadness may exist in my life, but I refuse to let these things have anymore control over me.

Welcome to Sophomore year, I think I'm growing up.

Visitor:

Rid me of this horrible mood. Cover me in kisses.

I want you.
I want you.

I want to forget anyone else exists.
I want to melt into your arms.

But don't be too kind. Don't let me forget fear.

It keeps me healthy. It keeps me alive,
and from expecting too much.

Dependency

I'm afraid that I'm quite sick. I cannot breathe properly. Every time I go outside, hopeful that fresh Vermont air will clear my lungs of poison and clear my mind of whatever is analogous to poisoned air, I find myself gasping for a proper breath. I am woozy and floating around in a world that is not really my own. I feel like an awkward caricature, stuck in a story that I don't belong in. Harry Potter on his way to Mordor or something far worse, for at least Harry is a worthy protagonist in any tale.



I wonder about whatever is rendering me so detached from my environment. I know I should be happy. I ditched the pills days ago and everything seemed fine. The green plastic bottle remained burrowed in a box as I slept on the floor of what-could-have-been, disgusted with myself, yet proud at being able to smile without dependence on small pills. I told myself that I needed to be there, falling asleep to his loud breathing and the addictive energy of a calmer soul than my own. I needed to hide from what I am afraid of - being unloved and uncared for.

I'm fine. I can do this. I am happy. I don't need... 

Were those all lies? Do I lack self-reliance? Am I powerless against sadness, destined to be crippled by it forever and ever? I wonder if I could really allow sadness to take over me permanently, chasing away the flesh and blood boys dying to be in my bed, dying to wrap their arms around me, hoping that I can return affection that has gone suppressed for so long.  But I am so gloriously empty. I've always craved empty. Even when I've stared into the eyes of beautiful, beautiful men and told them how I felt, I've realized my words were a mistake. I can feel nothing for them. Sometimes, I can convince myself that I love a boy, but after a while I am able to see through my own deceptive attempts to be like other girls.

I force myself to care about other people, but I exist only to justify manipulating others by claiming that I've been hurt oh-so-many times. Misogyny has made me this way. Men are scum. Men are assholes. I hate them. I hate them. I hate them. Self-loathing has a fascinating way of manifesting in my pretty little head.

I see the way he looks at me. As stupid and childish as I am, I've been around long enough to know what those looks mean. I've been cat called on the street since I first began secondary school, a full two years younger than all the other people in my grade. I know what boys want. I know what I should want too.

I am not sure of when I first wanted to kiss him. But when I did kiss him, it surprisingly felt right. Although I was trembling in his arms, nervous because I'm not supposed to be happy,and I deserve nothing good, I knew I was where I was supposed to be.

He lay next to me. My head rested on his chest, heavy and guilty, listening to his heartbeat, anything but calm. Words upon words. I cannot answer any of his questions. I am the beautiful girl who doesn't know what to say. I am the beautiful girl whose head is flushed with images of other people, people who I wasted time on and I feel so stupid. What did I want from other boys? What do I want from you? What do you want from me? I'm scared and terrified because emotions are something I file away neatly and store in the back of my mind, only to be brought to the surface by some pretty blue-eyed fool and four shots of cold vodka washing down with the intent to destroy my façade. What do I think? How do I feel? I feel nothing. Nothing. Not a damn thing. And then I wish I'd had my little yellow pills to help me feel something correct for a change. I'm stupid, always feeling and saying the wrong things. The only thing I'm good for is shedding layers of clothing, letting you put your hands where you want to put  them, resting my head on your chest, staying still and quiet and holding on tight to an abstract concept of an emotionally detached self.

I can't maintain my image. I can't be detached forever. I want to close myself off to being hurt because it has become too normal for me. But I like you. I don't do L-words very well, but I feel safe using that one. I feel safe around you. That is rare. You are rare. But I am silently destructive and my biggest fear is that I will ruin you. Everything I touch goes to hell. Perfect boys with perfect minds become selfish devils. Nice girls with good intentions and soft hearts become sniveling brats bent on some love that will never happen. The worst part of all this is, even if I want you, I know that it is selfish. I know that I should push you away now before you find out that I'm nothing but an overly dramatic girl reliant on little yellow pills to keep her away from death and darkness. 

Confession #6

I am impulsive to a fault.

Live Blogging Game of Thrones. Season 1 Episode 2.

• Cersei is so evil
• Catelyn Stark is perfection. I love her face.
• Wow Cersei. So conniving. Look at her fake cry. This is absurd.
• I feel like everyone has sexual tension with Jaime Lannister. He is so beautiful.
• Ned Stark.  Aw.
• Robert and Ned have a great bromance. Robert is so crass.
• I don't like the way they portray the Dothraki as living in tents.
• TYRION IS THE LOVE OF MY LIFE. Except his obsession with whores is not cute.
• Jon Snow is so broody. Kit Harrington is delicious.
• "Everything's better with some wine in the belly" - Tyrion 
• Robb Stark is also a babe.
• An assassin! OMG CATELYN YOU GOT THIS.
• OK NEVERMIND. DIREWOLF YOU GOT THIS..
• "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell" 
• AHhahha Arya. Joffrey is a real bad kid. He is not good.
• Cersei is so evil. I hate her. I want her to die.

Confession #5

My only goal is to have one of those summers where I "come back looking hot". I mean like I know I'm gorgeous. But one must always aspire to greater things. 

THINGS I AM GOOD AT BAKING

This is really important because I want to bake something once I get home to get over the fact that I literally hate everyone in my family except my parents and relatives of color.

• Never-fail chocolate cake (with frosting. obviously.)
• (decent) peanut butter cookies
• Rice Krispie treats with nutella and peanut butter deliciousness on top (these are good but after like three bites you want to throw up and die of obesity)
• Strawberry Rhubarb Pie
• Blueberry Pie
• Apple Pie (which I hate but I make a really good one)
• Red Velvet Cake with Cream Cheese Frosting 
• Sugar Cookies 
• Any kind of cupcake

SO YEAH. Just a PSA... if you are interested in being married around the age of 28 and you don't mind that I will make more money than you, hit me up because I bake really delicious things and you will always be satisfied (sexually) by the foods that I make. 

It doesn't hurt if you pay for my dream wedding despite your future poverty compared to me.

xx

Warmth

adjective.  The opposite of what you feel when you interact with my dad's half of the family.