Tuesday, October 26, 2010

My No-No Square

She Who Must Be Kept has always told me that being nice is going to get me in trouble one day. She might be right.

Today, there was a tornado warning. Or watch. I'm not sure which. The point is, in the middle of Interpersonal Dumbassery, an administrator poked their head in and said everyone had to go down to the Center for Student Services.

But I didn't want to go. I wanted to go and eat my lunch. Nope, everyone had to go. With a grumbling belly, I followed the herd downstairs to the aforementioned room. Some people managed to sneak out a door and into their cars to get out. Not me. Not me. :(

So we all cop a squat in the Center for Student Services. I was hanging out by a window watching the "storm". It was some wind and a little rain. Literally. That was it. I got shooed away from the glass.

I was so tempted to go; "Fuck you! I'm twenty one, starving, and late for a test! If I wanna stand by a window, I fucking will!" But I didn't. I plopped down on the floor at the behest of a boy I'd met once before.

He hangs out at the same place I do between classes. He has, in the past, made some inappropriate comments about my breasts. And they were entirely innocent. I will say that my breasts are kind of a joke amongst my friends, but we can TELL when they're a joke. They aren't brazen comments about how large and wet they are from the rain...

So I plopped down. And this boy, whom I have spoken to a handful of times in my life, proceeds to wrap his arm around me and SNUGGLE me! SNUGGLE ME! I didn't want to be snuggled! Then he tried to get me to go to sleep. ON HIM!

I was sooo wildly uncomfortable. I managed to squirm away. He was still invading my bubble, his knee touching mine. In desperation, I reached for my phone. But service out at the college is shoddy at best, so I was unable to complete my call to my BFF in Ohio.

"Use my phone!" Creepy Pants said.
"It's long distance, don't worry about it."
"To call your brother?" (I had tried to call my older brother earlier.)
"No. To call my---boyfriend."
"Boyfriend?" (I'm pretty sure he knows that the confidence giver and I broke up last week.)
"Yeah. I wanted to let him know where I was."
"Well, where is HE?"
"Ohio!" I blurted. "With my best friend!"
"What's he doing down THERE."
"He goes to OSU."
"...Oh," and with a sulk, he lumbered over to a computer to get on fanfiction.net.

This dude seriously gives me the creeps. He's too interested in me, my body, and my chest. I really feel like he wants to touch my No-No Square. Ugh. No thanks.

But I don't just want to never speak to this guy ever again. And I don't think it's fair to label someone like that when I have no proof but a feeling. I'm a nice person, and I like being nice to people. Is it nice to tell this guy to piss off, he's a creeper? No, it is not.

I'm just going to sit with someone else whenever he wanders into the Potter Center, I guess.

Argh. I hate people

Sunday, October 24, 2010

When I'm Left to My Own Devices, I Go Fucking Insane

I was reading in one of my books today, and I came across a quote that resonated with me.

"We accept the love we think we deserve." I don't remember what book it came from. Nor do I care. It doesn't matter at this point. At that matters is I want to write it all over my walls, on the few mirrors we keep in this house, on the front of my file folder, and on the insides of my wrists.

Just so I don't forget.

This past five days has been--hellish, to say the least. I cried for fifteen hours straight after my confidence up and left me. I could, and did, sit and have a completely normal conversation, just be crying the whole time.

I cried when I laid myself down to sleep. I cried when I tried to pick up a pen to write in my journal. I cried when I tried on new clothes during a retail therapy shopping spree. I cried when I tried to drink a milkshake. I cried in the shower. I cried when I walked down to my lab and realized that I hadn't even changed and just could NOT face dissecting a cat.

But you know... I don't think I'm angry anymore. My confidence left for reasons that frankly, only he understands. I think it hurt me more that the whole time he was doing it, he was regretting it. He told me so.

So why do it?

I wish I could understand. I wish I could rationalize it, and explain it to the both of us. I wish I could just fix this for both of us.

He doesn't want to be fixed.

I know that now.

And though he thought he was saving me, he was really killing me just a little bit. It wasn't the first time, and it won't be the last.

I still pray for him every night. I want him to be happy, to be healthy, to be in that place called Okay. Because I can see now that he wasn't there. And he might not be there for a very long time.

But I can't save him. He doesn't want me to save him.

I dream about him. But the dreams are getting less and less vivid as the days pass, and I wake up with dry cheeks. I don't know if I like this or not. I don't know if I can count this as a triumph or as another loss.

Maybe both. Nothing in life is black and white, and I will be happier if I don't try and put it in places like that.

My point is; I don't deserve to be treated like that. I never did. I have committed no great sin that warrants me wishing I was dead.

And this is my pledge; I will NOT accept that love anymore. I will NOT be treated that way. I do NOT deserve it.

I will tell myself this even if it's through tears, gritted teeth, and depression. This is going to the be one thing that's going to save me. I will not accept the love that I don't deserve.

Here's another quote from the Sixx AM song Girl With Golden Eyes. It's from Nikki Sixx's journal as he was withdrawing from heroin, and relates to how I've felt:

Day Three-I haven't had anything for three days now. This withdrawal is killing me. It's like shock therapy to my guts.
Day Four-Last visit to the clinic. My whole body feels like it's cracking into pieces. Fragile doesn't even come close to describing how I feel.
Day Five- I'm sick as a dog, but this handful of painkillers and a lotta whiskey's going to get me through.
Day Six- When I'm left to my own devices, I go fucking insane. I'll never use heroin again.
Day Seven- I can't believe I'm clean.
Day Eight-Everyone says I look better.
Day Nine-The parasites are panicking.
Day Ten-They seem amazed that I'm alive.

Friday, October 22, 2010

Naiden Tahtien Alla

As happens with me when I have some kind of emotional upset, I've been having nightmares. It's not something I love, rather, I have come to loathe it. But a part of me maybe thinks that these nightmares, these blood curdling images that I see, all the people that I witness hurting and dying, and all the people that are hurting me in these worlds of make believe and misery--

Maybe they are important. Maybe they are Part of the Process. I spend a lot of time understanding the Process. And maybe hurting and being miserable, even in my dreams, maybe being beaten, raped, tortured, murdered... Maybe that's important.

This sounds so sick (but I have always loved owning my sickness. I've always loved claiming that and making that work with me rather than against me) but these nightmares remind me that no matter what's happening to me, it COULD always be worse.

At least I'm not being butchered. At least I'm not in a room where the paintings are weeping blood. At least priests aren't threatening to sacrifice me to Satan. So maybe, just maybe, these nightmares give me a little perspective. And it's when I lose perspective that I start having issues.

I've had an emotional upset this week. I lost my confidence giver, and so I am shaken and alone, and afraid, and broken. (He, of course, refuses to own the things that he has said and done to me, and steadfastly maintains that I am not broken. He maintains that no one breaks. This is a boy I picked up shattered and put back together. I suppose that is neither here nor there.)

So of course I've been having nightmares. However, in the midst of these nightmares, I had the most beautiful dream.

I was in this huge house, laying in a brass bed, with white sheets. This room was full of people, all sleeping in similar beds. I couldn't sleep. And a man, a tall, handsome man began walking down the row.

And he began to sing to us. He started to sing to us. It's in Finnish, but my best translation is Underneath All These Stars.

He was in love with me. And I would wake up right as he walked away. So he began to come with me and stand by my side.

It was beautiful. To be sung to sleep.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

Dear Mother: Don't Throw Stuff At Me

Dear Mother,

I turned twenty one yesterday (because I'm writing this at two in the morning and today is the new yesterday). I am an adult now. I know I still live with you. I know you still pay my bills--except the ones you don't. Like my school tuition, you don't pay that. And you don't pay for my books. And you don't pay my cell phone bill. And you don't pay my doctor bills anymore, I'm on the hook for that after you didn't pay for the surgery I had like you PROMISED.

So basically, you're paying my food, my heat, my lights, my internet, and sometimes my bus back and forth to school. This is a lot. I will understand and acknowledge this. I even appreciate it. I appreciate it a lot!

This is why I go out of my way not to be a jackass to you. I wash your clothes. I cook your meals. I do the shopping. I do a lot of the cleaning. I don't do things I want to do and should be doing because I am twenty one. And I don't do them because you don't like me to do them.

You do not seem to understand, acknowledge or appreciate this.

So let's have a run down, shall we?

1. I wear noise cancelling headphones. You bought them for me. You bought them for me BECAUSE they were noise cancelling headphones. Because then I wouldn't have to turn my music up so loud, and so then I could put myself into my own little world while working and doing homework. Okay?
So basically, when the headphones are in and you want something like--the channel changed, your bowl taken to the sink, or the fan turned on, or something equally dumb and that you could do yourself; don't throw a book at me! Don't scream at me and then scream at me because you were screaming at me! Don't throw a ball of yarn at me!
JUST DO IT YOURSELF! You're a grown ass woman who can walk the four steps to the television--because you broke the remote--the seven steps to the sink, or the six steps to the fan, which is exactly between us so it's just as easy for you. Okay? Okay.

2. Shut up about my area. I have a grand total of FOUR FEET in this house. Yes, it's messy. Know why? I don't have a damn place to hold the (very little) I actually own. I used to have more, remember? But your son's boyfriend, who had thrown me down the stairs, and you still didn't make him leave, threw all that out in the snow and there was a lot you couldn't save.
So just shut up about it, okay? Because I would LOVE to move back up into my room and have space, and sleep in the dark with the television off if I feel like it. But every time I bring it up, you have a fit about it because you're not ready for me to.
So pick one.

3. Please start turning the television off before you decide it's bed time. Or let me. I haven't slept properly in months. This could be either because I sleep on a LOVESEAT that doesn't let me lay in any shape but pretzel, or because you insist on the television being on twenty four seven. And then you want it to be on the channel that plays those annoying infomercials that infect my dreams and give me nightmares. But you don't care! As long as you can listen to your Good Morning America or The Today Show or WHATEVER that is just DANDY, isn't it?

4. You have another child. A son. Remember him? Oh right, you prefer to sit on the couch and sob because you feel like he's a failure or something. Whatever. I quit listening. But don't think I'm going to waste my time trying to fix everything for you anymore, because you know how to fix this whole your son thing. Kick him out. You won't. But you know. So just shut up.

5. I love you. But that doesn't mean I'm going to let you be a bitch to me just because it suits you. You know better than that. Fuck.


Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Interpersonal Dumbassery

I got this assignment from my Interpersonal Communication teacher. (Because we all know how much I looooove that class, right?)

I have to go and violate social norms. What does this mean? It basically means be a creeper and do something to make someone else uncomfortable.

And all I can think is; don't I do that on a daily basis? I mean, not intentionally, but just because I ignore social norms? Am I not doing that by even keeping this blog? I have to say this blog is pretty personal and I've posted some things that I haven't even told some of my close friends. (Most of my friends, I think, I don't even know it exists. Not because I don't want to share, but simply because they know about the VAST majority of it.)

But really. I go to the store in pajamas. I dance to my mp3 player in the store. I stare at people in the elevator. Not because I'm rude, but because I like their shoes. I touch people when I've bumped into them. I say things like; "Your hair is so pretty! That's a cute dress. I loooove your necklace."

These are things that people don't do. It violates the social norm.

But honestly, I think the social norm is kind of a load of bullshit. Why can't I just say that to people? Why can't I wear my pajamas? Why can't I sing and dance? Because someone else is bothered? Well someone else can just go to hell.

I should probably write my paper about that, in retrospect.

Friday, October 8, 2010

So Close, I Could Taste It

I got my biology score back. I was .8 away from having a 2.0 Dr. Fox said it is much easier to climb for a 2.0 to a 3.5, which is what I need. I DO have hope, but I'm going to have to work my ass off.

I am willing to do that.

I'm just so FRUSTRATED at myself. There was NOTHING on that test I didn't know. But I panicked. I panicked because I had forty five seconds at each bone station, which is enough time to second guess yourself and erase and rewrite and circle and scribble and hyperventilate.

I mean, I forgot what a SCAPULA is. HOW COULD I DO THAT? THAT IS STUPIDLY SIMPLE! There was just so much information in my head that I just--blanked out. And while it is something that happens to everyone, it's not something that I can afford.

My instructor has admitted that they make this class so hard because there are so many people going into the medical field. You don't want people who don't know what they're doing working on you. (Herp derp.) I can really get behind this because so many people are going into nursing now because; "You make good money." Not because they want to work with people, not because they want to put forth the effort. They want money. I can kind of see that, but medical care is the wrong field to have this mentality.

This is a weed out class, and so is Medical Terminology. All this work is supposed to scare away the people who don't need to be there. Sadly, the people who are smart enough and just--panicked, need more time, whatever... Well, we're kind of screwed too.

I have come up with a new study plan, including a study group (whoo!) and spreading out my studying instead of doing it all the week of the test. I'm hoping that would help. I hate first tests anyway, you can never tell how an instructor is going to grade. I've had some go through with a red pen like they were getting their jollies on by marking you wrong. And I've had some struggle every which way to get you the grade that you need.

You can never tell what one will be. Biology (and Medical Terminology, for that matter) has a really strict way to grade so it's a level playing field for all the applicants going into one of the medical studies programs. I'm just hoping and praying and doing my best to make it into mine.

I don't have a back up plan at this point. I should probably get on that.

In other, happier news, I've thirty six dollars closer to going to Finland when I do finish school. Hurray!

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

If You Can't Say Anything Nice

I've expressed before my sheer displeasure about my Interpersonal Communications class. It's gotten worse. I didn't think that was possible. Boy howdy, was I wrong.

I sit in the back of the room. I like to have my back to the wall. I also like to sit up towards the front so I can hear/see better. I like to take off my glasses sometimes, and if I'm up front, I can still see the board! It doesn't matter in this class, the instructor wanders around a bit, and doesn't use the board that often.

So I sit in the back, and we're in one of those three quarter boxes with the tables. So I'm ALMOST in a corner, but not quite. On one side is a pretty nice girl, she sits quietly, takes her notes, and doesn't mind when my stuff flows onto her side of the desk. (I don't let that happen often, just when I'm digging through my bag for something.)

On my other side, in the Corner of Cattiness, there sit three stereotypes. The OHMYGOD,I'MALTERNATIVEANDANARTIST!!!! girl, the IWASANATHLETEINHIGHSCHOOL,THATMAKES MERELEVANTINCOLLEGE,RIGHT!?!?!? girl, and I'MAMOMSOEVERYTHINGISAYISWIIIIIIIIIIISE girl. They make me want to stab myself in the eye.

To be clear, I don't want to smash my head into the cinder blocks behind me just because they're like that. That is perfectly fine with me. What is not fine is they sit and make snide comments about everything anyone says ever. Through the whole class. To the point where I can hear their attitude over the lecture.

And you know, I think it's fine they have their little opinions about what people say. My problem is they are NEVER positive, and they are NEVER kind. (Because you can not like what someone says and still be kind about it.) And it goes on all. Class. Long. That is an hour and a half of hearing these little remarks.

"Look at that guy, he looks like a banana!" "Don't hurt yourself, (in reference to a boy saying he had been thinking about something)" "I hope we don't get ANYONE from that group in OUR group when we have our final project." "Goood, they don't shut uuuuuuuuup, do they?"

I gave some glares a couple times and rolled my eyes at them. Their negativity really brings me down. I have even had to use my palm as a blinder to not get visually distracted by them.

Look, I don't care they come to class and don't listen. I don't either. I don't care that they've made friends with each other. Awesome, if that's what you come to class for, I'm glad you met your goal. I don't care that they don't seem to like anyone else. I care that they are distracting me and creating a hostile learning environment for everyone else.


Saturday, October 2, 2010

Rewind, I Wanna Go It Again

I bought a diamond.
It was what she wanted. She told me that much. I knew that to be true. This was probably the easiest birthday present I've ever bought for her. She was always so difficult to buy for, both because she was impatient and because she was just so—weird. There was no one hobby that I knew I could buy something to contribute to. No cake pans for a baker, no knitting needles for a crafty woman, no stamps for the collector. And even if she did see something she liked, she would go and buy it for herself. She liked a million things and liked nothing all at the same time.
It sometimes felt like she was depriving me of the privilege of seeing her face light up when I bought something PERFECT. Perhaps I felt that way because so often she handed me a small box wrapped messily in newspaper and electrical tape that took me hours to peel off. And it was always something perfect.
Perfection was something she didn't strive for, and yet so easily attained, it made me sick. Yet, nothing really ever seemed perfect to her.
I bought a diamond.
This wasn't one of the glassy ones that they keep at the Wal-Mart in gold bands that are liable to turn your finger green. And yet neither was it one of the huge rocks they sold in blue boxes that said everything by their size and garishness. (Why of course you're in a stable relationship! Why else would he spend thousands of dollars convincing you that marrying him will be worth your time?)
She hated those things. She thought they cheapened they sanctity of gift giving and love and the meaning of a ring.
“Don't you understand? It's a circle, and a circle is eternal in a way nothing else is. There's no beginning and no end. Well, I take it back. Only love has an eternity like that. You don't really start loving someone, you only come to realize that you loved them the whole time. And you never really stop, you only don't let yourself say it out loud anymore, because loving them hurts you so bad it will make you burst on the inside. You lie, because if you don't live in a lie, you'll have to lay down and die. I mean, you get over it, eventually. Well, you don't really get over it. It's like cancer, it goes into remission, but you live with the knowledge that it's always there, inside of you, and it will eventually eat you from the inside out.”
Love was dangerous. She alone made me understand that. When I told her one day that I didn't understand why we bothered to love, she just looked at me the way a mother looks at her child when he asks why flowers die.
“It's the same reason that people snort cocaine. They fall in love because they need to. They are at a place where if they don't fall in love, they are going to fall apart, and falling apart means you'll never be put back together the same way.”
“But doesn't the same thing happen to every addict?”
“I suppose. The writing is different, but the stories all end the same way. I think when you fall in love, the tragic ending is just a little bit sweeter.”
So I bought a diamond.
I bought this diamond at the antique mall that she had spent so many hours haunting, wandering about in. She would touch all the dusty bits of old finery, flip the molded pages of diaries that were long lingering after their authors.
I knew she'd like this one better. It had—character. History. All things that she had wanted so badly in her life.
I carried the ring, ever so slightly tarnished, back to my house, clutched in my palm with my fist in my pocket. I carried it past the threshold I still found myself waiting for her to cross. I sat on the couch that her smell lingered in, sat next to the afghan she had stayed up all night finishing.
I stared up at my mantlepiece that she had found so charming and romantic. She was there, of course, both frozen in the pictures of her youth and the urn I had so carefully picked out for her. Black and faintly Gothic looking, a choice she would have made for herself, I thought.
I hadn't been able to bury her in consecrated ground. They never let suicides do that.
I cross the room and set the ring carefully on the lid. For the first time in three days, I smiled.
I had, after all, found the perfect present.