Jagged

The fact of the matter is, I am presently in a very bad way. It's 1:30 in the morning and I lie awake, tears blurring my vision, flooding my face. The thing I want most right is now is a razor blade. I want to slowly drag the sharp edge of it's blade along my slendor wrist and watch the blood trickle out. And again. And again. I want the wounds to be deep, to scar - a perminant reminder of the freak that I am.

I used to be good at sad. I grew up crying myself to sleep at night. Any amount of verbal or physical abuse, I felt I could endure. But I've grown weak. My life is relatively good lately; so much better than it once was. Yet after all I have survived, one little rejection and am left devastated, panting in horrific, deep, empty sobs.

Its not even that he did anything. It's what I did. I fucked it up. Again. Like I always do. Things were going great, and then I made it awkard. He figured out, like all of them do, that I am weird.
The thought leaves me crying out in agony. No one wants me. No one ever has, no one ever will. Not my parents, not a boy. Like a traitorous spy I am without a home, without a country. I don't belong anywhere. I'm a freak. The pure and simple fact is that I will always be alone in this world.

I have plenty of people that love me. I could call any given number of them right now, let them care for me, reassure me. But I am not there problem. It really is all so trivial. There are, in fact, people in this world with actual hardships to face. Besides, no matter how much I love my friends, and how kind-hearted and honest the sweet comforting sentiments, they can't love me the way I need them too. I've been told from a very early age that the hole inside of me cannot be filled. It will only be so long before I fall for someone else and mess it up again. The enevitable. It makes me hate myself. And my friends (though I love them) can't fix it. So I put the phone down, and with much too much sense for action, lie awake, envisioning the blade of the razor on the second shelf of the righthand side of my bathroom cabinet, imagining the feel of it's cool, sharp metal - turning it's edges over and over in my mind.

Not So TGIF

So I've got a confession. One that could not only damage my street cred, but one that could totally cost me social acceptance as a teen...
...Wait, who am I kidding? I have never had street cred or social acceptance...
Well in that case, I hate Fridays. Despise, dread, detest, abhor. They are the black hole of my existence. I pull into my driveway after a long week and realize that the second I get out of my car, I will have no joy until the next Monday. My 2.3 day break will consist of homework, mild technological social interactions, sleep, and incessant battles with my mother for my life spark. If I'm lucky I will get some sort of delicious high calorie food, and maybe an episode of Vampire Diaries. I will have no privacy, no time to listen to music, and no peace the second I enter my house.
I complain only because it is: a) presently an extremely bitter Friday after a horrible week, and b) because it's gotten bad - bad as in to a place where I don't even want to check Facebook on Fridays because I don't want to see all the fun everyone else is having. (Plus I know if I log on I will just end up alienating someone through all my life-sucks-and-then-you-die, I-hate-the-world *coughcough* I mean, winning optimism *fake smile*.)
Mostly, it's manageable. On Fridays, I avoid the computer, turn off my phone and go to bed at 8. Saturdays and Sundays I do everything in my power to sleep in as late as possible. But some mornings I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, thinking how absolutely pathetic it is that I can't bring myself to get out of bed because I have absolutely nothing I will even remotely enjoy to look forward to.

Not So Fearless

For some reason, when I like a boy, there is no length I will spare to impress him. Maybe if I'm pretty enough, I tell myself, he might just like me. And I always do just this. Whether I will be seeing him for a few hours, or just might happen to pass him in the hall. I contemplate why I feel such a need to be perfect for someone else.

I stand, shaking, in front of my bathroom mirror. I scrupulously examine my face. I pry various tools of beautification from the corresponding cabinet, and on my clean face, begin to go to work. I apply, remove, and re-apply, going over my eyeliner 3 or 4 times. I run a comb and product through my hair. I spend 20 minutes trying on clothes-choosing the perfect pieces, matching them together with accessories, neatly returning the rejects to their proper folded places. I brush my teeth, examining my appearance, contemplating any improvements; do I look thin enough? am I wearing enough make-up? should I pull my hair back? do I look too nice? too casual? I run all possible scenarios of the next few hours over in my head, cross-referencing them with previous conversations, experience, and Seventeen magazine articles. I come up with a few witty things to say at key moments-the first hello, the goodbye. With one last look over, I slip a lip gloss into my bag, and head out.

This stressful disposition is not aided by my natural response to unpleasant circumstance. Growing up, whenever anything went wrong, it was my fault-this pattern seems to have followed me into my attempts at love. I try to control as much of the relationship as I can, knowing that when it's all over, I will blame myself.

Consider a recent example: I have been talking to a guy I am quite smitten with. I really could end up just being friends with him and would be fine with that, but there seemed to be inklings on either sides of our conversations that indicated there was a mutual interest in perusing more. After several weeks of broad-based communication, we agreed to meet up. One afternoon we hung out at Starbucks and then walked around the mall. Much like our previous conversations, we didn't run out of things to talk about. And though in the secondhand, the concept of wandering aimlessly around a shopping center for a few hours might sound somewhat lame, at the time there seemed to be no feelings as such. Any awkward was devoured in laughter, witisicm, and pleasantry. It was cutesy and nerdy and perfect. We parted ways on a positive note and he asked to see me again. We talked again for several weeks and then agreed to meet up again. I left the itinerary up to him, yet come the date and time we were set to meet up, I hear nothing. It is presently Monday, we were suppose to hang out Saturday, I have not heard from him since Friday-not a phone call, text message, or carrier pigeon. And somehow, even though all signs point to the fact that I have done absolutely nothing wrong in this circumstance, I have been, for the last 3 days, thoroughly beating myself up over it. (Did I say or do something?, Was I not pretty enough?, Too awkward?, Maybe he just found someone better, etc, etc)

In recent times (ironically the evening following this little stand up of which she has no idea), my mother has told me that the fact of the matter is, any non-whore of a teenage girl must simply accept the fact that she is going to be alone. ...Although, on the other hand, my mothers idea of a harlot is someone who kisses on the first date... so perhaps I should not take this particular bit of wisdom quite so personally... *coughs*

In any sense, she did propose a trinket of wisdom among her unconventionally Amish-valued little lecture. The fact of the matter is, most 17-year-old's have quite a bit more romantic experience then me. They've lived the "baby-steps"; things like awkward middle school dances and first kisses at camp and so on and so forth. When one meets me, they assume me to be quite a bit more experienced then I am. They see that I'm not a shy dresser, listen to my "that's what she said" jokes, and see my maturity, and assume (well, as one lovely Cherub put it bluntly) that I'm kind of a whore. The fact of the matter is, that unless you count this "hanging out" coffee debachal, or one lovely but unconvential cafeteria lunch at leadership camp, I've never so much as been on a date (*gushes shyly and juvenalistically as means of defense and self-justification* I did hold a hands with a boy one time though). And as my mother rather Hallmarkly pointed out, because of the fact that I've never lived those baby-steps, things like hanging out, dates, the concept of kissing, and things that other teenagers find so rhudementary, mean so much more to me because for me, I'm doing all of it for the first time. (So basically I have to awkwardly point out to any guy I like that I'm like 13 on the inside...yeah mom, cause they were all just lining up when they thought I was normal *eye roll*).

On the one hand this relization makes me feel like a complete freak; but on the otherhand, I like the fact that I'll get to experience all of these things now that I'm old enough to actually enjoy them and have them actually mean something (when your 12, you will most likely not whind up in a relationship with the first boy you kiss; at 17, it's a little more likely). I think I'm mostly just hoping that knowing this about myself it will help me try to control-less and stop frantically stressing in front of my poor mirror, but also that maybe if forementioned boy ever actually gives me another chance, I can use what I know to my advantage with him.

*sigh* I don't know...I'll keep you posted

First Date

In my mind, it's going to be perfect.
I plan every little detail in a realm I can control.
There will be no awkward moments.
I will be confident and fearless.
Everything will be perfect.

In reality, it was better.
There were unexpected twists, things I couldn't control.
The awkward moments were filled with laughter.
I was terrified, but not foolish.
Mostly, it was real.

But in retrospect, the doubt creeps in.
Am I remembering it right?
Was it more awkward then I new,
Myself, not enough?
What if it wasn't perfect?

Elixir (in progress)

The words flow freely
Like eloquent little trains of thought-
My conscious streaming into yours.
Without even thinking, I answer your every question.
Speech flows freely from every random burst of thought.
My mind an open window,
The concept of lying never so much as crosses my mind.
Raw, honest, unsheltered.
One of your many powers over me;
I can't hide anything from you.
You read me like a book.
I don't think I could lie even if I tried.
Your kind eyes like an elixir of truth.

Mother

They're suppose to be the people who love you unconditionally. The ones who are there for you, who support you, who make you feel safe and protected because it is what instinct tells them to do.

I am envious of people who have that.

My mother is a heinous bitch. It is not momentary teen angst, or an outcry from discipline, but the pure and simple truth.

Most mothers have rough times with there teenage daughters, cracking down on them when they misbehave, arguing over moral differences, but ultimately allowing them to grow and flourish and live there separate lives. May I just say that while my views on sex and drugs and other various moral principles may vary from those of my mother, I have never once been out of line, in fact I'm so far from crossing the line that I'm rarely in view of it's existence.

I think around the time I turned 16 my mother realized something, she realized that someday very soon I was going to leave her; she realized that the physical abuse she had caused me as a young child, and the verbal abuse that has maintained my entire life meant that I may never come back. (After 16 years, it hit her that gee, maybe it's not a good idea to hassle your daughter about what a stupid fat ugly bitch she is.) When she finally came around and decided she wanted me to love her, she realized that the day that I was twelve years old and she walked into my room, cold and emotionless and told me "You know, it's not that I hate you, it's just that I don't love you. I never wanted you to begin with and I could never love something like you;you just irritate me too much," was the day she blew her last chance with me.

We can pretend it's okay. That's what she wants to do. She wants to think that by fixing my lunch everyday suddenly the black eye she gave me when I was nine and didn't understand my math homework is canceled out. That by using the excuse of "going through a hard time" it's acceptable to mask her hate for herself as hate for me. But it is not okay. It will never be accepted or forgiven.

Someday I might love her. Distance makes it easier to deal with her vapid, shallow, spiteful nature. My mother is not an evil woman after all, despite the message my memories and perception may convey; there's simply too much bad blood between us-we survived my dad together and it ruined us, we blame each other for it. The woman is in fact strong and beautiful and beholds one of the strongest moral compasses I have yet to encounter. But she suffocates me. She doesn't understand me and she never will. She doesn't understand the fact that when you are the sole adult in a household as a child, taking care of your mother in recovery from varies surgeries, helping her face her various hardships, while trying to compensate as a parental figure for your brothers while your father is out god knows where doing god knows what/who, you stop being a child. I may still be somewhat naive to the more scandalous ways of the world, but I have not been a child in a very long time and I do not appreciated being treated as one. I can clean my own room, and take care of myself, and should be trusted to not only be mature enough to do so, but to have a bit of freedom now and then.

Even if it is only my spirit in danger, I need to get away from this place because I realize more and more that it is killing me softly.

Procrastination

It's 9:38 on a Monday night and I have yet to even open my backpack to begin the monotonous volumes of homework with which it is bursting at the seams. Instead, I have spent the last 5 hours I have been home on the internet, cutting my nails, wandering around the room, staring at my USC app, pondering life, and basically just wasting time in as many ways as possible.

I don't know why it happens, but it does. Procrastination. It is a part of me. Whether something is urgent or not. It's as if I've lost all ability to be productive. Somedays I'll be interested in getting a jump start on a project, or somedays I'll know I really need to do some studying but the second I sit down to work, boredom ensues and I find myself fighting work with every fiber of my being (except for the tiny strand of logic telling me I should be working).

It's kind of scary because it feels like I can't even control it anymore. The focus, the self control, it's just not there. No matter how much I wish I could be productive. I have no power over myself...unless you count the power to waste time.

Jumble

I've started about five separate entries to no avail. I feel like all I do is repeat myself anymore. Writing about the same stupid emotionally dramatic nothings over and over again, my life constantly spinnning in a cycle, the same problems appear over and over, never resolved; the psycological definition of insanity. I'm tired of being so boring on here, and more, I'm tired of working so hard, methodically scrutinizing every delicate word just to be boring. I miss the days when blog writing came easy-the days I just put down what I felt and it came out as poetry-but I suppose life was easier then too.

I want to write about internet boy. I've tried, but I just can't find the words. I feel like I've over-discussed every aspect of that relationship with everyone from him to my cat to the extent that words have lost all value and the emotion behind them has been vanquished. With him it kind of seems like I'm just waiting for the storm. We're just on two very different pages in life; so much that I;m not even sure we're in the same book anymore. It's too much work and it shouldn't be. I kind of don't even want to be friends anymore, but I'm not quite sure that erasing him will be as easy as it sounds. I have a feeling we'll be in limbo for a while as he jumps from girl to girl with no avail and then back to me for support, so I think I've got time to figure it out. Or maybe just wing it when the moment strikes; I've wasted too much time thinking about him anyway. I'm really just apathetic at this point-like the Novocaine before they drill your teeth, I'm trying to numb myself before we get to the part that hurts.

Part of me wants to write about school and my general apathy towards life-how there's something about my house that just makes me feel as if I am fighting to hang on to my soul. When I'm out it doesn't strike so much, but at home it's just constantly painful. There's too many bad memories. The walls, the people, they make me feel hopeless. I want to feel powerful, excited, enthused, eager, the way I did all summer; but when I gaze into the foggy skies of my plexy-glass bubble, I feel nothing but trapped without even a shimmery ray of hope for escape.
I want to talk about how this bubble, this apathy is eating me alive inside-or rather how I'm eating it, burying ever negative thought or feeling inside me with any food I can get my hands on, struggling to build up a nice tasty layer of false-happiness to keep me from drowning in a sea of black. So many things, things I have repressed my entire life as well as recent issues, a myriad of thought and pain and pattern and subliminal messages that I cannot even begin to understand, let alone describe, that all seem to be cataclysmicly encroaching at the exact moment that I need them to disappear.


I finished Breaking Dawn last week, and I loved the part about Bella describing how when she became a vampire, everything became mentally clearer; like there was so much space in her head that she never knew was there before. I can't remember the last time I felt compotent. Like I felt like I knew what the hell was going on. My brain is just a jumbled slur that can't focus on anything but pleasurous activities for any given length of time. It's terribly frustrating to be so mentally unfocused all the time, it makes me understand how difficult it must be to become senal. I miss the days when life was simple enough that could at least follow along. I know what's causing the problem, what's affecting all of my problems: clinical depression. But I don't want to deal with it. I'm scared that if I try to deal with it, if I allow myself to be raw and exposed and vulnerable, that I will simply be taken advantage of as I always have by anyone I've ever trusted, and worse, that I will never get control of the pain again. It's taken me such a long time to develop control.

Girl

She lives inside of me and she slips out in wavering moments-after a long day, a failed test, a broken heart.

Though sometimes quieter than others, her voice is always there. It whispers hateful nothings in my ears. Telling me I'm ugly, and stupid, and unloved.

She wants freedom. She wants to be let lose as I made the mistake of doing once before. The freedom she offers is tempting-when she is lose I have no ties with anyone, just me, just power. She claws at my insides. Sometimes I'm worried that if I lose control, she'll take over again-that I'll become someone I don't recognize.

She is wrath. Nothing more. She wants to be more, but she can't. She hates everyone, whether they do anything or not; she hates them simply because they exist. She knows it's wrong, she knows it won't make her feel better, but she can't help it. All she sees is red. She wants to make every living creature suffer as much a she does. She wants to watch them squirm in agony.

This girl is dangerous. Not just to the people who dare cross her path, but sometimes to herself. She worries that one day she's going to lose it. The way she muses about slicing her delicate wrists after a devastating day, the way she wishes she could throw up that piece of cake she shouldn't've eaten, the masochistic moments where the logic of right and wrong is the only thing holding her feet firmly to the floor.

She attempts to mask her pain as anger. She's just so hurt she doesn't know how to fix herself. She feels like Pandora's box, wanting to be released; but she's afraid-she isn't so sure there's any hope at the bottom.

I know that I can control her. I know from experience that even when she gets out, even when I hit rock bottom, I can fix it again. But it's scary to think that a part of yourself is that dark. It makes you feel like such a freak. =/

Happy

What's her name?
Is she pretty?
Is she sweet?
Is she what you want?
Is she going to make you happy?
I want you to be happy...I just kind of thought it would be with me =/