Yesterday my mother said "You don't know what "hard" is". She was flustered of course and guilt tripping me to death (as is her right) but for the tenth time just that day I visited introverts island. I entered my cave of self hate and expressed emotions as blunt and mundane as cave paintings.
That's just the problem isn't it. The exact reason why these words are being carelessly uploaded to the internet for no one to read. Because there is no book of painting or poem or song that will ever describe how hard my life is. Nothing could ever prepare anyone for the amount of self loathing and self persecution that has occurred just in my 17 years.
The other day my brother and I were half joking about being broke and taking this freak show on the road. Then things got all too real and I could tell for the first time in his life he was examining the challenges of my life. He laughed and said. " Your life sucks." Then he laughed and said "and you're only 17"
I know it's old news but I can't sleep. I stay up at night and watch my mother dream. We share a room and all night long I feel her mind stirring. I am constantly working my ass off to ignore some thing. Some feeling or emotion I'm picking up or just any thing that I probably shouldn't interact with in public. My kitchen is sometime filled with a strong presence that makes me nauseous. When I do dishes late at night I have to call my mother to keep me company because some thing I should be oblivious to is starring at me with pained eyes.
So aside from the constant struggle to pay attention to what matters (not letting any body see just how strange I am) there is also this giant resentful fear of inadequacy. I can't help the man with pained eyes. I don't know how. Not only am I a freak of nature, a giant cosmic hiccup, I'm also bad at it. My best friend watches a TV show where a beautiful, social and happy go lucky woman help people cross over to SOMEWHERE and ask why I don't do that for these people. How the hell would I do that?! Do I light a special candle? Do I gather up random and possibly violent dead people into my living room and brew up a nice pot of kiss my ass?
Sorry for the rant but, Mom, I know what hard is. Stop being frustrating and realize your woes and my woes and " the normies" woes are on completely different levels.
Thursday, August 28, 2014
Saturday, June 21, 2014
make up
I just spent the last thirty minutes in the bathroom. Hang on folks this isn't something weird. I think. Actually it's always weird. Every second of every day since I was born and until I die.
The first ten I spent looking at myself. Doing the usual. Wondering how on earth I can be so freaking different yet still some how look like every body else. No horns. No strange colored eyes. My teeth are all docile. I look absolutely mundane.
Then I find what I always find. A scar. The length of one of my fingers vertically and a few centimeters from the top, a one inch line across. A cross. Just above my navel. Just below my sternum. One night in one of THOSE dreams, I dreamt that I was being CURED. the only thing they could think of to alieve me of my burden was to excersice it out of me.
But it hurt. And when I woke up, there it was. A burn the shape of the cross marrying my skin.
It was so long ago. Today it is only a fading scar. Still too noticeable for me to wear a two piece but I have hopes. I saw it today. As I have every other day and it looked absolutely hideous. I snatched up some foundation from a glittering make up kit and attacked it. Piling it on like a weighted prayer. I knew I was asking for too much. That hiding the scar that no one but my mother and sister knows about accomplishes absolutely nothing. That the scar is there wether I can see it or not. I will never be "normal".
Still, I spent twenty minutes pretending to be covering a birth mark or a childhood accident. But as I looked again for anything else that set me apart and found nothing left, I found myself even more devastated. I felt like even more of a shameful mutant. Even more of a blemish on my family tree. This abnormal girl. This gentle abomination will always be hiding in plain sight. Why bother trying. I'm doing such a great job at unwanted solitude anyway.
The first ten I spent looking at myself. Doing the usual. Wondering how on earth I can be so freaking different yet still some how look like every body else. No horns. No strange colored eyes. My teeth are all docile. I look absolutely mundane.
Then I find what I always find. A scar. The length of one of my fingers vertically and a few centimeters from the top, a one inch line across. A cross. Just above my navel. Just below my sternum. One night in one of THOSE dreams, I dreamt that I was being CURED. the only thing they could think of to alieve me of my burden was to excersice it out of me.
But it hurt. And when I woke up, there it was. A burn the shape of the cross marrying my skin.
It was so long ago. Today it is only a fading scar. Still too noticeable for me to wear a two piece but I have hopes. I saw it today. As I have every other day and it looked absolutely hideous. I snatched up some foundation from a glittering make up kit and attacked it. Piling it on like a weighted prayer. I knew I was asking for too much. That hiding the scar that no one but my mother and sister knows about accomplishes absolutely nothing. That the scar is there wether I can see it or not. I will never be "normal".
Still, I spent twenty minutes pretending to be covering a birth mark or a childhood accident. But as I looked again for anything else that set me apart and found nothing left, I found myself even more devastated. I felt like even more of a shameful mutant. Even more of a blemish on my family tree. This abnormal girl. This gentle abomination will always be hiding in plain sight. Why bother trying. I'm doing such a great job at unwanted solitude anyway.
Friday, June 20, 2014
Surreptitious
I like to think that every one that means something to me knows. The reality is: that's not nearly true.
I live my life surreptitiously. Everyone knows the book worm whose quirky and does strange thing, changes subjects smoothly but noticeably. They know the writer and and musician who smile is always a little too wide. But of all these people who I would sit with daily, laughing and whining about high school, only one of them knew i was never paying any attention a single word any one said.
Crowds are hard for me. I feel what everyone is feeling. I can feel a secret about to burst from some one's lips. The dying need to let something go. Everything. If I'm not too careful or focused, I feel everything because the longer and more I intimately I know someone, the harder it is not to steal little pieces of them without their permission. I don't want them believe me. But, Melissa, Melissa stops people from paying too much attention to the way my eyes glaze over from the strain of my dual reality. She answers questions I obviously didn't catch and I rest with my head in her lap, pretending to be annoyingly detached from everyone.
I've had... unpleasant experiences after telling people. Some take it hard, and I regret it instantly because I know we'll never speak again. One was so excited my heart soared, but then she began to obviously see me as a "what" and not a "who" and it became difficult to be near her at all. I wish I could tell people that matter most to me. It's only fair that they bare their souls to me on purpose that i do the same. They will never really know me, but it's a precaution that I have to take.
My writing mentor, a woman i meet with regularly who helps my writing along, she wants me to journal, just to see what usable personal writing prompts I produce. But I can't so that. I can't spill my secrets for her to see in the bright afternoon light of whatever coffee shop she wants to test out. I need her see me as a WHO not a WHAT. And while I don't plan on telling her, I also refuse to make elaborate lies, like writing fake journals, because that may be even worse than all the truth withholding in the first place.
The people I love, the people who I would lay down in traffic for, they don't know me. If they did my raging, loud, energetic circle of friends, would be a lot smaller. I guarantee it.
I live my life surreptitiously. Everyone knows the book worm whose quirky and does strange thing, changes subjects smoothly but noticeably. They know the writer and and musician who smile is always a little too wide. But of all these people who I would sit with daily, laughing and whining about high school, only one of them knew i was never paying any attention a single word any one said.
Crowds are hard for me. I feel what everyone is feeling. I can feel a secret about to burst from some one's lips. The dying need to let something go. Everything. If I'm not too careful or focused, I feel everything because the longer and more I intimately I know someone, the harder it is not to steal little pieces of them without their permission. I don't want them believe me. But, Melissa, Melissa stops people from paying too much attention to the way my eyes glaze over from the strain of my dual reality. She answers questions I obviously didn't catch and I rest with my head in her lap, pretending to be annoyingly detached from everyone.
I've had... unpleasant experiences after telling people. Some take it hard, and I regret it instantly because I know we'll never speak again. One was so excited my heart soared, but then she began to obviously see me as a "what" and not a "who" and it became difficult to be near her at all. I wish I could tell people that matter most to me. It's only fair that they bare their souls to me on purpose that i do the same. They will never really know me, but it's a precaution that I have to take.
My writing mentor, a woman i meet with regularly who helps my writing along, she wants me to journal, just to see what usable personal writing prompts I produce. But I can't so that. I can't spill my secrets for her to see in the bright afternoon light of whatever coffee shop she wants to test out. I need her see me as a WHO not a WHAT. And while I don't plan on telling her, I also refuse to make elaborate lies, like writing fake journals, because that may be even worse than all the truth withholding in the first place.
The people I love, the people who I would lay down in traffic for, they don't know me. If they did my raging, loud, energetic circle of friends, would be a lot smaller. I guarantee it.
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Death Breathing Mutant
One of my brother's better formed insults.
I'm not sure how it actually started. I'm convinced that I was born this way. My Mom didn't actually notice the signs until I was old enough for anything to actually register as odd for a human being. A baby does weird crap all the time. Miniature humans play by their own rules.
When I was a toddler I would have an obvious reaction to certain things that struck my Nina as odd. Things she couldn't figure out. My Aunt noticed just as much, she even noticed when I started to keep it a secret in second grade.
My mom knew something was up before she knew I was odd. Things had changed in the apartment we were living in. She would chase laughter down the hallways to find all of my siblings were in commas at night time. The fridge would open nights and Mayo would be spread on the floor. My sisters doll collection sat at the top shelf near the ceiling and just one particular doll would be on the floor every night. My baby monitor would whisper and I would respond. I'd be out of my crib every night playing but exhausted. My only explanation being that "the baby wanted to play".
We moved, eventually; I barely remember that place now. Things are as strange as ever in our current house. As strange and explainable as me. But I mean hey, I got into college and I haven't yet gone crazy so at least i got that going for me.
I'm not sure how it actually started. I'm convinced that I was born this way. My Mom didn't actually notice the signs until I was old enough for anything to actually register as odd for a human being. A baby does weird crap all the time. Miniature humans play by their own rules.
When I was a toddler I would have an obvious reaction to certain things that struck my Nina as odd. Things she couldn't figure out. My Aunt noticed just as much, she even noticed when I started to keep it a secret in second grade.
My mom knew something was up before she knew I was odd. Things had changed in the apartment we were living in. She would chase laughter down the hallways to find all of my siblings were in commas at night time. The fridge would open nights and Mayo would be spread on the floor. My sisters doll collection sat at the top shelf near the ceiling and just one particular doll would be on the floor every night. My baby monitor would whisper and I would respond. I'd be out of my crib every night playing but exhausted. My only explanation being that "the baby wanted to play".
We moved, eventually; I barely remember that place now. Things are as strange as ever in our current house. As strange and explainable as me. But I mean hey, I got into college and I haven't yet gone crazy so at least i got that going for me.
No Sleep Till Brooklyn
I gotta say I'm really starting to appreciate sleep.
I haven't gotten any sleep for the past four days. I'm way past being bullied by dead people. As terrible as it sounds, I have a life and i intend to live it. They could at least respect my sleeping hours.
Anyway, when I'm asleep it's like I'm a searching radio just picking up signals all night long. Every once in a while it'll get to me and I get irritated and agitated.
My mom has no patience for it since it's not the first time. She stays up nights listening for the sounds of my whimpering. Wondering if I've been sucked into to someones tragic passing; if I'm viewing or participating in the worst or most defining moment of someones life.
This week is not a good week. I actually asked around frantically to see if it was one of those extremely tacky and mandatory school spirit lunches we have on Fridays. Only, it's Thursday.
I've yet to due my financial aid application which is due in less than a week. I'm pretty sure I'm about to miss yet another Service Learning opportunity which is necessary to graduate. Then there's the thing that happens every year because the physiology and anatomy class dissects cats every freaking year. So I'm terrorized by cats no one else can see, just darting in and out of hallways. The first year I didn't even know about the dissections so I was the idiot running around obsessed with cats.
I swear sometimes I despise being me.
I haven't gotten any sleep for the past four days. I'm way past being bullied by dead people. As terrible as it sounds, I have a life and i intend to live it. They could at least respect my sleeping hours.
Anyway, when I'm asleep it's like I'm a searching radio just picking up signals all night long. Every once in a while it'll get to me and I get irritated and agitated.
My mom has no patience for it since it's not the first time. She stays up nights listening for the sounds of my whimpering. Wondering if I've been sucked into to someones tragic passing; if I'm viewing or participating in the worst or most defining moment of someones life.
This week is not a good week. I actually asked around frantically to see if it was one of those extremely tacky and mandatory school spirit lunches we have on Fridays. Only, it's Thursday.
I've yet to due my financial aid application which is due in less than a week. I'm pretty sure I'm about to miss yet another Service Learning opportunity which is necessary to graduate. Then there's the thing that happens every year because the physiology and anatomy class dissects cats every freaking year. So I'm terrorized by cats no one else can see, just darting in and out of hallways. The first year I didn't even know about the dissections so I was the idiot running around obsessed with cats.
I swear sometimes I despise being me.
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
If!.... you're!.... a-freak-of-nature and you know it clap your hands!!!
Clap. Clap.
Well I don't usually explain the exact aspects of how it works to many people. I'm still learning the ropes my self.
When I was little I wasn't scared at first. It was all that I knew, everyone else was different, not me. Then I understood, slowly, that I was a freak and my mother (love you mommy) was at a loss with me. Completely unable to aid me in any way because the mechanics of it all were just as strange to her then, as they are to me now.
Then in middle school I was all mopey. I had received pep talk after pep talk from my mom. How I was as normal as I was ever meant to be. That it wasn't a big deal and I needed to stop whining and get over it. That in this family, it actually wasn't all that uncommon (Yeah, it just gets weirder). In middle school I was always whining to my mom that I must have a reason in life. Maybe, I thought, I was a mistake of the universe, that how cruel could any greater being be to make me like this? Essentially ruining any hope at normalcy for my entire life.
I got over it. I'm seventeen now (Yay!) and I've picked up on the basics. The DO's and DON'Ts and the just wing it but be careful moments. I haven't been scared for a very long time. I know who I am. I am not a WHAT. Just you're everyday brat with extraordinarily understanding friends.
Well I don't usually explain the exact aspects of how it works to many people. I'm still learning the ropes my self.
When I was little I wasn't scared at first. It was all that I knew, everyone else was different, not me. Then I understood, slowly, that I was a freak and my mother (love you mommy) was at a loss with me. Completely unable to aid me in any way because the mechanics of it all were just as strange to her then, as they are to me now.
Then in middle school I was all mopey. I had received pep talk after pep talk from my mom. How I was as normal as I was ever meant to be. That it wasn't a big deal and I needed to stop whining and get over it. That in this family, it actually wasn't all that uncommon (Yeah, it just gets weirder). In middle school I was always whining to my mom that I must have a reason in life. Maybe, I thought, I was a mistake of the universe, that how cruel could any greater being be to make me like this? Essentially ruining any hope at normalcy for my entire life.
I got over it. I'm seventeen now (Yay!) and I've picked up on the basics. The DO's and DON'Ts and the just wing it but be careful moments. I haven't been scared for a very long time. I know who I am. I am not a WHAT. Just you're everyday brat with extraordinarily understanding friends.
Friday, February 14, 2014
If you're psychic, then can I be a wizard?
Today in guitar class, the ever persistent freshman, whose Pseudonym I've yet to come up with, guessed it. I knew the exact moment when he suspected something was off about me, his inquiries were still playful and charming but they suddenly had new direction. He really had no clue how close he was to the truth.
I'm.... a little bit different. I love pizza, I refuse to ever wash my chucks (dirty shoes are loved shoes c; ), I'm on my way to college next year and I'm also a Psychic.
Ugh, I hate that word. Psychics, to me, are palm readers with bad intentions and a neon light up sign in front of their houses. No thanks. I prefer to be called a sensitive. Though it has come to my attention that this doesn't really affect anyone's life but mine, so no one else has spent countless hours Google-ing this crap to find out all the different names for it. Silly me.
It's really not that noticeable. I don't usually climb buildings and scream it to the mountains but as it turns out a clever freshman is more than a little observant. He guessed it and eventually, after making him eat a piece of paper he didn't even understand.. I told him. Then we spent the next hour talking about it and me getting slightly more than little self conscious. I'm just not used to sharing.
I don't know why I'm starting this blog. It's probably (more like actually) a really bad idea. If my mom ever finds out I'm putting this out there I'm going to be in so much trouble. Maybe that's why. Because it really sucks a fat one that I'm always my own biggest problem because some messed up rule of reality meant that I had to be born like THIS.
I'm.... a little bit different. I love pizza, I refuse to ever wash my chucks (dirty shoes are loved shoes c; ), I'm on my way to college next year and I'm also a Psychic.
Ugh, I hate that word. Psychics, to me, are palm readers with bad intentions and a neon light up sign in front of their houses. No thanks. I prefer to be called a sensitive. Though it has come to my attention that this doesn't really affect anyone's life but mine, so no one else has spent countless hours Google-ing this crap to find out all the different names for it. Silly me.
It's really not that noticeable. I don't usually climb buildings and scream it to the mountains but as it turns out a clever freshman is more than a little observant. He guessed it and eventually, after making him eat a piece of paper he didn't even understand.. I told him. Then we spent the next hour talking about it and me getting slightly more than little self conscious. I'm just not used to sharing.
I don't know why I'm starting this blog. It's probably (more like actually) a really bad idea. If my mom ever finds out I'm putting this out there I'm going to be in so much trouble. Maybe that's why. Because it really sucks a fat one that I'm always my own biggest problem because some messed up rule of reality meant that I had to be born like THIS.
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