Monday, June 28, 2010


Oh, I'm so glad I just watched Toy Story 3 last night with friends and then saw this today:

I know it says not to enter a third party's phone number, but there's nothing that really stops you from doing that, so... heh.  I'm totally giving my friends little "presents." :)  Why does this delight me so very much?

Friday, June 18, 2010

In my room

Whenever I come home, I try to open up drawers that I haven't looked within in a long time, examine my old toys, look under my bed and in my closets... I couldn't tell you what's there before I see it, but when I do, it's like I'm dreaming, and memories come rushing back to me so powerfully I can't even express them.

My room has changed quite a bit since I lived here.  Most notably, my mother has filled it with HER toys and collectibles, which is funny, because it just makes it look like I had mass amounts of toys as a child, and in reality I did not.  But my furniture is still mostly the same, and the things I've left here are all still here.  Letters, pictures, things I taped to corners of door frames to remind myself that I had friends, maps, knickknacks... it's all still here.  I opened up a cabinet that's in my headboard last night, and found that's where I stored all my diaries and candles and special things.  The smell inside that cabinet almost brought me to tears.  I could smell the wax of the candles and the paper of the journals, the pencil smudges and rose water and incense that I never used but couldn't throw away.  Stuff back to when I was 13.  Stuff from England.  A large bound blank book that I used as a massive diary for my trip through England had this particular smell that made me immediately flash to how it felt to hold the pencil I wrote with in that journal, and how it felt to put it down every night before bed, and how special and spiritual and secret I felt holding it.

I've changed so much and haven't changed at all since then.  The smell of that cabinet reminded me of loneliness and hopefulness, social fears and private confidences, crushes and friendships and confusion and frustration, crying and laughing and wanting to escape and go back all at the same time.  That sinking feeling that everything used to be better, and the glimmering feeling that everything could still be ok.  Fearing I might change as an adult and lose something, and fearing I might not at all and would be stuck with myself forever.  I was right on both cases.

I haven't opened up my toy closet yet.  I'm almost afraid to.  I don't particularly want one of my parents to walk by and find me on my knees, worshipping some forgotten stuffed animal in a daze of nostalgia.  I know it's only been about two years since I was here, but still... two years.  And opening a closet is like going back in time.  I've dreamt of my room so many times in my life that when I think about my room the dreams and the reality become blurred, and when I see what's really there, it's like I'm dreaming all over again.  I kind of wish I had more time on this trip to just absorb myself, and at the same time I'm glad I don't have the chance to over-saturate and find myself back where I started as a child, wanting nothing more than to get away from the constant and unending me-ness of it all.  I wish I could go back.  The irony is in know the only reason I feel that way is because there's distance.

Saturday, June 5, 2010

A random piece of shit

I want to write a blog for you,
even though you'll never see it.

I want to say sweet things to you,
even though you won't believe it.

I want to be with you today,
even though it's me you fear.

I want your arms around me now,
though to you I'm not as dear.

But maybe if I stay with you
and tell you one more time,

you'll figure out I love you so
you're in my heart, my mind,

my soul; and I can't quite you, love,
don't think I'll ever do.

So be with me and smile a bit,
and make this true love true.

Thursday, April 29, 2010

I'm leaving you, Doctor Who

I just finally watched Waters of Mars and End of Time - the last two pieces of the David Tennant Doctor Who run.  And I'm done.

No really.

I'm done.

That was exhausting and I don't mean that glibly at all.  I'm never watching another new episode of Doctor Who again.  Ever.  As far as I'm concerned, the series is over. Sure, it's just started it's new season and I hear the writing is much better now and it's all kinds of fantastic, but for me, it's done.  It was a fucking trial and I escaped with my life.

I'm pretty sure no one else understands how I feel right now.  I don't WANT to see any more.  I don't want to think about it, I don't want to get involved, I don't want to know.  I'm DONE.  The entire run of David Tennant's Doctor Who was designed to see just how much sadness and despair they could cram into one character - to see just how far down they could crush him, grind him into the dirt, take away everything he loved and more, again and again and again until there was nothing left but numbness and dark.  By the end you just wanted him to die so he wouldn't suffer any more.  It was like praying for suicide.  Please... please, let it end.  And finally it has.

It was a punishment to watch this show.  I just wanted to see him happy.  The fucking show paralleled my life and brought me down at every turn.  I could be happy if only I could see this character that I loved feeling happy.  I just wanted to FEEL HAPPY watching a fun sci-fi program.  But all the show did was make me suffer.  Take and take and leave nothing but pain and emptiness.

For years.

I hear it's better now.  More enjoyable, and brand new start, a good jumping on point, etc.  And that's nice for it.  But I feel like I've been through just another abusive relationship.  I don't care how much it's changed, I'm done.  I can't forget, so I'm just going to leave.

Have a nice life, Doctor Who.  I will always love you.  And I will never forgive you.

Saturday, April 3, 2010

Life continues. And for the first time, that's ok.

I can't believe I really forgot how it feels to be in love.

I convinced myself that love was something you felt intensely when you were young, because your heart was pink and unblemished, and then as you got older it was gentler and necessarily duller each new time.  Scars build up, they numb the sensations, just like on skin.

I thought that's just how it worked.  It seemed normal to be numb.

Yes, I love you, of course I love you, though I don't feel that fluttering in my stomach, I don't get that stab of desire or that deep ache of overloaded happiness.  Who does?  I haven't felt that way since I was a kid.  No one does.  It's enough to simply not be sad.  That's what love it.  Pleasantness.  Comfort.  The idea that you can stop working.

"Don't call me at work again, no no, the boss still hates me, I'm just tired and I don't love you anymore, and there's a restaurant we should check out where the other nightmare people like to go, I mean nice people, baby wait, I didn't mean to say nightmare..."

I was wrong.

I can't believe I forgot what love really feels like.  When it's right.  When it's returned.  Jesus, did I ever feel this way?  I almost can't even stand to write about it because, as close as written words come to describing my inner feelings compared to trying to speak them, it still seems to cheapen this feeling.

You know those old people who still look at their spouses with perfect love and happiness; commercial grandparents displayed, smiling and caressing, maybe dancing in slow motion, behind empowering voice-overs about investing or life insurance?  Maybe you've implanted a memory of your grandparents appearing this way, and maybe they were and maybe they weren't.  But some couples really do stay happy forever.  It had nothing to do with any rockiness the relationship might have gone through in the past.  It only has to do with true love.  I always thought those people were the only lucky ones in the world.  I don't know how it's possible but I can safely say, in spite of the fact that a part of me is laughing at myself as I write this: that can still be me.

Since the time I was born, I was convinced that I would die before I was 16.  Or maybe at the age of 16.  When I was 16 I went to college instead, had sex for the first time, drove my own car, made my own friends.  In one year my entire adult life started.  I guess it was like a death in a way.  Not in the sense of bad, but in the sense of change.  But somehow, living past that point was like, "well, what now?"  I hadn't planned for a future.  I had unexpected time.  I was never a very happy person, so this was a little disheartening.  I knew that because of how deeply I could feel everyday emotions, if happiness ever did find me, or I it, it would be a blinding supernova, an apocalypse of joy.  But every time I felt on the cusp of realizing this happiness, it would peter out, sour, become something awful, cause one more scar.  Or maybe it would just die with a whimper, novocain to the soul, the worst kind of ambivalence.  My experiences with love have been like this.  I never really thought I'd find that supernova, but it was becoming more apparent that I might not even find my way out of the darkness.  Why live a life just to get it over with?

So I shouldn't have to explain how alien is this feeling to me.  I didn't even think I'd be alive today, let alone happy.  Let alone happier than I've maybe ever been.  I say "maybe" because I haven't set myself down for a full life review.  Don't think I will, either.  I don't need to convince myself that I feel good right now.

If I were reading this for the first time, knowing myself, that statement alone would bring me to tears.

I should be so afraid.  I understand this could end me.  If this feeling doesn't peter out, if this is the supernova that it seems to be, then I'll burn to death in the white hotness of it.  And if it does peter out, there's no further down I can dig.  There's bedrock beneath my feet already.  Beyond numb is nothingness.  So I should be terrified.  Terrified of how easy it is to fling myself in, to dive headfirst without knowing where the bottom is.  But the water seems clear.  And the sunshine feels good.  And it is easy.  And I'm not afraid.

Because I remember now what it feels like to be in love.

Monday, March 29, 2010

Where your eyes don't go a filthy scarecrow waves his broomstick arms and does a parody of each unconscious thing you do...

You know, it's really good that I don't have any stalkers (or anyone really interested in my life whatsoever) because if you type in Trelbee in a Google search there's pages and pages of the most random things to which I've made the smallest contribution.  For years and years, it seems.  Things I'd completely forgotten about.  Cached shite that is closed and well since deleted, but still appears when you click on it, sparkling and brand new.  Stuff I didn't even write, sometimes.  "Trelbee's restaurant and bar recommendations."  Wha?  It's blank, mind, but MySpace apparently glommed my name onto a lot of random things.  I don't even use MySpace.  I keep the account open only because I still want access to band stuffs.  Bla.

So, that was weird.

Meanwhile if I look up my real name, it brings up not me at all.  I'm looking at you, "Krista Solis."  

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Presents for the upcoming year

(Last updated on 8/9/10)

In case I happen to have a birthday or it becomes Christmas at any point, I thought I'd make a list of frivolities with which I would love to be gifted.  Should you, good friend, feel the need to buy me a present at some point, and you can't think of anything immediately that you should give to me, this list is yours.  Use it wisely.  I may update it at some point, so check back from time to time.  And hey, look, here's my list in an easy to use Amazon format!

Preacher hardback book 3

Playstation 3

Erroll Garner piano music

Blood Bath shower gel

CDs by the Mountain Goats

CDs by Those Poor Bastards

Flight of the Conchords first season

Flight of the Conchords second season

The Mighty Boosh special edition

Blue Ray/VCR combo (or, hell, if anyone can find just a plain old VCR these days, which I can't)

Big Bolster for home visits

Little Bolster for home visits

(And this one is mostly to remind myself which table I really need to eventually get, because I don't expect anyone to get me a present this expensive...) New Portable Table

Friday, January 22, 2010

Defining relationships

It has been said to me, "Don't let your relationships define you."

My response to that is, well, of course not.  But in the end, what does that statement even mean?  Am I sure I haven't done that?  How can one be "defined" by a relationship?  It doesn't make much sense to me.  Does it mean "I am now 'girlfriend'" or "I am now 'wife'" as opposed to "I am Krista?"  I guess being defined by a relationship implies a certain level of self-anonymity; if you don't know who you are, you decide who you are based on who you're with.  You take on roles.  "Girlfriend."  "Wife."  It implies that you are nothing until you're something to someone else.

There's the rub, though.  I tend to agree with that last bit.  But I still don't think I am defined by relationships.

In my opinion, if you don't mean anything to anyone else, then you're pretty much nothing.  I put no value in self just for self's sake.  Yeah, sure, enjoy things by yourself, do all the good things inside your head that you want to, but if a tree falls in the forest... well, you know the old adage.  If you never touch anyone's life, it's pretty much like you didn't exist.  I don't think that has anything to do with defining yourself.  You can be perfectly aquatinted with your schmucky self and still be a big fat zero to the rest of the world.  In fact, if you're a schmuck, that's not going to change if you're someone's girlfriend as well.  Congratulations, someone is blind enough to think they care about you for right now, but you still suck monkey balls as a human being.

If you're so lost in the world that you're willing to do anything to be anyone, well... that's interesting, but it's a shame.  Is that what is meant by letting relationships defining you?  People who haven't discovered who they are past puberty are pretty much hopeless in my opinion.  Am I the only person in the world that developed introspection between the ages of 2 and 4??  I remember realizing how certain things made me feel and understanding why I might feel that way even as I was learning to walk.  I solidly knew who I was by the time I was in elementary school, knew what might change inside of me as I grew older and why, and after that there was just boredom, waiting for the rest of life to catch up with me.

I must see relationships completely differently than everyone else.  Maybe others learn things about themselves by being with people.  I don't tend to.  I'm me.  I just observe other people coming and going, and occasionally find people that I very much enjoy interacting with.  Being a girlfriend is not a role to me.  It's merely a statement to everyone else.  In my eyes, the line between just casually seeing someone and being their girlfriend lies only within how much they want to be with you and vice versa.  If you realize you love a girl and want to spend as much time exploring this love as you can, and they seem to feel the same way about you, then you should call them your girlfriend.  The rest of the world will understand what this statement means.  If you realize that this feeling is unlikely to change, and you'd really like this person around for the rest of your life, then you should propose and call them your wife.  Again.  Simply a statement of permanent affection, but not a role.

My point is, I am forever Krista, no matter if I'm alone, or if someone has decided that maybe Krista is one of a kind and they simply can't let her get away.  I am forever Krista, always have been, and always will be.  I do not mourn the loss of a title.  The only thing I ever have to get over is when Krista doesn't seem to be good enough to want to keep around.  I can only be me, but if me isn't what you want, that's a hard thing to realize.  It's not that I can't stand to be me all alone again.  It's that I can't stand not being good enough.

An aside

I should probably point out that posting a blog that specifies not to read it might seem silly to everyone else.  "Of course that means we'll want to read it, why would you do that?"  Yes... well... you see... no, I don't think anyone should read it and no I didn't write it in the hopes that someone would.  But I had to write all that down and I needed to put it somewhere that wasn't just available to me.  If I had written that in a journal and hidden it in my room somewhere, it would be just as good as thinking the thoughts endlessly inside my mind.  It would still cut, it would still bleed, but it wouldn't stop because it would still be inside.  The internet is outside just enough that it matters.  Yet no one should have to read that.  Not people that care about me and not even people that don't know me from Eve.  It's unpleasant... but necessary.  So thanks for not freaking out, Mr. The Internet.  You're a stand-up kinda guy.

Friday, January 15, 2010

Don't read this.

No, really.  Don't read this.  I'm not writing this for you.  Or you.  I'm writing this for me.  And I promise you don't want to read what it says.  This is not a punishment for anyone but myself.  Please look away while I cut deep.  I am the only one that needs to see this blood; this is not your train wreck but my own.  Please let me crash alone.

Herein will contain the most vile, self indulgent, abusive, self loathing narcissism I can put into words.  I don't want to hear any arguments; I'm not looking for pity, shock or disgust; I just have to spit some of this venom out because if I keep swallowing the anger and misery that I feel I'll poison myself.  Don't think this is about you.  Or you.  If you're looking for your name you're not going to find it.  I'm sure you may have contributed in your own little way to my state of unrest, but in the end, it's all me, and there's nothing you can do about it.  Go ahead and tell me I'm hormonal.  I am.  But this is always inside me, whether I'm sober or not.  Everyone causes me pain, so in the end all I should realize is that it's not them it's me.  I'm the only one hurting myself.  So fuck me.  If that's not a reason to feel self loathing I don't know what is.

Suicide should not be a word that raises red flags in my opinion.  All it should mean to everyone else is this person has a more thorough understanding of their situation than most people do.  If someone can see patterns in their life, and can predict no future release from these patterns of misery, including seeking help that will inevitably not help in the ways it should, then why shouldn't they be allowed to get off at the next stop?  I'm sorry, this train isn't heading where I thought it would, can I please get off?  Why is that such a horrible, terrible thing?  Why does that cause no, my god, stop her at any cost?  A permanent solution to a temporary problem - what a load of bullshit.  What if the problem is permanent?  Shouldn't a permanent solution be employed?  What if something is broken inside that can't be fixed, that has never been fixed, that has ALWAYS been broken - why should that broken little thing be forced to hobble along, suffering and making everyone else uncomfortable?  Fuck all of you that wouldn't let me die four years ago.  I was promised something better than this if I just kept going, and that was a lie.  Nothing ever changes.  And fuck me for being too weak, for being convinced that I might just make it through, that things might just get better for me, like they never have before.  Fuck me.

No one will ever want to be with me as much as I want to be with them.  No one ever will.  It has never happened.  Not my parents when I was little, not my best friends when I was growing up, no one that I've ever dated, no one that I've slept with - no one has the ability to need as deeply as I need or to desire as deeply as I desire.  I will always be alone for that reason.  Even when I'm with someone I will always be alone.  Even when ten or twenty or fifty people tell me I am loved, it means nothing because in the end they will always leave me alone when I find myself thinking of them and they will always choose to spend their free moments with someone that's not me.  No one will ever know how I struggle not to seem as desperate as I feel inside, how I want to always accuse and beg and cry for love, just a little more love, any love at all, please, please, please just choose to be with me.  Please want to be with me.  Please need me as much as I need you.

What's so wrong with being with me?  But I was just with you, honey.  I'll be with you again.  Look, I'm with you right now.  But you're not - can't you see that you're not?!  You're doing your own things, you're too comfortable having me around, you're not looking at me, you're planning your week without me.  You're on my mind and I'm not on yours.  I need you.  I can love you more than you thought anyone could.  I am a crazy and broken thing and I need you to want to be with me like your life depended on it, and I can already tell that I'm pushing you away as you slowly realize who I really am and that feeling makes me need you even more.

And why would anyone want to be with me?  I am filled with diseased thoughts like that so everyone should loathe me as much as I loathe myself.  I look in the mirror and see no reason to like me.  None at all.  There is nothing to like.  Nothing genuinely pleasant.  I believe I'm ok, cute, maybe a little interesting, but no one seems honestly impressed.  Not like I'm impressed with them.  I surely try, I try hard to be the best at the things I do, I try to make everyone feel special, to feel amazing, to feel like they've never felt before.  I try to make others feel like they make me feel.  But they never do.  I must not be doing my best because no one desires my attention.  I give it and am thanked, and that's that.  Who has secret thoughts of me?  Who sits and idles away their time dreaming of being with me?  No one that I'm thinking of.  I am nothing to everyone I care about, and everything to no one I care about.

Maybe I am boring.  Maybe I'm good in bed, but not stimulating to talk to.  Maybe I'm stimulating to talk to, but not good enough in bed.  Maybe I'm ugly.  Just plain old ugly.  Maybe I'm funny, but not serious enough.  Maybe I'm too depressed.  Maybe I'm just all wrong inside and I know it and everything I do betrays a knowledge that something is off, like putting an air freshener in a room to cover up the smell of decay.  You know it's there.  You can sense it.  You want to get away from me as badly as I want to get away from myself.  I'm not good enough and there's nothing I can do to fix that.  You don't know why I'm not good enough, but you just know I am.

So you can't care about me.  You can't love me.  After seven years you can't find it in your heart to feel the same way about me that I feel about you.  But the second I leave and try to salvage my life, the second I try to find some other source of love, suddenly you remember how to pay attention to others, how to go out and have fun, how to be youthful and light and loving again.  It was me all along.  I knew it was, even if you didn't want to admit it.  I always knew there was nothing wrong with you, like you said there was - it was always me.

It IS always me.  It will always be me.  I'm trapped with me and it's always my fault.

All I want is to be loved.  Cherished.  Lifted up and made to feel good inside.  And this is not unattainable, I've felt it for tiny, tiny seconds of time.  I know I can feel that way when others decide they will make me feel that way.  But then they stop.  The moment passes for them.  The moment never passes for me.  I always want that.  I always need that, but no one can give it to me all the time.  Please tell me you love me.  Tell me again.  Tell me again.  I am thinking it about you every second that I breathe, with every heart beat, all I want you to know is how you make me feel.  But you're not feeling that way about me.  So I try to inspire it within you.  I try to remind you how you feel about me, how you felt about me once, how you can feel about me again.  And sometimes I do, and you tell me, and you show me, and you are amazed, and we share that wonderful moment where I am just right and you're everything I've ever wanted.  And then it passes again.  And I'm alone.  And sometimes I don't remind you of anything except that you're tired and you need to work and you have other people to pay attention to.  And I'm alone.

It will always come back to that.

I will always be alone.  No one will ever need me as much as I need them.  So I don't know why I can't just get off this train ride.  Do I have to live for my parents?  For my friends?  For the people who think they might love me?  For the people who once loved me?  Do I have to live for myself?  Is that all I have to cling to?  Me, myself and I?  In the end I'll be alone anyway.  And I will be the only one.  Me, myself and I.  What a miserable group of people.