That's what my personal ad would say.
So, yesterday during a massage with a client who is a teacher, the client was telling me another ridiculously awful story about the quality of students in her english class; how everyone is looking at a phone constantly, no one does assignments, people show up 40 minutes late or leave halfway through, even a story of a guy who couldn't understand why the teacher didn't get his text saying he was going to miss class (her response, "the office phones are landlines, they don't get texts." WOW.)
She said some of her students want to be nurses (including the guy that abbreviates registered nurse as NR) but all universally say they are not interested in science. She says they will have a wake up call when they can't pass anatomy and physiology.
I told het that it was my first anatomy and physiology class that convinced me I should go into a medical field, because I was REALLY good at it and knew it would earn money, as opposed to the other things that I was really good at, like English, which would just put me on track to being a poor teacher who hates everyone even more than i already do.
She laughed wildly.
Then she asked, if I hate people, how come i seem to enjoy my career as a massage therapist so much, and am so good at it?
So... Huh. I have thought of this before, but never come up with really satisfying answers.
Like, "I appreciate helping individuals but hate groups." Or "I just do it because I want praise."
Yeah, both of these are true. But i really do feel like each person that gets on my table, no matter how i feel about them as a person, is a child under my care that i need to nurture, heal and protect.
But damn, i honestly dislike the majority of humans that I know of. I don't hate most people that i meet, I just don't care about them. It takes someone really special for me to feel like, if you disappeared from the planet right now, I would miss you. I only have a small handful of people i would consider good friends.
The flip side of the coin is that i have a jillion acquaintances, because I'm so eager to please that everyone likes me to some degree. I don't care about these people at all, but i have to make sure they like me. For some reason.
And the few people that I know personally and hate, I wish slow death and suffering upon. These are also the only people that I don't try to please.
Perhaps my choice of careers reflects emotional damage when I was a kid in an abusive elementary school; trying to stay out of the sight of bullies and being extra nice and charming so no one would want to hurt me, but LOATHING everyone around me with the burning hatred of a thousand suns.
Take away message; if your kid doesn't hang themselves or shoot up the place because of school bullies, they'll probably make good health care professionals. (I KID BECAUSE I LOVE.)
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Saturday, February 1, 2014
Live, damn you, liiiiive!
I can safely ay that 100% of the diaries, journals and blogs I have ever kept have died for the same reason. I suddenly suffer some major gap in time, and after that point even if I have things to write about, I suddenly feel awkward writing them without explaining what I've been doing with myself in the mean time. As if I need to catch up an old acquaintance or something. As if my journals judge me. (Stop judging me!!)
In this instance it is not only the awkward gap in time but the fact that I am now forced to do most of my typing holding aloft an iPad, which is... So... So... Horrible beyond description... (Incidentally, please forgive any typos. I promise you they bother me way more than they bother you. You know how your typing program highlights every error in red? That's my whole brain.)
Usually the gap in time happens after some major life event occurs. I'm not entirely sure why I find it tedious to write about major life events in my diaries... Perhaps I've written so many letter and talked about it using so many important words already that to rehash it one more time for something that simply amount to "posterity" feels trite.
Maybe I only like to share thoughts that I haven't previously shared. "Private" thoughts that I hope someone cares enough about to read.
In any case, i've had too many random things I've wanted to say to let this blog languish any longer. So I bring you back to life, written words of mine! *BOOM*
Here is a summary of my life and why I have not done any upkeep here.
Got married. On a farm, with a corn maze and squirt guns and a bonfire. It was THE BEST PARTY EVER. Got pregnant one month after that. Oops! But I always knew I'd have a baby at some point and figured I wasn't going to get any younger, so alrighty then. At least I got married first - yay life going in the correct order! Had Lydia on July 5th at 1am, and could still hear fireworks outside the window. Did, and have subsequently done, everything as naturally and mother-chimp-like as possible based on the fear that if i don't there might be the smallest chance I'll be turning my baby girl into one of the thousands of people that I think are a waste of skin and resources. Since I don't know what it is that turns someone into a worthless human being, I don't want to accidentally do it. It's a crazy theory that I'm afraid to not abide by. Which is not to say this has been easy. Lydia is eighteen months now and literally tests at three year old intelligence, which i'm not saying to brag, but to beg commiseration. She is CRAZY sauce, barely eats but takes eight mother's worth of energy to keep up with, but I do my best somehow, even though i feel like I live a shell of a life. I'm told this will change... At some point... Maybe... (Yaaay). We just bought a house, my very first since my childhood home, in Oak Park, a. hoping the schools here will be what Bananas needs to stay sane, b. hoping it's as interesting and walkable as where we had lived in roscoe village so I can stay sane, and c. hoping it's the closest burb to Chicago so Paul can stay sane. None of us feel very sane yet. But moving never goes smoothly, right? (Stabstabstab)
So that should bring you up to speed, you damn judgmental blog you.
Now, on with the brainmeats.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Well, that happened. And I couldn't be happier.
For those of you that have not been tracking my bleary-eyed announcements on Facebook in the wee hours of this morning as sleep eluded me due to nervous excitement: ladies and gentlemen, yesterday I got engaged.
In about five million ways I never really thought I would get married, in the same way I never really thought I would live past the age of 16, mostly because it's what I always wanted for my life. Family is the only thing that has ever seemed truly important to me, and the nagging feeling that it was all going to come to a halt in my name was... well...
Anyway, that's not what I'm writing about here. Suffice it to say I've felt very surreal for the past 36 hours. Like suddenly someone opened a curtain and said, "Congratulations, you won a brand new life!"
That sounds kind of creepy and unhealthy, but please believe I have no other way of describing it, and I know this surreal feeling will fade into a normal level of excitement soon, but at this moment when it is all still so fresh, I feel a bit like I've been dreaming and tomorrow I'll wake up.
The funny thing is, it wasn't a particularly fantastical moment, there were no unicorns, no chorus of angels, no swell of music, but somehow that made it exactly what it should have been for me. And I'll explain that statement at the end.
I've been dating Paul for about a year and a half now. I met him through Wildclaw Theatre, that little horror company here in Chicago. And this sounds dumb, but it really was sort of immediately right with him. I'm not going to gush about how I've struggled in past relationships for the smallest shred of pseudo-happiness and how easy it has been to find myself completely overjoyed with Paul all the time, so let me just say that I feel great. I met this guy and immediately thought I would marry him.
A year and a half later, we have our own apartment together, our two cats are learning to get along, and we joke about getting married so frequently it's like we're already married. At least I thought it felt like that. Until I actually heard the words and said yes to them. And then suddenly it was like a brand new relationship. I said to Paul tonight, "Do you feel like we just started dating, somehow? Like everything is completely and stupidly new?" He giggled really hard and I knew he'd been thinking it too. I joked, "Hell, we should get engaged every year!"
So, like I said, we'd joked about it. A lot. And lately it had been not so much joking as "Hey, wanna go ring shopping on Saturday?" That was from Paul, met with my mock horror, "No, that takes all the surprise out of it! You're supposed to surprise me, dammit!" Of course, I secretly believed he didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of actually surprising me because I can read his body language so well I would spot a proposal coming from a mile away.
Saturday comes and the weather is amazing, so we decide to run all our errands on our bikes. It's great. We go to a frame shop, the dollar store, and then Paul says he needs to check his phone to see if someone texted him back. He's usually not secretive in any way, so when I ask what he's hoping to find out and he pretends not to hear me, I figure something is up. He seems pleased to see whatever he was looking for on his phone, and our next stop takes us to:
A jewelers. It's the jeweler that Paul's best friend used for his wedding rings last August. Apparently the text he was waiting for was the address of the place.
We walk in, the woman says, "Hi, what can I do for you today?" and Paul sort of stumbles out the words, "Well, I guess we should say it out loud: we're getting married!"
This is the first I've heard of it as an official thing, so I'm slightly dumb struck, both wondering if that was supposed to be my official proposal and wondering if this is all just an elaborate joke.
So we sit down and I'm pressed to design an engagement ring for myself. After wading through several options, the woman finally cottons to the fact that I wasn't ready for this, and had my heart set on being surprised, so she suggests, "Ok, now that I know what you like and what you don't like, why don't you just let Paul come back later and he and I will finish the ring's design so you can truly be surprised by the time you see it."
Perfect. So, we make our departure and I'm all giggley and stupid and Paul keeps teasing me, saying, "What are you giggling about? It's like you think I proposed or something. Well I didn't, you know. Maybe I'm getting this ring for some other chick I've got on the side that has the same size finger as you." It's cute. I'm still a bit confounded, but it's cute. We decide to go about the rest of our errands.
Toys R Us is next on our list, and we're looking for plastic Easter eggs. After talking to a clerk, we're directed to them. As I turn I hear Paul ask the clerk something about a ring. He waves me away when I glance back, and I figure he's just going to put plastic jewelry in the eggs before we hide them for each other, just to be cute. So I walk away to let him have his "surprise."
The store is packed with hickish families of obnoxious children pumping quarters into rubber ball machines and dragging plastic dinosaurs around by the tails. We check out, and suddenly, at the end of the check-out line, Paul reaches into the bag and pulls out a Ring Pop.
And gets down on one knee.
Right there.
At the end of the check-out line.
I am suddenly painfullly aware of everyone that has seen Paul make this very classic movement, and a red light goes off behind my eyes as my social phobias kick in.
Before he can say anything I stage-whisper, "Nonononono, not here not here not here not here!!!!!" and literally drag him to his feet. He's wearing a look on his face somewhere between just having maniacally shot a kitten, and realizing he's maniacally shot a kitten, and before he can protest I feel myself fleeing the store.
He stumbles out behind me, as we're both guffawing, unable to breath we're laughing so hard, and his first words to me are, "I've been spurned!"
Finally I collect myself and we go back to our bikes, Paul laughing and admitting that maybe not all his ideas are great, and as we're unlocking our bikes from the trash can they're chained to, he grabs me up and says, "But this time I mean it - Krista, will you marry me?"
Before I can answer he's crying because he knows I will say yes, and when I say yes he's crying even harder, and we hug, his sunglasses fall off, my hat tumbles to the ground, and ten million years pass in my head as I realize I'm going to be this man's wife.
Then to break the tension I say, over his shoulder, "I've just been proposed to over a trash can outside of a Payless Shoes. This is the happiest day of my life."
I put on the Ring Pop. And suddenly I feel like a completely different person. "I need a drink," I admit. "My girl," says Paul, who is visibly shaking.
And that's when it hits me. He really DID manage to surprise me. So much so, in fact, that my first gut reaction was vehemently negative! That is the first sign for me that I had just received the perfect proposal. Why hadn't I realized it before? Of course the only way to surprise me would be an action so embarrassingly inappropriate I would never see it coming. The perfection is as blinding as it is simple.
We spent the rest of the day in a daze, texting and calling various people (our folks both already knew, incidentally, that it would happen some time this weekend, savvy as they are) and my second sign that this was the perfect proposal came when my two best and oldest friends in the world independently asked me in their own respective ways, before I'd even told the Toys R US/trash can story, if the proposal had been appropriately lame/weird/silly like I always thought it would be. Mark asked if it had been over a flaming barrel. Debi asked if he'd used a paper napkin ring. The fact that I then got to tell a true story of a Ring Pop over a trash can filled me with limitless joy.
Incidentally, my ring is strawberry flavored, and I spent the rest of the day nervously licking at it, so the remainder of my "engagement ring" is now in the freezer to prevent me from finishing it.
This is as far as this story has gotten currently, and I'll update as we figure out details. But for right now we're still clutching each other and giggling and turning uncontrollably red at the words "engagement" and "fiance." Fun.
I think I like this whole "life" thing. It certainly makes for a good story.
In about five million ways I never really thought I would get married, in the same way I never really thought I would live past the age of 16, mostly because it's what I always wanted for my life. Family is the only thing that has ever seemed truly important to me, and the nagging feeling that it was all going to come to a halt in my name was... well...
Anyway, that's not what I'm writing about here. Suffice it to say I've felt very surreal for the past 36 hours. Like suddenly someone opened a curtain and said, "Congratulations, you won a brand new life!"
That sounds kind of creepy and unhealthy, but please believe I have no other way of describing it, and I know this surreal feeling will fade into a normal level of excitement soon, but at this moment when it is all still so fresh, I feel a bit like I've been dreaming and tomorrow I'll wake up.
The funny thing is, it wasn't a particularly fantastical moment, there were no unicorns, no chorus of angels, no swell of music, but somehow that made it exactly what it should have been for me. And I'll explain that statement at the end.
I've been dating Paul for about a year and a half now. I met him through Wildclaw Theatre, that little horror company here in Chicago. And this sounds dumb, but it really was sort of immediately right with him. I'm not going to gush about how I've struggled in past relationships for the smallest shred of pseudo-happiness and how easy it has been to find myself completely overjoyed with Paul all the time, so let me just say that I feel great. I met this guy and immediately thought I would marry him.
A year and a half later, we have our own apartment together, our two cats are learning to get along, and we joke about getting married so frequently it's like we're already married. At least I thought it felt like that. Until I actually heard the words and said yes to them. And then suddenly it was like a brand new relationship. I said to Paul tonight, "Do you feel like we just started dating, somehow? Like everything is completely and stupidly new?" He giggled really hard and I knew he'd been thinking it too. I joked, "Hell, we should get engaged every year!"
So, like I said, we'd joked about it. A lot. And lately it had been not so much joking as "Hey, wanna go ring shopping on Saturday?" That was from Paul, met with my mock horror, "No, that takes all the surprise out of it! You're supposed to surprise me, dammit!" Of course, I secretly believed he didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of actually surprising me because I can read his body language so well I would spot a proposal coming from a mile away.
Saturday comes and the weather is amazing, so we decide to run all our errands on our bikes. It's great. We go to a frame shop, the dollar store, and then Paul says he needs to check his phone to see if someone texted him back. He's usually not secretive in any way, so when I ask what he's hoping to find out and he pretends not to hear me, I figure something is up. He seems pleased to see whatever he was looking for on his phone, and our next stop takes us to:
A jewelers. It's the jeweler that Paul's best friend used for his wedding rings last August. Apparently the text he was waiting for was the address of the place.
We walk in, the woman says, "Hi, what can I do for you today?" and Paul sort of stumbles out the words, "Well, I guess we should say it out loud: we're getting married!"
This is the first I've heard of it as an official thing, so I'm slightly dumb struck, both wondering if that was supposed to be my official proposal and wondering if this is all just an elaborate joke.
So we sit down and I'm pressed to design an engagement ring for myself. After wading through several options, the woman finally cottons to the fact that I wasn't ready for this, and had my heart set on being surprised, so she suggests, "Ok, now that I know what you like and what you don't like, why don't you just let Paul come back later and he and I will finish the ring's design so you can truly be surprised by the time you see it."
Perfect. So, we make our departure and I'm all giggley and stupid and Paul keeps teasing me, saying, "What are you giggling about? It's like you think I proposed or something. Well I didn't, you know. Maybe I'm getting this ring for some other chick I've got on the side that has the same size finger as you." It's cute. I'm still a bit confounded, but it's cute. We decide to go about the rest of our errands.
Toys R Us is next on our list, and we're looking for plastic Easter eggs. After talking to a clerk, we're directed to them. As I turn I hear Paul ask the clerk something about a ring. He waves me away when I glance back, and I figure he's just going to put plastic jewelry in the eggs before we hide them for each other, just to be cute. So I walk away to let him have his "surprise."
The store is packed with hickish families of obnoxious children pumping quarters into rubber ball machines and dragging plastic dinosaurs around by the tails. We check out, and suddenly, at the end of the check-out line, Paul reaches into the bag and pulls out a Ring Pop.
And gets down on one knee.
Right there.
At the end of the check-out line.
I am suddenly painfullly aware of everyone that has seen Paul make this very classic movement, and a red light goes off behind my eyes as my social phobias kick in.
Before he can say anything I stage-whisper, "Nonononono, not here not here not here not here!!!!!" and literally drag him to his feet. He's wearing a look on his face somewhere between just having maniacally shot a kitten, and realizing he's maniacally shot a kitten, and before he can protest I feel myself fleeing the store.
He stumbles out behind me, as we're both guffawing, unable to breath we're laughing so hard, and his first words to me are, "I've been spurned!"
Finally I collect myself and we go back to our bikes, Paul laughing and admitting that maybe not all his ideas are great, and as we're unlocking our bikes from the trash can they're chained to, he grabs me up and says, "But this time I mean it - Krista, will you marry me?"
Before I can answer he's crying because he knows I will say yes, and when I say yes he's crying even harder, and we hug, his sunglasses fall off, my hat tumbles to the ground, and ten million years pass in my head as I realize I'm going to be this man's wife.
Then to break the tension I say, over his shoulder, "I've just been proposed to over a trash can outside of a Payless Shoes. This is the happiest day of my life."
I put on the Ring Pop. And suddenly I feel like a completely different person. "I need a drink," I admit. "My girl," says Paul, who is visibly shaking.
And that's when it hits me. He really DID manage to surprise me. So much so, in fact, that my first gut reaction was vehemently negative! That is the first sign for me that I had just received the perfect proposal. Why hadn't I realized it before? Of course the only way to surprise me would be an action so embarrassingly inappropriate I would never see it coming. The perfection is as blinding as it is simple.
We spent the rest of the day in a daze, texting and calling various people (our folks both already knew, incidentally, that it would happen some time this weekend, savvy as they are) and my second sign that this was the perfect proposal came when my two best and oldest friends in the world independently asked me in their own respective ways, before I'd even told the Toys R US/trash can story, if the proposal had been appropriately lame/weird/silly like I always thought it would be. Mark asked if it had been over a flaming barrel. Debi asked if he'd used a paper napkin ring. The fact that I then got to tell a true story of a Ring Pop over a trash can filled me with limitless joy.
Incidentally, my ring is strawberry flavored, and I spent the rest of the day nervously licking at it, so the remainder of my "engagement ring" is now in the freezer to prevent me from finishing it.
This is as far as this story has gotten currently, and I'll update as we figure out details. But for right now we're still clutching each other and giggling and turning uncontrollably red at the words "engagement" and "fiance." Fun.
I think I like this whole "life" thing. It certainly makes for a good story.
Monday, June 28, 2010
WHEE
Oh, I'm so glad I just watched Toy Story 3 last night with friends and then saw this today:
http://disney.go.com/charactercalls/bigkidcalls/
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?
http://disney.go.com/charactercalls/bigkidcalls/
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.
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.
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.
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."
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
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Moving right along...
What's that sound... is it a blog being written? My, it's been quite a long time. I'm all rusty, like a forgotten garden gate door. Only that sounds much more interesting than I feel right now. I've been experiencing the calling again lately to put words into the internet, but have once again, nothing in particular to write about. Or maybe it's that I have TOO much going on, and don't even know how to begin.
So let's start somewhere simple.
I'm moving. From Lombard to Berwyn. (Cue Svengoolie sound bite.)
I've been in this apartment for six years now. It is crumbling around me, and I've been anxious to move on for a very long time, but have not been sure how to proceed, or what would become of my future if I tried. I kept thinking that maybe if I stuck around, it would be good again, just like it was at first, exactly what it had promised to be. If I kept calling maintenance, eventually everything would be fixed, but despite efforts made, the problems remain beyond the skin of the apartment, like a cancer. One thing would be repaired, and yet more dust and mold would appear, malignant and metastatic, and the next thing would break. It's just not big enough for me, here. I keep getting more stuff, good and bad, and the apartment is certainly not growing with me.
But there just weren't places that seemed good enough to move to. I like the trees here. I like the yard. I like the bike path. I like how close it is to everything I do and enjoy. Nothing else seemed to offer the same, and I couldn't feature being happy anywhere else. All I imagined waiting for me was misery and regret.
Then some things really broke. Maybe for good. Maybe not. But I didn't know how these things could be fixed except by liberal applications of time and distance. And I found myself going out to explore what it might be like outside of this apartment and it's loneliness. Much to my surprise, good things happened. I found myself thrust into the smiling face of excitement and joy. Not at all the misery and regret I had been expecting. And suddenly it was ok to move.
...By now, I hope you understand that by "move" I of course mean "move on."
And that I'm not just talking about my apartment.
So let's start somewhere simple.
I'm moving. From Lombard to Berwyn. (Cue Svengoolie sound bite.)
I've been in this apartment for six years now. It is crumbling around me, and I've been anxious to move on for a very long time, but have not been sure how to proceed, or what would become of my future if I tried. I kept thinking that maybe if I stuck around, it would be good again, just like it was at first, exactly what it had promised to be. If I kept calling maintenance, eventually everything would be fixed, but despite efforts made, the problems remain beyond the skin of the apartment, like a cancer. One thing would be repaired, and yet more dust and mold would appear, malignant and metastatic, and the next thing would break. It's just not big enough for me, here. I keep getting more stuff, good and bad, and the apartment is certainly not growing with me.
But there just weren't places that seemed good enough to move to. I like the trees here. I like the yard. I like the bike path. I like how close it is to everything I do and enjoy. Nothing else seemed to offer the same, and I couldn't feature being happy anywhere else. All I imagined waiting for me was misery and regret.
Then some things really broke. Maybe for good. Maybe not. But I didn't know how these things could be fixed except by liberal applications of time and distance. And I found myself going out to explore what it might be like outside of this apartment and it's loneliness. Much to my surprise, good things happened. I found myself thrust into the smiling face of excitement and joy. Not at all the misery and regret I had been expecting. And suddenly it was ok to move.
...By now, I hope you understand that by "move" I of course mean "move on."
And that I'm not just talking about my apartment.
Friday, November 20, 2009
The new Star Trek movie made me cry.
This'll be a hell of a way to get back into blogging, after all this time, but there are moments when I simply must say something, and I'm pretty sure that's what blogging is for, so here we go.
We saw the new Star Trek movie tonight, after what felt like a very long wait. I'm not going to censor anything here, so look away, ye who want not to be spoiled.
Everything that has been said about it being a great movie is spot on. Fantastic casting, and even though I couldn't see that guy as anything other than Sylar, he still managed to deliver one or two lines that made me believe he was Spock, simply because his impression of Nemoy was perfect. The guy doing Bones was perfect, enjoyed him practically as much as I did the original character (which, I guess, doesn't say much because he was never my favorite character), and while we didn't get much Scotty, he was still delightful. A little too over the top comedy relief, but that wasn't a bad thing. Sulu and his portable, extendo-sword was great.
It was solidly written, aside from a couple random points, VERY well acted, and the casting was fantastic, like I said.
And I did not like it.
It was a GREAT movie. I will tell everyone to see it.
... But I did not like it.
I'm going to be in the minority here, and I know exactly why and I'm perfectly ok with that. Please suffer me my feelings on this matter, though. I can't say for sure, but I might be the only one in here that had as strong an attachment to the original series as I did. It was a very large part of my life right at the time when I was developing who I really was inside. I studied original Trek - I didn't just enjoy it, I STUDIED it. I checked out books from the library, I kept a journal on things I'd noticed about the writing, changes in costumes, character development. It wasn't that I just cared about it as a fun show, it was that I couldn't get enough of the cultural impact it had during the sixties and early seventies. I studied about the writers, about what they thought they were doing, and what they ended up actually doing to society... Hell, I even made little notes on my calendars that said silly things like "Kahn turns fifteen today." In my early teens, I had a long period of studying pop cultural phenomena of the sixties and seventies. I felt compelled to do so - it wasn't just interest, I literally needed to know. Trek was part of this, and was part of me. Before this, I had pretty much been weened on The Next Generation, and later I enjoyed very much fitting the time periods together, finding the holes, discovering homages, etc.
I don't expect anyone to care about all that, and that's not why I wrote it, but it's a piece of me that might explain my feelings about this film. The people who are upset because this film "violates cannon" are fools.
This movie didn't violate cannon.
It obliterated cannon.
And it pretty much steps up to the screen and says, "Hey, you know all that stuff you've loved for the last fifty years? We just made it all go poof."
I know that a lot of the movies were horrible. I know a few of the SERIES were horrible, for god's sake. I know there was a lot to hate about Trek. But to get rid of ALL of it...?
... all of it...
And, of course, I see that unless they wanted to keep making more bad movies trying to salvage what had become of the Trek universe, they HAD to do something like this. I realize that. But I guess I would have been happier if they'd just let it... stop. I would rather all of Star Trek die a peaceful, honored death than to have the entire history erased so it can start again.
And man... they erased the ENTIRE history. They didn't leave a single scrap left for anyone that cared. Kirk isn't even the same person because he doesn't grow up with a dad in this alternate reality. He CAN'T be the same person. Nothing can ever be the same.
As I was explaining to Brian in the car on the way home, it wouldn't have felt so bad if the worm hole had just taken them to an alternate DIMENSION. With that at least you have the feeling, even if it's very bleak, that what you know and love is still out there somewhere. No, the worm hole takes them to the past so that an entire alternate REALITY gets created. There's nothing left to cling to. It's bye bye to everything you knew.
My one flaw with the movie itself was how "old Spock" reacted to all of this. He was noticeably, and appropriately, upset about the destruction of Vulcan. Who wouldn't be. And to consider the entire history of Vulcan for the next hundred and thirty years will never happen... it's devastating. But he didn't seem at all to consider, react to, or even acknowledge the loss of HIS WHOLE LIFE'S MEMORIES. Imagine living as long as he did, and having basically your last hundred and thirty fucking years ERASED. Now you're too old to go back, and you just have to accept that everything that you knew, everything that shaped you, only happened in your own head, and no one will ever share that with you again. It's not the same as losing all your friends because of old age. It's losing all record and acknowledgement that your life, as you knew it, ever existed. I refuse to believe that he'd just be ok with this. I can't feature that he'd just shrug and sing que sera sera.
I feel hollow after watching this movie. Hollow because I know that; unless they want to pull that annoying thing they do in comic books, where one writer decides to blatantly ignore something else another writer has done, and you end up with a zillion different Batman story lines; the time line of Trek that I grew up with, that I studied, that I loved my whole life, will NEVER be touched upon again. Not in movies, not in television series, not in books... it's gone. They've erased it. And I feel like I've lost a friend. Not only a friend, but the entire existence of a friend.
I don't particularly feel like debating this post because I'm actually really sad right now, even though I feel foolish for this sadness, and I have a lingering knowledge that I just watched a really good movie. I know it was a good movie, and I know you are all right. But I feel miserable.
(Originally posted on May 12th, 2009)
We saw the new Star Trek movie tonight, after what felt like a very long wait. I'm not going to censor anything here, so look away, ye who want not to be spoiled.
Everything that has been said about it being a great movie is spot on. Fantastic casting, and even though I couldn't see that guy as anything other than Sylar, he still managed to deliver one or two lines that made me believe he was Spock, simply because his impression of Nemoy was perfect. The guy doing Bones was perfect, enjoyed him practically as much as I did the original character (which, I guess, doesn't say much because he was never my favorite character), and while we didn't get much Scotty, he was still delightful. A little too over the top comedy relief, but that wasn't a bad thing. Sulu and his portable, extendo-sword was great.
It was solidly written, aside from a couple random points, VERY well acted, and the casting was fantastic, like I said.
And I did not like it.
It was a GREAT movie. I will tell everyone to see it.
... But I did not like it.
I'm going to be in the minority here, and I know exactly why and I'm perfectly ok with that. Please suffer me my feelings on this matter, though. I can't say for sure, but I might be the only one in here that had as strong an attachment to the original series as I did. It was a very large part of my life right at the time when I was developing who I really was inside. I studied original Trek - I didn't just enjoy it, I STUDIED it. I checked out books from the library, I kept a journal on things I'd noticed about the writing, changes in costumes, character development. It wasn't that I just cared about it as a fun show, it was that I couldn't get enough of the cultural impact it had during the sixties and early seventies. I studied about the writers, about what they thought they were doing, and what they ended up actually doing to society... Hell, I even made little notes on my calendars that said silly things like "Kahn turns fifteen today." In my early teens, I had a long period of studying pop cultural phenomena of the sixties and seventies. I felt compelled to do so - it wasn't just interest, I literally needed to know. Trek was part of this, and was part of me. Before this, I had pretty much been weened on The Next Generation, and later I enjoyed very much fitting the time periods together, finding the holes, discovering homages, etc.
I don't expect anyone to care about all that, and that's not why I wrote it, but it's a piece of me that might explain my feelings about this film. The people who are upset because this film "violates cannon" are fools.
This movie didn't violate cannon.
It obliterated cannon.
And it pretty much steps up to the screen and says, "Hey, you know all that stuff you've loved for the last fifty years? We just made it all go poof."
I know that a lot of the movies were horrible. I know a few of the SERIES were horrible, for god's sake. I know there was a lot to hate about Trek. But to get rid of ALL of it...?
... all of it...
And, of course, I see that unless they wanted to keep making more bad movies trying to salvage what had become of the Trek universe, they HAD to do something like this. I realize that. But I guess I would have been happier if they'd just let it... stop. I would rather all of Star Trek die a peaceful, honored death than to have the entire history erased so it can start again.
And man... they erased the ENTIRE history. They didn't leave a single scrap left for anyone that cared. Kirk isn't even the same person because he doesn't grow up with a dad in this alternate reality. He CAN'T be the same person. Nothing can ever be the same.
As I was explaining to Brian in the car on the way home, it wouldn't have felt so bad if the worm hole had just taken them to an alternate DIMENSION. With that at least you have the feeling, even if it's very bleak, that what you know and love is still out there somewhere. No, the worm hole takes them to the past so that an entire alternate REALITY gets created. There's nothing left to cling to. It's bye bye to everything you knew.
My one flaw with the movie itself was how "old Spock" reacted to all of this. He was noticeably, and appropriately, upset about the destruction of Vulcan. Who wouldn't be. And to consider the entire history of Vulcan for the next hundred and thirty years will never happen... it's devastating. But he didn't seem at all to consider, react to, or even acknowledge the loss of HIS WHOLE LIFE'S MEMORIES. Imagine living as long as he did, and having basically your last hundred and thirty fucking years ERASED. Now you're too old to go back, and you just have to accept that everything that you knew, everything that shaped you, only happened in your own head, and no one will ever share that with you again. It's not the same as losing all your friends because of old age. It's losing all record and acknowledgement that your life, as you knew it, ever existed. I refuse to believe that he'd just be ok with this. I can't feature that he'd just shrug and sing que sera sera.
I feel hollow after watching this movie. Hollow because I know that; unless they want to pull that annoying thing they do in comic books, where one writer decides to blatantly ignore something else another writer has done, and you end up with a zillion different Batman story lines; the time line of Trek that I grew up with, that I studied, that I loved my whole life, will NEVER be touched upon again. Not in movies, not in television series, not in books... it's gone. They've erased it. And I feel like I've lost a friend. Not only a friend, but the entire existence of a friend.
I don't particularly feel like debating this post because I'm actually really sad right now, even though I feel foolish for this sadness, and I have a lingering knowledge that I just watched a really good movie. I know it was a good movie, and I know you are all right. But I feel miserable.
(Originally posted on May 12th, 2009)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)