"Lullabies Fill Our Eyes"

Apologies are hard. If it were possible--and remotely feasible--I would swear off doing anything and everything that would cause me to need to apologize to someone because it is so emotionally hard on me. In the world called reality, however, that isn't possible; which means I get to look forward to more apologies and more crying, and we've already established my distaste for that activity.

I've made two fairly large apologies within the past few days. One was a repeat apology that I felt needed to be made now that I had a better understanding of the aftermath of my actions. Note to self: listen to the little voice in my head saying "That's a dumb idea, don't do it." It's much smarter than I give it credit for.

I also apologized to my program director for not giving the 100% I should have been over the past two years. Many other things were said that I'm not getting into again because I just barely stopped crying and have a headache. I'd prefer not to make it too much worse.

The biggest thing I've done the past few days wasn't an apology as such. I stood up and voiced my opinion and worries to my closest friend here, something I had been debating for weeks. She was beginning to get into a situation which was causing a lot of gossip around town which could have proven to be really bad for her, and it was beginning to remind me of a situation I'd been in earlier in the year. A situation where I didn't try to voice my misgivings and talk my friend out of her actions, encouraging her instead because I knew that's what she wanted me to do. It's something I've regretted for months, still regret even though I apologized for it, but she's the type of person who will just blow off that type of apology because she doesn't think it's relevant or necessary. I happen to disagree, but whatever.

This time, I decided I wasn't going to do the same thing twice. I was going to be the better friend and do what I could to help my friend stay out of trouble. And I'm so glad I did. I'd be glad even if this friend hadn't listened to me and understood what I was saying. Because I learned from my mistake and I voiced my opinion. More than that, I had an opinion.

Slightly bigger than baby steps now, but I'm still going in the right direction.

"How Much She Blamed Herself"

By this point, it's fairly obvious that I have issues which I have been struggling with for years. Family issues, relationship issues, cutting issues, friend issues...emotional wreck issues. You get the idea.

Every time I get on here, I write a new post about my life and my problems, etc etc. I have the tendency to go back and forth on things, to be doing really well in one aspect of my life...until something else happens and then it all comes crashing down and I have to start all over. Which is neither fun nor particularly easy. After I have my regularly scheduled regression into issues which had been over and done with, I tell myself "Yes, you screwed up, but you're going to work even harder against that this time."

It's taken me awhile to really realize and accept one part of me, to see that what I'm doing isn't good for me and it's only making everything else harder. It's not my sexuality. It's not my cutting. It's not my exhausting family or emotional stunting due to my exes.

It's my shame.

If I were to describe everything that has happened to me, I would somehow eventually lead it all back to it being my fault somehow, even when it wasn't. I blame myself for being weak, for not standing up for myself, for letting people use me. I've always blamed myself for what went on at home, for not being stronger and keeping everything inside.

Twice this week I met with missionaries from my church and I opened up to them, to total strangers. Cried my eyes out like a baby; they're started to carry tissues just for when they meet with me because they know I will cry. And I do. But I realized that the only way I am going to get better and be the person I so desperately need to is by working through everything and coming to an understanding with myself and with God.

Today, I finally understood that I do more than just blame myself for these things: I hold onto them and I refuse to forgive myself, especially for the things that really were my fault. I haven't forgiven myself for letting myself mark and scar my skin in order to feel as though I was in control. I haven't forgiven myself for allowing an event that I don't even remember to dictate how I viewed my body and my self-esteem or for furthering my loss of self by being with guys who didn't make me feel good about myself. And I especially haven't forgiven myself for not standing up to my dad and stopping what was going on at home until it got out of hand.

But, I think, I can work towards that, towards forgiving myself. I need to. There's a lot of anger and shame and self-doubt that I have to let go of, and I know it's going to be hard. There are going to be so many more tears, and I'm still not going to enjoy crying and the emotional upheaval and headache that always comes with it--not to mention I always snot myself to death when I cry, and I almost always end up crying in front of other people. Letting go of all the negativity and breaking down the walls I put up is going to hurt like hell.

But I also know it's worth it, and I can do it.

After practically fifteen years of this, I'm finally ready to let go and stop blaming myself.

"But It's All Getting Old"

I don't care how many scientists claim that crying is good for you and helps release pent up emotions...it's not fun. Personally, I get no joy from crying. It's almost painful, especially when I start crying and know I can't control it, which means I have to leave the room and walk past girls I see on a fairly regular basis. More emotions on top of the already fragile state that is me. Add to that the knowledge that every single girl in that room with me (totalling maybe 20) knew I left because the subject we were discussing was directly related to me and that I was crying.

I hate crying.

My mental and emotional breakdowns never occur when I'd like them to, they're conveniently inconvenient almost 100% of the time. And once I get started, it's very hard for me to stop. Floodgates have dropped and are locked in place until I get at least half of it out; but even the slightest thing could set me off again. Which means that the girls who I know were trying to make me feel better by hugging me after the meeting only served to nearly make me cry again. Honestly, I wish they'd just let me eat my brownie in peace. Brownies are good. They help me. Although hot chocolate would be even better.

Note to self: keep hot chocolate in stock all year.

Since I got back from my meeting about...10 minutes ago, I've been debating whether or not to call one of my friends and ask a favor: namely, her babysitting me for a bit so I don't start crying again. This particular friend knows a fair amount, she never asked for details and I never offered, but she understands enough. Right now, she's the only one I can go to physically. My roommate is busy taking care of her boyfriend, and my best friend is in Florida. Worse and worse options.

Being who I am, however, means that I won't call this friend and ask her to come watch something silly with me (most likely Beauty and the Beast because it's her favorite and we have it) and bring her ice cream. Instead, I will sit on the couch, eat a really big cinnamon roll with a glass of milk (sadly, it doesn't do quite the thing hot chocolate does for me but oh well), and find something online that hopefully won't make me cry.

Lovely.

"Feel a Little Bit Brave"

Last night, I made a big step. Big for me, at least. For other people, it probably wouldn't be that big a deal. I mean, all I did was voice my opinion to my mother. Easy, right?

Not for me.

Ever since I was little, I knew that I should keep a lot--if not all--of my opinions to myself when it came to my dad; it was easier that way because I wouldn't be disagreeing with him, even if I actually did disagree. My mom has always been another story.

She's much more easy going than my dad is, and she lived by that same rule when it came to my dad. Most of the time. When she didn't, they would fight. Or rather, dad would yell and mom would try to voice her opinions without making it too much worse. Usually, she wasn't that successful.

I love both my parents, but I have always gotten along better with my mom because of this. Which also meant that I was really hesitant about disappointing her. Let's face it, life is easier when you're on good terms with your parents. So, I tried really hard not to argue with her, to keep my differing opinions to myself and go with whatever flow she happened to be on. And some days, that sucked because I really didn't agree with what she was saying. But I was the good daughter and didn't argue or disagree...to her face.

All summer, my mom has really been pushing the idea of having my own small business so I could be self-sufficient and not depend on her or someone else to support me. In theory, it's great; I like money, it's fairly important in this world. So, I put on my interested face, went to meetings, talked up products, wheedled and bullied friends to get on calls that I honestly didn't care about...and it was exhausting. The only part I liked was the products I got out of it because they were helping me be healthier, and I tend to have issues trying to be a healthy college student.

This is why last night was such a big deal. Mom had been reminding me that there was a conference call for the new business (called 360) and said I needed to get on it.

I didn't.

When she sent me a text asking what I thought, I stared at my phone for a good five or ten minutes trying to come up with an "excuse" for why I didn't get on the call before I decided to bite the bullet and be entirely honest with my mom, possibly for the first time in the past six years. I told her that quite honestly, I didn't care about the business end. I liked the products, I would use the products, but the rest of it just wasn't me. And last night, I went to bed slightly worried because she hadn't answered.

This morning, all she said was she was thankful for my honesty and that she just wants me to be able to take care of myself.

So yeah, maybe saying "Hey, I don't want to do this" isn't a big deal for most people. But I feel good about it.

"Just a Gust of Wind"

My family was in town the past few days. Came up to bring my brother to school. I had friends who kept checking on me to make sure I was okay, one of them even called witha fake fried-emergency in case I needed a break from family drama. I didn't, but that's okay.

What is messing with my head the most right now is...my roommate actually liked my dad. None of my friends who have met my dad after I have told them what went on at my houseb actually liked him. They couldn't get past what I told them and my feelings about him. But my roommate thought he was a nice guy who really does care about his family, just doesn't know what to do to take care of them. And I know she's right, but I'm struggling to see that in everything I've been through.

On top of that, I was fixing some stuff on my brother's Facebook and was looking for miscellaneous family members to send requests to when I saw one of my brothers. Specifically, Ben: the brother my family has ignored the existance of since I was three. And it scared me. It scared me to have a visual reminder that he's not in jail. It scared me to see that one of my sisters has accepted him enough to have him on her Facebook. And it scared me that he could easily find my brother and get in touch with him because the only ones who know the full story are my parents and I. And probably my grandparents.

Between having my dad around for two days and then seeing Ben on Facebook, I can't help but look at who I used to be, before all of this happened and I spiralled downward into depression and self-deprecation. All the things that happened because I let situations control me and my life.

I'm not sure which part scares me more.

"Rather Hurt Than Feel Nothing At All"

Apparently, since I am me and I am where I am at this point in my life, feeling any emotion at all is good, even if it's acute frustration because people just don't get it. And by it, I mean me.

Now, I realize that "getting me" is a fairly tall order; I'm not stupid, I know that there are very few people in the world who are even capable of a basic understanding of how my brain works. That being said, I really wish that certain people would use whatever common sense God gave them and realize that, just because I said that I'm having a bad week, does not mean I want to talk about it.

In fact, let me just put this all out here for the world to see and--hopefully--get through its thick head.

When I blog, everything I put in here is put here because I don't want to talk about it. In some cases, I don't want to talk about anything. Not me, not my problems, not your problems, not politics (okay, I never want to talk about politics), not the drama of what's-her-face and her boyfriend and the huge fight they had in the middle of the quad...

Some days, I don't want to talk. And I find that to be perfectly acceptable because I'm not bottling it up inside. I'm putting it all in my blog, where it belongs. Because I'm coping. That's the whole point of this venture, me documenting the ups and downs of my life while I try to put all the annoying jigsaw puzzle pieces back together so it actually looks like my life instead of a huge broken mess.

While I'm still fairly frustrated, I'd also like to point out one other thing: people need to realize they are not super heroes. I know that the big movie craze right now is all about ordinary people suddenly realizing they have the power to right the world's wrongs and make everything better, but let's be honest here: in reality, that doesn't happen. It sucks, but it's true. You can't help everyone. Sometimes, there isn't anything TO help. Like, oh, say ME, for instance.

My problems are just that, my problems. I'm not saying that I can't be helped, but I am saying that there are times when other people can't help. Sadly, I have two friends who have what I have deemed as "Superman-Syndrome"; if I try to tell them what's going on, they immediately start asking how they can help. And yes, I know that is incredibly nice, and I'm so lucky to have friends who want to help, but that's not the point here. The point is that you can't solve the world's problems, and you really can't solve mine. Less sadly, one of my friends has realized that she can't solve all my problems for me, at least not the big ones. So, for now, she's just trying to help me figure out how I can get some sleep.

The other one....him I kinda really want to strangle.

Well, now that I've said at least three times as much as I was planning on saying when I started, I'm gonna get to work on that sleep thing.

"For a Walking Corpse Like Me"

Lately, I've caught myself falling back into the same old place I always let myself end up when my life starts coming together; I've avoided really talking about it with anyone for the whole week. The only reason my housemate even knows is because she lives with me and it's a little hard to hide the fact that I haven't left the apartment since church on Sunday from her. Not that she's really here often enough to notice. But that's beside the point.

I stopped caring again. Not about everything, I still care about my brother and everything going on with him; I still care about my friends and the drama in their lives; I even care--probably too much--about the characters in my favorite books and shows. But I stopped caring about me. All week, I've had issues getting to sleep: I'd go to bed around 12 or 1 am, stare at the wall or the ceiling for an hour, read something on my computer for another hour, try to sleep again, and consider myself lucky if I was passed out by 4am. This meant that I probably didn't get up until 11am or later.

There were times, especially in the past 24hours, where I really wished that I could just walk outside, hit up a 99cent store, buy a bunch of crap I don't need, and tell all my friends to deal with it because I was coping. And maybe I could have. But I didn't. Instead, I sat on my couch and ignored texts from a friend of mine because I knew I'd end up telling him everything without really thinking about it. And then people would worry. And I hate when people worry about me. I don't see the point.

What I find to be the weirdest part of this whole week of self-deprecation is the lack of logical emotion I've been able to show. My friends tell me that such-and-such is happening in their lives, and I'm concerned or angry or what have you....but I'm also bored. Within minutes of the conversation starting, I'm bored with the whole thing. Yes, I'm aware that this is probably not normal.

The only other sign of basic emotion I've shown, besides near-psychotic giggling over TV show situations, has happened at night while I attempt to reach something even slightly akin to sleep. I lay in my bed, I start relaxing my body bit by bit, I picture my happy place where it's calm and pretty and peaceful and all I hear are wind chimes, I hold the stuffed cat I've had since I was born, and...I cry.

Yep, I cry. Last night I was sobbing. And you want to know why? What on this earth finally made me show some sign of real life?

That stuffed cat.

Mmhmm. I hold Kitty to my chest, just under my chin, and I try to remember the song that she used to play when I was little and I'd push the button in her paw because I was upset... But I can't remember how the song goes.

So I cried.

And I didn't tell anyone what was going on.

Because I don't know if I want them to care.

Because I don't.

"There's Gonna Be Some Ups and Downs"

If I were to be truthfully honest--which I do try to be when I blog because I don't actually expect anyone to really read this, and it's more for me than anyone else anyway--I'd have to say that some things in my life just weird me out.

For instance: happy, smiley couples weird me out. Must they be SO happy ALL the time? Do they really need to rub it in the faces of us non-coupley people? Geez...

Mainly, what it weirding me out right now, is the fact that I don't feel weirded out that I'm moderately happy. I'm not overly stressed or worried about anything, I'm not searching my room in vain for something sharp and pointy (I think the best I'd manage would be my keys), and I'm not pining after one of the multiple idiots who used me like a doormat.

Contrary to the opinion of my roommate, who I love very much but occasionally want to smack because she doesn't quite get my point no matter how many times I explain it, I'm not saying my life is perfect. Let's face it, it's not. A lot of it still sucks, and could very likely get worse in a few weeks when my family drives up here. Yeah, let's not focus on that for awhile. Or ever.

I am also not saying I'm completely content with my aspect of the world and how my days go. I'm really not. But I'm also not unhappy with it. I'm not miserable or depressed. I'm not even sitting here waiting on pins and needles for something bad to happen. The worst thing I see in my future we've already touched on enough for one post.

So, I guess you could say I am...not quite happy. Or even content, really. But living? That one is applicable.

"In the Free Fall"

Funk: a dejected mood; depression or ill humor

This past weekend, I've found myself in a huge funk. On the "funk scale", going from 1-10, I've been about an 8. I was reaching very scary levels.

After church yesterday, I went over to see a friend I've really been missing this summer, and she had a letter for me from a friend who is on a mission in Mexico for our church. I didn't pay much attention to it other than enjoying hearing from him, but later that night, while I was doing some major soul searching and attempting to figure out my life, I remembered something he wrote in the letter. He reminded me of the main rule of our friendship: Smile.

I had been asking myself, asking God, how to get myself out of the funk, how to move on with my life, and there it was. Smile.

So that's what I'm going to focus on. I' going to smile. I'm going to breathe. And I'm not going to worry so damn much.

Oh, and maybe working the swearing thing. That could become an issue later. Maybe.

"Life Isn't Made Up of All That She Used To"

I'm somewhat ambivalent about summer right now. For most people, especially those in school, summer is the great escape from the tyranny of homework and teachers. On the other hand, parents probably dislike summer because it means the kids are home all day. Usually, I would subscribe to the first way of thinking, but this summer has been different than most for me.

It has been very nearly 13 months since I decided to let my more well-known ex into my life so he could drive me crazy again, 13 months since I last saw that manipulating liar who made dashing my hopes against rocks into a game lasting close to five years. I'm not bitter, I swear. That's the honest truth of our relationship.

Back to the main point: summer. Usually, I meet all of my exes during the summer, after which we attempt to make a go of the relationship and then realize that it's not working...because I have absolutely awful taste in men, not that they really qualify to be considered men when you think about how they treat women. This summer, however, I have done absolutely nothing. Seriously, I sat at home for two months bored out of my mind--by the way, never a good thing for me because then I start pining after said "not-really-men"--and now I'm at school, still bored out of my mind because my classes fell through, watching my roommate make out with her boyfriend on our couch while alternating between feeling completely nauseous, jealous, and depressed.

The other night, I went to my roommate's room and cried on her shoulder for awhile, completely depressed about how messed up I let my life get and absolutely certain that there was no one in this world ("this world" meaning the community in which I find myself at school) who would be willing to take me and all my baggage. I screwed up royally. I'm a depressed slut with control issues which make their appearance in the form of scratches made by safety pins across my wrists and forearms, on top of my family issues, ex-boyfriend issues, and general life issues.

Coincidentally, my roommate and I also watch a good amount of TV, especially How I Met Your Mother. Now, anyone who reads this will probably think I'm certifiable due to that change in topic, but I promise, it is related. My roommie told me that the right person (yeah, she said "person" not "boy"...she's cool like that with me) wouldn't care about all my baggage. Besides, I'm a totally different person than who I was five plus years ago when I let the circumstances in my life dictate how I was going to react and live. She said she could see the changes in me in the two years she's known me, the first of which was spent with me hating her because she was with one of my exes...long story.

The next day, while she was out with her boyfriend (who is not my ex, if you were wondering), I was watching some episodes of How I Met Your Mother on the DVR and came across one called "Doppelgangers." Towards the end of the episode, Ted had this one line that just hit me like a smack across the face:

“Eventually, over time, we all become our own doppelgangers, you know? These completely different people who just happen to look like us. Five years ago Robin? That girl—she was pretty great. But doppelganger Robin? She’s amazing.”

 Yeah, I pretty much fell off the couch when I heard that. I was basically exactly what my roommate had said the night before, but in different words, and I'm fairly certain she hasn't seen that episode yet, so I was considerably stunned.

Now, I'm going to take a moment to admit to my own nerdiness by saying that, when the mood hits me and I get bored, I watch anime; some of my favorite shows may or may not include The Ouron High School Host Club and Avatar: The Last Airbender. So saying, I started watching the spin off from Avatar, The Legend of Korra.

I got through the whole season in one day.

Today.

Here's the cool part: I had another "smack across the face" moment during the last episode. Past Life Aang came back and said:

“When we hit our lowest point, we are open to the greatest change.”

 Basically, the entire universe--or at least the TV-verse--is telling me to grow up and realize that I am a different person than who I let all those guys turn me into, and I am at a point in my life where I can really start to change and get my life back on track and put myself back together.

And it feels good.

Thank you Universe! And roommate.

"Gather Up Your Tears"

I've always been a highly emotional person, usually at the worst possible times. Which means that, when it's okay for me to be emotional...I got nothing.

Now, add that to the fact that last week two great men from my church died and the first funeral was today, and its reasonable to assume I'd cry a fair bit.

But wait, there's more.

Both of these amazing men were mentors and surrogate fathers to my brother. They understood our situation at home, and they cared enough to be there for him, to be role models and show him that not all families are like ours is. One of these men, whose funeral is this Thursday, was nearly as important to me as he was to my brother; he and his family took us in when we were forced to "run away", for lack of a better term. He took care of us for a week, and supported us even after we went back to our parents.

Because these men were so amazing and important to my brother, and are the first people he's known personally who have died, my brother is an emotional wreck.

I love my brother more than anything, and seeing him in this kind of emotional pain....there are no words.

I am ready to head back to school and concentrate on something besides all of this.

I'm ready to stop crying.

"What Gets Left Over"

I've always been a big lover of irony in all its forms: verbal, situational, dramatic. That could be largely because I'm also a big lover of sarcasm. It's my first language, really. So, when I'm watching one of my favorite shows, you can bet that I will find all sorts of irony in it.

Especially if said show happens to have character relationships that are the TV equivalent of my real relationships.

Currently, the show I'm watching has the greatest sense of situational irony in my life. Two best friends are about to be separated bcause they're moving away from each other, and one makes a point of saying that their relationship is not the same as it was--her friend should be taking second place to her husband in some aspects. Skip ahead to the next episode: the other friend, in a moment of extreme stress, says something to the effect of her still being there for her friend, even if her friend isn't there for her.

The actual lines that the two characters say are what makes the whole thing so terribly ironic, but I just don't feel like saying them.

Suffice it to say, I love irony, but right now it sucks.

"Inside My Mind, Inside My Dreams"

I recently heard a quote saying that some things were cliches for a reason: they work. I find that right now, agree with that statement.

Another nail in the coffin.
No use crying over spilt milk.
Two steps forward, one step back.
It ain't over til the fat lady sings.

You get the idea.

Sometimes, the best way to say what needs to b said is t use words which have lready ben said more times than you can count or, the quote is just astoundingly famous and is known across te whole world.

Example: JK Rowling wrote that 'fear of the name only increases fear of the thing itself'.

There are other times, however, where there are no words for what you want to say, either because you don't know what it is you want to say or you don't want to have to say it. I fall in the second category.

Some things you just don't ever want to admit because if you do admit to them, then everything changes. And it's not always for the better.

"Gather Up Your Tears"

I've been home for nearly a week, and while I'm usually at home bored without access to any sort of vehicle, I haven't felt any traces of cabin fever yet. I did manage to get out and see one of my friends from high school the other night, and we spent a few hours goofing off and catching up; meaning, I spent most of the time talking about how I was doing and getting a sore throat. My friend did say something that made me stop and think when I got home, though.

I don't remember how we got onto the topic exactly, but I know we were discussing how I hated her her because she had just had sex right before coming to see me and it has been almost a year since I've had sex; this is a good thing because the guys I slept with when I was in high school were not the right guys for me and treated me like shit, but bad because I kind of miss it, even if I didn't enjoy it the few times I've had it.

Anyway, we transitioned from that to how long it had been since I last cut, which was sometime in the fall, I'm guessing October, although I really don't remember. My friend told me how proud she was of me for going that long because it's the longest I've gone since I first started cutting. That time, I cut for two months, was clean for almost two years, but then started up again and haven't made it past five months since then. She said that our group of friends should come up with some sort of token like they do in AA meetings. You go this long without doing anything, you get this random poker chip-looking-thing. You get the idea.

That wasn't the part that made me think, although it is a pretty cool idea. What made me think was that I had gone that long without cutting. I'm not saying I haven't wanted to cut. That is very obviously not true, considering it was all I could think about two or three weeks ago, and I know that I've wanted to cut before then.

But I didn't.

I didn't cut, not any of those times that I wanted to, no matter how strong the urge was to find the closest sharp and pointy object, I didn't do anything.

I'm starting to think that, at least in that area, I've begun to move past just "coping" and onto whatever comes after that.

"Finally Thinking 'Bout Me"

I will be the first to admit that I have a tendency toward the over dramatic at times--thankfully not when I really need to have a cool head--and that I let my emotions get the best of me fairly often. Books, movies, TV shows...just about anything that has the possibility of making me emotionally invested stands the chance of causing tears. So, when I say that I've just reached the point where I could actually read all of my critiques from my performance and talk about how I felt without crying, it's a pretty big deal.

The past few days have been hard. I still haven't had the chance to try and talk to one of my best friend about this because she's so busy, and I'm not going to complain about that because I know that her life is so screwed up that she really needs to be busy; I've been ignoring one of my other friends because I knew he would try to make me talk about everything and I wasn't ready to. But it has been hard for me. I finally caved the other day and sent my mom an email talking about all of it and how I felt. I cried the entire time I was typing it, and her reply the next morning made me cry more.

She did make me think though. Last night, I got down on my knees, and I poured my heart out to God about how confused and hurt I was, and I asked Him for answers to my questions; I did the same thing this morning--but with significantly fewer tears--and I fasted today as well. For the first time in almost five years, I went without food and I really and truly prayed for guidance. And I got it.

I didn't get all the answers, but who does really? I was reminded about a few things that I already knew I was supposed to be doing, and I heard a few really good things from my bishop when he spoke today. On top of that, after church I asked for a blessing and had those same words that I liked so much when my bishop said to me reiterated. And I was challenged to do certain things while I'm home the next few months, but I was promised things too. Even better than all of that was the many times I was told that I had made progress this year, that God was watching over me and that He was proud of me.

That made up for everything I went through this weekend.

I made another realization tonight as well.When I was growing up, I honestly didn't care that much about me as a person. I got caught up with other things and I didn't take care of myself, and when I got to college, that only became worse. Tonight, I was watching a recent episode of The Biggest Loser with the girl I'm planning on living with next year, and one of the trainers said something that hit home with me. Roughly paraphrased, he said  that all the progress this one woman in the show had made showed how much she had learned to care about herself as a person. It made me realize something: I need to put the same amount of care and effort into my relationship with myself that I do with my friends.

So, I have a lot to work on, but I think that's a good thing. It means that I can become better.

And who doesn't want that?

"Just Forget the World"

I thought about it.

I thought about it as wrote that last post.
I thought about it as sat on my bed watching Grey's Anatomy.
I thought about it when took my second shower of the day (hottest possible temperature).
I thought about it when I walked down to my friends' room before their choir concert.
I thought about it when I walked down to campus for dinner.
I'm thinking about it now.

About sharp needles and some form of blessed release from how feel so that can bock it all off, shut it away until I feel ready to handle it.

But I didn't.

No, instead, took my hot shower, shaved, put on some makeup, straightened my hair, put on some pretty clothes, and left my room. And I'm going to got to the concert, put on a smile, and give one of my best fucking performances ever a the awards tonight. And then will go back to my room, cry, and think about it some more.

But at least I'm only thinking about it.

**For the record, I wrote this yesterday shortly after the first post, but I did it on my phone and it wouldn't let me post. I'm in a blissful state of denial and avoidance right now and focusing on my brother's current choice of girlfriend.**

"Nobody Knows Where We Might End Up"

While at times I may seem really odd and out of place when I speak of things such as "omens" or "chakras" or "dream interpretation", ninety percent of the time, I don't actually put any store into such things. I may find them interesting or insightful, but I don't actually believe in them.

Today, right this second, falls into the other ten percent.

The other shoe has dropped, and it wasn't in the way I expected or prepared for.

I'm finishing up the last week of school before finals and minutes ago left my final class for the semester, a class which--while not of any significant importance to my graduating--is within the realms of my major. But I should probably start before this.

Let's start with last Thursday, exactly a week ago. This time last week, I was preparing for a graded performance, and I was feeling really good about it. I didn't actually have to do this performance, I had already done an in-class equivalent of it the previous semester, but I felt that it would be good for me to get the input from my professors before I became a senior next spring. I went in around 4 and was finished within ten minutes, and I didn't have a care in the world. I didn't care about the grade, and I told people this; I was only there for the critique.

Fast forward to yesterday, when I noted to myself that the weather was really grey and dreary: not the best omen for the last few days of class before finals. I remember that I hoped the weather today would be better.

Today, I had the written portion of my final for this class, one which I really enjoy and have been told I'm really taking to. I still felt good. The weather was still gloomy, but I felt good. The test only took me a little over half an hour--mostly because of the many short answer questions--but I felt, and still feel, like I did considerably well. As I was leaving the test, I decided I would swing by my advisor's office to see if my score had been posted from the week before.

It was.

"Potential to Major"

Last semester, I was cleared with a high enough score to do a final performance, and now I get three sheets of white office paper, stapled together with my name typed on them, saying that I am not doing well enough at this to have a final performance.

I only have the "potential" to major in this subject, that's all.

Just potential.

One step above "need to reconsider major".

I've been trying not to cry ever since I saw the papers, and failing miserably most of the time. I haven't talked to anyone because everyone I want to talk to is busy.

I feel like shit. Without that performance, everything I've done at this school will have been pointless because I won't be able to graduate. I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't graduate and do the things with my life that I want.

So, instead of trying to figure this out and feeling even more miserable, I'm going to curl up in my bed for a few hours, watching Grey's Anatomy and eating chocolate until it's time for me to get ready for an awards ceremony for the people within my major: one more knife stabbing me and saying I'm not good enough to even be nominated for one of the awards.

Great.

"Let Your Dreaming Be Your Guide"

I love how weird my dreams are. Seriously, they just prove exactly how twisted my mind is.

Last night, I was dreaming that I was in some reality show that slightly resembled The Hunger Games...minus the actual dying and the funky romance and the crazy politics. Although, all of that could have been in there and I just forgot. But I think we either faked the deaths or it was a really death-like elimination.

Anyway, I was in this show, and while I don't remember much of it--my roommate's alarm went off early this morning, I thought it was Friday and actually got up--I know that I was "killed off" around the fifth episode of the show; as I was watched the episodes later, I was thinking that maybe the show would make me famous because my screen presence (and death scene) was amazing.

I have a bit of an ego when it comes to acting, so sue me.

Interpretation, to the best of my ability, is as follows:

reality show: life is under scrutiny; need a reality check
Hunger Games: feeling unfulfilled and challenged in life
being on TV: want to broadcast something to the world, a desire to express self; or, trying to be more objective about life
faked death: looking for a new start in life
five: five senses and sensitivity; change in path

>>>>I feel as though my life is under constant scrutiny by those around me and I am challenged by what it is they expect me to do. I feel as though I am expected to do certain things and be a certain way, when all I want to do is show everyone exactly who I really am. But I don't do that, and I give up and stop trying to challenge myself and continue on by ignoring certain aspects of my life. I need to be more sensitive to what I want and who I am, but shouting to the rooftops that I'm starting my life over isn't the way to do it.<<<<

I knew I was a twisted person; my subconscious used The Hunger Games to give me a reality check.

"The Truth That I Know"

I'm not normally the type of girl who has crazy crushes and goes insane over some guy, daydreaming about silly things...lately, however, I've been exactly that girl. And I feel pathetic.

Tonight, I got to be the awkward fifth wheel because one of my friends felt as though it would be awkward to go on this non-date to get dinner with another couple. Both of the guys who were at dinner with us were really good friends with my friend who is on his mission for the church right now, and I found myself zoning in and out of the conversation--especially when we were in the van and lacking someone to be coupley with--and I would just daydream about the weirdest things. Well, weird to me.

It's possible that the sudden influx of sparkly decoration on the left hands of so many girls at school is getting to me, but the word "proposal" floated through my mind more than once. I was thinking that I would have all of the spring and summer to be around and with this friend of mine and then we would go on this trip to Ireland like we had planned on before he left; somehow, this idea morphed into a sparkly blue topaz and diamond ring on my hand.

I find the entire idea mildly terrifying. For starters, I haven't seen this guy in over a year and won't see him again til after Christmas. On top of that, when he left, he was interested in a different girl and I was with a different guy; as far as he knows, that hasn't changed much on my end. As if that wasn't enough, there is a chance that his dad could be my bishop at some point, which would inevitably lead to his dad finding out about all of my problems and issues and screw ups.

And quite possibly worse, I know he is way too good for me. That is more than evident as soon as you meet each of us. How incredibly depressing.

Do I actually like this friend of mine? I've gotten to the point where I really have no idea how to tell if I like someone, and I am more than aware of how bad I am at relationships.

For now, I'll have to leave the whole thing alone. It's a moot point until he gets back, and even then...

"They See Someone That's Not Me"

Sometimes, the people I go to school with and voluntarily spend my time with amaze me by how sheltered they are. And by sheltered I mean the level of discomfort they have with sexuality and the choices some people make.

Case A: some of my friends were making a big deal about sex and saying how they weren't ready for it, a man's penis scared them, etc. Which, for the average virgin, I suppose is fairly normal. But I just wanted to sit down and tell them it's nothing to be scared of, and I couldn't. I've tried to drop hints that would make easy segues into at least part of my story, but no one ever catches them; like when I said I have learned to be extremely grateful one week every month, everyone always thinks it's because I've had moments where I had to worry that I had some sort of disorder or body issue. The thought never crosses their mind that I've had multiple pregnancy scares in my life.

Tonight wasn't any different. "Beware the one-eyed snake." "I'm not ready for sex." The entire time, I sat there, wanting to say something, but couldn't because very few people here know my story. Of the four people on this campus who have heard my story, one is my bishop, another moved away, the third is the ex of the one who moved (and he's kind of scray-crazy right now), and the other one...she is:

Case B: the past couple of days, this friend has been so hung up on hating on this one character of a TV show we watch because this character cheated on her husband, which therefore makes her an awful person. And I wanted to slap her. Every. Single. Time. Yes, I do mean my friend, not the character in the show.

It's so easy for her to pass judgement on people who have made dumb choices like that, and she forgets that I've been there. I made stupid choices like that. I cheated on one of my exes. Granted, cheating on a boyfriend is not quite the same as having an affair, I get that. But it's not that different either. You still feel like shit afterward, especially when the other person finds out. So yeah, I took a little bit of offense at my friend saying how awful people were who cheated.

Guess that means I'm an awful person.

It's time like this where I start to think that no matter what I do, I'm never really going to fit in in the world I grew up in, the world my school and friends live in. I was born into that world--which is more like a bubble--, and for five years I chose to leave it and live in the rest of the world; now that I'm trying to come back and be a good person, I keep having all of my problems shoved back into my face, as if everyone was saying "You're not good enough...you screwed up....get out". It won't be any easier when I go home, and it will be even harder next year because the girl I'm planning on living with knows nothing of my situation. She doesn't know that I've had sex or thought I was pregnant or have a tattoo or that I used to cut...or that I wanted to cut this week because I was so stressed.

I didn't do it, by the way. Thought about it, but I didn't. Not worth it. But I won't lie about how appealing the thought was. Too bad the only pointy object at hand was a rusty safety pin; there was no way in hell that was coming anywhere near my body, I don't care how desperate I am.

Moral of the story? There isn't one. But there is an evident fact of life: forgiving and forgetting is easy until you start talking about yourself.