On Not Being Enough

Or, "all of my fears are completely justifiable and I hate it".

I have a grand total of four conscious fears - heights (I am too tall for that problem and yet--), small spaces (mostly elevators but someone nearly accidentally shut me into a dark supply closet at work a few months ago and that's the most traumatic thing that's happened to me all year), getting hit by a car in the parking lot at work (very specific I know but I swear to god, that parking lot is the convergence of every bad driver in the Tri-State and I do not want to die there), aaaand never being good enough for anyone. There's a pattern here, I swear. Heights - the defining moment was on a vacation to Washington D.C. the summer I turned fifteen, in the Washington Monument because I swear that thing was designed to help people consciously realise their fears. Small spaces - series of things, the closet incident at work being the most recent (I'm not that tiny and unnoticeable, and the other person did apologize, but still). Getting hit by a car in the parking lot at work - people around here can't fricking drive, I have seen less idiots in locations that are supposedly hell in that regard (Chicago suburbs, totally overrated as far as asshole drivers), and yet for some reason it is just that one particular parking lot where I've nearly gotten hit on multiple occasions. Never being good enough for anyone... well, that's a bit more complicated.

I'm pretty sure the origin of this fear is that my dad comes from a long line of perfectionists. As far as we know, this is a genetic defect, which means I'm safe because being adopted does have a few perks, but... yeah. Not only that, but even the family members who don't have that personality flaw are musically gifted. And, to top that off, my dad has a comparatively tame version of what I've come to refer to as Military Personality Type. (My mom and I didn't know this was the tame version until I was about 14, but that is another post.) Military Personality Type is... well, if you don't know someone who has it, I can't really explain it to you but I swear it's a thing. And sufficient to say, that combination of personality traits was not exactly the best thing for a young kid to grow up around. I mean, my dad's a decent person. I learned my driving habits and my full repertoire of profanity from him (often at the same time), and he genuinely tries. Just... not a good pressurey situation. But, as with everything else in my life, it got worse when I turned 14.

Switching homeschool groups based on location is probably the weirdest thing my mother has ever done, and that includes the time when I was nine and what was supposed to be a ten-minute drive home turned into an hour-and-a-half detour because Mom made one wrong turn, didn't know she'd made a wrong turn, and by the time we did figure this out, we were a county north of where we'd started. For those of you who don't know, Hamilton County is pretty big, so this was an accomplishment. This led to my parents getting cell phones for Christmas that year, and a few years later we got a GPS with my dad's airline miles (which is another story, srsly), and... yeah. Rambling. Sufficient to say, this one little decision five years later had about the same fallout - one little mistake leading to a bunch of weird, unexpected, and generally awful consequences. Except that this time, not for the person who made said decision.

The amount of elitists one runs into in homeschool circles is amazing. I did speech comp for three years - trust me on this, you will never find a higher concentration of pretentious teenagers who are going to get hit hard by the normal world in a couple of years and deserve every bit of that. But speech comp, at least, mostly involved people who could learn from their mistakes. The local co-op we were involved in? Not so much. I still know all of the girls of my era, and I at least keep tabs on the boys via Facebook (it's amusing okay?), and they have all just intensified from where they were in high school. More often than not, this is not a compliment.

So what does this have to do with my insecurities, you ask? Very simple - because nothing will ruin a teenage girl like primarily being around other teenage girls who are all very good at something she is not good at. In this case, unsurprisingly, that thing was music. I cannot play an instrument. Several rounds of piano lessons were attempted over the years, and I tried clarinet for about a year until orthodontia killswitched that idea. The other girls of my era either played multiple instruments or just did one but were exceptionally good at it to compensate. Presumably, I could've compensated for this if my singing voice was good, but that also did not happen. I am very solidly an alto. For those of you who are not musically inclined, religious music is not written for altos. Choir music is definitely not written for altos. Take, say, "Carol Of The Bells" - let's use that example because I've had that on the brain lately (mainly because of a TV ep I watched a few weeks ago that used it interestingly, but that is not a story I am posting here) and because it's a fairly simple four-part song. (Also, because it's a yearly ritual in the community choir I was in.) The sopranos and the tenors get the interesting parts, as per usual. The basses do what they always do, for better or for worse. The altos... are just there. Completely normal. And what were the rest of the girls of my era? Second sopranos. Aka, y'know, the most obnoxious group in any choir. Just... trust me.

And here's the thing - nobody ever told me I wasn't good enough. They didn't need to. It was implied in ways more damaging than words could ever be.

It was implied in all of the activities I was "accidentally" left out of in high school.

It was implied in my mother's constant insecurities about the fact that I wasn't boy-crazy (the fact that she knew darn well what boys I knew and still thought it was weird I wasn't flinging myself at anyone remains one of the great mysteries of my teenage years).

It was implied in all the condescending comments whenever I said that I didn't want to get married or have kids (this has changed but the scars remain).

It was implied in all of the people who told me I'd prolly get married young as cosmic payback for everything (yet here I am, no nearer to that fate than I was five years ago when they thought it was so cute).

It's been implied in all of the times my mother has had to be "creative" when talking with her friends about what everyone's adult children are up to, because "she quit college and works in a shop and is supposedly working on several novels" just doesn't sound acceptable.

No one ever had to tell me I was good enough. I just knew. And at this point, it's in my blood.

I haven't had a lot of genuine friendships and I dunno how to change that. I've never been in functional reciprocated love. But someday these will change. Someday I will be good enough. And someday, someday I will stick it to everyone who ever made me think I wasn't. It's going to be a journey, but so help me, I will get there. I have to. It's either that or death, and I'm not at the cute age to be a tragedy.

On What I Want To Do In 2015

Or, "I know two week can still change a lot but screw this, I have FEELINGS".

Last week I did my masterpost of how 2014 was... maybe not great for me, but more good than bad and a lot of steps forward. And here, for the first time ever, I'm doing another post I said I'd do - my list of goals and projects for 2015. I hate to use the term "New Year's Resolutions" because the moment you apply that term is the moment the universe starts doing everything in its power to make sure you don't get stuff done, but... this is definitely in that vein. It's a mix of things that I need to get off my tail and work for and things that, although my behavior will help, are not mine to control. And, hopefully, I'll be able to look back at this in a year and see how far I've come.

• I want to continue disconnecting from people I don't need. I know way too many people who are condescending, have superiority complexes, and generally have no sense of how to be a decent human (before you ask, this isn't aimed at anyone specific, but if you know me and you're feeling guilt right here, it's a sign). I need to not know those people anymore. They're not worth my time. I'm clearly not worth theirs. Time for me to cut my losses and move forward.

• I want to continue finding media that helps me in unexpected ways. I have a way clearer sense of what I'm into and how to actually use TV as a coping mech (assuming I don't get sucked into fandom babysitting again, srsly, I know one of my main ones runs young but I had to explain promo bait to way too many people last week!!). The goal now is to maintain a healthy disconnect, use things for my purposes, and... not get pulled into any more online drama than I have to. (And maybe at some point write a "Things Done In Genre TV" essay that I can link the adorable fourteen-year-olds to because I am not doing that again.)

• I want to continue exploring the concept of parallel girls and, hopefully, latch onto one who's older than me and functional. That'd be a start, yeah? And maybe if said latching also involves relationship troubles as a base? There are a lot of new things coming out in 2015. Totally plausible.

• I want to get writing stuff done. The way my systems work, I'm not sure if finishing one of the books is a totally realistic plan, but a girl can hope. (It'll probably be Scarlett. I need to get that done so I can write about her here, because one of the formative influences in my life is a fictional character I created and it's pretty darn awesome.) And new short pieces. A lot of them. That'd be a nice step.

• I want to continue structuring my life so I can work around my issues. I am dealing with them, but it's a process and I need in-between mechs. The usual stuff doesn't work for my depressive episodes anymore and I need to find a way through that. Dunno what yet, but that's part of the fun.

• I want to continue writing songs and exploring that creative process more.

• I want to find somewhere I belong. Step one is to find a church that doesn't make me want to end myself. Step two... I'll figure out what that is when I get to it.

• I want to meet people who are actually good for me. I dunno how to actually do that but I'm sure it can be done.

• I want to check off firsts. And yes, that means exactly what you think it means. (Not that I'd rush into anything, but y'know, if the situation were to occur...)

• I want to get to a point where I don't have to remind myself every damn day that I am strong and brave and I can get through things.

• I want to continue becoming someone worth being.

Song of the day - "Yellow Flicker Beat", Lorde.

On Being Alone & Hating It

Or, "it's the middle of December and hormones are kicking my tail and is it REALLY too much to just want someone to kiss me??".

The older I get, the more I realize that being single sucks. This might not actually be age so much as the fact that I live with a sixteen-year-old who has the body of a supermodel and knows it and is on Victim #4, but still. Even without the walking reminder of what I'm not, the fact still remains that this is the bad time of year for women like me. From now until Valentine's Day - two full months of suck - we hopelessly single twentysomethings are in hell, and this year it stings more than ever.

I guess it's one thing if you're consciously choosing not to date anyone - I have a friend who's in that category, and given her tendency to date idiots, I'm fine with her staying there for a while. And it's another thing if you're on the asexual spectrum - again, I have friends there, and this is the time of year when I get jealous of them because at least they have reasons for their status. I... don't. I am reasonably attractive and I have a decent personality and comparatively low standards. And yet... nothing.

I guess part of the problem is that I have no real ways of meeting people. Online dating did not work out for me (I am one of those rare mostly-straight girls who's immune to even the weird people, let alone anyone decent). What few friends I have do not have cute older brothers or extended family members for me to pounce on. Considering that I'm currently drifting, church isn't a concrete option, and part of the reason I left the Vortex is because there was no chance I would ever meet someone there who might even see me with kindness, let alone romantic love. What few hobbies I have do not require human interaction. I really don't leave my house except for work (no chance in hell) and little errands (to places almost exclusively frequented and worked by middle-aged women). At this point, if a decent-looking functional unattached twentysomething guy turns up in my life, I'm almost sure they will be my Person because it'd be that much of a shock if it happened!!

This gets even more sucky if you consider that I thought I'd be married by now. I really did, and if I remember correctly, so did a lot of other people. I was very against the idea in high school (mostly because little baby me hated everything), and openly stating that I was never going to get married was a nice way to tick off various Bubble types. Their most common response? Just. Wait. As far as everyone was concerned, I would be the first girl of my era to get married simply because of how unlikely it was. And, on some level, I believed them. If I were to get married at 19, it would be the perfect way to stick it to so many people.

Obviously, that did not happen.

Three girls of my era got married within the last year. One of the two who remain single is drowning alive in grad school, and the other is too busy with work and her own quiet rebellion to even think about getting fluttery for someone. I... do not have such an excuse for my status.

I could be good for someone. I'm affectionate. Guys like that, right? I haven't Done Things - my idealistic goal of at least getting kissed by the time I turned 21 has obviously not happened - but I want to. I can be domestic -- I want to be, dunno if I'd be any good at it but I learn things quickly. I'm pretty enough (not compared to some people, but I've accepted my body as it is and there's more good than bad there). And, most importantly, I'm realistic.

I'm not asking for a fairytale. That sort of thing doesn't happen to women like me, and I've accepted it. I just want someone who sees me as I am, flaws and beauty entwined, and still wants to be with me. I don't want to be idealized. I just want to be held, told I matter, and kissed a lot. And if a life develops out of that... great. But I'm not asking for much here. I know being with someone won't fix me. I don't think I need to be fixed. I just need to be loved and wanted. And oh, yeah, physical stuff would be really nice too. I'm a hormonal disaster and, because my physical and emotional wirings are so interconnected, DIY'ing it doesn't solve a damn thing.

Please, future Person, come find me. I am a risk worth taking.

Song of the day - "This Love", Taylor Swift (yes, still, I have clearly not cried enough over this song today).

On What I Did In 2014

Or, "someday I will look back and this will be one of the good years".

I know it's a little early to be doing a year-end reflection post. 2014 doesn't technically end for another two and a half weeks, and it's entirely plausible that something could happen in that time that will change everything. Key word there, though, is "plausible". I've been through enough this year, and if by some chance I have to retcon half of this... so be it. That doesn't change that this year has been important for me. I've done a lot of things, I've made trackable progress, and I can solidly say that I am a much better person now than I was this time a year ago. 2014 was the year I started doing things for me and finding symbolism in little things, and it is important. So, without further adieu, here's what I did this year:

• I got my second-ever "proper" job and, almost a year later, I still like working there. Not that it's an ideal situation, but it's something that fits what I need and that I can make work for me. If I need to go hide in the bathroom for a little while because I'm episoding or because I feel physically sick, I can do that and no one gives a damn (I'm pretty sure no one even notices but I could be wrong). I'm around enough people for my depression to feed off, but genuine instances of human stupidity are comparatively rare. I'm pretty sure I'm going to stick around there for a while.

• I shaved my head on New Year's Eve because I make bad life choices when it's late at night and I'm bored (another example: roughly half of the fanfic I've written this year) and it was one of the most freeing things I've ever done. I put my hair into a good ponytail today for the first time since then, which I guess confirms that my hair grows fast. I got rid of it as a symbol of this being my rebirth year, and I'm growing it long now because I can. I want to be able to do pretty braids and updos, and I'm absolutely going to as soon as I have the material for 'em.

• I learned to shamelessly like things without overthinking them. I don't always need to have big reasons for my preferred media choices, especially music. I can like things just because they're fun or because they're good writing inspo. I can sing along to the trashier side of Lana Del Rey's repertoire and not feel bad about myself. It's pretty awesome.

• I made friends with a lot of awesome people online and started cutting ties with a lot of awful people in the face-to-face world. It's a slow process and one that's definitely continuing into 2015, but I'm finally drawing my lines and not allowing space in my life for toxic people, no matter how good their intentions may be. I don't need to be around people who make me feel worthless or deficient because of things that are beyond my control. I'm a better person than that, and I'm starting to act like it.

• I fluttered for someone and, once again, got my little heart broken. But this time, it's all too easy to see why it was a bad idea. We could've been good friends, were for a little while, but the other person let their stubbornness win and that's their problem, not mine. They're still unfairly pretty (and highly unlikely to read this so I regret nothing), but thank you, darling, for confirming why I don't trust pretty people. They'll only ever hurt me, and this one was no exception. Bright side, I handled this heartbreak really well and didn't have any major episodes because of it. I don't think I even really cried over them. I'm getting better at reconciling my hopeless-romantic inclinations with what actually happens to me.

• I quit taking antidepressants and decided I like myself a lot better when I'm not on them. I was medicated for nearly three years and that was good for me, but I get less headaches now and I'm more passionate. I fully approve of anyone who does choose to be on meds, but at this point in my life, that's not what I need. I have enough coping mechs right now. Not sure how long it'll last, but I'm trying.

• I watched a lot of TV, prolly too much in hindsight, but three shows impacted me in important ways. One helped me make sense of my relationship with my mother, one shaped my sense of what community ought to be, and one inspired me to start letting go of my past and become something better. The effects of the last one in particular are also likely to be a theme in 2015, and I'm probably going to write another post on the parallel-girl thing there in about a week (once my brain processes the midseason finale).

• As mentioned above, I developed the concept of parallel girls - fictional ladies I identify with way more than I should. The two I currently have each came from one of the shows mentioned above, and it's been a pretty awesome coping mech. If my parallel girls could get through their challenges - and both of 'em had those in spades - then I can get through mine.

• I went to six weddings and had crying breakdowns at five of them. Weddings just screw with my emotional state, and I imagine it'll be a lot worse in the future when people I actually care about start getting married. As it was... I can't help being jealous, especially of the two girls who got married this year who are younger than me, but I did behave myself. I looked cute at all of them, although the only people who noticed were middle-aged women (seriously, whomever said weddings are great for single people can burn in hell because that does not work). I didn't pick fights with anyone (came really close at one but I do not take any responsibility for that person's issues). I was fine.

• I got one story published this year, which I know isn't great but hey, it's my second earned credit and I need those. Funny thing is how that one originated... out of all the stuff I've written, it figures that the piece that originated with a friend and I having a convo about what we thought really happened after a particular TV show ended is the one that found a home this year. The world is weird like that.

• I listened to a lot of music -- like, that's almost an understatement, 2014 was a good year for stuff I like. If I had to pick one song to define this year, Brooke Fraser's "Je Suis Pret" would be it. Deciding that I adore her music despite how I first heard of her was a good life choice. Other contenders are Sia's "Chandelier" (I love that Sia is a Major Thing now 'cause I've been listening to her for years and she's fascinating and 1000 Forms Of Fear is fascinating and you should go listen to it if you haven't) and Mary Lambert's "Heart On My Sleeve" (Mary Lambert is a gift to humanity and I am jealous of how darn cute she is). And not to mention a bunch of stuff that doesn't necessarily fit where I am but is still really, really good.

• I did a lot of self-eval, mainly on why certain fictional things appeal to me, and learned a lot about myself and how my brain works and how I handle things. I function in patterns, and that's not a bad thing.

• I embraced my vulnerabilities and my flaws and began learning how to function around them. I cry too much, I have no verbal filter (and even less of one when my fingers are on the keyboard), I'm a hopeless romantic and an idealist at times despite my natural pessimism, I have nonexistent tolerance for human stupidity, and none of that is inherently bad. The problem is whether or not I put up enough effort to use those things to my benefit, and that's one of the things I need to work on in 2015.

• I started reclaiming my voice. Compared to the other girls of my era, my musical abilities suck, and for a long time I let that stop me. Not anymore. I've been writing songs and finding a lot of strength in that, in my quiet defiance. I can't sing irritating church music, because it's written for women with borderline-canine vocal ranges, but I can do my stuff. I can do things that mean something to me. Now, what I'm gonna do with that remains to be seen, but... I'll figure something out.

Overall, there was more good than bad this year. I made progress. I am brave and I am becoming a better person and here's to 2015 being more of the same. (In a few days, I'll try to do a goals post, but... we'll see. Fingers crossed I don't eff that up?)

Song of the day - "This Love", Taylor Swift.

On First Love

Or, "if I'm gonna set everything on fire, I might as well reveal the series of events that first pushed me in that direction".

December is one of those months for me. Y'know, that sacred time of year when absolutely nothing goes right no matter what I do, when all hell breaks loose on a regular basis and I have no control over any of it. This pattern was first established during the two years in which the holiday season was clouded by death (thankfully my birthmum's funeral wasn't until January and all of that was handled very well; my aunt, a year later... not so much). But the event that sealed December as my yearly month of horrors happened when I was seventeen. I fell in love for the first time, and four years later, I'm still not totally over it. Every year around this time, I forget that the person I generally refer to as the Vulcan isn't just a prick, he's a whole darn cactus of issues. Even though I still consciously know that. Well, hopefully writing out that story - properly, in a place and form that people who were on the fringes and can guess who he was will be able to see - will prevent that from happening this year. Fingers crossed.

I'd actually met him a year earlier than that, under interesting circumstances. I did speech and debate competitions in high school - no, scratch that, I did speech comp exclusively except for one practice tournament my junior year when my friend's brother had a scheduling conflict and she needed a debate partner and I am easily talked into things. Enter the Vulcan (it would be years before he got this codename, but let's use it from the beginning here for consistency). Our first round was against him and one of the little mouse-boys that were half of our region. Mouse-boy didn't matter, didn't do much, I can't even remember who he was anymore. The Vulcan, on the other hand... sixteen-year-old me took one look at him and decided he was going to die. I didn't even know his name at that point and I wanted to end him. The closest I got was nearly hitting him several hours later, completely by accident because badly designed hallways and I talk with my hands and he just happened to be walking by. (He thought it was intentional and spent the entire weekend wondering what he'd done to annoy me. Answer - he existed. That was enough.)

A year passed. If anything, I became a worse person over said year. But then, first tournament of senior year, I saw him again and I woke up. He was nice to me, which in hindsight was exactly how this became a problem. In general, guys were not nice to me at that point in my life - most of 'em were either terrified or just flat ignored me. This one, for some reason that I still do not understand four years later, did neither of those things. He offered advice on how to do a content warning on one of my pieces (I completely ignored this and continued to perform said piece without telling anyone in advance that it ended with me miming self-harm), he looked at me like I existed and was valid, and... I was utterly done for by the time I added him on FB two days later.

At this point, I would not have described myself as a romantic. Oh, fictional love stories were the best thing ever and I'd already done quite a bit of fluffy fanfic, but real life was a different beastie. I was pretty sure I'd never seen a functional relationship. I was even more sure that marriage and children were the exact opposite of what I wanted. (Quiet rebellion against the Bubble, in hindsight, but also where I was as a person.) I had not consciously crushed on anyone before, and my one attempt at flirting with someone had ended in me learning exactly how far and fast I could run in heels because I'd lost all ability to speak. I was not fated to fall in love. But then I did, and it remains the singular most questionable decision of my little life.

My knowledge of how attraction worked verged on the nonexistent. My mother, who I would later learn had a range of experiences to back up this belief, gave me the "girls and boys can never be just friends" and "boys will only ever take advantage of you" speeches and that was about it. I'd watched the scenario play out a year previously, when one of my least favorite people in the world had a relationship with another friend's brother, ended it suddenly and dramatically, and caused the poor darling to have what we are all still pretty sure was a minor emotional breakdown. So, being the misinformed innocent that I was, I believed that the reason the Vulcan was playing nice with me was because he wanted me. Which was admittedly confusing because he had status within our mutual circle and I didn't, but hey, sexual attraction is weird right?? It was a totally plausible explanation, and one that impacted the development of that friendship.

I fell for him. To this day, I don't know why other than that he saw me, not the little rebel girl or someone who needed to be fixed but the valid-albeit-lost young woman I was blossoming into. I don't understand that either. He had no reason to be nice to me, but he was. How was I not supposed to develop my very first fluffy feelings?

I waited and waited for months for him to say something. He had to be into me, right? There was no other reason someone would put up with all of the crazy I flung at him, and oh was there ever a lot of that -- I have a tendency to reveal way too much (this whole blog is an example of that) and I made sure that boy knew exactly what he was getting into. It didn't affect him. I would later learn this was because he has the emotional comprehension abilities of a gerbil, but at the time I thought it was cute. But on the other hand, he didn't say anything. We were both technically old enough for feelings to blossom. He lived roughly half an hour from me. So... what was the problem?

Answer - he didn't see me that way. He never had. I found that out when I finally told him where my heart was almost a year into this mess. He shot me down in the most emotionless logical fashion possible (which is where his nickname originates, if anyone hasn't figured it out). I, in turn, went into a depressive spiral, listened to too much Adele, went even deeper into the spiral, and eventually hit a point of self-destruction that even my mother couldn't ignore. I was eighteen. No one had ever taught me how to deal with this, because good Bubble girls were only ever supposed to love once. This wasn't supposed to happen. He'd been my Person, I'd been so sure of it, but... nope, I never even had a chance.

There's more to the story, of course. There were a lot of little moments that year - my second accidental near-death experience, for one - and a few things that happened after. I tried to be friends with him again, still fluttered for him, but again I was shot down - that time the day before Valentine's Day (see what I said about emotional comprehension abilities of a gerbil?) - because he had a girlfriend. (Apparently she broke his heart two months later. By that point, I couldn't have cared less.) I realised that I could, in fact, do a lot better than the golden boy who prolly just put up with me because I was everything the girls of our world were not supposed to be. And once that realisation hit, I became softer, less ambitious, less terrifying. Less like the person he thought I was and more like the person I wanted to be. For the most part, I've moved on.

But I still wonder. What if things had been different? What if he'd known the chance he had and taken it? Where might we be if my feelings had been reciprocated? I'll never know. It's been years since I've felt anything other than frustration (and not the fun kind either) towards him. We talk about every six months, which is to say that he remembers I exists and messages me and asks what I'm doing and I pretend I care. It normally happens right after I've gotten home from a wedding, though he has no way of knowing that. I passive-aggressively messaged him several bitey Taylor Swift songs about this time two years ago; he didn't react. That chapter's over. But there's still a little corner of my heart consumed by the first time I wanted someone, and sometimes that want rears its ugly head.

So, this is me saying that I am not the girl you thought I was. I am not ambitious and terrifying; I have no plans to change the world, and I'm starting to get bored with the thought of just burning it all down. I can still run in scary heels, but otherwise I am so different from who I was four years ago. I'm not happy yet, but I'm a damn lot closer than I was then. I do things for me now. I am working towards a quiet life, and someday, hopefully any day now, I will meet someone who will love me like you never could. Someday, I will look back and it won't hurt to think of you. Someday, I will be whole.

(Oh, and you mentally ruined a whole flock of fictional characters and three very good albums for me, and I'm not over it. That, I am not moving on from.)

But thank you, you hopeless idiot, for starting me on this journey. If you hadn't been such a prick, I wouldn't know that the things inside my head are bad and need to be dealt with. If you hadn't broken me without even knowing, I would still think that boys like you are the best I can do. They're not. I can do so much better and someday I will. Just watch me.

Song of the day - "Wildest Dreams", Taylor Swift.

On Walking Away

Or, "this is me leaving behind everything I know to embrace the better unknown".

None of this is my fault.

It's not my fault that everyone I grew up with has turned out elitist and bubble-minded. It's not my fault that I woke up and they didn't. It's not my fault that none of them ever even tried to reach out to me, because even though I was everything they were, I was never good enough. It's not my fault I'll never be good enough for them.

Who can blame me for wanting to run?

I need to breathe. I need to find people who see me, not the lone single chick, not the dangerous anomaly, me. I need to go somewhere where people actually put their yowling tinies in the childrens' programs and there isn't an unspoken competition of who has the most kids (I wish this wasn't a thing but welcome to the Vortex). I need to go somewhere where I will never hear the phrase "unassisted homebirth", let alone vivid details of that horror. I need to go somewhere where, if someone finds out I'm depressive or fluid, there's a half-decent chance they won't freak out.

I need to meet people who have blood in their veins instead of poison.

I need to spread my wings and become more than a shell of a girl.

I need to go somewhere where the Young Marrieds aren't all PDA couples. I need to go somewhere where the twentysomething population isn't all Young Marrieds. I need to go somewhere where said Young Married ladytypes respect that I'm in a different place than they are and don't openly pity me for it or give extremely questionable advice on how to find my Person.

I need to meet people who don't have superiority complexes the size of frickin' Australia.

I need to meet people who I can openly talk with about what I'm reading and watching without trying to sidestep the darker elements. I need to meet people who have, if not a good understanding of mental illness, at least believe it exists. I need to meet people who, if I choose to let them see my scars, will not view me any differently for them.

This is not mere want anymore. This is what I have to do to survive.

I want to live a long life. Admittedly, that's unlikely because genetic predisposition towards cancer on the side we do know about and God only know what's in the other half of my bloodline (but that's a different post), but I want to. I want to be happy someday. And that's never going to happen if I stay where I was.

About a year ago, when these thoughts began to form, I was determined to bloom where I was planted. I'm realizing now that I can't do that anymore. Bad soil is bad soil no matter how much fertilizer one tries to add to it (I don't garden so forgive me if that's a bad metaphor but it sounds pretty even if it isn't true). If I stay in the Vortex much longer, I will lash out. I will become truly dangerous. I will become things I am not meant to be. So it's time. I'm being the better person here (not like it's much of a challenge). I'm walking away, and this time, this time I'm not looking back.

A bit more than a year ago, I was talking to someone online and they suggested that I really needed to get out of where I was. I told them I didn't have enough things worth running from. Their response: "What if you had something worth running to?". I'm hoping to find that something soon.

It's hard, doing this. The Vortex (which I will explain in vivid detail once this plan works out and I have found something better) is all I know. I don't know what a non-toxic religious environment feels like. There are so many uncertainties in this project, and more than that... I'm cutting off the majority of the people I know by doing it. Because by leaving the Vortex, This Time I Mean It, I'm leaving behind a whole flock of people who know not what they have done, who will never know because if their eyes haven't opened by now... well, I'm pretty sure God doesn't waste miracles on situations like that. And yet this is what I need to do for me.

2015 is going to be my year of dramatic necessary self-care. And I'm starting by cutting out everything I don't need, starting with the place and the group that has caused... maybe not the majority of my issues in general, but at least my terrible self-image and my burning fear that I will never be good enough. I deserve better than that. I've always deserved better. It's time for me to do something about that.

And for all of you reading this who are in that category of people I am leaving behind (and you know who you are) - don't act like you're surprised. I was never going to be the perfect bubble-minded girl you wanted me to be. But I'm real, and being real is so much better. I'm not judging any of you, really. If you want to continue to make your own bad life choices... we're human, we have free will, that's your problem not mine. I'm done trying to make any of you wake up. This is our ending.

Song of the day - "Sanctified", The Veronicas.

On Creating Futures

Or, "I am building a life that future!me is going to love (and I might've had my weirdest//most brilliant idea ever)".

I like preparing for things. Blame it on whatever undiagnosed variant of social anxiety disorder I have, if you want, or on the fact that as much as I hate damage control, that's a role I seem to spend most of my life playing. Whatever the cause, my life is equal parts preparation and praying I have enough fridge brilliance to get through the stuff I can't brace for. I plan when I'm leaving the house as early as possible (if I know exactly when I'm going to interact with unfamiliar people a week in advance, great), and usually the only "unplanned" outings I do are runs to the post office when I sell something online. I buy the dresses I wear for weddings before I know if I'll even be invited to some of them. And then... well, then there's the stuff I'm doing for future!me.

It started innocently enough. Around a year and a half ago, I wandered across the fabulous horror that is the Beekeeper's Quilt (if you're not inclined to click the link, it's a knitting pattern). Since I make socks for all my engaged and pregnant acquaintances, and since I'm 21 and grew up in homeschooler-land and therefore know a lot of people in one of those two categories at any given time, I generate quite a bit of leftover sock yarn. Making two hexipuffs out of each remnant before I send it off to someone in the Ravelry RAK group I try to participate in just makes sense. But then I got another one of my fabulous ideas. The beekeeper quilt, assuming I ever finish the darn thing (I need to make approximately 400 puffs and at this point I've done maybe 60?), would be a perfect wedding present for my future Person. So... there's now a time component. Not a hugely pertinent one, seeing as I am currently sans anyone I have any romantic interest in and I'd like to spend a decent amount of time getting to know someone before walking down the aisle and (possibly) changing my surname, but an existent one. It's motivation!! I suck at motivation!! What's not to love, right?

Well, then the future planning got weirder a few months ago when I impulse-bought a wedding dress.

Okay, maybe "impulse-bought" is the wrong word. There's this thrift store twenty minutes from my house that I go to on a regular basis - all the proceeds support local women's shelters, the ladies who work there adore me, and you never know what you're gonna find there. Around the beginning of summer, I saw The Dress. Some of the people I know who've gotten married recently say you just know when you find the perfect dress. (The rest have gotten married in their mothers' gowns - heavily altered, of course - which has never been an option for me because my mom is five inches shorter than me and was a size 4 when she got married. I haven't been a size 4 since I was about fourteen, and between the twin gifts of hipbones and C-cup boobs, I will never be that small again.) Obviously, of course, all of those people were looking for a wedding dress. I... wasn't. But there it was anyways, beaded bodice and high neckline and empire waistline and flowing skirt, taunting me. I could tell, just from eyeballing it (the thrift store had the sense to put the nice wedding dresses several feet off the ground), that it just had to be a size 10 (my usual, assuming the piece in question hasn't shrunk into oblivion, which formal gowns generally don't). I fell in love.

For weeks, I shamelessly eyed the thing, until one day I finally had the nerve to ask how much it was. My brain was all "it has to be around $60, yeah?". Wrong. Dress was actually $90, which meant that after tax (thank you Indiana for 7% sales tax when the two other states within sane driving distance are 6%), it was almost a hundred even. I did not care. I needed this dress. I tried it on in the shop, explaining beforehand to the nice old lady that I wasn't even seeing anyone and was more interested in having it as something to keep on hand for when my time comes. She understood pretty well, didn't even give me the "how is a nice girl like you single?" routine like a lot of people would've. It fit perfectly. I had to buy it. Y'know, just in case.

The dress lingered untouched in the closet of our spare bedroom for a few more weeks, until my mother accidentally found it. This was one of the hazards of putting it in that closet, but it had more space to hang properly there, and hell, there isn't space in my closet for something of that scale. I knew she'd find it eventually, and I wasn't quite sure how to explain the situation. Thankfully, I didn't have to. She gave me a small routine about her friend who's altered everyone's wedding dresses this past year (lesson of that afternoon - someone better submit that woman for sainthood because she's eighty-something and way too nice to have gone through some of that stuff), and then she decided to get it dry-cleaned and put in a proper bag for me. For my mother, who used to worry more than made any logical sense about my seeming lack of interest in guys (this thankfully stopped once my sister's type was defined as "breathing"), this was a huge step. And that was it. One huge expense out of the way for my future wedding. And again, I thought that was it as far as longterm planning. And again, it wasn't.

The reason I'm doing this post is because today I found another thing that I am meant to do, another thing that solves some of my problems. I'm going to build a house. More specifically, an Earthship. I advise caution on that website - whomever wrote most of the material is definitely on something - but the concept crossed my Tumblr dash this afternoon and I poked around and... well, before I could poke around too much, I had to wander off to work. Just as well. While at work, trying to figure out how an elephant had managed to demolish half of the pharmacy section (and not the part that usually looks bad either), I had one of my feelings.

For reference, I have had feelings exactly twice before in my life. The first one happened when I was 13, in church of all places. Nowadays when my brain wanders while I'm at the church I'm trying to get out of, it either focuses on questionably appropriate fic ideas or trying to figure out why one of the other women around my age thought a particular outfit or hairdo was a good idea (former-homeschooled ladytypes are fashion disasters by nature, and I say this as someone who is definitely in that category). Well, needless to say, 13-year-old me was a lot more innocent. I don't know what I was thinking about on that spring morning, but all of a sudden I had a very strong feeling that I was supposed to be a writer. Not that I'd really considered other career options before that, but it was definitely an experience of the Divine. (Incidentally, this was before things got crazy at that church, but... that's another post. Or, probably, a series of them, to be written once I get out For Real This Time I Fricking Mean It.)

The second one, I can't remember exactly when it happened thanks to the fact that I have the short-term memory of a fricking gerbil, but I'm pretty sure it was about a year ago (or maybe closer to two - point being, it remains a fairly recent development). I was doing self-eval, as I tend to do when I'm bored and/or fighting back the urge to tell someone I dislike exactly where they can stick it, and the subjects of my depression and my untouched-ness crossed my mind (as per usual - self-eval is either on those subjects or on fandom stuff, and I'm pretty sure I was very between primary fandoms when this happened). And out of the blue, for the first time, I knew there was a light at the end of my battle. And more importantly, I knew something about my future Person. I will find them once the worst of my darkness has past. I don't know anything more than that, of course - I'm pretty sure I have crossed that part of my life, but maybe it's supposed to be once I've learned to control the bad days? - but I know that. When the worst is over, when I am as whole as I will ever be as my own entity, I will find them. (Or, more likely, they will find me... but again, that's another post.)

Anyways... feelings. I had my third real one today, and it's about this possible house project. I want to create something for the family I eventually want to have, and this particular model/method is perfect. It's sustainable (something I'm generally fascinated by), it's cost-effective to build (at least after the plans and land to build it on are acquired), and it seems idiot-proof (always a good plus when it comes to DIY things). And I know in my core that this is something I'm supposed to do. There's just the small problem of... well, money. I want to do this on my own (obviously) and in cash (because srsly, trying to get a loan would be against the spirit of the beast and borderline-impossible for someone whose "proper" employment is averaging 20 hours a week at 15¢ above minimum wage aaaaand doesn't have a credit history). I have no idea how that's gonna happen, but it will. I'm determined. I've done enough poking around to be sure of the plausibilities. If I can figure out the financial side, this is happening. It's just weird enough to work, and that's how all of my best ideas start out.

And hey, if I get lucky and find my Person before I'm done with these things I want to have ready for them... they can help. They're in for a lifetime of chasing after my fridge-brilliance WTFery; they might as well start as soon as they can, right?

Song of the day - "Jackie and Wilson", Hozier.

On Winter Wonder-hell

Or, "I'm trying to keep a sense of wonder but I might be too jaded for my own good".

It snowed the night before last. Yes, I know, I did not set out to be one of those bloggers, but considering the number of failed posts I've tried to do in the last few weeks (there was a reflection on my Halloween costume and how strangely appropriate that ended up but dammit I am really trying post things that are not fandom-related here)... yeah. This, at least, I can presumably write without mentioning the parallel girls too much.

Snow is one of those things for me. I've lived in southeast Indiana (Cincinnati-adjacent) my whole life, and if there is one thing this area doesn't handle well, it's winter. I'd say weird weather in general, but snow's a unique beastie because though we definitely get it in decent quantities (if you live somewhere where they don't close stuff down until there's at least a foot of the white death, this is your cue to shut up), it always sends people into panic mode. You do not want to be in public right before a snow scare. Trust me on this. I work in a grocery store - thankfully, I'm in non-foods and people don't panic-buy shampoo, but this past weekend was eye-opening because I'd underestimated exactly how chaotic things get right before a snow scare. (Answer - mayhem. It's on par with Black Friday in a shopping-mall food court, which is another post I am probably never going to actually do.) People are weird. I guess because of my background, I'm fascinated by how normal people handle things (or in this case don't handle them), but my innocent eyes have been opened by this and I was just fine before that happened.

Of course, I was expecting it to not do anything. When I got home from work Sunday night, it was 36 degrees and trying to do something but failing at that. Aaaand then I woke up yesterday (Monday) morning and... somewhere in the vicinity of three inches of powdery white death. Joy.

Now, the reason I am not thrilled with this stuff is because people around here are generally bad drivers to begin with and adding in snow and ice makes it hella dangerous to leave one's own house. I'm not entirely sure what the requirements are for getting a license are in Indiana or Ohio, but some government equivalent of middle management needs to form a committee and reassess them. Thankfully, yesterday did not include me yelling profanities at questionably competent people on my way to work. I thought it would, but... no. Either the need was not there, said people finally had the sense to stay home, or both. I dunno. It was a nice surprise. Kinda doubt it'll happen again, but a girl can dream.

Anywho, the reason this post is a thing is because while I was shoveling my driveway yesterday afternoon, it hit me that my parallel girls (I dunno if I've addressed that topic before but I'll get on it sooner or later) would love this. Far as I know, neither of 'em had ever experienced snow in their 'verses. They would have a sense of wonder. And then my mind wandered to various projects I'm writing, and the mental image of Scarlett Evans playing out in snow is amazing. (Scarlett, for the record, is the main character in a project I swear I'm gonna finish one of these days. That's another post I need to do, because she's been a brainpest for years and formative and... gah, rambling, bad me.) And it hit me that I really don't have that sense of wonder. I haven't in years. I'm jaded, not because of anything I did but the fact that I suck at coping mechanisms doesn't really help, y'know? I probably could've saved myself some of this pain, but too late now!! But maybe there's hope. Maybe I can get some of that goodness back. I'm a natural pessimist - if any of y'all think I ought to go full Pollyanna, please reassess your life and your belief system because that is not happening - but maybe it's still possible for me to wander closer to the middle of the grayscale. I could do that, yeah.

Song of the day - "Scream My Name", Tove Lo.

On Free Stuff, episode one

So a few weeks ago I signed up for Influenster. I saw someone I follow on Tumblr post about it (at least I think that's how this happened) and thought... hmm, okay, there's a chance I can get interesting free stuff out of this, count me in. Now, in exchange, I have to post about whatever I get on social media. Cool tradeoff, far as I'm concerned, and might be enough to make me finally get an Instagram account once I get my new phone (so in a few days). This is, needless to say, the first of those posts that's happening here. If y'all aren't into it, just don't click any of my posts labeled "On Free Stuff" and you'll be fine. The normal content on this blog, if there is anything that can be described as such, will still be here.

Anyways, the way Influenster works is the free things come in these beautiful packages called VoxBoxes. One gets a full-size product and, presumably depending on the thing, a few pieces of extra info. The first VB I got, which came today (hence this post) is Vaseline Intensive Care lotion. As somebody who works retail and mainly deals with personal care products, I should have a good understanding of what size a 10-ounce bottle is, but nope - it's about as long as my hand (and I have really long hands for a lady-type so this is awesome). Now, it's a little silly for me to be using something that's for dry skin considering that I don't have that problem, but this stuff is awesome. It doesn't smell like anything - as someone with occasional sensory issues, this is a plus - and feels amazing. My skin is all nice and squishy-feeling now. Basically, it does what it needs to do, and that's the best I can say. <3

On Mirrors (part 2 of 2)

Or "I normally hate romance as catalyst for character development but sometimes, especially if a parallel girl is involved, I shamelessly LOVE it".

If you haven't read part one of this, please go do that because I'm picking right up where I left off.

So... TV blogging // reflection time, part two. This time, I'm going to shift gears a little bit and talk a little less about my parallel girl and a little more about romance as a catalyst for character development. Also, fictional darlings one would not expect to have such strong moral compasses. Oh, and sibling personality clashes. And don't worry, the parallel-girl stuff and why I ended up so completely attached to a 17-year-old hurricane girl on a post-apoc show is still here, just... less of a focus.

(As mentioned in the previous post, here there be spoilers, so if you wanna watch cold, exit this page now because I'm analyzing elements of episodes 1x07 and 1x08 of The 100 in as much detail as someone who refuses to rewatch said eps is capable of. There's discussion of darker material here - nothing worse than one might see in an average war movie, but played with appropriate weight. Consider yourself warned.)

1x07 is one of those episodes. Anyone who's gotten heavily into fictional media has those few pieces that they can never put themselves through ever again because their heart cannot handle it. This is a prime example for me, primarily because the main plotline of the ep involves the torture of someone who doesn't deserve it and the strength of the one truly good person in the room. (Yes. You did read all of that right. And this is a show centering around teenagers. Sometimes that does worry me a little.)

It should go without saying that things get blown out of proportion when Octavia gets rescued. The aforementioned older brother? Yeah, at this point his primary "good" personality trait is that he is majorly overprotective. That combined with the fact that a poisoned knife ends up embedded in some part of another person's body (I'm intentionally hazy on details because that character is the human personification of good ideas and bad followthrough and I don't caaare) means that... y'know, taking this mysterious outsider prisoner is a fabulous idea. Never mind that (a.) there is not supposed to be any human life on Earth (there is and most of it is hostile) and (b.) basically every member of that group is (understandably) territorial verging on murderous. Let's torture the only seemingly decent one!!

Obviously, the main point of this exercise in brutality is that Bellamy Blake is an impulsive idiot. By this point in the show, that's a given, and stringing up another human being and whipping them with a slightly modified seatbelt (I am not kidding) is still not the most terrible thing he's done in his life. But, y'know, doing this to find a cure to help someone who can best be described as "useless parasite" is still a bit excessive. Not helping is adorable blonde Clarke, formerly the voice of reason on the show, who encourages this. Or Raven, the parasite's soon-to-be ex-girlfriend, who ups the ante with the equivalent of jumper cables. Yes, really. If nothing else, she gets points for being creative.

In the midst of all of this, Octavia is having a crisis. Torture is not a spectator sport, and yet there she is, trying to find a way to stop it because her Person (I'm gonna call him that since his name hasn't been revealed at this point in the episode) does not deserve to have this happen to him. He saved her life. Twice. Yes, he did basically chain her up in a small space, but how was he to know that was going to send her into flashbacks?! He still hasn't said anything, but he seems to understand when she's talking to him and he hasn't done anything to hurt her. Plus, he's pretty and at this point in the game, Octavia's not looking for much more than that. She just doesn't see the point of this.

After yelling at her brother gets her absolutely nowhere, and after watching the jumper cable part of this display, Octavia gets a brilliant idea that I am convinced is the number one reason she is awesome. The aforementioned poisoned knife is sitting on the ground just feet away, and she reasons that since her Person has been protective of her before, he'll show her the antidote if she uses the knife on herself. Which she does, and it's at that point that he finally reacts. Beforehand, despite having an array of unpleasant things done to his own body, he managed to be perfectly stoic and unflinching. The very moment the blade touches her skin, suddenly things are more important. We still don't know this guy's name or anything about him other than that apparently he's some sort of warrior, and even that's questionable, but it's painfully obvious that he cares about her. He saves her, again, because that is what people in love do.

Yes, all of this is headed towards what ends up being the most unexpectedly adorable onscreen relationship I have ever seen (and I've seen more than a few contenders for that honor). But what's important, especially in that buildup, is that Octavia is aware of what she's doing. She is aware that she has power and she can save an innocent life and so fricking help her, that's what she means to do. This is my sacrifice, her eyes say as she hurts herself to make everything stop. This is the least I can do.

And in the aftermath, because our girl continues to be fabulous, she does even better. She is the one who stays and cleans off his wounds and finally, finally, gets actual words out of him. At this point, she's earned it. This is especially important because, as established, Octavia has no basis for what decent human behavior looks like. Until a few weeks ago (at the longest), her only exposure to other people had been her mother (from what little the show gives us, not a great person), her brother (a loose cannon, to put it lightly), and an array of guards who presumably didn't care one way or another about her existence. Her more recent human experiences have included a pair of socially inept tech geniuses and a homicidal twelve-year-old (again, not kidding, this show goes a lot of interesting places), and the two ladytypes who might've been good influences on her have just shown what darkness they're capable of. So why is Octavia different? That's a huge question, and one that (unfortunately) doesn't have a logical answer. The most likely one, however, is that she knows how it feels to be out of place. She bleeds for outsiders because she's one too. And between that and the fact that this guy's clearly got some sort of surprisingly healthy attachment developing towards her... she's going to do the decent human thing because if she is one thing, she is better than her circumstances.

There's one more thing I want to discuss before I tie up this out-of-control reflection, and that's the events of 1x08. After being utterly heartbreaking - and I am still not over this, the darn episode aired five months ago and I am not sure my heart will ever be over it - Octavia decides to do something even more dramatic and let her person go. At this point, the poor dear is still tied up and presumably going to stay there a darn long while. Or not, if his precious ladyperson has anything to say about it, and she does. A brilliant maneuver involving hallucinogenic nuts later (now is a good time to point out that 1x08 is as "light and fluffy" as the show ever gets), he's free. A smarter person would run like hell right away, but Lincoln (yes, he has a name now, and yes, names are weird here) has one little thing to do first. And... cue the kiss that indicates that come hell or high water, these two are a thing. They are a thing and they will stop the world for each other and it is absolutely heart-melting.

I guess the reflection point there for me is that finally, finally, I am idealizing something healthy. It's always weird to look at pairings I heavily ship and note how far those things are from what I actually want to happen to me in real life. Not this one, though. What blossoms out of dark beginnings here is a perfect example of what I'm pretty sure real love is. These darlings are not perfect. They are flawed and complicated and they see those elements of each other and it does not matter because there is also something worth saving. They take risks, they have their quiet moments, there's an intensity to it but also an underlying sweetness. This is the kind of love that needs to be discussed more, because as far as I can tell, it's realistic and it's beautiful. I could definitely idealize worse.

On Mirrors (part 1 of 2)

Or, "how I saw shades of a common story in an unlikely place".

As the heading of this blog states, I watch more TV than I ought to. For the most part, I watch things that have nothing to do with my life. I list things like Reign and Gossip Girl among my favorites because even in the ridiculous soap opera I often live in, most of those plotlines go places that the people in my world never will. Similarly, I drown in futuristics because my life isn't on that level. Except that this year, that coping mech got blown straight to hell by way of two fictional ladies whose stories are all too similar to my own.

We're not going to talk about the first one yet - that's a post for another time, an evolved version of an essay I wrote a few months ago, and a bit too painful for my current mental space. Sufficient to say, after watching one post-apoc show that featured a ladytype all too much like myself, I convinced myself it was an anomaly. Just one isolated incident, yeah? Oh, if only.

I got talked into watching The 100 because one of my internet friends said I'd like it and, because she is a terrible influence and I love her for it, I figured it was worth a shot. Bunch of teenagers running wild and presumably going for all the obnoxious teen-drama clichés? BRING IT.  Except that's not exactly what happened. What could've been a godawful love triangle got killswitched, fail!parenting was averted, the platonic relationships were every bit as interesting as the romantic ones if not even more so in some cases, and... there, in the middle of it all, was a character I related to far more than I wanted to.

(The rest of this post contains spoilers abundant for the first season, so stop reading now if you don't want to know the entire plotline of a secondary character. Or, alternatively, keep reading because this is something that - had I known about it - would've made me that much more interested in watching.)

From the very moment she makes her onscreen debut, Octavia Blake is - if nothing else - one to keep an eye on. Most of the titular 100 are in the situation they're in because of something they did; Octavia's only crime was her existence. And while that's established early on, the details don't kick in until episode 6, by which time she's managed to annoy the living daylights out of everyone else who has a name and presumably most of the background kids as well, make her sexual debut with someone who ends up dead two days later (for reasons having nothing to do with her and everything to do with acid rain), attempt to have some time alone and get lost in the process, and get "captured" by something that isn't supposed to exist. (I used quotation marks there because the situation and motivations are more complicated than they initially seem - all will be explained later, I promise.) Quite a run for someone who, at that point, has done absolutely nothing to move the overall plot forward unless you count giving her older brother a perpetual migraine. But... then said backstory kicks in and suddenly the most irritating character on a show full of 'em is the most sympathetic.

I did not expect a particular character's background to resonate with me. The main reason I watch questionable teen dramas is because that doesn't happen. But all rules have exceptions, and this was one of them. I wish I'd been more surprised. As revealed in flashbacks (sidenote - The 100 does flashbacks really well, and I say this as a person who usually hates them), Octavia spent the first sixteen years in the confines of her family's living space, and a good portion of that in a barely-human-sized hole in the floor. No wonder the girl we see in the show's main timeline is so over-the-top and reckless - she's finally free and she's got a lot of life to catch up on. And that's when it hit me. Here, on a post-apoc teen drama - one of the last places one would expect to find such a thing - was a story that finally paralleled my own experience within the homeschool community, not to mention the common thread of others who can only be called survivors.

It resonated in a been-there-done-that sort of way. Yeah, maybe my experience wasn't on par with some of the horror stories one can easily read elsewhere on the internets (a different rabbit-trail that has little to do with this post so no links for y'all today), but it still mirrored. I'd been one of the lucky ones - the option to participate in the normal world had been offered, at least. But as an introvert with unnoticed depressive tendencies, not to mention a few well-deserved trust issues and a natural tendency towards being a loner, I didn't take them. Until I was eighteen, every activity I participated in was, if not explicitly homeschool-centric, at least had a majority of kids like me.

You know the funny thing? I've never felt more alone than when I am among people who've had those "shared experiences", because I'm not like them either. All the ones I knew growing up, at least the girls, were either academic prodigies or musically gifted (with one notable exception who is now thankfully - and hopefully permanently - out of my hair). I'm neither of those things, and I don't have a superiority complex the size of fricking Australia or weird moral standards either, so... involuntary lone wolf status among people who should've adored me. Weird how that happens.

Anyways, back to the story that resonated all too well and why I think it's powerful. One of the great things about The 100 is that, with either one or two exceptions depending on how one feels about a particular irritating cockroach of a character, everyone gets positive character development over the course of the first season. Octavia, obviously, has an interesting starting point compared to everyone else and a bit further to go towards becoming a genuinely decent human. Or... not. At the end of episode 6 (the one with the flashbacks interspersed with current-timeline!her being chained up in a cave), she gets rescued. What's the first thing she does? Attempts to tell her brother and the rest of the rescue party not to hurt her "captor". (Again, quotation marks, and this time an explanation - at the beginning of this little plotline, girl fell down a hill, and the person who found her did what he did for her own good. Even more context later - this thing's running away from me.) Why? Because she knows what it's like to be in an undeserved situation and she wouldn't wish that on anyone. But, because tiny inexperienced girl, no one listens to her. Their loss.

((To be continued - this is long enough as it is, and there are still two more episodes to be discussed in explaining why this means so much to me...))

On New Beginnings

Or, "new web address, same general purpose".

I think this is the final incarnation of my "real life" blog. Figured it was high time to migrate to a platform that has, among other things, a user-friendly comments function. After the last post on the Tumblr incarnation (which is also the only post from that blog that's been cross-posted on this one - switching formats is way easier said than done), I decided it was high time to go for it. So... here we are. Same general concept, slightly different web address.

I'm also trying to update more. Trying as in watch me fail, but trying nonetheless. I have a lot left to process... only problem is where to begin. (Thoughts, anyone?)

On Violation

Or “I might as well address how everything REALLY started”.

This past weekend, I unexpectedly had to face part of my past. After years of vaguely thinking about it, my mom and I finally went to a friend’s church. But this post isn’t about that experience, because I spent the entire time crying in a bathroom. Why, you ask? Because it was in a building that had once been something else, I had memories associated, and let’s just say I’m starting to understand how anything can be triggery for some people.

Might as well get it over with, since the title of this post is pretty provocative and veers a particular direction anyways - I had bits of my innocence taken from me when I was thirteen. (Incidentally, I haven’t voluntarily lost anything since then… but that is a different post.) Compared to the horror stories I’ve seen on various homeschool-survivor blogs over the last few months, what happened to me was relatively tame. Just hands where I didn’t want ‘em, in the general vicinity of my then-nonexistent breasts, several times over the course of a school year. Maybe not even a conscious act, but still a harmful one.

The boy who did that to me was two years older than me. It ended when my family left that homeschool group in hopes that something closer to home might improve my social standing. (In reality, it did the opposite, but how were we to know better?) I haven’t had any form of contact with him since - might’ve added him on FB at some point, but I can’t remember. Far as I’m concerned, he doesn’t exist anymore, but the wounds I got from him do.

A lot of the people I know who homeschool their children do so to protect them from the big bad world. Things like this don’t happen to homeschooled kids. Things like this aren’t done by homeschooled kids either - and yet as far as I know, E was homeschooled the whole way from kindergarten through high school. Didn’t stop him from messing with the brain and body of a young girl who just wanted to be seen and leaving an indelible blemish on my psyche in the process.

I only processed this as A Harmful Thing That Happened a few years ago - several years after it happened. And in hindsight, maybe that was part of the problem. I wasn’t some tiny brutally harmed by an adult; the person who touched me where I didn’t want to be touched was in my peer group, our mothers had bonded over raising difficult children, and it was generally not the sort of scenario people talk about in discussions of sexual abuse and homeschooled children. And the worst part was I let it happen. I was uncomfortable, yes, but I kept my trap shut. I’ve kept this buried in me for eight years. And now… now I’m done with that silence.

What happened to me may not have been as dramatic or horrific as a lot of the dialogues currently going around, but I am still a victim. I am still a survivor. And I am still reconciling what this means to me, what effects it might have on my eventual consensual physical interactions. It’s an uphill climb, but I’m doing what I can.