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The Perks Of Fluid Identity

I've been learning a lot about myself this year.

This is funny because, as some of y'all know, last year was a major dev year for me. And, in my innocence, I thought that meant 2015 was going to be the results of said dev. Um... no. At least not yet. We still have half the year to go, and I have randomly turned into a very hopeful person, but... even I'm not betting on that right now. This year is another dev year, and that's okay. I think.

One of the big things I'm learning is that I'm a very fluid person... and that's okay.

I'm not sure what I mean by that yet. I'm not sure I'll ever fully know (another important thing I'm learning right now is how to accept uncertainty, which is fricking hard for my current wiring). But it's definitely a thing, and it's a thing I'm trying to use for survival.

I guess I've done this for a while. A few months back, my friend Miranda pointed out that I pick outfits and makeup like I'm putting on a mask, and as much as it killed me to admit it at the time... she had a point. I prepare my look based on who I need to be for a given situation and/or who I want other people to see me as. Sometimes, this means zero makeup (mascara doesn't count unless it's the super-super-volumising kind, and lip balm is a requirement for being human) and a t-shirt and knit skirt and flip-flops. Sometimes, this means red lipstick and eyeliner and a very fitted dress and... okay, generally flip-flops with that too, but I'd be wearing heels if my ankle wasn't screwed up. I don't have a default personal style because I'm so driven by mood and situation, and I've been that way for a while.

Recently, my fluidity expanded to names. I have never liked my legal name. Part of that stemmed from the fact that I share it with someone who was utterly terrible when we were young kids (she's become a much better person in the ten years since I stopped having to interact with her on the regular, but she successfully convinced everyone we knew when we were eight that my family was moving to West Virginia - based on an overheard convo, for the record, she wasn't malicious so much as misguided - and that was an interesting childhood trauma). There's more to it than that, but I dunno what the rest of it is. Point being... actually changing my name is not gonna happen because paperwork and fees and whatnot, but I'm not Alyssa most of the time. I'm really not. And maybe I'm a couple of different people, again dependent on the situation, and I'm learning who those personas are.

One of them, I think I have down. I've been going to a new church for the last two months and it's basically everything I hoped for, and I've started telling people my name is Nora there. That's who I want to be there. It's a pretty name for a pretty young woman in hiding, tragic past and hopeful heart and all. Eventually I'll probably have to explain that to a few people there - I'm exploring opportunities in ministry, so I'll definitely have to mention the disconnect at some point. But for now, that's who I am in that space, and being someone slightly different feels really really good.

I don't think that's the only part of it, though. Sectioning my personality into different identities is... probably a symptom of something, honestly, but it makes me feel better. I'm very conscious of what I'm doing, and I'm doing what I need to do for me. It's a weird coping mech, but it's the current state of things.

I've never been sure who I am at any given moment, but I'm trying to see the beauty in that. I'm trying to survive. I'm gonna be okay.

Song of the day - "Stardust", Lifehouse.

Impulsive Summer 2.0

So I went away for a little bit. This tends to happen in the aftermath of a heartbreak, which I will blame for my absentee-ism even though two months getting over a useless crush sounds pathetic (it took more like two weeks, but whatev). That situation went down, and then once the dust settled... I had posts I wanted to do, but motivation wasn't there. I've spent the last few weeks embracing my frustrations with mixed results, and while writing here was definitely something I knew I needed to do, I couldn't find the right push.

Then I started noticing some parallels, and that I needed to act on.

First, a little background. The titular Impulsive Summer is an event that occurred four years ago, the summer I graduated from high school. It gets its name because... well, my family made a lot of snap decisions over about a month. That, in turn, happened because we were waiting for my paternal grandfather to die. There really is no other way to put it. He'd had a rabbit's nest of medical issues for years, and the downward spiral had finally happened. It was just a matter of holding our breath, waiting for the phone call that would drag us up to northern Wisconsin for a week, and doing things on instinct while we could.

I distinctly remember that we weren't sure my grad party would even happen (it did, even though Grandpa was dead by then, because there was a week between the death and the funeral because of logistical stuff that 17-year-old me did not quite catch). We all acted in the moment during that grayspace. I was spared from the awkwardness of shamelessly eyeing my object of affections at a mutual acquaintance's grad party (while our parents talked three feet away because my dad had previously worked with object-of-affection's mom's bestie from high school or something - Cinci is a fishbowl, I swear) because we wanted to see a movie the weekend it came out because otherwise we wouldn't have seen it. I'm not entirely sure there are words for what that summer was, but there was definitely never a dull moment.

(I will not talk about my grandfather's funeral other than the fact that it was a really weird time to learn how my dad proposed to my mom and the fact that Coldplay's "Viva La Vida" is probably the most inappropriate funeral song ever. My dad and I nearly put it in the slideshow anyways, but we decided at the last minute that while my grandma is a tiny woman, she's still scary as hell and it wasn't worth the risk. Harry Connick Jr.'s version of "Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead" was also not quite worth the risk. Nor was Queen's "Another One Bites The Dust". My uncles nearly got a mix CD that Christmas of songs we were not allowed to use in the slideshow. They would've thought it was funny!)

Fast-forward to this summer. Once again, we have a family member in questionable health (probably not on the verge of death but ya never do know). And once again, that air of the impulsive surrounds me. Anything is possible this year.

There are a few other similarities. Movies, for instance. Summer 2011 was defined for me by X-Men: First Class - a movie I did not expect to love featuring a relationship that mirrored my doomed (but at the time vibrant and hopeful) first love. Summer 2015 could still go a lot of ways there, but so far the only "summer movie" I've seen (and the only one I plan to see) is Mad Max: Fury Road - a record-breaker for practical effects, a two-hour car chase, and a film that resonated with me on an unexpected personal level. (I'd say there'll be a post about that later, but again, motivation is a weird beast.) Beyond the emotional resonance both films have for me, they also feature two of the same actors in similar supporting roles - Nicholas Hoult as an adorable puppy in full-body makeup (I have accepted that this is a Situation for me) and Zoe Kravitz side-eyeing everything that moves in the background. Weird, weird similarities.

There's other stuff, I'm sure, but it's late and I can't think of it right now. What matters is... well, Impulsive Summer 2.0 is apparently happening. Where it'll go, we just don't know.

Song of the day - "Bulletproof Heart", My Chemical Romance.

On Being Forged In Fire

Or, "sometimes the best friendships are the ones you never knew you needed".

I know I post a lot of negative stuff on this blog. I guess that's mostly because I'm still at a point where a lot of negative stuff is happening to me, and writing my way through it helps. (There's a post I want to do right now about jealousy, and another about the first heartbreak of 2015, but now is not the time.) Right now, however, I'm still thinking about something really good that happened to me last week - and, by extension, a friendship that's gotten me through the last three years.

This is my friend Olivia. She's one of the most amazing people I've ever known, and last Saturday I finally got to see her. One of the recurring themes of the six-ish hours we spent hanging out was "took us long enough" - she lives three hours away from me, and it took us nearly three years of being friends to finally meet up. Despite the fact that we have batted the idea around ever since the distance thing was established. We are stubborn kittens and it is adorable.

Funny thing is, when I first started talking to Olivia at some point during summer 2012, I was kinda using her. At the time, we had a few mutual friends who'd recently broken up after a fairly serious relationship, and I was curious as to why. One of said people had zero contact with the outside world that summer, and the other one... in hindsight, was not a good person, but at the time, was just bad at disclosing details. So, because I am unstoppable when I'm curious and because as far as I could tell the relationship in question had been utterly bulletproof, I started reaching out to anyone who might know what had happened. Olivia was connected enough to be a viable resource, except that she... wasn't. She knew even less than I did, actually, although she was equally worried about the little dingbats. (And in hindsight, who wouldn't have been??)

But then something happened. We got to talking a bit more, and... turned out our backgrounds were pretty darn similar. Misplaced 19-year-old girls who'd grown up in super-religious communities and weren't sure what we were and wanted love and acceptance more than anything. Add in the unique experience of having grown up in small-town Indiana, and... WELL. A friendship was born.

Over the years that followed, we've been through stuff. Liv had what she generally refers to as the Valentine's Day From Hell, which I do not remember despite the fact that I know I attempted to be helpful at some point during the fallout, and realized that what she wanted to do wasn't what she'd originally thought. I continued to have depressive spirals, also realized that my plans were not working, and valiantly tried to walk away from just about everything. Through this, we've been a support system for each other. Honestly, at this point, we've stood by each other through too much to ever walk away.

So, finally meeting her in person. I guess part of me was worried that she wouldn't be as awesome in the physical world as she is online. If anything, she's more awesome. She has an infectious smile, she's affectionate, and she makes the world a brighter place. In the space of five minutes, we went from talking about our bad experiences within organized religion to using her phone to look up military bases in Alaska for a teensy bit of background info for this writing thing we're working on. We talked childhood traumas (mine are slightly more epic than hers) and fandom calamities (no show that either of us has ever watched has gotten BETTER after the introduction of a sentient morally-dark-gray AI). We had an extended convo about how Parks & Rec perfectly captures small-town Indiana life but it really needed a good episode about deer season because seriously. It was the most natural, comfortable few hours I've had in a long time.

Point being, Liv is amazing and I'm a better person because of her consistent, solid, supportive presence in my life. Three years down, (hopefully) a lifetime to go.

Song of the day - "Long Live", Taylor Swift.

On Being Brave

Or "people are finally seeing me as I am and I'm STILL freaking out."

Last night I had three conversations with three totally different people that all ultimately ended up being about the same thing - how brave I am. Technically there might've been a fourth one, but that got sidetracked by my tendency to inflict too much personal information on people I barely know (thankfully, the girl I was talking to seemed pretty cool with it - I mean, we'll see if she still wants to be anywhere near me next time our social schedules overlap, but she didn't exactly tell me to shut up and she reads as the sort of person who would and I adore her for it). Point being, as a recurrent theme, that one was weird - and totally not my doing, and freaking me out enough that I'm writing about it here twelve hours later. Yay.

The first convo was with a childhood friend and that's all I'm going to say about who she is 'cause despite being the person unintentionally responsible for about 80% of my self-image issues (no one would ever be as good as she was, no one ever said as much but everyone in my era knew darn well), I can't totally hate her. Believe me, I've tried. Lately, I ignore her when we're in the same place because "if I can't see them then they don't exist" is a TOTALLY sensible way of dealing with problem people (I do this at work sometimes, it's weird but it keeps me out of trouble so I guess it's working). But if the other person initiates something, I go with it. And she did. We were standing in the same general area and that woman is talkative. And somehow it came up that she had no idea where I currently work despite me having been there for over a year (I guess me not posting about it on FB - *ever* - might be somehow involved), and I offhand mentioned that while I've been having some minor people problems, it's nowhere near as bad as my last job. So, naturally, childhood friend pointed out that she could never do something like that and I'm so brave for lasting as long as I did.

For the record, the job in question was in a shopping-mall food court place and I lasted a year and a half before the combination of distance and one major human problem that I couldn't do anything about led to me quitting. I was not brave (unless one is really into the fact that I did not intentionally physically hurt myself during that time period).

Second convo happened a few hours later on Tumblr. For some reason, currently because of the main show I am no longer watching because the fandom took a nice trip into hell (someday I need to do a post on how to tactfully have a ship war because I've seen it done without any guilt-tripping before but the above situation is above and beyond), I seem to have attracted a flock of adorable teenage girls who are in the same situation I was in at around that age. Homeschooled, sheltered, and using online fandom interaction as an outlet. (For those of you who thought I was a terror in high school - believe me, if I hadn't discovered the glory of FFnet when I was fifteen and begun using TV shows as a way of getting through my actual life, it could've been sooo much worse.) Obviously, I am the first person to point out that I'm really not a good role model for anyone, EVER, but if the little bugs are convinced I am, that's on them and I'll try to be helpful where I can. I've had a few cool internet older sister figures, and it's only right that I keep the cycle going, yeah?

Anyways, I was talking to one of those girls - convo started with something else, but it spiraled into talking about Former Main Fandom (let's call it that, it's the only show I've actually posted about on this blog if anyone's desperate enough to poke around in my archives) and more specifically, why a particular character is Really Interesting. (That's another post I need to do here. A revamped version of the EXISTENT post on that subject. And... something I'm never going to be over.) Short version, that particular fictional lady resonates with me because of similar backgrounds, and apparently I'm not the only one who sees that. Then the convo detoured a little bit into me talking about my background, and it basically ended with the girl I was talking to telling me that I am a SURVIVOR.

Well... duh. As far as I know, that's the only word in the English language that accurately describes who I am after all of my experiences. (A post I will definitely not write - the fine line between "victim" and "survivor" and how sometimes those can be used interchangeably.)

Then the third convo happened. By this point, it's a little past midnight and my brain is in some absolutely lovely places, and... again, Tumblr is a beautiful place. In need of distraction from OTHER things that happened last night (which will be explained shortly), I started messing around with tattoo design again. I now definitely know what my next one is going to look like and where on my body I'm getting it put. So I posted about that, because talking about anything other than my epic communication failure was absolutely necessary, and then one of my friends talked at me. Apparently she wasn't aware of my existent tattoo, which is weird because she was definitely around when that one happened, and she randomly told me that I was brave for actually going through with it.

Um... no. Being the nervous trainwreck that I am, I spent days looking at pain charts before that one happened, and y'all should know that the one thing all of them (and there are about six good ones I found on Pinterest) say is that lower thigh is about the least painful possible place. This is accurate. I did not feel anything, good bad or otherwise. That is not brave. That is slightly impulsive and reckless.

I guess the reason I'm being so hard on myself is because on a certain level, last night was a disaster. I went to a thing with the intention of talking to a beautiful boy, and... I didn't, because there were too many people and I don't know how to begin a convo with someone I know in passing (in that weird way everyone knows everyone because Cincinnati is a fishbowl) and don't have anything in common with. That's why I'm so curious, but it's not making things easier for me. I convinced myself that I was going to do something, and then I DIDN'T, and I'm so mad at myself for it. I know I shouldn't be - what will happen will happen, and at least I am definitely on radar now and that's progress for me - but I am. Because again, I'm not good enough, and again, I'm not strong enough, and again, I'm a bit disaster. Some things never change.

I'll get through it, though. Last night wasn't even an active setback so much as... a pause, I guess. My heart's still fluttering terribly, and we'll see where that leads if it leads anywhere at all. I'll be okay. I always am.

Song of the day - "Marchin' On", OneRepublic.

On How To Practice Selfcare (Things I Didn't Learn In The Bubble, episode two)

Or, "find little things that make you feel human and cling to them".

The last post I did got me thinking about things. This always happens, and 90% of the time I don't go anywhere with that because... well, as you can all see, my attention span sucks. But I've been stuck on things that probably should've been in that post, and one of the most important ones is selfcare. Bby!me really did not know what selfcare was. For those of you who aren't active in certain online communities... my understanding of it is that selfcare is little things one needs to do to keep fighting. The important word there is little. It's not supposed to be big or dramatic, and finding good methods is a very individual process, but for people coming out of bad situations, it can be everything. So, because apparently I'm into list posts this month, here are a few of my selfcare essentials:

• Bath bombs. Srsly. They're amazing. Probably the priciest thing I'll suggest here - on average, about seven dollars for a single-use thing the size of a baseball - but so, so worth using once a month or so. You can get them on Etsy or elsewhere online in almost every scent imaginable (though I still have yet to find somewhere that has a black orchid one, sigh) and they also make your skin wonderfully squishy for a day or two afterwards and it is amazing.
• Raspberry tea. Or tea in general, because there's something about that process that's inherently calming, but I've read in various places that raspberry is like a natural reset button for uteruses soooo. It works, I swear. (Especially with lots of milk and sugar, but maybe that's just me.)
• Lavender and peppermint scented anything. Maybe not together, I dunno if I've found that combination in anything, but both of those are calming and wonderful. Also I think I read somewhere that the scent of peppermint helps make headaches go away, so that's awesome too.
• A TV show you identify with. This is where I veer a little away from your normal self-care posts because... well, this is a thing for me. I process my life through fictional characters, and that can be really helpful. Some advice - don't go looking too hard, stuff will find you and not the other way around. Or ask a few people you trust if there are any characters you remind them of and go from there. That can be fun. (Of course, depending on your people, they could well tell you things you already know. Which... is not something I'm entirely over and not something I am allowed to post about for another three weeks because Reasons.)
• A TV show you totally don't identify with. Because sometimes the point of selfcare is to distract from your problems, and I am convinced that is why trashy teen dramas were originally created, and that is all I am going to say on the matter.
• A pet who likes attention. In my case, my cat. You look at her for more than two seconds and she'll roll over and give you this "pet me. NOW." look and nobody can resist it. Believe me, I've tried. It's impossible. Affectionate unconditional furry creatures make life so much better.

Song of the day - "Forget", Marina and The Diamonds.

On Things I Would Tell My Seventeen-Year-Old Self

Or, "this is not the path I expected my life to take but I'm finally getting to the point where the journey looks absolutely beautiful in hindsight".

It hit me this morning, as I was driving my little sister to work (all important realizations happen in my car), that my story is actually pretty awesome. Six months ago, I would not have been able to say that, but I guess I'm starting to realize that everything I've been through has made me a pretty amazing person. This whole self-confidence thing is still new and vaguely terrifying, but what gets me is that where I am right now is completely different from where I thought I'd be at this point in my life four years ago. It's also different from where everyone else thought it would be, and... honestly, it's a good place. Not quite my ideal scenario, but it's still beautiful.

That being said, there are a few things I would tell my seventeen-year-old self that would've made a lot of this so much easier. Most of them are very specific to situations I was in this time four years ago; some, however, are general life advice for the teenage girls who may or may not be reading this blog (and I know at least one of my sister's friends at least occasionally looks at this calamity so it's not a total waste of my time to write this up). You guys can figure out what's what. Here goes:

• That boy you think you love is going to betray you in a way you never thought possible because you don't yet know that mixed-gender friendships are even biologically possible. He is not in love with you, nor will he ever be. You are his quiet rebellion, nothing more, and the day you realize that will be one of the most painful days of your life. There is no way to brace for this sort of pain; you just need to fight through it.
• You are a SURVIVOR. These wars you fight with the world and yourself will only make you stronger. One day you will look back and understand the meanings of your scars.
• The darkness you feel sometimes has a name. You're going to get help for it after the first time you nearly let it take you. Eventually, sweet one, it's going to end completely for reasons that you won't understand at the time (and maybe you never will). You're still in for a very long three years, but you'll get through it.
• College is not your path. You already know this, but you're being good because it's what's expected of you and it's going to take missing finals week the spring of your second year because you're recovering from three days in a psych ward before anyone else agrees with you on this. That's going to be a turning point for you, and even your dad won't fight it too much.
• Speaking of which, as much as you hate him right now, you're going to end up having a better relationship with him than your mother. Maybe he's not a better person in the grand scheme of things, but he's very upfront. He doesn't manipulate people. Your mother... is probably not aware of all that she does, but that doesn't stop her from doing it. You'll learn to work around this.
• In general, working around problems is better than trying to solve them. At least when those problems are of the human variety. Humans cannot be fixed no matter how much you wish otherwise.
• You're going to realize that you think girls are pretty too, in a different way than boys are but still a significant way, and that's not going to be anywhere near as much of a battle as you initially think. Your little puppy crushes on girls are never going to be acted on, not like the things you feel for boys, but they're still a part of you. Attraction is what it is. Your Person is still probably a guy, but thinking that girl at work is really cute is still okay.
• You're going to get out of the Bubble. You're going to find the strength to assert yourself and put distance where it's needed and you're going to blossom so much once those people are not in your life on the regular.
• Despite what certain people say, you will not be the first girl of your era to get married. You will stand and watch as half of your era finds love in places you do not understand, you will be completely neutral on all of those situations, and life will go on. People will be cruel to you about your involuntary lone-wolf status, but you'll learn how to deal with them without causing a scene. You're the better person in those situations. You'll be okay.
• How neutral you are, however, will not affect the fact that you will still cry at some point during every wedding you attend. And there are going to be a lot of weddings.
• You already know that you will not get your first kiss by age eighteen. You will definitely not check off all of your physical firsts by twenty-one. You will learn to be... maybe not okay with that, but understanding of the fact that what lies ahead of you will make all of this awful waiting make sense.
• You're going to flutter for a lot more people. For a while, your type will remain "emotional range of a cactus and uses you for advice on wooing emotionally manipulative blonde pixies". Then it'll turn to "guys with sweet girlfriends who you usually know". Then... well, it's anyone's guess where the journey will lead from there, but despite the number of times you get your heart broken by boys who never even wanted you, you'll still have hope that your Person is out there somewhere.
• You're not what anyone wants you to be, but that's their loss.
• You're going to see elements of your story reflected in places you never would've expected and it's going to break your heart, but you're going to use that to get out. You are every bit as amazing as the fictional ladies you will cling to because real-life role models are impossible for you. Their stories will give you strength to keep writing yours.
• Someday the sappy love songs won't hurt. This will happen before you have someone in your life who gives them meaning. It's weird, but it's also really awesome.
• Domesticity isn't the horror story you think it is now. You're going to change your mind about eventual marriage and tiny humans and it's going to have nothing to do with your background and everything to do with your blossoming sense of self.
• Your awkward phase is going to die a dramatic death on New Year's Eve when you get bored and shave your head. That's another turning point, another new beginning.
• You are a SURVIVOR. Those four words need to be repeated over and over and over because they are so true. You are a SURVIVOR and all of the bad things that have happened to you, all of the bad things that will happen to you, will only make you that much stronger. You are a phoenix; rise and rise again from your ashes, each time that much more glorious.

Song of the day - "This Is What Makes Us Girls", Lana Del Rey.

On Redefining Myself

Or, "right now I'm doing things for ME... and that's okay".

Coming out of a depressive spiral is the weirdest thing. I've already posted a lot about that, but I'm not sure how to write about the last month or so because I'm not sure how it happened. There was no great reason for the fact that one morning I woke up and didn't feel the familiar crushing weight of the last eight years. It just... happened, and while that's obviously one of the best things that's ever happened to me, it does present a few problems. Like, who exactly am I now and how do I go about becoming the woman I want to be??

I guess it doesn't help that I was an awkward thirteen-year-old when the spiral started. I hadn't had time to figure out who I was before the dark clouds took my life. And now here I am, twenty-one and totally unsure of my identity and I hate being unsure of things. I like knowing where I stand in situations. It's why attraction is a weird concept for me (and we'll get to that later in this post, unfortunately that's decided to be a problem for me again) and why being around volatile people is bad for me. And why I'm now in this very weird place that, for the life of me, I cannot find any solutions to.

Thing is, I know who I want to be someday. That's progress. I have an end goal... which, because a lot of it rests on things I have absolutely no control over, will probably take years to happen. It's the waiting that kills me, the disaster of not knowing who I need to be in the meantime. If things play in my favor, I'm pretty sure of who I'll need to be in five years. Right now, on the other hand?? Not a clue.

There are good things about this place I'm in, though. One of the best ones is that at this point in my life, my great priority is myself. In the future, when I find my Person and we (hopefully) have tiny humans, that won't be an option. From what little experience I've had, the way I love is very sacrificial, and I will drop everything when given reason enough. I don't think my darling is going to know what hit them, honestly. So maybe it's good that I have this blank time, because I can do silly things for me and it's okay. I can be interested in fashion and makeup and spend a little too much money on those things now and it's okay. I'm doing it for me, because while my confidence is definitely internal, I want to be pretty. I want to be noticed and remembered. And right now, it's okay.

If anything, the fashion thing is freeing for me. I've never had any huge insecurities about my body - a miracle considering that one of the soundtracks of my teenage years was my mother's epic series of well-intentioned but doomed-from-the-start "diets" - but I definitely did not think of myself as attractive until recently. Call it a side-effect of growing up around a lot of traditionally pretty blonde chicks (and living with one, gah). I have a perfect hourglass shape and that did not register with me at all until like six months ago. Add in the fact that I'm normally very low-maintenance and... really, the fact that I'm consciously trying to develop a Look is a bit surprising. But it's happening, slowly, and I'm liking the results. After some brainstorming with one of my friends, who is very supportive of this project, I decided on "postapoc warrior fairy princess" as what I'm aiming for. It's a bit weird on paper; in reality, it's a lot of layers and neutral // earth colors and pretty basic pieces. More importantly, it reflects who I'm trying to be. I'm sick of invisibility. I want to be remembered, and this is a step forward.

I mentioned attraction a little earlier as part of this current whatever-this-is, and... yeah, that kinda happened. I'm fluttery for about the first time in a year, and without saying too much (because this hit three days ago and I am panicking and also the other person barely knows I exist soooo), it's very different from the other times I've fluttered. I don't know this one all that well - we've known each other in passing for years, as people do in small communities and smaller social circles, but I am 95% sure we've never actually talked - but I have hope. This one, from what little I know about them, is everything my little heart has ever longed for. And, more importantly at the moment, this one is getting handled differently. In the past, I've been too assertive with my affections - which was just as well, got the heartbreaks over with that much quicker, but it's still something that apparently intimidates most guys. This time, I'm trying not to go there. Getting on radar is one thing, and a few initiations are possible, but I have no expectations and no plans. There's definitely the part of my brain that kicks in at times like this and says that guys like that never notice girls like me, but exceptions happen. Human beings don't always follow the usual script. A girl can hope, and I am letting myself have this too because even if nothing comes of it, even if I am invisible once again, I am letting my heart run where it will and following my instincts where they lead me. And it's okay.

Song of the day - "Shine", Vienna Teng.

On Talking To The Void

Or, "writing letters to someone I know nothing about is a useful coping mech".

I know my Person is out there. They have to be. I was talking to my dear friend Olivia about this about a week ago and she said that she's thought about it a lot too and figures that some people are just meant to be with someone, period. (Olivia, for the record, has been with her boyfriend for nine months and they're pretty sure they're each other's Person and other than the fact that I randomly decided to refer to him as Penguin, I'm pretty sure he's the best thing that's ever happened to her.) It's reassuring, that certainty. At least I have something, y'know?

One of the weirder things I've read on various lists of things for Good Christian Girls to do while they wait for their Prince Charming (those of y'all who've seen such lists know I'm not exaggerating) is to write letters to one's future Person. When I was a little bug who did not believe in love (why that changed is another post), I thought that was the most ridiculous idea ever. Yes, even worse than hope chests, and don't get me started on that. (Thus says the girl who's never dated anyone and yet has her wedding dress already. I have such fun inconsistencies.) Now that I'm older and in the stage of desperately waiting for my blossoming to happen... it's actually awesome.

I'm doing a lot of things for my future Person, which is hilarious considering I don't exactly expect them to show up anytime soon. I'm working on the Beekeeper Quilt nightmare, which remains nowhere near done but I'm trying and maybe it'll be done in four years (I am realistic). I have a nice collection of clearance-rack lingerie, which I admittedly do wear on days I need a confidence boost but honestly no one's going to see it on me for a darn long time. And then there's the journal. The Journal. Ohhhhdear.

I'm not sure why I actually started that project. The journal itself was an impulse purchase of the "things that come home with me when I get stuck on a long Walmart trip with my mother" variety. (Normally that category is occupied by eyeshadow and hairbands and holiday novelties.) I've attempted journaling for myself at so many points starting when I was a tiny and... honestly, I suck at it. I get bored. I generally drop particular journals after something bad happens, and then a little while later I get it into my head that I actually want to do this again and acquire a new one and the cycle repeats. I know I do this. And maybe part of me thought this would happen with The Journal. Part of me wonders if it will, at some point, when my current delusions of preparing for my ascendance are dashed by one more terrible broken heart. But a stronger part of me is pretty sure it won't, because this project isn't for me.

This project is for someone I know basically nothing about. I mean, my Person is most likely male (sexual fluidity nightmare being what it is, unless something major shifts, that's the way those attractions actually go) and most likely older than me. They're hopefully quite a bit different than me and hopefully not the sort of person who spends too much of their spare time wondering about their future Person, because one of us does need to be functional, and if they do have the same cute-but-not-actually-helpful coping mech that's getting me through the uncertainty of waiting, I kinda doubt they're envisioning anything like me. (I'm no one's ideal, I know this, and that is not a desperate plea for petty compliments.) I know that they're loyal and good - they have to be, I won't tolerate anything less - and... that's about it. The stuff that I'll notice first, the stuff I'll fall in love with, I'll discover when it happens. And I'm trying to be okay with that, but I really hate uncertainty. I like knowing things. The fact that the defining relationship of my life is currently a complete unknown is... not good for me.

And maybe that's why The Journal helps, because it's giving me an outlet for my wonderings. I'm writing little love letters to someone who won't see them for years, but I'm also revealing little pieces of myself, things I may not remember to tell them but that still matter. It feeds the uncertainty, yes, but it makes the dark unknown feel welcoming. I am embracing it before I know what it is. I am falling in love with someone I haven't met yet. I am doing what needs to be done for me and, at the same time, doing what needs to be done for them.

I have no delusions of everything suddenly being okay when I find my Person. Most of y'all reading this have met my parents; believe me, that idea got shot in the foot before it had a chance. But I do know that it's going to be magnificent. And when the time comes, I will have a whole lot of stories waiting to tell them.

Song of the day - "When You Sleep", Mary Lambert.

On Liking Things (Things I Didn't Learn In The Bubble, episode one)

Or, "sometimes it's okay to let things in".

A couple of months ago, I did this post on being too jaded for my own good (okay, it was also about how snow brings out the worst in everyone, but there was that element too). While that statement is still accurate, I'm realizing that maybe it isn't as accurate as it used to be. I still expect the worst out of people, but there are a whole lot of lovely things in my life that don't involve direct human contact. And then I got to thinking that it might be cool to do a series of connected posts that don't involve me overanalyzing an underrated TV show, and thus "Things I Didn't Learn In The Bubble" was born. I'm not totally sure what I'm going to do with it, but there are some very important life lessons that I didn't learn until I started spreading my wings and this could be a good chance for me to work through it.

Today's installment - it's okay to like things.

I know, this should be instinctive. To someone who has a more normal background, it probably is. For me, it was a realization that has taken place over several years and finally, finally I am accepting it. (2015 is turning into the year of me accepting things and I love it.) And, strangely, this has happened because of a cute little radio earworm. If by some chance you have not heard the absolute wonder that is "Uptown Funk", please go here and watch the vid (which is pretty awesome and that from the perspective of someone who normally doesn't like music videos that don't involve a certain redheaded goddess, but that is another rabbit trail). You can open it in another tab and go on with whatever else you're doing - trust me, you only need to listen to it once, it will be stuck in your head for at least a week. Consider yourself warned.

So what does a catchy dancey pop song have to do with a major personal realization, you ask? Simple - because it's the latest example of me trying not to like things for no particular reason.

One of the main principles of the community I grew up in is that normal = bad. This has manifested in a lot of ways and I have neither time nor energy to list all of them, but the main way involved media consumption. (Admittedly, certain people have calmed down a lot since I was a tiny, but the general awfulness is still there.) If it was not Explicitly Christian, it was bad. Period. On paper, not such a bad idea... until you remember that there are impressionable tinies and catty middle-aged women involved and my mother routinely got called a bad parent because she let my siblings and I watch Disney movies. (Conversely, nobody batted an eyelash when my then-six-year-old sister could fluently quote LOTR despite the fact that she had nightmares about Gollum in our closet for years. Double standards, thy name is modern evangelical Christianity.) After that snafu, my family in particular practiced a duplicity that, while obviously not an ideal scenario for any parties involved, at least kept reputations intact. Mostly.

Unfortunately, this all occurred during the glory days of crime shows in the early/mid-2000s. My dad has never held to the same strict media standards (see also - how then-six-year-old sister ended up watching a certain trilogy in the first place), and for a couple of years, he loved CSI. Now, had anyone we knew at the time ever found out about this, there would've been canaries. Same went for the absolute glory that was Alias, which in hindsight was the first TV show I ever got attached to. Was it appropriate viewing for a ten-year-old? Your mileage may vary, but it didn't screw me up in any notable ways so not exactly a disaster there. Did it contribute to my total inability to talk media with anyone in a face-to-face setting? Yes.

Then my freshman year of high school happened. That's one of the years that a lot of my various issues and tendencies trace back to, and with good reason. First, it was the year I was allowed to read what I wanted because my mother was preoccupied with other stuff and couldn't be bothered to check everything. Now, being as socially inept as I was during those years, I basically inhaled books. This also happened in late 2007, around the beginning of YA futuristics being a Major Thing. Thankfully, by now I had learned to keep my trap shut. Reading what I wanted was all well and good, but telling anyone about it? Nah. My suicidal inclinations still had a few years of development left. I behaved.

Music also became a part of the problem in the same year. Previously, my auditory delights had been limited to the genres of classical, Christian, and jazz (don't ask). That door wasn't consciously opened, but I still remember the first "normal" album I bought - How To Save A Life by The Fray. Seven years later, I still like that album, so it was a good call on my end. (Maybe not the most normal choice for a fourteen-year-old girl, but the title song was all too relevant following the death of my birthmom and I was a morbid little creature and I swear it made sense at the time.) Music, I didn't need to be told not to talk about. I could listen to what I wanted and use it as inspo for my little stories, but God help me if anyone from our homeschool group found out!!

For years, the duplicity continued. I liked things, but I liked them quietly. There were a few exceptions - my high school graduation, for instance, for which I picked Florence + The Machine's "Dog Days Are Over" as my slideshow song (had I known they would cut it at the two-minute mark, I actually would've done something even more out-there) - but it was my double life. When I got into TV again a few years ago, that too remained something I didn't talk about, not even the shows that have heavily impacted me for the better. But lately, I've gotten really sick of that.

I am allowed to like things, dammit. I am allowed to be amused by things that don't have a lasting impact. I am allowed to sing along at the top of my lungs to a harmless dancey radio song for no reason other than that because I like it. There's nothing wrong with me. I know that some of what I like has problematic elements (and I hate that phrase but I can't think of a better one), but I'm careful. I know what affects me and I'm careful with that stuff. But mostly... I'm okay. I'm immune. I'm allowed to have fun.

And hey, if my version of fun involves rolling the functional window down on my car and feeling on top of the world for a few minutes, I don't think I'm doing all that badly.

Song of the day - "Uptown Funk (featuring Bruno Mars)", Mark Ronson.

On Wanting Counterbalance

Or, "I talk a lot about relationships for someone who's never actually been in one".

One of the few good things about being single, if there even are any good things, is that it gives one a lot of time to contemplate things. That's part of why this blog happened in the first place (that and the fact that my mother was starting to get sick of listening to these rants). And one of the things I've realized more and more is that I know exactly what I need in an eventual endgame Person. Only problem is, it's not something that'll be easy to find.

Another great thing about not having my Person yet is it gives me too much time to overanalyze media. More specifically, what I'm drawn to and why. One of the things I've spent time on over about the last year is the concept of parallel girls - fictional ladies I see myself in all too well. And one of the interesting facets of that is that I seem to ship those ladies with a very specific type.

(Interlude for those of you who don't play on the fandom side of the internet: shipping = as the name suggests, liking the romantic relationship between two characters. Said characters don't have to actually have that sort of relationship in the source material, but most of the ships that have contributed to the material that follows are canon, which means that they do.)

Really, I go for this sort of thing regardless of whether or not the lady is actually a parallel girl for me. Counterbalance ships - pairings where the two characters balance each other out almost perfectly - have been my great weakness ever since I first got involved in fandoms when I was a little babybug. They're so interesting. And over the last few months, I've realized and accepted that the reason I find that dynamic so appealing in fiction is because it's what I'm aiming for in real life. And finally, finally, I am accepting that.

This, I realize now that I'm not trying to avert it, is why online dating does not work for me. Online dating, from my on-and-off experiences with it, is about matching people who have a lot in common. For me, this is a problem. I don't want to be with someone who's just like me. If anything, I want someone wildly different. I want someone who I will never fully understand and who I will always be fascinated by. And I want them to see the same in me.

In some ways, I'm pretty sure that's weird. In some ways, I'm probably making my own journey harder. But honestly, I'm not sure I care.

I want the sort of love that I idealize, quiet and passionate and sacrificial. I am at peace with the idea of often needing to reassure my Person that they are enough for me, because they will be even on the days they don't see it. I'm not expecting things to be easy - I know myself, I know that's not going to happen. But still I want, and still I wait.

Song of the day - "Everything Has Changed (featuring Ed Sheeran)", Taylor Swift.

On Survival Methods

Or, "this is how I get through events without getting into (major) trouble".

One of my friends is getting married in a week. This is objectively awesome, half because Trin and her person are perfect for each other and half because as of me writing this, it's the only wedding I know I have to go to this year. This is good in ways there aren't words for - one of the women I work with has said I go to more weddings than anyone else she's ever known. (Explaining that people who grew up in the homeschool bubble tend to get married young did not help my case.) Last year, I went to six - five of which my mother was convinced we wouldn't be invited to. And the thing about doing something that many times is that one develops ways of getting through it intact. Here's how I do it, in no real order:

STEP ONE - acquire a really awesome dress
The thing about being a single lady-type of marriageable age on the wedding circuit is that you have to look good. This is one of those unspoken things that the Bubble in particular is really, really good at. The expectations are high enough that my sister has worn dresses in public voluntarily, something none of us thought would ever happen (mind you, trying to "help" her find acceptable dresses is probably a circle of hell, but now is not the right place for that rant). Someone in my position has to look perfect or else most of the middle-aged women will talk. Most of them will talk anyways, but it's best to try to get their approval.

Point being, the dress - and it has to be a dress (I'd honestly love to see a woman under 40 try to wear pants to a Bubble wedding, the fallout would be epic) - is the key part of any outfit. Everything else has to be planned around it. So, the dress has to be perfect. (Yeah, I'm using a lot of italics in this post. I think of that as the text equivalent of talking with my hands, which is one of the bad habits I'm trying to kick but y'know.) The dress has to be a good color, have an acceptable neckline and length, and... honestly, whether or not it's comfortable is a lesser concern. This is just as well because I end up ordering my dresses online. Modcloth is kinda the best thing ever, especially the clearance page because... honestly, the selection there is pretty awesome for my size (women's large, which one would think would be impossible but oddly isn't). Except that sometimes I eyeball things wrong. But I live with the consequences. I ignore, for instance, how much I loathe side zippers (srsly, dresses do not need them, especially if there's a seam down the middle of the back anyways). I make sure I look cute. Because whether anyone will outright say it or not, that's the expectation.

STEP TWO - liveblog everything
Weddings simultaneously bring out the best and worst in everyone. This is a fact that can probably be backed up with statistics (which I am too lazy to look up but whatev). On the one hand, you are not allowed to act like a terrible person at a wedding because... well, it just doesn't happen. Weddings are supposed to be a safe zone. (Some people ignore this, but I'll get to that later in this post.) On the other hand, everyone is manic. I have seen the calmest people I've ever known turn into borderline disasters. The first wedding of 2014 involved a family I've known since I was tiny who are, every last one of them, easy-going on a level that really should not be possible for human beings. Even they were a bit... gah, I dunno if frazzled is actually the right word, but somewhere close at least. These are the only people I've seen get through a funeral with dignity completely intact. Weddings make people interesting.

So... liveblogging. This is one of the great things about smartphones and knowing how to effectively use Tumblr on them. (This is also why I kinda miss my old phone that had a keyboard bit. Next weekend will be my first time attempting to liveblog an event on a touchscreen device and I'm kinda panicking because touchscreens and I do not get on.) Hey, I may not be having fun, but at least a few lovely people in various far-away locations are amused by my misfortunes.

STEP THREE - bring earplugs
This is something I forget to do, so I'm putting it on the list so I remember to do it. (Which means finding my good earplugs that I haven't actually seen since firework season ended. Mrow.) My dad does research on this stuff, I really should be better at, y'know, always having a good set in my purse or whatev. But no. I fail at this.

The reason earplugs are useful is not, as one might initially think, because weddings are loud. Weddings are not loud. Weddings are, surprisingly, not a sensory nightmare for me. No, earplugs are good because weddings mean questionable music. There are several songs that reliably make me cry and, without fail, I will inevitably hear at least one of them. The worst one, for reasons I am not sure I want to know, is Brooke Fraser's "The Thief". (If you're not familiar with that gem, go listen to it here.) It's one of those songs. I so much as think I hear it and I snap. And while crying at weddings is apparently acceptable... lonely bitey single-girl crying, not so much.

STEP FOUR - avoid the tinies
Again, wedding #1 of 2014 is involved here. Sufficient to say, one of the bride's younger brothers had too much sugar or something (or just raw energy, nine-year-old boy are like that) and decided it was cute to pop a bunch of balloons. Most of them in the hands of other small children. Which was cute until he tried to get the flower girl, who... I'm not sure if she actually hit him, but she definitely tried. Moral of the story - tiny humans are to be avoided at formal events because none of them want to be there, they will be sugar-high, and they are dangerous little beasties. (This is why anyone under the age of twelve is banned from my future wedding, with a few possible exceptions but... I don't get people who bring their flocks of tinies to events like that. They don't know what's going on, they're loud, and they cause problems. Doesn't make sense!!)

STEP FIVE - wear comfortable shoes
This should be obvious. This should be a general life tip. Unfortunately, fancy shoes are weird. If one happens to have ginormous feet like I do, things are not pretty. Basically, if it has sharp anything on it or if it's a size too small, not worth it. I should know better. (I should figure out what happened to my good heels, now that I'm thinking about it. I'm gonna need them next weekend. And floral fishnets because I am a lady.)

STEP SIX - have a panic buddy
Ideally, this should be someone who is also at the event and in the same boat of "lone wolf, either doesn't know or doesn't like the majority of the people present, and willing to put up with random hissing and side-eyeing of everyone". Unfortunately, I tend to have a fifty-fifty chance of actually having this person (my childhood bestie is an angel for the number of rants she's put up with, most of which begin with "why did someone ever think of wearing that in public?!"). Less ideal scenario, text someone. Preferably someone who will not encourage bad ideas (which means as much as I may want to, my friend Miranda is off-limits for this sort of thing because that woman's version of "advice" leads to further bad life choices and... as you will see, I do that enough on my own). Preferably someone who doesn't know anyone involved and will therefore be that much more amused by their shenanigans, but for me that's a given. Find a damn panic buddy and message them instead of lashing out at people who are still on speaking terms with your mother - it works.

STEP SEVEN - if anyone asks you personal questions, just... don't
This is where the aforementioned bad life choices kick in. In case you haven't figured it out, my verbal filter doesn't exist. If it seems like a good idea at the time, I go with it, and bonus points if that involves people who already dislike me. But... sometimes I don't even have to talk myself into a hole. Sometimes the other person basically digs it themself and then pushes me in.

As a general rule, if you're at a wedding and you know the person you're talking to is unhappily single, that is the worst possible time to give them dodgy advice and/or be condescending. This should be basic human instinct. It isn't.

I'm going to spare y'all the rant about how obnoxious Young Marrieds are capable of being because honestly, this isn't the right place for it. I really am trying to be a good person. That being established, there are lines that shouldn't be crossed. One person in particular is really, really good at crossing them. I will leave it at that, be the better person, and learn to avoid her (and other similar people) at events from here until forever.

So there you have it. Maybe not a great survival guide, but it works. Whatever gets me through, y'know??

On Scarlett, part one

Or, "how a character I created became my own best inspiration to keep fighting".

The end is near... sorta. I made myself do an outline, even though I hate outlines, and I now know exactly how Scarlett Ember is ending and exactly what I have to do to finish it. And, because I've made this awesome progress, I figure I might as well let myself write about why that project is important to me and why, four years after I originally created her, Scarlett Evans is still the coolest character I've ever written.

Like a lot of the brainpests that have been around for a while, Scarlett originated on an RP site. For a few years, long-post message-board roleplays were the main writing I did (I'm not sure why I walked away from that cold but that is a thing that happened). There are several characters with those origins that I need to use in things eventually, because a lot of them meant things to me, but Scarlett... well. Scarlett was created midway through my senior year of highschool on a site based loosely off of a concept album by a band I wasn't even sure I liked at the time. But it was still a post-apoc site, and I had a ridiculous weakness for those, and then I looked at the canon list (in normal-speak, ideas of characters who had connections to other characters) and saw a face I already wanted to use and I was absolutely done for. (My recurrent Florence Welch situation is a subject for another day -- trust me, that's a post in and of itself.) And not only did the character have a good face, but her setup was awesome and thus one of the best things that ever happened to me was born.

Initially, Scarlett was an ideal version of myself. I'd created characters who were vaguely based off myself before - one in particular, a sixteen-year-old terror child, still stands out - but Scarlett was more who I wanted to be. Scarlett was twenty-seven, the leader of one of the main groups, a certified badass, and prone to wearing pretty dresses and stilettos while still being totally awesome. Scarlett was also deeply insecure, in love with someone who refused to see her, and just a little too impulsive for her own good. But thing was, even with the established flaws, people loved her. Even with the fact that she was prone to doing things that weren't exactly Good Ideas, Scarlett was the most beloved character on the site (at least in 'verse, the OOC antics on that site were legendary and again there's too much material there for this post). And that gave me strength. Most of Scarlett's most amazing moments in that world - and I have them saved on my laptop somewhere because they were that good - were written during my depressive spiral. Even when I was an absolute wreck, I had that outlet. More than any other character I ever wrote during my RP era, Scarlett was cathartic. She was everything I aspired to be, and yet most of that was attainable, and I clung hard.

By the end of the first year, Scarlett had claimed her own little corner of my brain. This was mainly because of her fashion sense - especially in her earlier incarnations, she liked glitter a lot. To this day, when I need to buy a dress for an event, one of the first thoughts that runs through my mind is "what would Scarlett wear for this thing?". I normally proceed to buy the exact opposite, because see above comment about glitter, but it's still a fun mental process. And by the time she died on the site, I was pretty sure she was the most important thing I was ever going to create.

This was before the concept of parallel girls had occurred to me, before I really had anything to cling to. I read a lot of books, but none of the girls in them were like me. I was, for starters, a hell of a lot tinier (lead girls in YA futuristics are always petite for some reason and it annoys me). I was pretty sure I'd never get one person to fall in love with me, let alone two at roughly the same time! And maybe most importantly, I didn't want to stay alive solely on my own venom. This was where Scarlett saved me. Scarlett, 5'8" (yes, the same height as me, shuddup) and comfortable wearing heels and honestly screw anyone who had a problem with that because she had better things to worry about. Scarlett, who spent the better part of a decade pining after the same person and eventually got him because turned out the problem was he was a little overwhelmed by her. Scarlett, who was so full of love for everyone - maybe to varying extents, but still so much more love than hate. I couldn't find an existent role model I wanted, so I created my own.

The funny thing is that almost exactly four years after her original creation, even though she's finally decided to behave herself in a totally different original project, Scarlett hasn't changed much. She's calmed down a little bit over the years, but that's about it. She's still vibrant, vocal, full of love, and prone to wearing too many sequins. Personality-wise, she's still everything I want to be, and I don't think that's going to change anytime soon. I'm not as cool as her, and I probably never will be, but that's okay. I've seen a lot of people who write say something to the effect of "if this story impacts one person, it'll all be worth it". Well, mission accomplished.

Song of the day - "Summertime", My Chemical Romance.

On Bad Timing

Or, "I hate Valentine's Day for REASONS".

I was on promo setup at work this past week. For those of you who have never worked retail (or perhaps know this nightmare by a different name), promo setup is a seasonal ritual that involves a lot of charts and a lot of product that isn't on any of the charts. It also involves the entire department being passive-aggressive, someone inevitably bribing us with food, and (at least the now-three times I've been on it) my fear of heights being a huge problem (I do not trust the little stepladders at work one bit). On the bright side, this time I did not get myself sent home early because I nearly passed out. (That was how I got out of the Halloween exercise this past year. I could not stand upright and consuming a decent quantity of sugar did not help and eventually I need to figure out why that keeps happening to me but the key word there is eventually.) Not so bright side, I've been in some variation of flashback mode for the last forty-eight hours and... needless to say, that sucks.

Again, this is another post about the Vulcan (who now officially gets a tag here because apparently this is something I am still majorly processing). I know, I know. I have emotionally moved on and I need to write about stuff that isn't my disastrous attempt at first love, and yet... it still affects a lot. It still explains a lot. And until I have the chance to rewire myself and make better memories involving my misguided affectionate heart, I'm going to keep writing about that dingbat and the effect he had on me.

So... timing-wise, this part of that story starts in November 2011, the month in which I made one of my top five worst decisions ever (random fact - I don't actually have a list for that other than knowing that this incident is on it) and let him back in. I actually had no control over how that happened. We ran into each other at a thing, we got put in the same spaces during that thing, we ended up talking in a hallway for over an hour, and... at some point, one of my mother's friends saw this and her little heart just melted. I know this because approximately a week later, my mother "confronted" me about it. This, if you're keeping score, is probably one of the top five weirdest things she has ever done. Apparently she was all melty over it too because she knew darn well who that boy was and how good a person he was compared to me (this turned out to be untrue but we didn't know it then) and it was so sweet that he was voluntarily talking to me!! The fact that we'd been friends in some form for a year and this was the first she was hearing of it did not matter one bit. This was my mother in flail mode, and boy was that a fun month or so for me.

Point being, I fell for him again. I fell for him because I am perpetually attention-desperate and I wanted to prove to him that I could absolutely be what I needed. And again, for a few sweet months, we were functional. Then February 2012 happened and it all went right to hell again.

I'd actually figured it out a week before I actually found out. In general, if someone posts song lyrics on Facebook, they are implying something that they themselves are sucking at finding the right words for. At some point during the first week of February, the Vulcan posted lines from "Collide" by Howie Day. If you've never heard that song, click here because despite what follows, I still think it's a beautiful song. It's just... very, very sappy. It is not a song that a single person posts lyrics from, ever. So, from that little cue alone, I figured out that the Vulcan had a girlfriend or something. This did not rest well on my vulnerable eighteen-year-old heart. I was still convinced I was in love with him, and people I was in love with were not supposed to do things like this!! But that, it turned out, was not even the worst of what happened.

Fast-forward to February 13. I remember the date very clearly, which is never a good thing considering how codawful my memory tends to be with most things. February fricking 13th. It was a Monday, too, because adding insult to injury and all that jazz. Completely normal day until I sat down with my laptop and the Vulcan and I started having one of our convos. At this point, that happened maybe once or twice a week and it would mostly be about things that happened to us. Well, this was definitely a Thing That Happened. Being the hopeless-romantic idiot that I was, I had somehow convinced myself thtat the day before fricking Valentine's Day was the perfect time to tell him that I still fancied him. And then the bomb dropped.

He. Had. A. Girlfriend.

I would learn later that the girl in question was a petite blonde pixie who may or may not have been slightly emotionally manipulative. This reveal, however, would not happen until after she broke up with him after two months. (Also turns out that getting ditched in favor of emotionally manipulative blonde pixies is something that always ends up happening to me. As of writing this, the Vulcan is the first of four people who's done that to me, and out of those, I am only on speaking terms with one.) And at the time, it didn't matter who she was. I had been two seconds from reminding him that I loved him, but that apparently meant nothing now because he was with someone else.

In hindsight, even with all the other awfulness I've survived, no betrayal has ever stung quite as much as that one.

We could've been good for each other. That was what I told myself so many times in the months that followed. And with who we were when we were eighteen, that was still an accurate statement. I do realize now that it wouldn't have lasted as a long-term thing. We were too similar in some ways and too different in others and it just wouldn't have worked. But as a short fluttery disaster of a relationship, we could've meant something. We could've saved each other. But he chose someone else, and I shut off further, and none of that mattered.

So when people ask me why I don't like Valentine's Day, it's not just because I'm 21 and single and basically everyone else I know is in love. It's because like it or not, for the rest of my life, that "holiday" will always be associated with something painful. And like it or not, I'm still not totally over it.

Song of the day - "Antebellum", Vienna Teng.

On Not Wanting To Die Anymore

Or, "I'm definitely at the tail end of this depression thing and it's so weird to think of who I'm gonna be when it actually ends".

I wrote suicide fic today for the first time in roughly a year. Well, technically not fic - it was going to be, because a throwaway line in something I read a few days ago got my brain spinning, but then I decided it was too much angst to inflict on that side of that fandom and turned it into an original thing instead. It's actually more painful in that form, which is not something I thought would be possible but here we are. I mean, I dunno if it'll have that effect on anyone who ultimately reads the piece, but it hurt me to write it. And that, in turn, has me realizing a few things I wasn't expecting about my own journey and what's next for me.

I was diagnosed with depression at age eighteen. I probably should've been diagnosed when I was quite a few years younger - high school was not a good era for me, and in hindsight I probably developed everything by about age fifteen - but that didn't happen because of my mother. I know I make her look like a terrible person on here, and I swear she isn't, but I've been more affected by her "eccentricities" than my siblings have been. The one in play here was her deep desire to be considered acceptable by the people we know. (She's since begun to get over that, but as of when all my issues started manifesting, I was pretty sure she never would.) Keep in mind that I originated in super-religious homeschool-bubble hell. With the people I know in particular, mental illness is not something that's talked about. Ever. It's one of those "if we don't talk about it then it can't happen to any of our kids" things, on about the same level as the sexual orientation umbrella and underage pregnancy. (The umbrella is a story for another day, but as far as I know, no one who grew up in that community has gotten pregnant out of wedlock. Yet.) Honestly, I was a victim of circumstances here. I didn't know what I was feeling beyond that it sucked, and yet I knew better than to tell anyone. Weird dichotomy, but at the same time totally normal at that point.

The reason I finally did get diagnosed was the fallout of my first heartbreak. I've already written about the Vulcan, so I'm not going to do a detailed recap here, but sufficient to say, I did not know how to handle being turned down and did the bad-human thing and intentionally fed those feelings and... cut to two months after the heartbreak, me curled up in the fetal position in a bathroom during a church event of some sort, trying to figure out if there was any possible way to hurt myself and make it all stop. Even my mother couldn't ignore something on that scale. We both knew I could keep quiet (as I did for a while until I got sick of social taboos // my nonexistent verbal filter got the better of me once more). We both knew what it'd do to her reputation if I did successfully off myself. Getting help was finally the right answer.

I was in counseling for a while. My former speech coach knew someone (weird how that connection worked out, less weird considering the bridge woman probably called my issues two or three years earlier) and that was an interesting year or so of self-discovery. Didn't fix anything, but we did learn quite a bit about my fears and exactly how dysfunctional certain elements of my life were so that was fun.

More effectively, I got put on meds. I was medicated for a little under three years, and I will never fault anyone who needs that to stay alive and functional. It worked for me. It also gave me really bad headaches and upped my sex drive, which is apparently such a rare side effect that it isn't on the lists (apparently most people on antidepressants have zero physical desire; I was a hormonal nightmare and boy was that a fun convo to have with my doctor). And then there were the crying episodes. The crying episodes are why I stopped taking meds, because I had them while I was on three different things and it just got worse and I couldn't deal with it. Better to fight my demons on my own without any chemical help than to go through that again.

During this cycle, I read a lot about what I was dealing with. I made sure I was labeled with the right things. I know way more than I actually need to know about how depression works and how people get through it (or don't). I know that more likely than not, I will have several more dark periods at different points in my life, and I know how to handle them when they happen. I know how to take care of myself. But the thing about something as big as the desperate desire to just make everything stop is that after a while, it defines you. I didn't mean for that to happen, but eventually I got to the point where when I chose to tell someone why I acted the way I did, they weren't surprised. About a year ago, when I interviewed for my current job, I mentioned my mental health issues just to warn them that there would be days when I wouldn't be as consistent as usual because I was too busy trying to stay alive. It became my primary identifier - Depressed Girl. I didn't even mind.

Lately, though, things have been better. Screw it, things are a lot better. I don't want to die anymore, and I'm not sure how or why that clicked. It's not like I have anything going for me at the moment. I am completely ordinary. I have no friends in the face-to-face world (internet friends are amazing but sadly unhelpful here). I have no romantic prospects. I'm drowning in loneliness and disappointment. And yet, somewhere out there is something worth living for. I dunno what that something is yet. I know in my heart that there's someone out there who's going to love me even when I lapse again (and I'm not expecting much more than a warm body next to mine, I do not have high standards, that'd be enough I swear), but waiting sucks and knowing my luck, it's gonna be a few years. (I mean, obviously I would love to meet my Person ASAP, but with things as they are, the odds of anyone acceptable wandering into my life anytime soon are tiny.) I know I'm gonna have kids someday and I'm gonna be an excellent mother. But... I dunno, that isn't what's bringing me out of this. I'm not sure what is, but it's nice. Just needs to hurry up and define itself.

I don't want to die anymore. Six very powerful words. I'm moving forward, and I dunno what that means but it's going to be beautiful. I just need to... y'know, figure out who I am without the depressive cloud over me. Because honestly, I don't know. I don't know who I am anymore. The thing about developing something like this when you're a young kid is that when it finally stops, you don't exactly have anything to run back to. There's not that linear perfect restart point. There's nothing, and... it freaks me out. A lot. Because I have to start over, and I don't know who I want to become or how to do that, and I hate uncertainty more than anything. I wish there was a guide for doing this, getting your life back and becoming a person again, but... there isn't. I'm not that lucky. Guess I just have to wing it.

Song of the day - "The Whisperer", Sia // David Guetta.