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.
Saturday, January 24, 2015
Saturday, January 17, 2015
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??
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??
Saturday, January 10, 2015
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.
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.
Monday, January 5, 2015
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)