Or, "it's the middle of December and hormones are kicking my tail and is it REALLY too much to just want someone to kiss me??".
The older I get, the more I realize that being single sucks. This might not actually be age so much as the fact that I live with a sixteen-year-old who has the body of a supermodel and knows it and is on Victim #4, but still. Even without the walking reminder of what I'm not, the fact still remains that this is the bad time of year for women like me. From now until Valentine's Day - two full months of suck - we hopelessly single twentysomethings are in hell, and this year it stings more than ever.
I guess it's one thing if you're consciously choosing not to date anyone - I have a friend who's in that category, and given her tendency to date idiots, I'm fine with her staying there for a while. And it's another thing if you're on the asexual spectrum - again, I have friends there, and this is the time of year when I get jealous of them because at least they have reasons for their status. I... don't. I am reasonably attractive and I have a decent personality and comparatively low standards. And yet... nothing.
I guess part of the problem is that I have no real ways of meeting people. Online dating did not work out for me (I am one of those rare mostly-straight girls who's immune to even the weird people, let alone anyone decent). What few friends I have do not have cute older brothers or extended family members for me to pounce on. Considering that I'm currently drifting, church isn't a concrete option, and part of the reason I left the Vortex is because there was no chance I would ever meet someone there who might even see me with kindness, let alone romantic love. What few hobbies I have do not require human interaction. I really don't leave my house except for work (no chance in hell) and little errands (to places almost exclusively frequented and worked by middle-aged women). At this point, if a decent-looking functional unattached twentysomething guy turns up in my life, I'm almost sure they will be my Person because it'd be that much of a shock if it happened!!
This gets even more sucky if you consider that I thought I'd be married by now. I really did, and if I remember correctly, so did a lot of other people. I was very against the idea in high school (mostly because little baby me hated everything), and openly stating that I was never going to get married was a nice way to tick off various Bubble types. Their most common response? Just. Wait. As far as everyone was concerned, I would be the first girl of my era to get married simply because of how unlikely it was. And, on some level, I believed them. If I were to get married at 19, it would be the perfect way to stick it to so many people.
Obviously, that did not happen.
Three girls of my era got married within the last year. One of the two who remain single is drowning alive in grad school, and the other is too busy with work and her own quiet rebellion to even think about getting fluttery for someone. I... do not have such an excuse for my status.
I could be good for someone. I'm affectionate. Guys like that, right? I haven't Done Things - my idealistic goal of at least getting kissed by the time I turned 21 has obviously not happened - but I want to. I can be domestic -- I want to be, dunno if I'd be any good at it but I learn things quickly. I'm pretty enough (not compared to some people, but I've accepted my body as it is and there's more good than bad there). And, most importantly, I'm realistic.
I'm not asking for a fairytale. That sort of thing doesn't happen to women like me, and I've accepted it. I just want someone who sees me as I am, flaws and beauty entwined, and still wants to be with me. I don't want to be idealized. I just want to be held, told I matter, and kissed a lot. And if a life develops out of that... great. But I'm not asking for much here. I know being with someone won't fix me. I don't think I need to be fixed. I just need to be loved and wanted. And oh, yeah, physical stuff would be really nice too. I'm a hormonal disaster and, because my physical and emotional wirings are so interconnected, DIY'ing it doesn't solve a damn thing.
Please, future Person, come find me. I am a risk worth taking.
Song of the day - "This Love", Taylor Swift (yes, still, I have clearly not cried enough over this song today).
Saturday, December 13, 2014
On What I Did In 2014
Or, "someday I will look back and this will be one of the good years".
I know it's a little early to be doing a year-end reflection post. 2014 doesn't technically end for another two and a half weeks, and it's entirely plausible that something could happen in that time that will change everything. Key word there, though, is "plausible". I've been through enough this year, and if by some chance I have to retcon half of this... so be it. That doesn't change that this year has been important for me. I've done a lot of things, I've made trackable progress, and I can solidly say that I am a much better person now than I was this time a year ago. 2014 was the year I started doing things for me and finding symbolism in little things, and it is important. So, without further adieu, here's what I did this year:
• I got my second-ever "proper" job and, almost a year later, I still like working there. Not that it's an ideal situation, but it's something that fits what I need and that I can make work for me. If I need to go hide in the bathroom for a little while because I'm episoding or because I feel physically sick, I can do that and no one gives a damn (I'm pretty sure no one even notices but I could be wrong). I'm around enough people for my depression to feed off, but genuine instances of human stupidity are comparatively rare. I'm pretty sure I'm going to stick around there for a while.
• I shaved my head on New Year's Eve because I make bad life choices when it's late at night and I'm bored (another example: roughly half of the fanfic I've written this year) and it was one of the most freeing things I've ever done. I put my hair into a good ponytail today for the first time since then, which I guess confirms that my hair grows fast. I got rid of it as a symbol of this being my rebirth year, and I'm growing it long now because I can. I want to be able to do pretty braids and updos, and I'm absolutely going to as soon as I have the material for 'em.
• I learned to shamelessly like things without overthinking them. I don't always need to have big reasons for my preferred media choices, especially music. I can like things just because they're fun or because they're good writing inspo. I can sing along to the trashier side of Lana Del Rey's repertoire and not feel bad about myself. It's pretty awesome.
• I made friends with a lot of awesome people online and started cutting ties with a lot of awful people in the face-to-face world. It's a slow process and one that's definitely continuing into 2015, but I'm finally drawing my lines and not allowing space in my life for toxic people, no matter how good their intentions may be. I don't need to be around people who make me feel worthless or deficient because of things that are beyond my control. I'm a better person than that, and I'm starting to act like it.
• I fluttered for someone and, once again, got my little heart broken. But this time, it's all too easy to see why it was a bad idea. We could've been good friends, were for a little while, but the other person let their stubbornness win and that's their problem, not mine. They're still unfairly pretty (and highly unlikely to read this so I regret nothing), but thank you, darling, for confirming why I don't trust pretty people. They'll only ever hurt me, and this one was no exception. Bright side, I handled this heartbreak really well and didn't have any major episodes because of it. I don't think I even really cried over them. I'm getting better at reconciling my hopeless-romantic inclinations with what actually happens to me.
• I quit taking antidepressants and decided I like myself a lot better when I'm not on them. I was medicated for nearly three years and that was good for me, but I get less headaches now and I'm more passionate. I fully approve of anyone who does choose to be on meds, but at this point in my life, that's not what I need. I have enough coping mechs right now. Not sure how long it'll last, but I'm trying.
• I watched a lot of TV, prolly too much in hindsight, but three shows impacted me in important ways. One helped me make sense of my relationship with my mother, one shaped my sense of what community ought to be, and one inspired me to start letting go of my past and become something better. The effects of the last one in particular are also likely to be a theme in 2015, and I'm probably going to write another post on the parallel-girl thing there in about a week (once my brain processes the midseason finale).
• As mentioned above, I developed the concept of parallel girls - fictional ladies I identify with way more than I should. The two I currently have each came from one of the shows mentioned above, and it's been a pretty awesome coping mech. If my parallel girls could get through their challenges - and both of 'em had those in spades - then I can get through mine.
• I went to six weddings and had crying breakdowns at five of them. Weddings just screw with my emotional state, and I imagine it'll be a lot worse in the future when people I actually care about start getting married. As it was... I can't help being jealous, especially of the two girls who got married this year who are younger than me, but I did behave myself. I looked cute at all of them, although the only people who noticed were middle-aged women (seriously, whomever said weddings are great for single people can burn in hell because that does not work). I didn't pick fights with anyone (came really close at one but I do not take any responsibility for that person's issues). I was fine.
• I got one story published this year, which I know isn't great but hey, it's my second earned credit and I need those. Funny thing is how that one originated... out of all the stuff I've written, it figures that the piece that originated with a friend and I having a convo about what we thought really happened after a particular TV show ended is the one that found a home this year. The world is weird like that.
• I listened to a lot of music -- like, that's almost an understatement, 2014 was a good year for stuff I like. If I had to pick one song to define this year, Brooke Fraser's "Je Suis Pret" would be it. Deciding that I adore her music despite how I first heard of her was a good life choice. Other contenders are Sia's "Chandelier" (I love that Sia is a Major Thing now 'cause I've been listening to her for years and she's fascinating and 1000 Forms Of Fear is fascinating and you should go listen to it if you haven't) and Mary Lambert's "Heart On My Sleeve" (Mary Lambert is a gift to humanity and I am jealous of how darn cute she is). And not to mention a bunch of stuff that doesn't necessarily fit where I am but is still really, really good.
• I did a lot of self-eval, mainly on why certain fictional things appeal to me, and learned a lot about myself and how my brain works and how I handle things. I function in patterns, and that's not a bad thing.
• I embraced my vulnerabilities and my flaws and began learning how to function around them. I cry too much, I have no verbal filter (and even less of one when my fingers are on the keyboard), I'm a hopeless romantic and an idealist at times despite my natural pessimism, I have nonexistent tolerance for human stupidity, and none of that is inherently bad. The problem is whether or not I put up enough effort to use those things to my benefit, and that's one of the things I need to work on in 2015.
• I started reclaiming my voice. Compared to the other girls of my era, my musical abilities suck, and for a long time I let that stop me. Not anymore. I've been writing songs and finding a lot of strength in that, in my quiet defiance. I can't sing irritating church music, because it's written for women with borderline-canine vocal ranges, but I can do my stuff. I can do things that mean something to me. Now, what I'm gonna do with that remains to be seen, but... I'll figure something out.
Overall, there was more good than bad this year. I made progress. I am brave and I am becoming a better person and here's to 2015 being more of the same. (In a few days, I'll try to do a goals post, but... we'll see. Fingers crossed I don't eff that up?)
Song of the day - "This Love", Taylor Swift.
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
On First Love
Or, "if I'm gonna set everything on fire, I might as well reveal the series of events that first pushed me in that direction".
December is one of those months for me. Y'know, that sacred time of year when absolutely nothing goes right no matter what I do, when all hell breaks loose on a regular basis and I have no control over any of it. This pattern was first established during the two years in which the holiday season was clouded by death (thankfully my birthmum's funeral wasn't until January and all of that was handled very well; my aunt, a year later... not so much). But the event that sealed December as my yearly month of horrors happened when I was seventeen. I fell in love for the first time, and four years later, I'm still not totally over it. Every year around this time, I forget that the person I generally refer to as the Vulcan isn't just a prick, he's a whole darn cactus of issues. Even though I still consciously know that. Well, hopefully writing out that story - properly, in a place and form that people who were on the fringes and can guess who he was will be able to see - will prevent that from happening this year. Fingers crossed.
I'd actually met him a year earlier than that, under interesting circumstances. I did speech and debate competitions in high school - no, scratch that, I did speech comp exclusively except for one practice tournament my junior year when my friend's brother had a scheduling conflict and she needed a debate partner and I am easily talked into things. Enter the Vulcan (it would be years before he got this codename, but let's use it from the beginning here for consistency). Our first round was against him and one of the little mouse-boys that were half of our region. Mouse-boy didn't matter, didn't do much, I can't even remember who he was anymore. The Vulcan, on the other hand... sixteen-year-old me took one look at him and decided he was going to die. I didn't even know his name at that point and I wanted to end him. The closest I got was nearly hitting him several hours later, completely by accident because badly designed hallways and I talk with my hands and he just happened to be walking by. (He thought it was intentional and spent the entire weekend wondering what he'd done to annoy me. Answer - he existed. That was enough.)
A year passed. If anything, I became a worse person over said year. But then, first tournament of senior year, I saw him again and I woke up. He was nice to me, which in hindsight was exactly how this became a problem. In general, guys were not nice to me at that point in my life - most of 'em were either terrified or just flat ignored me. This one, for some reason that I still do not understand four years later, did neither of those things. He offered advice on how to do a content warning on one of my pieces (I completely ignored this and continued to perform said piece without telling anyone in advance that it ended with me miming self-harm), he looked at me like I existed and was valid, and... I was utterly done for by the time I added him on FB two days later.
At this point, I would not have described myself as a romantic. Oh, fictional love stories were the best thing ever and I'd already done quite a bit of fluffy fanfic, but real life was a different beastie. I was pretty sure I'd never seen a functional relationship. I was even more sure that marriage and children were the exact opposite of what I wanted. (Quiet rebellion against the Bubble, in hindsight, but also where I was as a person.) I had not consciously crushed on anyone before, and my one attempt at flirting with someone had ended in me learning exactly how far and fast I could run in heels because I'd lost all ability to speak. I was not fated to fall in love. But then I did, and it remains the singular most questionable decision of my little life.
My knowledge of how attraction worked verged on the nonexistent. My mother, who I would later learn had a range of experiences to back up this belief, gave me the "girls and boys can never be just friends" and "boys will only ever take advantage of you" speeches and that was about it. I'd watched the scenario play out a year previously, when one of my least favorite people in the world had a relationship with another friend's brother, ended it suddenly and dramatically, and caused the poor darling to have what we are all still pretty sure was a minor emotional breakdown. So, being the misinformed innocent that I was, I believed that the reason the Vulcan was playing nice with me was because he wanted me. Which was admittedly confusing because he had status within our mutual circle and I didn't, but hey, sexual attraction is weird right?? It was a totally plausible explanation, and one that impacted the development of that friendship.
I fell for him. To this day, I don't know why other than that he saw me, not the little rebel girl or someone who needed to be fixed but the valid-albeit-lost young woman I was blossoming into. I don't understand that either. He had no reason to be nice to me, but he was. How was I not supposed to develop my very first fluffy feelings?
I waited and waited for months for him to say something. He had to be into me, right? There was no other reason someone would put up with all of the crazy I flung at him, and oh was there ever a lot of that -- I have a tendency to reveal way too much (this whole blog is an example of that) and I made sure that boy knew exactly what he was getting into. It didn't affect him. I would later learn this was because he has the emotional comprehension abilities of a gerbil, but at the time I thought it was cute. But on the other hand, he didn't say anything. We were both technically old enough for feelings to blossom. He lived roughly half an hour from me. So... what was the problem?
Answer - he didn't see me that way. He never had. I found that out when I finally told him where my heart was almost a year into this mess. He shot me down in the most emotionless logical fashion possible (which is where his nickname originates, if anyone hasn't figured it out). I, in turn, went into a depressive spiral, listened to too much Adele, went even deeper into the spiral, and eventually hit a point of self-destruction that even my mother couldn't ignore. I was eighteen. No one had ever taught me how to deal with this, because good Bubble girls were only ever supposed to love once. This wasn't supposed to happen. He'd been my Person, I'd been so sure of it, but... nope, I never even had a chance.
There's more to the story, of course. There were a lot of little moments that year - my second accidental near-death experience, for one - and a few things that happened after. I tried to be friends with him again, still fluttered for him, but again I was shot down - that time the day before Valentine's Day (see what I said about emotional comprehension abilities of a gerbil?) - because he had a girlfriend. (Apparently she broke his heart two months later. By that point, I couldn't have cared less.) I realised that I could, in fact, do a lot better than the golden boy who prolly just put up with me because I was everything the girls of our world were not supposed to be. And once that realisation hit, I became softer, less ambitious, less terrifying. Less like the person he thought I was and more like the person I wanted to be. For the most part, I've moved on.
But I still wonder. What if things had been different? What if he'd known the chance he had and taken it? Where might we be if my feelings had been reciprocated? I'll never know. It's been years since I've felt anything other than frustration (and not the fun kind either) towards him. We talk about every six months, which is to say that he remembers I exists and messages me and asks what I'm doing and I pretend I care. It normally happens right after I've gotten home from a wedding, though he has no way of knowing that. I passive-aggressively messaged him several bitey Taylor Swift songs about this time two years ago; he didn't react. That chapter's over. But there's still a little corner of my heart consumed by the first time I wanted someone, and sometimes that want rears its ugly head.
So, this is me saying that I am not the girl you thought I was. I am not ambitious and terrifying; I have no plans to change the world, and I'm starting to get bored with the thought of just burning it all down. I can still run in scary heels, but otherwise I am so different from who I was four years ago. I'm not happy yet, but I'm a damn lot closer than I was then. I do things for me now. I am working towards a quiet life, and someday, hopefully any day now, I will meet someone who will love me like you never could. Someday, I will look back and it won't hurt to think of you. Someday, I will be whole.
(Oh, and you mentally ruined a whole flock of fictional characters and three very good albums for me, and I'm not over it. That, I am not moving on from.)
But thank you, you hopeless idiot, for starting me on this journey. If you hadn't been such a prick, I wouldn't know that the things inside my head are bad and need to be dealt with. If you hadn't broken me without even knowing, I would still think that boys like you are the best I can do. They're not. I can do so much better and someday I will. Just watch me.
Song of the day - "Wildest Dreams", Taylor Swift.
December is one of those months for me. Y'know, that sacred time of year when absolutely nothing goes right no matter what I do, when all hell breaks loose on a regular basis and I have no control over any of it. This pattern was first established during the two years in which the holiday season was clouded by death (thankfully my birthmum's funeral wasn't until January and all of that was handled very well; my aunt, a year later... not so much). But the event that sealed December as my yearly month of horrors happened when I was seventeen. I fell in love for the first time, and four years later, I'm still not totally over it. Every year around this time, I forget that the person I generally refer to as the Vulcan isn't just a prick, he's a whole darn cactus of issues. Even though I still consciously know that. Well, hopefully writing out that story - properly, in a place and form that people who were on the fringes and can guess who he was will be able to see - will prevent that from happening this year. Fingers crossed.
I'd actually met him a year earlier than that, under interesting circumstances. I did speech and debate competitions in high school - no, scratch that, I did speech comp exclusively except for one practice tournament my junior year when my friend's brother had a scheduling conflict and she needed a debate partner and I am easily talked into things. Enter the Vulcan (it would be years before he got this codename, but let's use it from the beginning here for consistency). Our first round was against him and one of the little mouse-boys that were half of our region. Mouse-boy didn't matter, didn't do much, I can't even remember who he was anymore. The Vulcan, on the other hand... sixteen-year-old me took one look at him and decided he was going to die. I didn't even know his name at that point and I wanted to end him. The closest I got was nearly hitting him several hours later, completely by accident because badly designed hallways and I talk with my hands and he just happened to be walking by. (He thought it was intentional and spent the entire weekend wondering what he'd done to annoy me. Answer - he existed. That was enough.)
A year passed. If anything, I became a worse person over said year. But then, first tournament of senior year, I saw him again and I woke up. He was nice to me, which in hindsight was exactly how this became a problem. In general, guys were not nice to me at that point in my life - most of 'em were either terrified or just flat ignored me. This one, for some reason that I still do not understand four years later, did neither of those things. He offered advice on how to do a content warning on one of my pieces (I completely ignored this and continued to perform said piece without telling anyone in advance that it ended with me miming self-harm), he looked at me like I existed and was valid, and... I was utterly done for by the time I added him on FB two days later.
At this point, I would not have described myself as a romantic. Oh, fictional love stories were the best thing ever and I'd already done quite a bit of fluffy fanfic, but real life was a different beastie. I was pretty sure I'd never seen a functional relationship. I was even more sure that marriage and children were the exact opposite of what I wanted. (Quiet rebellion against the Bubble, in hindsight, but also where I was as a person.) I had not consciously crushed on anyone before, and my one attempt at flirting with someone had ended in me learning exactly how far and fast I could run in heels because I'd lost all ability to speak. I was not fated to fall in love. But then I did, and it remains the singular most questionable decision of my little life.
My knowledge of how attraction worked verged on the nonexistent. My mother, who I would later learn had a range of experiences to back up this belief, gave me the "girls and boys can never be just friends" and "boys will only ever take advantage of you" speeches and that was about it. I'd watched the scenario play out a year previously, when one of my least favorite people in the world had a relationship with another friend's brother, ended it suddenly and dramatically, and caused the poor darling to have what we are all still pretty sure was a minor emotional breakdown. So, being the misinformed innocent that I was, I believed that the reason the Vulcan was playing nice with me was because he wanted me. Which was admittedly confusing because he had status within our mutual circle and I didn't, but hey, sexual attraction is weird right?? It was a totally plausible explanation, and one that impacted the development of that friendship.
I fell for him. To this day, I don't know why other than that he saw me, not the little rebel girl or someone who needed to be fixed but the valid-albeit-lost young woman I was blossoming into. I don't understand that either. He had no reason to be nice to me, but he was. How was I not supposed to develop my very first fluffy feelings?
I waited and waited for months for him to say something. He had to be into me, right? There was no other reason someone would put up with all of the crazy I flung at him, and oh was there ever a lot of that -- I have a tendency to reveal way too much (this whole blog is an example of that) and I made sure that boy knew exactly what he was getting into. It didn't affect him. I would later learn this was because he has the emotional comprehension abilities of a gerbil, but at the time I thought it was cute. But on the other hand, he didn't say anything. We were both technically old enough for feelings to blossom. He lived roughly half an hour from me. So... what was the problem?
Answer - he didn't see me that way. He never had. I found that out when I finally told him where my heart was almost a year into this mess. He shot me down in the most emotionless logical fashion possible (which is where his nickname originates, if anyone hasn't figured it out). I, in turn, went into a depressive spiral, listened to too much Adele, went even deeper into the spiral, and eventually hit a point of self-destruction that even my mother couldn't ignore. I was eighteen. No one had ever taught me how to deal with this, because good Bubble girls were only ever supposed to love once. This wasn't supposed to happen. He'd been my Person, I'd been so sure of it, but... nope, I never even had a chance.
There's more to the story, of course. There were a lot of little moments that year - my second accidental near-death experience, for one - and a few things that happened after. I tried to be friends with him again, still fluttered for him, but again I was shot down - that time the day before Valentine's Day (see what I said about emotional comprehension abilities of a gerbil?) - because he had a girlfriend. (Apparently she broke his heart two months later. By that point, I couldn't have cared less.) I realised that I could, in fact, do a lot better than the golden boy who prolly just put up with me because I was everything the girls of our world were not supposed to be. And once that realisation hit, I became softer, less ambitious, less terrifying. Less like the person he thought I was and more like the person I wanted to be. For the most part, I've moved on.
But I still wonder. What if things had been different? What if he'd known the chance he had and taken it? Where might we be if my feelings had been reciprocated? I'll never know. It's been years since I've felt anything other than frustration (and not the fun kind either) towards him. We talk about every six months, which is to say that he remembers I exists and messages me and asks what I'm doing and I pretend I care. It normally happens right after I've gotten home from a wedding, though he has no way of knowing that. I passive-aggressively messaged him several bitey Taylor Swift songs about this time two years ago; he didn't react. That chapter's over. But there's still a little corner of my heart consumed by the first time I wanted someone, and sometimes that want rears its ugly head.
So, this is me saying that I am not the girl you thought I was. I am not ambitious and terrifying; I have no plans to change the world, and I'm starting to get bored with the thought of just burning it all down. I can still run in scary heels, but otherwise I am so different from who I was four years ago. I'm not happy yet, but I'm a damn lot closer than I was then. I do things for me now. I am working towards a quiet life, and someday, hopefully any day now, I will meet someone who will love me like you never could. Someday, I will look back and it won't hurt to think of you. Someday, I will be whole.
(Oh, and you mentally ruined a whole flock of fictional characters and three very good albums for me, and I'm not over it. That, I am not moving on from.)
But thank you, you hopeless idiot, for starting me on this journey. If you hadn't been such a prick, I wouldn't know that the things inside my head are bad and need to be dealt with. If you hadn't broken me without even knowing, I would still think that boys like you are the best I can do. They're not. I can do so much better and someday I will. Just watch me.
Song of the day - "Wildest Dreams", Taylor Swift.
Sunday, November 30, 2014
On Walking Away
Or, "this is me leaving behind everything I know to embrace the better unknown".
None of this is my fault.
It's not my fault that everyone I grew up with has turned out elitist and bubble-minded. It's not my fault that I woke up and they didn't. It's not my fault that none of them ever even tried to reach out to me, because even though I was everything they were, I was never good enough. It's not my fault I'll never be good enough for them.
Who can blame me for wanting to run?
I need to breathe. I need to find people who see me, not the lone single chick, not the dangerous anomaly, me. I need to go somewhere where people actually put their yowling tinies in the childrens' programs and there isn't an unspoken competition of who has the most kids (I wish this wasn't a thing but welcome to the Vortex). I need to go somewhere where I will never hear the phrase "unassisted homebirth", let alone vivid details of that horror. I need to go somewhere where, if someone finds out I'm depressive or fluid, there's a half-decent chance they won't freak out.
I need to meet people who have blood in their veins instead of poison.
I need to spread my wings and become more than a shell of a girl.
I need to go somewhere where the Young Marrieds aren't all PDA couples. I need to go somewhere where the twentysomething population isn't all Young Marrieds. I need to go somewhere where said Young Married ladytypes respect that I'm in a different place than they are and don't openly pity me for it or give extremely questionable advice on how to find my Person.
I need to meet people who don't have superiority complexes the size of frickin' Australia.
I need to meet people who I can openly talk with about what I'm reading and watching without trying to sidestep the darker elements. I need to meet people who have, if not a good understanding of mental illness, at least believe it exists. I need to meet people who, if I choose to let them see my scars, will not view me any differently for them.
This is not mere want anymore. This is what I have to do to survive.
I want to live a long life. Admittedly, that's unlikely because genetic predisposition towards cancer on the side we do know about and God only know what's in the other half of my bloodline (but that's a different post), but I want to. I want to be happy someday. And that's never going to happen if I stay where I was.
About a year ago, when these thoughts began to form, I was determined to bloom where I was planted. I'm realizing now that I can't do that anymore. Bad soil is bad soil no matter how much fertilizer one tries to add to it (I don't garden so forgive me if that's a bad metaphor but it sounds pretty even if it isn't true). If I stay in the Vortex much longer, I will lash out. I will become truly dangerous. I will become things I am not meant to be. So it's time. I'm being the better person here (not like it's much of a challenge). I'm walking away, and this time, this time I'm not looking back.
A bit more than a year ago, I was talking to someone online and they suggested that I really needed to get out of where I was. I told them I didn't have enough things worth running from. Their response: "What if you had something worth running to?". I'm hoping to find that something soon.
It's hard, doing this. The Vortex (which I will explain in vivid detail once this plan works out and I have found something better) is all I know. I don't know what a non-toxic religious environment feels like. There are so many uncertainties in this project, and more than that... I'm cutting off the majority of the people I know by doing it. Because by leaving the Vortex, This Time I Mean It, I'm leaving behind a whole flock of people who know not what they have done, who will never know because if their eyes haven't opened by now... well, I'm pretty sure God doesn't waste miracles on situations like that. And yet this is what I need to do for me.
2015 is going to be my year of dramatic necessary self-care. And I'm starting by cutting out everything I don't need, starting with the place and the group that has caused... maybe not the majority of my issues in general, but at least my terrible self-image and my burning fear that I will never be good enough. I deserve better than that. I've always deserved better. It's time for me to do something about that.
And for all of you reading this who are in that category of people I am leaving behind (and you know who you are) - don't act like you're surprised. I was never going to be the perfect bubble-minded girl you wanted me to be. But I'm real, and being real is so much better. I'm not judging any of you, really. If you want to continue to make your own bad life choices... we're human, we have free will, that's your problem not mine. I'm done trying to make any of you wake up. This is our ending.
Song of the day - "Sanctified", The Veronicas.
None of this is my fault.
It's not my fault that everyone I grew up with has turned out elitist and bubble-minded. It's not my fault that I woke up and they didn't. It's not my fault that none of them ever even tried to reach out to me, because even though I was everything they were, I was never good enough. It's not my fault I'll never be good enough for them.
Who can blame me for wanting to run?
I need to breathe. I need to find people who see me, not the lone single chick, not the dangerous anomaly, me. I need to go somewhere where people actually put their yowling tinies in the childrens' programs and there isn't an unspoken competition of who has the most kids (I wish this wasn't a thing but welcome to the Vortex). I need to go somewhere where I will never hear the phrase "unassisted homebirth", let alone vivid details of that horror. I need to go somewhere where, if someone finds out I'm depressive or fluid, there's a half-decent chance they won't freak out.
I need to meet people who have blood in their veins instead of poison.
I need to spread my wings and become more than a shell of a girl.
I need to go somewhere where the Young Marrieds aren't all PDA couples. I need to go somewhere where the twentysomething population isn't all Young Marrieds. I need to go somewhere where said Young Married ladytypes respect that I'm in a different place than they are and don't openly pity me for it or give extremely questionable advice on how to find my Person.
I need to meet people who don't have superiority complexes the size of frickin' Australia.
I need to meet people who I can openly talk with about what I'm reading and watching without trying to sidestep the darker elements. I need to meet people who have, if not a good understanding of mental illness, at least believe it exists. I need to meet people who, if I choose to let them see my scars, will not view me any differently for them.
This is not mere want anymore. This is what I have to do to survive.
I want to live a long life. Admittedly, that's unlikely because genetic predisposition towards cancer on the side we do know about and God only know what's in the other half of my bloodline (but that's a different post), but I want to. I want to be happy someday. And that's never going to happen if I stay where I was.
About a year ago, when these thoughts began to form, I was determined to bloom where I was planted. I'm realizing now that I can't do that anymore. Bad soil is bad soil no matter how much fertilizer one tries to add to it (I don't garden so forgive me if that's a bad metaphor but it sounds pretty even if it isn't true). If I stay in the Vortex much longer, I will lash out. I will become truly dangerous. I will become things I am not meant to be. So it's time. I'm being the better person here (not like it's much of a challenge). I'm walking away, and this time, this time I'm not looking back.
A bit more than a year ago, I was talking to someone online and they suggested that I really needed to get out of where I was. I told them I didn't have enough things worth running from. Their response: "What if you had something worth running to?". I'm hoping to find that something soon.
It's hard, doing this. The Vortex (which I will explain in vivid detail once this plan works out and I have found something better) is all I know. I don't know what a non-toxic religious environment feels like. There are so many uncertainties in this project, and more than that... I'm cutting off the majority of the people I know by doing it. Because by leaving the Vortex, This Time I Mean It, I'm leaving behind a whole flock of people who know not what they have done, who will never know because if their eyes haven't opened by now... well, I'm pretty sure God doesn't waste miracles on situations like that. And yet this is what I need to do for me.
2015 is going to be my year of dramatic necessary self-care. And I'm starting by cutting out everything I don't need, starting with the place and the group that has caused... maybe not the majority of my issues in general, but at least my terrible self-image and my burning fear that I will never be good enough. I deserve better than that. I've always deserved better. It's time for me to do something about that.
And for all of you reading this who are in that category of people I am leaving behind (and you know who you are) - don't act like you're surprised. I was never going to be the perfect bubble-minded girl you wanted me to be. But I'm real, and being real is so much better. I'm not judging any of you, really. If you want to continue to make your own bad life choices... we're human, we have free will, that's your problem not mine. I'm done trying to make any of you wake up. This is our ending.
Song of the day - "Sanctified", The Veronicas.
Saturday, November 22, 2014
On Creating Futures
Or, "I am building a life that future!me is going to love (and I might've had my weirdest//most brilliant idea ever)".
I like preparing for things. Blame it on whatever undiagnosed variant of social anxiety disorder I have, if you want, or on the fact that as much as I hate damage control, that's a role I seem to spend most of my life playing. Whatever the cause, my life is equal parts preparation and praying I have enough fridge brilliance to get through the stuff I can't brace for. I plan when I'm leaving the house as early as possible (if I know exactly when I'm going to interact with unfamiliar people a week in advance, great), and usually the only "unplanned" outings I do are runs to the post office when I sell something online. I buy the dresses I wear for weddings before I know if I'll even be invited to some of them. And then... well, then there's the stuff I'm doing for future!me.
It started innocently enough. Around a year and a half ago, I wandered across the fabulous horror that is the Beekeeper's Quilt (if you're not inclined to click the link, it's a knitting pattern). Since I make socks for all my engaged and pregnant acquaintances, and since I'm 21 and grew up in homeschooler-land and therefore know a lot of people in one of those two categories at any given time, I generate quite a bit of leftover sock yarn. Making two hexipuffs out of each remnant before I send it off to someone in the Ravelry RAK group I try to participate in just makes sense. But then I got another one of my fabulous ideas. The beekeeper quilt, assuming I ever finish the darn thing (I need to make approximately 400 puffs and at this point I've done maybe 60?), would be a perfect wedding present for my future Person. So... there's now a time component. Not a hugely pertinent one, seeing as I am currently sans anyone I have any romantic interest in and I'd like to spend a decent amount of time getting to know someone before walking down the aisle and (possibly) changing my surname, but an existent one. It's motivation!! I suck at motivation!! What's not to love, right?
Well, then the future planning got weirder a few months ago when I impulse-bought a wedding dress.
Okay, maybe "impulse-bought" is the wrong word. There's this thrift store twenty minutes from my house that I go to on a regular basis - all the proceeds support local women's shelters, the ladies who work there adore me, and you never know what you're gonna find there. Around the beginning of summer, I saw The Dress. Some of the people I know who've gotten married recently say you just know when you find the perfect dress. (The rest have gotten married in their mothers' gowns - heavily altered, of course - which has never been an option for me because my mom is five inches shorter than me and was a size 4 when she got married. I haven't been a size 4 since I was about fourteen, and between the twin gifts of hipbones and C-cup boobs, I will never be that small again.) Obviously, of course, all of those people were looking for a wedding dress. I... wasn't. But there it was anyways, beaded bodice and high neckline and empire waistline and flowing skirt, taunting me. I could tell, just from eyeballing it (the thrift store had the sense to put the nice wedding dresses several feet off the ground), that it just had to be a size 10 (my usual, assuming the piece in question hasn't shrunk into oblivion, which formal gowns generally don't). I fell in love.
For weeks, I shamelessly eyed the thing, until one day I finally had the nerve to ask how much it was. My brain was all "it has to be around $60, yeah?". Wrong. Dress was actually $90, which meant that after tax (thank you Indiana for 7% sales tax when the two other states within sane driving distance are 6%), it was almost a hundred even. I did not care. I needed this dress. I tried it on in the shop, explaining beforehand to the nice old lady that I wasn't even seeing anyone and was more interested in having it as something to keep on hand for when my time comes. She understood pretty well, didn't even give me the "how is a nice girl like you single?" routine like a lot of people would've. It fit perfectly. I had to buy it. Y'know, just in case.
The dress lingered untouched in the closet of our spare bedroom for a few more weeks, until my mother accidentally found it. This was one of the hazards of putting it in that closet, but it had more space to hang properly there, and hell, there isn't space in my closet for something of that scale. I knew she'd find it eventually, and I wasn't quite sure how to explain the situation. Thankfully, I didn't have to. She gave me a small routine about her friend who's altered everyone's wedding dresses this past year (lesson of that afternoon - someone better submit that woman for sainthood because she's eighty-something and way too nice to have gone through some of that stuff), and then she decided to get it dry-cleaned and put in a proper bag for me. For my mother, who used to worry more than made any logical sense about my seeming lack of interest in guys (this thankfully stopped once my sister's type was defined as "breathing"), this was a huge step. And that was it. One huge expense out of the way for my future wedding. And again, I thought that was it as far as longterm planning. And again, it wasn't.
The reason I'm doing this post is because today I found another thing that I am meant to do, another thing that solves some of my problems. I'm going to build a house. More specifically, an Earthship. I advise caution on that website - whomever wrote most of the material is definitely on something - but the concept crossed my Tumblr dash this afternoon and I poked around and... well, before I could poke around too much, I had to wander off to work. Just as well. While at work, trying to figure out how an elephant had managed to demolish half of the pharmacy section (and not the part that usually looks bad either), I had one of my feelings.
For reference, I have had feelings exactly twice before in my life. The first one happened when I was 13, in church of all places. Nowadays when my brain wanders while I'm at the church I'm trying to get out of, it either focuses on questionably appropriate fic ideas or trying to figure out why one of the other women around my age thought a particular outfit or hairdo was a good idea (former-homeschooled ladytypes are fashion disasters by nature, and I say this as someone who is definitely in that category). Well, needless to say, 13-year-old me was a lot more innocent. I don't know what I was thinking about on that spring morning, but all of a sudden I had a very strong feeling that I was supposed to be a writer. Not that I'd really considered other career options before that, but it was definitely an experience of the Divine. (Incidentally, this was before things got crazy at that church, but... that's another post. Or, probably, a series of them, to be written once I get out For Real This Time I Fricking Mean It.)
The second one, I can't remember exactly when it happened thanks to the fact that I have the short-term memory of a fricking gerbil, but I'm pretty sure it was about a year ago (or maybe closer to two - point being, it remains a fairly recent development). I was doing self-eval, as I tend to do when I'm bored and/or fighting back the urge to tell someone I dislike exactly where they can stick it, and the subjects of my depression and my untouched-ness crossed my mind (as per usual - self-eval is either on those subjects or on fandom stuff, and I'm pretty sure I was very between primary fandoms when this happened). And out of the blue, for the first time, I knew there was a light at the end of my battle. And more importantly, I knew something about my future Person. I will find them once the worst of my darkness has past. I don't know anything more than that, of course - I'm pretty sure I have crossed that part of my life, but maybe it's supposed to be once I've learned to control the bad days? - but I know that. When the worst is over, when I am as whole as I will ever be as my own entity, I will find them. (Or, more likely, they will find me... but again, that's another post.)
Anyways... feelings. I had my third real one today, and it's about this possible house project. I want to create something for the family I eventually want to have, and this particular model/method is perfect. It's sustainable (something I'm generally fascinated by), it's cost-effective to build (at least after the plans and land to build it on are acquired), and it seems idiot-proof (always a good plus when it comes to DIY things). And I know in my core that this is something I'm supposed to do. There's just the small problem of... well, money. I want to do this on my own (obviously) and in cash (because srsly, trying to get a loan would be against the spirit of the beast and borderline-impossible for someone whose "proper" employment is averaging 20 hours a week at 15¢ above minimum wage aaaaand doesn't have a credit history). I have no idea how that's gonna happen, but it will. I'm determined. I've done enough poking around to be sure of the plausibilities. If I can figure out the financial side, this is happening. It's just weird enough to work, and that's how all of my best ideas start out.
And hey, if I get lucky and find my Person before I'm done with these things I want to have ready for them... they can help. They're in for a lifetime of chasing after my fridge-brilliance WTFery; they might as well start as soon as they can, right?
Song of the day - "Jackie and Wilson", Hozier.
I like preparing for things. Blame it on whatever undiagnosed variant of social anxiety disorder I have, if you want, or on the fact that as much as I hate damage control, that's a role I seem to spend most of my life playing. Whatever the cause, my life is equal parts preparation and praying I have enough fridge brilliance to get through the stuff I can't brace for. I plan when I'm leaving the house as early as possible (if I know exactly when I'm going to interact with unfamiliar people a week in advance, great), and usually the only "unplanned" outings I do are runs to the post office when I sell something online. I buy the dresses I wear for weddings before I know if I'll even be invited to some of them. And then... well, then there's the stuff I'm doing for future!me.
It started innocently enough. Around a year and a half ago, I wandered across the fabulous horror that is the Beekeeper's Quilt (if you're not inclined to click the link, it's a knitting pattern). Since I make socks for all my engaged and pregnant acquaintances, and since I'm 21 and grew up in homeschooler-land and therefore know a lot of people in one of those two categories at any given time, I generate quite a bit of leftover sock yarn. Making two hexipuffs out of each remnant before I send it off to someone in the Ravelry RAK group I try to participate in just makes sense. But then I got another one of my fabulous ideas. The beekeeper quilt, assuming I ever finish the darn thing (I need to make approximately 400 puffs and at this point I've done maybe 60?), would be a perfect wedding present for my future Person. So... there's now a time component. Not a hugely pertinent one, seeing as I am currently sans anyone I have any romantic interest in and I'd like to spend a decent amount of time getting to know someone before walking down the aisle and (possibly) changing my surname, but an existent one. It's motivation!! I suck at motivation!! What's not to love, right?
Well, then the future planning got weirder a few months ago when I impulse-bought a wedding dress.
Okay, maybe "impulse-bought" is the wrong word. There's this thrift store twenty minutes from my house that I go to on a regular basis - all the proceeds support local women's shelters, the ladies who work there adore me, and you never know what you're gonna find there. Around the beginning of summer, I saw The Dress. Some of the people I know who've gotten married recently say you just know when you find the perfect dress. (The rest have gotten married in their mothers' gowns - heavily altered, of course - which has never been an option for me because my mom is five inches shorter than me and was a size 4 when she got married. I haven't been a size 4 since I was about fourteen, and between the twin gifts of hipbones and C-cup boobs, I will never be that small again.) Obviously, of course, all of those people were looking for a wedding dress. I... wasn't. But there it was anyways, beaded bodice and high neckline and empire waistline and flowing skirt, taunting me. I could tell, just from eyeballing it (the thrift store had the sense to put the nice wedding dresses several feet off the ground), that it just had to be a size 10 (my usual, assuming the piece in question hasn't shrunk into oblivion, which formal gowns generally don't). I fell in love.
For weeks, I shamelessly eyed the thing, until one day I finally had the nerve to ask how much it was. My brain was all "it has to be around $60, yeah?". Wrong. Dress was actually $90, which meant that after tax (thank you Indiana for 7% sales tax when the two other states within sane driving distance are 6%), it was almost a hundred even. I did not care. I needed this dress. I tried it on in the shop, explaining beforehand to the nice old lady that I wasn't even seeing anyone and was more interested in having it as something to keep on hand for when my time comes. She understood pretty well, didn't even give me the "how is a nice girl like you single?" routine like a lot of people would've. It fit perfectly. I had to buy it. Y'know, just in case.
The dress lingered untouched in the closet of our spare bedroom for a few more weeks, until my mother accidentally found it. This was one of the hazards of putting it in that closet, but it had more space to hang properly there, and hell, there isn't space in my closet for something of that scale. I knew she'd find it eventually, and I wasn't quite sure how to explain the situation. Thankfully, I didn't have to. She gave me a small routine about her friend who's altered everyone's wedding dresses this past year (lesson of that afternoon - someone better submit that woman for sainthood because she's eighty-something and way too nice to have gone through some of that stuff), and then she decided to get it dry-cleaned and put in a proper bag for me. For my mother, who used to worry more than made any logical sense about my seeming lack of interest in guys (this thankfully stopped once my sister's type was defined as "breathing"), this was a huge step. And that was it. One huge expense out of the way for my future wedding. And again, I thought that was it as far as longterm planning. And again, it wasn't.
The reason I'm doing this post is because today I found another thing that I am meant to do, another thing that solves some of my problems. I'm going to build a house. More specifically, an Earthship. I advise caution on that website - whomever wrote most of the material is definitely on something - but the concept crossed my Tumblr dash this afternoon and I poked around and... well, before I could poke around too much, I had to wander off to work. Just as well. While at work, trying to figure out how an elephant had managed to demolish half of the pharmacy section (and not the part that usually looks bad either), I had one of my feelings.
For reference, I have had feelings exactly twice before in my life. The first one happened when I was 13, in church of all places. Nowadays when my brain wanders while I'm at the church I'm trying to get out of, it either focuses on questionably appropriate fic ideas or trying to figure out why one of the other women around my age thought a particular outfit or hairdo was a good idea (former-homeschooled ladytypes are fashion disasters by nature, and I say this as someone who is definitely in that category). Well, needless to say, 13-year-old me was a lot more innocent. I don't know what I was thinking about on that spring morning, but all of a sudden I had a very strong feeling that I was supposed to be a writer. Not that I'd really considered other career options before that, but it was definitely an experience of the Divine. (Incidentally, this was before things got crazy at that church, but... that's another post. Or, probably, a series of them, to be written once I get out For Real This Time I Fricking Mean It.)
The second one, I can't remember exactly when it happened thanks to the fact that I have the short-term memory of a fricking gerbil, but I'm pretty sure it was about a year ago (or maybe closer to two - point being, it remains a fairly recent development). I was doing self-eval, as I tend to do when I'm bored and/or fighting back the urge to tell someone I dislike exactly where they can stick it, and the subjects of my depression and my untouched-ness crossed my mind (as per usual - self-eval is either on those subjects or on fandom stuff, and I'm pretty sure I was very between primary fandoms when this happened). And out of the blue, for the first time, I knew there was a light at the end of my battle. And more importantly, I knew something about my future Person. I will find them once the worst of my darkness has past. I don't know anything more than that, of course - I'm pretty sure I have crossed that part of my life, but maybe it's supposed to be once I've learned to control the bad days? - but I know that. When the worst is over, when I am as whole as I will ever be as my own entity, I will find them. (Or, more likely, they will find me... but again, that's another post.)
Anyways... feelings. I had my third real one today, and it's about this possible house project. I want to create something for the family I eventually want to have, and this particular model/method is perfect. It's sustainable (something I'm generally fascinated by), it's cost-effective to build (at least after the plans and land to build it on are acquired), and it seems idiot-proof (always a good plus when it comes to DIY things). And I know in my core that this is something I'm supposed to do. There's just the small problem of... well, money. I want to do this on my own (obviously) and in cash (because srsly, trying to get a loan would be against the spirit of the beast and borderline-impossible for someone whose "proper" employment is averaging 20 hours a week at 15¢ above minimum wage aaaaand doesn't have a credit history). I have no idea how that's gonna happen, but it will. I'm determined. I've done enough poking around to be sure of the plausibilities. If I can figure out the financial side, this is happening. It's just weird enough to work, and that's how all of my best ideas start out.
And hey, if I get lucky and find my Person before I'm done with these things I want to have ready for them... they can help. They're in for a lifetime of chasing after my fridge-brilliance WTFery; they might as well start as soon as they can, right?
Song of the day - "Jackie and Wilson", Hozier.
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