That Summer

I’m back home.

It’s a strange feeling, knowing everyone I pass, knowing roads I haven’t traveled on in a year like the back of my hand, seeing the familiar but distant mountains.

Everyone keeps asking me the same thing, “How does it feel to be home?”, and I answer the same every time; “It’s bittersweet.”

I’m so glad I’m here and I get to spend so much time with my nephews, but at the same time, this massive change is bringing all of these emotions to the surface.  But the emotions don’t scare me as much as the memories.

You think you’re fine, and then one day, you realize that you’re not exactly okay.  It comes in waves; regret, loneliness, confusion, they all take turns cycling through my head, and late at night, I sit alone in my own head.  Even when I’m too exhausted to stay awake to think, my dreams dip me into those past days.

On the drive over, I had too much time to think.  I withdrew into my thoughts when Krista fell asleep, and for hours, I was immersed in things that should have stayed tucked neatly away.

I crave this change, yet I shy away from it.  I haven’t changed the time on my computer because I tear up when I try.  I haven’t changed things on my Facebook page because I have the same problem.

I think about how last summer started and am shocked to see how similar this summer is.  I think about how last summer ended and have a hard time breathing when I realize that this summer won’t end with the same thing.

It’s unfair to everyone involved that I keep drowning myself in that massive ocean.  I keep pulling myself out, but I can’t help but let the waves lap at my toes.

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I’m Not

Dead or anything close to it.  I’ve been busy (if relaxing as much as possible counts as busy) and away from the internet for a long time.

I have these visions of sitting down and writing out a blog post about the past few weeks, but I’m not sure if I’ll get that done before I move.

I’ve made the decision to not continue attending college here (or anywhere else for that matter, at the moment.  I may/may not go back to school to finish my degree next year – it depends on a lot of things right now.), and I’m moving back to Wyoming (for the summer) in less than 48 hours.

I’m going through all my things, and I’m seeing all my old memories.  So many memories of Kyle and I together.  It hurts to think about it.  But wading through all the haunted memories is easier with a new future lying on my bed, his eyes following me around the room as I pack my things up, a faint smile on his face.

He’s sleeping now, head resting on one hand with the other hand lying curled in front of him, fingers grasping momentarily before relaxing again, eyes wandering beneath closed lids, mouth twitching slightly, and I keep looking at him, seeing someone so different than who I was with before.

It’s disappointing yet liberating to see the way my life has changed, the different direction it’s going.

Tonight is one of the nights where I question if I’ll mess up again.  It’s getting scary noticing that the amount of people ready to catch me when I fall is getting smaller.

Rated R -WARNING-

Extremely explosive language in an overdrawn (and overdue) rant.

To every fuckface in the internet world-

Hiding behind a screen name does not make you tough, and it does not grant you the right to talk down to anyone else in this world.  I highly doubt you would say a FRACTION of the things you say online in real life.

At this point, this isn’t directed only at the fucking idiots online, it’s directed at every single person who has tried to tear someone else down.  I know I’m not completely innocent, but I have the decency to keep most awful thoughts to myself.  And here it goes, my mind is sliding, and I’m ridiculously angry.

Who the FUCK are you to point fingers, and post personal shit online?  Who the FUCK are you to dedicate an entire blog to a woman who has been fighting her entire life?  Who the FUCK are you to fucking post hateful comments and send hate mail, and to hate someone you’ve never met for no good reason?  Who the fuck raised these people?  Who bred this hostility, this violence inside them?

You are useless.  You are a fucking waste of space.  You’re breathing my fucking air, and you’re tainting it with your disgusting existence.  If I could kick you in the fucking throat, I’d smash the shit out of your windpipe.

The more I write, the angrier I get.  The more I write, the more I think about how badly I was treated throughout high school.  This rant about haters mistreating a good friend of mine online, has turned into a huge FUCK YOU to everyone who has ever said a bad thing to me.  I take it personally that these people attack my friends, and I find it pathetic that they think they’re in the right when they post bank information and shit that’s FUCKING ILLEGAL YOU STUPID CUNTS.

Just a few weeks ago, I was going through old pictures of me from high school, and I realized that I was cute.  That I was smart and funny and I looked good.  Yet I was catching shit from every girl in my class (and in the entire high school, really), and I was going home crying most days, confused as to why I was being treated so badly.

Seriously?  Were you so threatened by me that you had to smash my self-esteem?  Send me home in tears?  I was fucking cutting myself when I was 13 years old, I was in counseling around the same time, and I can tell you, I needed that shit to escape the mental rapes you fucking people put me through everyday.

No wonder I still hate your fucking guts.  Don’t fucking add me on Facebook, don’t smile and tell me how much you missed me when you see me in person; I’m not falling for your sugary sweet bullshit that you shovel to everyone.  All of you are disgusting; you were fucking nasty in high school, and you’ve only gotten worse.  You look like you’re  a new breed of human with that skin color, those faces you make aren’t attractive, and mustaches aren’t cool, you fucking idiots.  God luck finding a job when your profile picture is you drinking out of a box of wine.

Any who, back to the fucktards who hide behind screen names-

Fuck you all.  I would literally hunt every single one of your 12 year old asses down to slaughter, but in this country, that’s illegal.  I think it’s sort of funny how you dedicate that much time to hating a single person, but obviously, you have nothing better to do with your time, and all you are is a pathetic excuse for a human being.  I’d wish you good luck in your life,but I don’t think you’ll ever have one.  If I was leader, I’d cut you into tiny pieces and scatter you along the side of the road for the birds to snack on.  But alas, I am not, and I will settle for one final FUCK YOU.

As If

As if the last hair change wasn’t drastic enough.

After waking up yesterday and being really off, I realized that I needed a change.  The one thing that I can change without needing permission (not that I really need permission for anything I do, but I digress) is my hair.  And change it I did.

I buzzed it off while listening to dubstep and bouncing in front of the mirror.  I left a lot of the top, but after watching “V for Vendetta”, I wanted to buzz it all off (but I restrained myself).

I like it.  It’s so soft.

(This is the part in the movie where I’m institutionalized.)

Easy

The last few days have been so good, but like a little kid on a sugar high, I knew I had to crash sometime.

Last night, I felt so much like myself that I got my Hellhat out, and was working on it while I watched TV.  I knit probably 3-4 rows before I felt really tired, and crawled into bed.  Getting in bed only made me feel irritated and uneasy.  I fumed while I listened to the guy in the room above me make a massive amount of noise, and I was this close to going up there.

I didn’t even attempt to stay up late like I usually do, and instead, fell asleep, having uncomfortable dreams that make me a bit sick to my stomach to think about.

I’ve forgotten the small details; the color of your eyes up close, how your skin feels, how you smell.  It hurts to know I can’t form a coherent image in my head.

It’s so easy to stay in bed all day, to cry into my pillow, listen to songs that I can relate to.

One Step at a Time

I keep telling myself that it’ll get better; that it takes one step at a time, if I don’t think beyond today.  But it’s hard to believe myself (and the many people who have told me that I’m strong, that I can get through it) when I go to bed hoping that maybe, I won’t wake up in the morning.  When I open my drawer and wonder just how many Advil would it take?  When I hit snooze and roll back over to sleep, hoping that I can escape into my dreams for more than one night.

Before you freak out, I’m too cowardly to actually swallow those pills.  I just morbidly daydream about what would happen if I did.  It’s so hard to put my feelings into words, because I’m not trying to get your attention.  I’m escaping into writing, because that’s what I do when I’m not well.

And I’m not well.  Not by the widest stretch of imagination.  My dreams have reached that point where I’m almost afraid to close my eyes and sink into that oblivion, but still, I welcome the frightening world my head creates for me.  It’s easy.

I’m afraid to venture from my room, but I’m more afraid of the darkness that lingers in my bed.  It’s soothing to relax into it in the dark room, but my bed has become my hell, while it also becomes my haven.  I get suffocated by memories every time I put my head to my pillow, when my knee brushes the cold wall, when I inhale the smell of my blankets.

I’m running out of pretty words to describe how I feel, and I’m getting to this point:

It fucking hurts; I fucking hurt, being me fucking hurts me.  There’s something wrong inside me and I can’t fix it; this feeling, this darkness, this elusive pain keeps ducking its head and crawling deeper into me.

I don’t know how to cope; I’ve never learned how.  I keep pushing everything further back, adding more to what I have to deal with someday.  Just scratching the surface is like slamming a finger into a nerve; I feel utterly helpless when emotions flood over me.  How do you cope with yourself if you hate yourself?  I’m second guessing everything I’ve ever held as a fact.

I want to get back in bed because everything is simple; my mind does all the work.  But I force myself to get up, I force myself to dress, to eat, to shower, to go to class.  I force myself to smile at people who smile at me.

More mascara: less tears.  Pull yourself together.

Oh God, Not Again

It’s almost been an entire month since the last time I blogged, and today’s post isn’t really so much as catching up, but rather of complaining.

If you’ve read ONE of my posts, you’ll know that it’s what I do best.  In fact, if you know me at all (Twitter, YouTube, Facebook, in person), you know I complain a lot.  I’ve never been one to try and censor myself online (though, perhaps I should), and today’s post is no exception.  Hm, I’m not sure where to start, so I’ll start simply, with an effort to grab your attention (though, if you’ve gotten this far, I know I already have your attention…give me a break).

My life is falling apart.

If you go back a year in my blog, back to April of 2011, of 2010 even, you’ll know this is almost an annual thing.  But this time, I’m not kidding (the other times I wasn’t either, but this feels more serious).  I lost my job (over a month ago now, I think), I’m in dire straits when it comes to paying bills, I’m about to lose my place to live (school is ending), and although I have a slight summer plan, I have no way to execute it.  I’m fighting with everyone I love, and I’m constantly irritated.  I spend hours upon hours in my room, trying to get away from people, and when someone intrudes on this solitude, I get anxious and angry.

I always tell people that I don’t regret things, but I do.  I regret not applying to the Africa program (even though it made me anxious), because I know I would have been accepted.  That year abroad would have fixed this feeling (I think).  But instead, here I sit, knowing what I need to do, yet unable to do it.

You can tell me what I need to do, and I’ll listen to you, and agree that those steps are the ones I need to take, but I can’t take them.  Nor can you force me to.  I have to do it myself, yet I have no motivation to do anything.  My life is coming undone at the seams, and my coping method is to play dead and watch it unravel around me.

I’m getting to the point that it’s too late to do anything.  What I do now won’t help me, and I’m already sinking fast.

I can see the pity on your face (or is that annoyance?) as you read this; just another college girl having a moan about money.

But at this point, I’m starting to look inside me, and I’m not liking what I see.  I don’t want to do anything.  I’m stuck in this web, and I see the big fucking depression spider advancing on me, grinning as massively as possible.

I need help, but oh dear god, I’m not going to ask for it.  That makes me weak, right?  That makes me just another helpless girl, right?  I’ve been living basically on my own for at least 4 years now, and I still can’t take care of myself properly (hell, most of the time I can’t bring a fork to my mouth without dropping food down my front); oh, what am I saying, who am I kidding?  Did I ever take care of myself?

Just writing this is making me spin faster in this hurricane, and I can see all my faults.  I want to run away, I want to escape all ties, all debts.

I want to lay down and die.

God.  Again, I know what you’re thinking.  I need to go see someone and talk about my issues.  I’m not too far gone to realize that; in that aspect, I’ve always had incredible clarity.  I know when I need to ask for help, yet I can’t bring myself to actually do it.  I’m pathetic in the worst way possible.  I’ve alienated myself from my family, whether it was on purpose remains to be seen.  I’m spiraling out of control, and I’m about to crash. Oh dear, close your eyes.

Don’t watch.