I Can Play That Game

I’m not friends with you on Facebook, but I know you’ll see this anyways, because some of my friends are your friends on Facebook, and they’ve shown me the stuff you’re posting EVERY DAY.

I’m sick of it.  It’s rude, it’s immature, and it completely proves my point.

But no one believes that you guys were so bad, because you sucked up to every adult you met.  And now?  I can prove it.

And this:

“Your recent blog “Rated R” was recently messaged to me by a former classmate. Normally I don’t get involved with dramatic crap, I think anyone has a right to put whatever they want on the internet, and you do. However when you say, “yet I was catching shit from every girl in my class,” I feel the need to defend myself. I would first like to say, Cassandra, never did I once give you shit to your face, which means nothing…but also did I NEVER say anything rude, degrading or anything along those lines BEHIND your back. I never heard another girl in our class say anything either. I am out of the loop a lot because I don’t like drama, but please don’t lump us all together and make us appear as the bad guys. I am completely oblivious to the “mental rapes” that I put upon you every day as well.

I’m not looking for a response here; I just wanted to say that your post definitely contained false information. As for you making fun of all of us, “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.” …it somewhat contradicts the entire point of your post. Give respect get respect, right? I would also like to state, that lucky for me, I could give two shits about “being cool.” I am glad that you are judging us and still care if we are cool or not though.

I’d also like to say that if anything, I could turn everything in your post around. I have heard many nasty things that came from your mouth about me, and you were never nice to me nor did you ever attempt to be friends with me. I actually thought you were a very decent girl in high school, and I respected you. You were smart, funny and you did look good, and I never said anything that would have made those facts incorrect.”

Why did you send me that message?  Are you feeling some sort of guilt now?

I look forward to all the other things you say about me on Facebook.

* And yes, I left your full names in on purpose.  Enjoy. <3 *

Frustration

The thing that I always wanted happened with my blog.  I started getting massive amounts of traffic, and I have loyal readers (who have been upset with the lack of posts…I’m sorry…it’ll change).

But while I appreciate all my readers, and all the support I get from you all every day, something’s changed.

This blog is no longer for me.  I write everything down, and end up removing bits and pieces because I feel like I need to censor myself.  That’s not even close to what I wanted to happen.

I’m not the type of person to hold back on what I want to say, especially on my own personal blog (popular though it has gotten).  Sincerely…Cassandra has always been a place that I could spill my thoughts and feelings without worrying about being questioned about them.  But now, I’m getting messages calling me out on what I write.  (And for everyone who contacted me about my explosive rant, or who didn’t contact me, but talked about me on Facebook, you proved me right.  Why would you send me messages defending your actions if you didn’t do anything wrong?  Are you feeling some guilt now?  I’m going to cut myself off before I start a rant, but seriously, you proved me right by posting all of that extra shit.  I can post screen caps if you want…I can really embarrass you if you want to go down that road.  Grow up, you fucking idiots.)  My family is getting phone calls about my posts and right now, I’m afraid to write what I’m feeling, and without my outlet, I’m having a hard time healing.

I hate that I feel like I’m not allowed to put down what I feel, and I hate that I’m afraid of the repercussions of writing how I really feel at the moment.

I’m not exactly sure how I should fix the problem.  I’ve been avoiding blogging for this reason.  It’s hard for me to cut so much important stuff out and still make you understand how I’m feeling.  I need this outlet because it’s the one place that I felt comfortable telling everything, and not leaving anything out.

I need my blog back.

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.

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.

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.