I hate feeling lonely. I think it's a ridiculous notion most of the time. I get irritated with people who can't seem to be able to keep themselves entertained. Maybe it's the product of growing up as the only child in a household full of adults. Looking back, I suppose I did have a rather lonely childhood, but it never really bothered me.
Lately, it's something that I've felt rather keenly, and that disturbs me. It's so easy for me to slip into the mindset that I'm pretty worthless and that no one would care if I were to disappear one day.
And god, that sounds so self-pitying.
Another attribute I dislike to a great degree.
I can't even figure out why I'm so depressed right now. The day started out very well for me, even my meeting with my math teacher went well. I'm trying to get out of this mood, but nothing's working. I just want to go home and cry and do nothing else for the rest of the day. But that would be horribly unproductive.
I'm terrified I'm broken. I'm afraid that nothing I do will ever make me happy, and I want to be happy. I seem to constantly need a distraction from myself. If I spend too much time with myself, I drive myself spare. Maybe I hate my own company? Or maybe I'm just sick of it, after subjecting myself to it for so long.
Oh well, I suppose it matters very little. And I'll probably be over this mood in a few hours or so.
I need to find something to keep me occupied.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Monday, October 11, 2010
A Letter
I'm not even sure it's a good idea to post this, but it's something that's been bugging me for years...literally, years. It's horribly emo, but my next few posts will probably be pointlessly emotional.
______________________________________________
I hate you.
I do not think I can state clearly enough, or strongly enough how much I loathe the fact that you still exist in this world. Sometimes, in my more frightened states, I'm afraid I can see you around the corner, your grin smug as your very presence taunts me.
And other times, in my darker moments, I relive the moment where you killed me. I feel that wave of near physical sickness come over me, and have to stop myself from lashing out at other men. Other men who have never given me reason to fear them, or hate them.
I have worked so hard to keep myself from turning into someone I'm not. To keep myself from running scared from people, from new experiences...from life.
I remember what it was like when I was younger, dressing in ugly clothes, keeping my hair in front of my face, hiding myself from the world. I would panic when someone would stare at me for too long. As I got older, dressing nicer, feeling a little more secure, until some stupid male would call out to me, making some comment that would inevitably drive me deeper into my shell.
Even now, this is hard for me to write, even knowing that you will never see it. Or will likely never see it. I don't really care in either case, I suppose. What more could you ever do to me now? What is worse than what happened when I was a child?
I might have been able to forgive you if you had, at the very least admitted what you did! Instead, you told them, 'I understand that being a teenager is a very difficult time for young girls.' You made it sound like I was crazy! Then, the way everyone acted afterwards...I thought I was crazy. I will never forgive you for that. Why couldn't you just apologize? Why couldn't you just admit what you did? Having to see you during family functions made me sick. The fact that you always came around to ask you father and my mother for money made me feel violent. I couldn't figure out why they just wouldn't send you on your way.
I'm glad that I will likely never see you or your family again, and that gives me a small measure of peace. I will not deny that. But I find it unfair that you still live, while other men, better men than you, have died young. Or have died at all.
I do not know if those scars you inflicted on me will ever fully heal, I have hope that they will.
Sincerely,
Me
Friday, October 8, 2010
Four o'Clock in the Morning...
Here I am, sitting on my couch, in my living room, unable to get back to sleep. I spent a little time walking around outside (mostly to get my laptop out of my car) and happened to glance up at the sky, as is often my wont when I'm up here in the woods. It's something I miss in Santa Clara. You can't really see the stars down there. There's too much light, too much smog...too much. There's something minimalistic about coming up here. And in that simplicity, you can see something amazingly complex.
Ahhh, sorry, I tend to wax poetic about the cosmos. People who have known me for awhile know that I have always been fascinated with outer space.
But it isn't just the stars and planets, or anything else that you can see in the sky, but it's the environment. The hills, the trees, the fern, everything. The way the dew clings to the blades of grass, or how your breath makes little curly cue clouds of smoke early in the morning, the frost that has already begun to form on the windows...all these things are things that I miss when I am back in the city. At first, I thought I would be fine with out these things, that I would be content with the quiet sounds of the country being replaced with the busy sounds of people and car alarms. It makes me feel as if I am fickle; so easily it seems for me to change my mind about something. But I think that, perhaps, my previous viewpoint was based on a lack of experience with much of the outside world, as horribly sheltered as that sounds.
But back to my previous point (and I do apologize, I tend to ramble quite a bit) I truly miss being here, and I think much of that has influenced my decision to try to get into UC Santa Cruz...well, it's either that or Humboldt. But it's going to be somewhere in the forest, of that I'm sure. So much of myself has changed, or I suppose my own view of myself has changed. I think that for awhile, I saw myself as a different type of person, and lately I've had to realize that I'm very different than how I thought I was...if that sentence makes any sense. I suppose a part of me lamented over the fact my life is so drastically different than how I thought it would be when I was a child. Though I have to wonder; maybe that isn't so bad? Was the life I thought I wanted really all that wonderful?
Heh, I guess you should just ignore this blog, it was mostly me killing time and over thinking the night sky and my backyard.
Damn English students ^_^
Ahhh, sorry, I tend to wax poetic about the cosmos. People who have known me for awhile know that I have always been fascinated with outer space.
But it isn't just the stars and planets, or anything else that you can see in the sky, but it's the environment. The hills, the trees, the fern, everything. The way the dew clings to the blades of grass, or how your breath makes little curly cue clouds of smoke early in the morning, the frost that has already begun to form on the windows...all these things are things that I miss when I am back in the city. At first, I thought I would be fine with out these things, that I would be content with the quiet sounds of the country being replaced with the busy sounds of people and car alarms. It makes me feel as if I am fickle; so easily it seems for me to change my mind about something. But I think that, perhaps, my previous viewpoint was based on a lack of experience with much of the outside world, as horribly sheltered as that sounds.
But back to my previous point (and I do apologize, I tend to ramble quite a bit) I truly miss being here, and I think much of that has influenced my decision to try to get into UC Santa Cruz...well, it's either that or Humboldt. But it's going to be somewhere in the forest, of that I'm sure. So much of myself has changed, or I suppose my own view of myself has changed. I think that for awhile, I saw myself as a different type of person, and lately I've had to realize that I'm very different than how I thought I was...if that sentence makes any sense. I suppose a part of me lamented over the fact my life is so drastically different than how I thought it would be when I was a child. Though I have to wonder; maybe that isn't so bad? Was the life I thought I wanted really all that wonderful?
Heh, I guess you should just ignore this blog, it was mostly me killing time and over thinking the night sky and my backyard.
Damn English students ^_^
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Colour
This is just something I wrote a while ago, I've been meaning to post it, and revise it, but I haven't felt I've had the time. So, I've finally decided to do both.
------------------------------------------
"Colour"
Colour…
She just wanted to see colour again.
She wasn’t sure when she stopped seeing it; she just knew she couldn’t see it anymore.
Not that it would do any good thinking about it.
She unconsciously began to wring her pale wrists in her sudden anxiety as she slumped against her old tatted sofa. It had belonged to her grandmother.
Not that that really mattered right now. Just something she remembered from time to time.
The young woman lay down on her side; she had a spectacular view of her kitchen from this angle.
It was hideous, none of the hues in the kitchen matched. Or at least, not that she remembered. She remembered thinking it looked rather like some nightmare out of the 1960s.
She snorted in faint amusement. Not like she was even around in the 60s. But she remembered old photo albums her mother possessed and the colour coordinated disaster that her grandparents’ house had been back then.
A pink, white and turquoise bathroom? Who picked that out?
Of course, she also remembered her grandmother’s eyesight had been horrible, so that could explain a lot of the décor.
She snorted again, and rolled onto her back. Staring blankly at the ceiling, she watched the fan rotated wildly. Sometimes she entertained thoughts of the damn thing crashing down on her.
Not that she really wanted that, just her mind wandered to strange places sometimes.
Like when she was driving to work, or the market, or anywhere, and began to think about what might happen if she blew the red light and drove straight into oncoming traffic.
She didn’t really want to die; she just thought of morbid things. Mostly borne out of curiosity than any real mental ailment.
Not that her family believed her, of course.
“Hon, I’m going to the store, do you want anything?” her husband asks as he comes down the stairs.
She doesn’t even glance at him. What’s the point? She already knows what he looks like.
“Nah, I’m fine. Don’t want to get fatter,” she calls out absently. She hears him grumble under his breath.
She just wanted to see colour again.
She wasn’t sure when she stopped seeing it; she just knew she couldn’t see it anymore.
Not that it would do any good thinking about it.
She unconsciously began to wring her pale wrists in her sudden anxiety as she slumped against her old tatted sofa. It had belonged to her grandmother.
Not that that really mattered right now. Just something she remembered from time to time.
The young woman lay down on her side; she had a spectacular view of her kitchen from this angle.
It was hideous, none of the hues in the kitchen matched. Or at least, not that she remembered. She remembered thinking it looked rather like some nightmare out of the 1960s.
She snorted in faint amusement. Not like she was even around in the 60s. But she remembered old photo albums her mother possessed and the colour coordinated disaster that her grandparents’ house had been back then.
A pink, white and turquoise bathroom? Who picked that out?
Of course, she also remembered her grandmother’s eyesight had been horrible, so that could explain a lot of the décor.
She snorted again, and rolled onto her back. Staring blankly at the ceiling, she watched the fan rotated wildly. Sometimes she entertained thoughts of the damn thing crashing down on her.
Not that she really wanted that, just her mind wandered to strange places sometimes.
Like when she was driving to work, or the market, or anywhere, and began to think about what might happen if she blew the red light and drove straight into oncoming traffic.
She didn’t really want to die; she just thought of morbid things. Mostly borne out of curiosity than any real mental ailment.
Not that her family believed her, of course.
“Hon, I’m going to the store, do you want anything?” her husband asks as he comes down the stairs.
She doesn’t even glance at him. What’s the point? She already knows what he looks like.
“Nah, I’m fine. Don’t want to get fatter,” she calls out absently. She hears him grumble under his breath.
She’s upset him with her comment.
Well, tough.
“Maybe some juice,” she tries to compromise.
He just grunts a reply.
It doesn’t surprise her. After all, isn’t that how men communicate anyway? Yeah, no, sure, grunt?
She finally gives a small chuckle.
“Drive carefully,” she muttered.
He cracks a barely-there smile at her concern.
“You worry too much,” he teases.
“No I don’t.”
He leaves at last; she now has the house to herself. Not that she’d do much while he’s away, anyway.
She feels bad, sometimes. Her husband does try to make her happy; her problems aren’t his fault. But he seems to think it so. She’d given up trying to convince him otherwise. So she accused him of thinking he’s all important, if he thinks everything is his fault.
That little comment had led to a spectacular row.
She thinks about switching the television on, but she knows she won’t find anything. She smirks at this; they pay a hundred twenty-five dollars for five hundred channels, and there’s never anything on.
She knows she’s making herself useless, and her husband is getting tired of dealing with her moods. She already has little to nothing to do with her family, she wonders just how long it’ll take her to irritate her husband so much he’ll just up and leave.
He really has extraordinary patience.
Perhaps she should leave him; the ultimate act of selflessness.
She laughs out loud at this. It wouldn’t be selflessness. She wouldn’t be doing it for him.
Oh sure, she’d justify it in her mind that she was just trying to do what’s best for him, but she’d know deep down, it was just so she’d feel less guilty about the pain she’s putting him through. None of it would be for his sake.
‘You selfish little bitch!’
Her step brother was right; she was selfish. He was also probably right to do…
‘NO,’ she thought firmly. ‘It doesn’t matter anymore.’
She hadn’t said anything at first, until her mother took her to the hospital, saying that it’d make her better. The people there would ‘fix’ her.
It had been horrible.
It seemed like all of the girls there had been raped or abused in some way. Hell, some of the boys were too.
She supposed she fit it.
A place full of children that parents dropped off because they were sick of dealing with them.
She was lucky she hadn’t been in there for months, like some of the kids had been.
Still, a couple weeks there had been enough.
The woman sighed; that was a long time ago. It didn’t matter. Although, she thought about it sometimes, and became angry at herself for not telling the social worker that had been there everything. He would have found her a new home…
But, if she’d moved, she never would have met her husband.
She also wouldn’t have met her ex.
Fucking stalker.
She sure knew how to pick them.
Her mother’s husband had approved whole-heartedly of him.
That should have been her first clue.
‘Well, no use crying over spilt milk.’
She shifted back onto her side. What an ugly kitchen. She vaguely remembered it being turquoise and grey. She really needed to redecorate. If she could get motivated. She’d also repaint the living room.
Mint green made her want to heave.
Of course, she’d probably just wind up white-washing everything. That way, it’d all match. And she wouldn’t have to worry about it.
She wanted to get up, but she couldn’t seem to muster the will to do so. She must’ve lain on the couch for awhile, because she didn’t get back up until her husband came home.
She sat up, slightly startled. She’d never outgrown her anxiety of being home alone…or her fear of someone breaking in. This was ridiculous; seeing as they lived in the middle of freaking nowhere. Who the hell would break in to their house.
Although, sometimes she worried her ex would find her.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he apologizes with a sheepish half-smile.
“Wasn’t scared,” she mumbled, embarrassed.
He just smiles at her again.
“I know you said you didn’t want anything…”
She doesn’t correct him, reminding him that she did, in fact, request juice.
“…but I picked up some cinnamon cookies. I know how much you like them, you sugar-fiend.”
Yes, she did like them, her nana used to make them for her. And peanut butter cookies. For after school. But sometimes she would get them in her lunch.
He hands her the plastic container holding the cookies, and heads into the kitchen, presumably to put the rest of the groceries away.
“And before you ask, I did remember to pick you up some juice. I hope apple is okay.”
“It’s fine,” she replies, looking down at the container.
The cookies are golden brown…
…and her kitchen is the same hideous turquoise she remembers it as.
The sight makes her smile.
Well, tough.
“Maybe some juice,” she tries to compromise.
He just grunts a reply.
It doesn’t surprise her. After all, isn’t that how men communicate anyway? Yeah, no, sure, grunt?
She finally gives a small chuckle.
“Drive carefully,” she muttered.
He cracks a barely-there smile at her concern.
“You worry too much,” he teases.
“No I don’t.”
He leaves at last; she now has the house to herself. Not that she’d do much while he’s away, anyway.
She feels bad, sometimes. Her husband does try to make her happy; her problems aren’t his fault. But he seems to think it so. She’d given up trying to convince him otherwise. So she accused him of thinking he’s all important, if he thinks everything is his fault.
That little comment had led to a spectacular row.
She thinks about switching the television on, but she knows she won’t find anything. She smirks at this; they pay a hundred twenty-five dollars for five hundred channels, and there’s never anything on.
She knows she’s making herself useless, and her husband is getting tired of dealing with her moods. She already has little to nothing to do with her family, she wonders just how long it’ll take her to irritate her husband so much he’ll just up and leave.
He really has extraordinary patience.
Perhaps she should leave him; the ultimate act of selflessness.
She laughs out loud at this. It wouldn’t be selflessness. She wouldn’t be doing it for him.
Oh sure, she’d justify it in her mind that she was just trying to do what’s best for him, but she’d know deep down, it was just so she’d feel less guilty about the pain she’s putting him through. None of it would be for his sake.
‘You selfish little bitch!’
Her step brother was right; she was selfish. He was also probably right to do…
‘NO,’ she thought firmly. ‘It doesn’t matter anymore.’
She hadn’t said anything at first, until her mother took her to the hospital, saying that it’d make her better. The people there would ‘fix’ her.
It had been horrible.
It seemed like all of the girls there had been raped or abused in some way. Hell, some of the boys were too.
She supposed she fit it.
A place full of children that parents dropped off because they were sick of dealing with them.
She was lucky she hadn’t been in there for months, like some of the kids had been.
Still, a couple weeks there had been enough.
The woman sighed; that was a long time ago. It didn’t matter. Although, she thought about it sometimes, and became angry at herself for not telling the social worker that had been there everything. He would have found her a new home…
But, if she’d moved, she never would have met her husband.
She also wouldn’t have met her ex.
Fucking stalker.
She sure knew how to pick them.
Her mother’s husband had approved whole-heartedly of him.
That should have been her first clue.
‘Well, no use crying over spilt milk.’
She shifted back onto her side. What an ugly kitchen. She vaguely remembered it being turquoise and grey. She really needed to redecorate. If she could get motivated. She’d also repaint the living room.
Mint green made her want to heave.
Of course, she’d probably just wind up white-washing everything. That way, it’d all match. And she wouldn’t have to worry about it.
She wanted to get up, but she couldn’t seem to muster the will to do so. She must’ve lain on the couch for awhile, because she didn’t get back up until her husband came home.
She sat up, slightly startled. She’d never outgrown her anxiety of being home alone…or her fear of someone breaking in. This was ridiculous; seeing as they lived in the middle of freaking nowhere. Who the hell would break in to their house.
Although, sometimes she worried her ex would find her.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he apologizes with a sheepish half-smile.
“Wasn’t scared,” she mumbled, embarrassed.
He just smiles at her again.
“I know you said you didn’t want anything…”
She doesn’t correct him, reminding him that she did, in fact, request juice.
“…but I picked up some cinnamon cookies. I know how much you like them, you sugar-fiend.”
Yes, she did like them, her nana used to make them for her. And peanut butter cookies. For after school. But sometimes she would get them in her lunch.
He hands her the plastic container holding the cookies, and heads into the kitchen, presumably to put the rest of the groceries away.
“And before you ask, I did remember to pick you up some juice. I hope apple is okay.”
“It’s fine,” she replies, looking down at the container.
The cookies are golden brown…
…and her kitchen is the same hideous turquoise she remembers it as.
The sight makes her smile.
--------------------------------------------------------
I don't know...I feel like I'm trying to be too profound in this piece. Maybe I'll try to tone it down next time, or revise it again. I'm not sure.
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