I started this blog in high school and maintained it up through college, though my posts became infrequent. I don't plan on deleting the blog, but I don't plan on renewing the domain name either.
While I won't say I'm ashamed of the blog, a lot of the posts are very melodramatic, annoying, and somewhat embarrassing. I look at it and don't see an accurate depiction of who I am presently, and for this reason am moving on from it. Please click here to be redirected to my new blog. Hope to see you there.
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Monday, April 28, 2014
Wednesday, April 9, 2014
"Only once, and very late at night, did I run downstairs and out into the street with my pajamas on, gasping and watering, waiting for something-- a car? an angel?-- to come rescue or kill me, but there was nothing, only streetlights and a cat."
-Lorrie Moore, Anagrams
I was tired in more ways than could be scribbled down-- bone-tired in a way that couldn't be written, could only be felt. But as that destitute burned away, I felt it in its entirety. Feeling the consuming fire of anger and frustration rise like flames, my own disgust fueling the fire, I realize now I've been burning all along. In my immediate past, I scared myself with the things I was able to do. I could go from watching a sunset and bouts of inspiration to wanting to claw into myself, tear into my skin-- to the desperation that wrecks and weeps and ruins. The pain began to taste sweet where it once tasted bitter. I began harming myself.
For me, I became wrapped up in the "poetry" of the darkness. But that's the thing-- there is no poetry in pain. It's painful. Nobody cares, I would wail. It was just that people didn't notice. Everyone has their own reality; self-awareness is a feat in itself; who a person is, who I was, was relative. It mattered only who I was to them. For this, I put myself in a box, torn between wanting a rescue and wanting to slam the door. The perfume, the lipstick, the crisp dresses were all just wallpaper over rotting walls, flimsy barricades against the shame and disgust that I harbored for myself. Each day, each weary morning, I carried this weight around, this burden, waiting for the stains to, I don't know, seep through, for everyone to see and be horrified. The anticipation of that moment coiled deep inside, whispering fear and regret and grief. So I harmed myself further.
In my mind, I felt like I was destined to carry sadness. I still think that, in some ways, I am. I'll always be a little bit sadder than my friends. I feel deeply, but I think that acknowledging these emotions helps me better myself, evolve. I think it's the reason that I love writing in the ways that I do. Still, I carried it and felt that no matter how many times I let myself re-imagine this scenario, it was always going to lead me to here. It was always going to end with me in a room, sad for small reasons and unable to step outside of that veil. I was just going to struggle.
"There must be things that can save us!" I wanted to shout. "But they are just not here."
I am still working through my demons, but I am working on it in ways that I didn't let myself before.