Wearing a Silver Ribbon

I've been jobless for a while now, no thanks to me and Mr. Fiance having to share one vehicle for more than half a year. His place in the military takes precedent over me getting out of the house, so, of course, I gained weight and got depressed. What else did I expect from myself? I'm not the type to make the most out of situations unless I have inspiration to. But I was in a new town in a small apartment, alone, with my friends and family four hours away, and I get destructive when I'm alone.

I tried to convince friends to visit, but they had their own lives to live back in Austin; they had jobs and bills to pay, and neither left them with many open weekends to spend at the beach. I was too embarrassed to open up about how I was feeling, because I was the one- while we were growing up- that "had everything" and had no right to complain.

My first run in with depression was when I was a freshman in high school. Sadness washed over me, and to be honest, it was startling. I was usually happy- emotional, yes- but happy. I made good grades. I was involved in school. I was getting noticed by the boys after constant harassment about my weight in junior high. I had every reason in the world to be happy, but I couldn't be. The day could offer me joy after joy and I would deny them. I don't know why.

The sadness became permanent when my ex-boyfriend died in a horrendous car crash just miles from my house. I'd never known mourning before. I'd never mourned anyone before.

Well, my friends used my constant sadness as a way to separate themselves from me, saying that I was a "downer". That's when the depression set in.

I can't quite describe what school was like for me that year. I usually spent my mornings with my friends in the front of the school, laughing and watching the carpool lane fill up with familiar faces being dropped off, people that I could greet for the day if we didn't have classes together. At first I walked the same way, but the glares and silence I received from the usual bunch made me consider a new route to class. So I went to the library. If they migrated to the library, I would hide between the shelves like a masochist and listen to every sour word they directed at me, and I cried.

Shortly after, my parents started fighting a lot. Shortly after that, I received a long email from an old interest that was dedicated to the effort of getting me to kill myself.

I couldn't talk to my parents about wanting to give up. I couldn't talk to them about the cutting. They would just send me to a shrink. So I reached out to those friends in an effort to make them realize that I wasn't just being a downer, I needed help.

"You're stupid. If you kill yourself, don't expect us at your funeral," they said.

I'm still not sure how I overcame that.

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I was optimistic at first, when Michael started using my Jeep to get from place to place. I spent most of my time reading and browsing the internet; I invested a lot of my time into my other blog. The redundancies got to be overwhelming though, and with trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life, feeling guilty for every purchase Mike made on my behalf, losing my sense of independence, and dealing with the stress of his family being more than vocal with their opinions of me, I went a little crazy.

I woke up late in the afternoons and stared off into space until Mike got home. Sometimes I'd cry myself into a short-lived coma on the couch. I started avoiding mirrors so I wouldn't have to see the hopelessness in my face and the dark circles under my eyes. I insulted myself in casual conversation. Any trace of love I had for myself had depleted to almost nothing, just enough to keep me from hurting myself in ways I could only day dream about when left to my own devices. 

When I grew bored of self loathing, my mind wandered to more destructive things. I fell victim to the feeling of betrayal when Michael was working late. 

"Why would he want to date me? Why would he want to come home to this mess? Of course he would find love somewhere else, because I'm not worthy of him. I'm nothing. I wouldn't blame him for cheating. I'm disgusting." 

I couldn't even bring myself to have sex anymore. Too much energy involved- energy I didn't have.

(And I knew it had nothing to do with Mike. He was helpless through all of this and I can't imagine what it must have been like for him working full time at the clinic and coming home to another patient. He is the one person that makes me insanely happy and that's one reason why I'm marrying him this October, but depression made me feel like I didn't deserve to be happy. I'm just sad that I've missed out on and wasted months of that happiness.)

To make matters worse, I had lady part issues. I went to visit the gynecologist, who told me that I might have a disease where blood gets trapped in my pelvis during menstruation which could have been severe pains, and she put me on birth control. I didn't make the connection at first that maybe the birth control was messing with me, but my depression worsened. I didn't get out of bed at all. I stopped doing my chores and only left the bedroom to lay on the couch. I didn't want to leave the house. I grew angry and hostile everytime I thought about my friends and family, dwelling on moments in the past when they'd hurt me. 

I fantasized about dying like it was a game.

"What'll it be today? A noose? An overdose?"

Yeah, it was fucked up.

One day though, I actually willed myself off of the couch and got online to check up on life outside of the bubble of hate I had created, and found an article that changed my life.

"The Fight Goes On" by Jennifer Lawson

"If you follow me on twitter you already know that I’ve been battling off one of the most severe bouts of depression I’ve ever had. Yesterday it started to pass, and for the first time in weeks I cried with relief instead of with hopelessness. Depression can be crippling, and deadly. I’m lucky that it’s a rare thing for me, and that I have a support system to lean on. I’m lucky that I’ve learned that depression lies to you, and that you should never listen to it, in spite of how persuasive it is at the time. 

When cancer sufferers fight, recover, and go into remission we laud their bravery. We call them survivors. Because they are.  

When depression sufferers fight, recover and go into remission we seldom even know, simply because so many suffer in the dark…ashamed to admit something they see as a personal weakness…afraid that people will worry, and more afraid that they won’t. We find ourselves unable to do anything but cling to the couch and force ourselves to breathe.  

When you come out of the grips of a depression there is an incredible relief, but not one you feel allowed to celebrate. Instead, the feeling of victory is replaced with anxiety that it will happen again, and with shame and vulnerability when you see how your illness affected your family, your work, everything left untouched while you struggled to survive. We come back to life thinner, paler, weaker…but as survivors. Survivors who don’t get pats on the back from coworkers who congratulate them on making it. Survivors who wake to more work than before because their friends and family are exhausted from helping them fight a battle they may not even understand.  

Regardless, today I feel proud. I survived. And I celebrate every one of you reading this. I celebrate the fact that you’ve fought your battle and continue to win. I celebrate the fact that you may not understand the battle, but you pick up the baton dropped by someone you love until they can carry it again. I celebrate the fact that each time we go through this, we get a little stronger. We learn new tricks on the battlefield. We learn them in terrible ways, but we use them. We don’t struggle in vain.  

We win.  

We are alive."

I highly encourage you to read the rest of her story, whether or not you are or once were a victim. We're not alone. We have each other. We have the strength that depression told us we didn't have anymore. I know I found it, after months of searching. It was just a mouse click away.

And now I'm happy again. I'm getting married, I'm planning the wedding of my dreams, I'm losing the weight, and can hold onto my optimism for more than just a fleeting moment. I see sunshine now.

Thank you Jen. Thank you, thank you, thank you...

J-Roll's Departing Gift: A Fresh Start

It's been a long time... and I'm sorry to have left everyone behind as I made that journey everyone takes to find themselves. This year was my time to do that. To all of my dedicated readers that stood by me as I laughed, cried and ranted, thank you. It would be incredible if I could somehow repay you guys for giving me what you did earlier this year. I sincerely mean that I love you and still keep up with your blogs when time is allowed.

I'm in a good place. Michael and I are finally living together and have been for six months now. We are very much in love and are very happy. Finally, right?

It took moving in with him to discover what I wanted outside of wanting to be close to him. It was eye opening.

I swore off this blog for a variety of reasons, and those of you who are close to me understood the situation and continued to encourage my writing and my blogging. I will say though that this blog has served its purpose for me, and that is why I have to leave it how it is: a memoir of what life was like being thousands of miles away from the person I loved. It helped me cope when I was in dire need of coping. It helped me laugh when I wanted to cry. It helped me give clarity to confusing situations. It reawakened my passion for writing and led me to a community of writers and bloggers that I hope to remain a part of for a long time.

I am happy to announce that I now have a new project: Mike and I started a blog together! As you may know, we both met through our writing, so it only makes sense to continue to do so while together. We both are really embracing it, and I think this may be a permanent part of our lives.

If you are interested in checking out my new blog, I recommend reading the introductory post first before you commit. It's not for everyone, but it is a humor blog about a new rising culture. Introducing The Couch Dwellers! It's kind of nerdy guys.

Again, thanks to everyone who followed me, believed in me, and listened to what I had to say. You were the glue that held me together. Hopefully you'll stick around for the happy parts.

This is J-Roll, signing off.

When is goodbye really goodbye?

When you are a part of something, whether it be a church group or just a few buddies that hang with you by the river every weekend, it eventually becomes a part of you. Sometimes these consistencies, especially when they are people, can change you and your perspective of the world and the people around you. That is what makes goodbye's so hard. Every time I had to leave Michael I felt like I had to adjust to a life that didn't belong to me, and when I would see him again, my life would continue as if I had come home from a lengthy trip away from myself.

I didn't realize that the lounge was the one place that I could return to myself and have a break from the loneliness. The people there are like my family. I always avoided thinking about the moment when I would have to put in for my two weeks. It's been two years now, two years of people willing to do everything in their power to be there for me, a concept I wasn't used to until my first day at The Strat. Not many people work in an environment like that. I was and am very fortunate.

I had this same issue when I graduated from school and moved away from my friends in Varsity Choir. We were so tight knit that I literally had to cut some ties so that it wouldn't hurt so much. Everyone back in San Antonio still had one another; they still hung out, goofed off, even recalled music that we sang years before and sang their hearts out together. I wasn't a part of that. I am not a part of that. I had and have university, a new life to embrace, one that I would have preferred to include my old friends and the laughter.

But this seems harder. We are all adults-- not children-- so to pick up and move or start a family or whatever it is that adults do, we can do it. All of us. And that is going to keep us apart. Some of my best friends, coworkers here at the lounge, are graduating. Some are staying though, so I'll still have people to come back to. But the unit, this family, is going to branch out, and eventually those connections will fade and be replaced with new connections, new people.

Then again, it is in my power to keep these connections alive. If I can make a long distance relationship work with Michael, I can accomplish the same task with my friends. There are so many mediums that can keep these ties double-knotted. I suppose I just fear change, when the consistencies are no longer consistent. I have always had anxieties about new environments, experiencing things that I am not used to.

Maybe this isn't goodbye. Maybe these relationships I've built will keep the anxieties away.

Maybe it took me writing this to realize that.

Tonight is my second to last night working here. I am going to try and take in every detail, embrace every encounter, and smile as hard as I can. I want to remember tonight. I want to make it worth remembering.

Let's hope someone says yes, and soon

Remember how in my last post I made the word "excited" my bitch? Well, that was because I was genuinely excited about my mom's daycare. Y'see, I didn't think it would be difficult to get people to invest in the business because my thoughts fell specifically on my grandfather and my uncles, all of whom make excellent money. What I didn't think about was that they all tend to keep it to themselves, which is sad, because my mom didn't exactly have the best childhood, so the least they could do is make up for all of the shit they put her through as a child and help her achieve her dream as an adult.

Of course, they don't and won't see it from her perspective. I can't imagine what it must be like to be abandoned over and over and over again by your family. I've heard a plethora of horror stories from my mom and aunt about how they were treated when growing up. My mom moved away from home when she was sixteen-years-old, because she couldn't stand to live under the same roof as my grandfather anymore. That's really young guys. I moved out to go to school when I just turned eighteen, which is a ripe age in my opinion. The mentality gap between sixteen and eighteen is huge. You can learn a lot about the world in two years, but I'd imagine that my mom had been fantasizing about moving out since she hit the double digits, so I don't blame her for packing her bags so early.

Grandpa didn't seem to mind. He was ready with the paint buckets the moment she walked out of the door.

From my perspective, it is really hard picturing this loving grandfather as the person who torments my mom. Ever since I was born, I've loved him and have been loved in returned. He nurtured me, cared for me, and always made sure to give me a hug and kiss before every goodbye. But when I found out his true, hateful nature, I never viewed him the same again.

People don't completely change. I've learned that the hard way.

Back to the point. On Easter my mom was preparing herself to approach my grandfather in hopes that he would take an interest in the business that she has always wanted. She brought it up gently, mentioning how amazing the building was and that she would love for him to check it out if he had the time. But immediately, without second thought, the topic was dismissed. He deliberately changed the subject to show just how disinterested he was in helping her. When she turned to my grandmother, she shrugged and told her that my grandfather doesn't like getting involved in family's financial affairs. My aunt, who had witnessed what had happened, was not surprised. No one was. Not even my mom.

But later that night, when everyone had left and we were cleaning up, Mom seemed sluggish and had a hard time smiling. I immediately knew what was wrong and I'm sure I made it worse with my open rants about Grandpa, which I suddenly regret now. In my defense, watching the woman who birthed me's dreams slowly begin to deteriorate because of the man that made her life a living hell years ago just tore me apart. I was furious at my grandfather, who only uses his money to update his electronics and lets the rest sit in his bank account until grandma goes on one of her huge shopping sprees, which is usually like every week. It's selfish, just selfish. (Or maybe I'm being selfish. It is HIS money, but come ON). Oh, and I'm sure he'll expect Father's Day to be a big event that revolves around him. He's pretty needy on his birthday too. It's sad.

I'm glad I live an hour away from he who used to be my neighbor, because I don't know if I could hold my tongue around that man. But my mom, over time, seems to be more and more content with his answer.

"It's okay," she reassured. "When the zombie apocalypse happens, he'll be running to my door, and the first thing I am going to say is, 'So you need me now?'"

Oh Mom. I really hope someone helps you. I'd hate to have a heap of dead family members at our door when zombies inhabit the earth.

The one thing I can't afford to be delusional about

It is not abnormal for a college-student-run blog to start suffering when studying becomes a constant around exam time. It is also to be expected to have less time to post when health becomes an issue. Right now, both pose as issues that have been keeping me from keeping DtD up to date, so I figure I should offer a little insight as to why my schedule no longer has post subjects written in for every other day, except for today of course, which has in all caps:

"POST ON BLOG ABOUT WHY YOU SUCK AT POSTING THIS MONTH."

See, I was diagnosed with iron deficiency anemia when I was in high school. It all started with my Algebra II class junior year. My grades were beginning to suffer because it became a chore to concentrate. I got enough sleep, I wasn't necessarily bored in class, I simply could not focus. So, like most kids in high school who can't concentrate, I was diagnosed with ADD. The medication seemed to help keep me focused for longer stretches of time, but then I began to feel weak, lethargic, and incredibly shaky. Something wasn't right. That was when I went to the doctor and had my blood drawn for testing. (Worst clinic visit ever. They poked me ten times before they were able to find a good vein. Last resort was through the top of my hand, and it hurt like a motherfucker.) A week later I got the results and I was told that my iron levels were dangerously low. I was anemic.

This anemia has been a reoccurring issue since then. I take supplements until my levels test out as normal, then I take a break (you can actually overdose on iron if you are not careful), and the anemia comes right back into my life like a weight pressing down on me, keeping me from fully enjoying life the way that I want to. When a friend asks if I want to go running, I have to pass for fear of fainting. When my dizzy spells begin to dictate what I can and can't do, I feel incredibly limited and weak.

It has been exactly a year since I started taking the concentrated iron, and I feel worse than ever. I fainted at work in front of my customers, and let me tell you, it was not something I could laugh off. I was mortified. I even had a spell in my room while sitting at my window. I was not being physical what-so-ever. Everyone and their mom agreed that another visit to the doc was necessary.

On Tuesday I traveled to San Antonio and fasted for a blood test. When I sat down with the family doctor and explained what was going on, she looked incredibly concerned and asked that I lay down for the entirety of the visit. They took an EKG (if you have never had an EKG, they make you strip and hook you up to a machine that monitors your heart, it's not something you want to get used to) and blood samples, nothing that I have never experienced before. Then she sat down with me and gave me two referrals: a cardiologist, and a neurologist. Immediately, I was terrified.

Y'see, I am not a big fan of doctors, stemming from an experience of mine last year. My Dad lost his business due to a shitty economy, so we no longer could afford health insurance. So instead, I went to a doctor on campus, someone affordable who could still help me.

"How can I help you?" he asked.

"Hi. A few years ago I was diagnosed with a severe iron deficiency and since I haven't been feeling myself lately, I just wanted to check my iron levels to see if I have improved any since then."

The man was hesitant, but performed the blood tests. When he called my cell phone and asked me to return to the clinic, I of course was concerned. "I don't think you are anemic. I think you have thalassemia."

"What the heck is that?"

"Well, your blood cells are abnormally shaped. It's like sickle cell, only this is a Mediterranean disease."

"My Mom has some Spanish in her..."

"That might be it. We need to test to make sure."

For one entire month, I was asked to return to the clinic weekly for blood tests, X-Rays, physical exams. You name it, I did it. By the end of the month, the doctor concluded that I was anemic. What. The. Fuck.

I was drained, literally.

He did, however, refer me to a cardiologist for more extensive exams, but I was broke, so that was not an option. Plus, I was way too pissed off at this doctor to continue treatments, so I abandoned the clinic altogether and just stuck to the concentrated iron. But when I went to Alaska, and was so weak, Michael was tempted to bring me to the emergency room, but me, not wanting to make a fuss, refused. However, after I fainted at work, enough was enough. So here I am: confused, weak, angry, wanting answers, and generally exhausted.

I haven't made the appointments just yet because I have not received the results for my blood test from a few days ago, and the wait is killing me.

Yes, for once, I have an excuse. On top of all of this, I have exams to study for. I will keep you updated when I can, and even entertained with some potential guest posts. If you are interested in helping me out, please email me at JessRolin@gmail.com. I appreciate all of you and your never ending support. I don't care what other bloggers claim. I have the best group of followers, period. Let's just hope that this is temporary.

Love you all,

J-Roll

Little pieces of bad news can have huge consequences

When I first figured out what it was that I wanted to do with my life, I knew that there was a chance that someday I would be putting all of my effort into a project only to discover that someone managed to get the same idea out into the world before I could. But nothing can prepare a writer for such a disappointment, especially when they thought that their idea was one hundred percent original.

I found that out the hard way today when a friend of mine asked about my musical and revealed to me that what I thought to be a unique idea was actually the opposite.

I guess that I am going to have to look at the hours that I put into the musical as a method of warming up for a bigger project in the future, something even greater than this first attempt. But I can't help but feel an ache in my chest whenever I think about how anxious I was to get the musical finished. All of the deadlines in my schedule book are useless now I guess. No use continuing with something that will get me nowhere.

Once I finish the short story due in my creative writing class this Wednesday and midterms have passed, I'll focus on one of my other projects during Spring Break. Or I'll just read a good book. I haven't done that in a while.

This really sucks. But hey, life goes on.

Vampires DON'T sparkle

The closer I get to finishing this musical, the closer I get to the reality of whether or not it is going to take me places. Sometimes I find myself awake at night because of insecurities that eat away at me until I settle on the idea of giving up and getting a different, realistic hobby. Like... um...

Okay. So I'm not really good at anything else. I've been told that I can sing, but that is just as unrealistic as convincing myself that I can make it in this world with my ideas alone. But they are really good ideas. At least I think they are, until those insecurities creep up on me again and try to convince me that I am wasting my time and should just settle on something easier, like a steady paying job. But that's no fun. I don't mind being a starving artist. I don't care about how much money I pocket from these projects. I just want to have my ideas and stories out in the world for people to enjoy. I cannot express to you enough how much of a struggle it is for me to keep all of these ideas and stories in my head. Eventually I am going to run out of room because everything seems to have the potential to be inspiration for a story. But sometimes insecurities outweigh inspiration.

Recently I found out that Michael's Mom thinks that my writing is mediocre, nothing special. Along with my previous demons, those words played in repetitions in my mind and weighed down on my shoulders as I continued to push myself to work on these projects. The more they beat on my confidence, the more it showed in my content. I was discouraged, and even contemplated giving up on my blog. I had let the devil on my shoulder win, which makes me think about all of the writers with potential out there who let their demons take hold of them. How many books weren't published because some writer stopped before finishing? How many poems? How many works of art have I not seen because someone's demons silenced their creativity?

That's when the angel on my shoulder stepped in. She called these insecurities "vampires." They'd suck away my confidence and leave me bled dry of what made me, well, me.

Thank you Bloggess.

Since listening to this song, I've really made progress on the musical. The vampires still lurk outside of my door, but I'm well equipped with garlic and crucifixes. I assume they won't be returning to haunt me anytime soon. Die Vampire Die!

So I've come to one conclusion. Vampires DO NOT sparkle. YOU do when you overcome them.

Bliss before the storm

I often think back on the moment I decided that I would transfer schools to be closer to Michael. That whole week, there had been this proposal for me to move to Alaska weighing down on my shoulders and I had spent the entirety of that week identifying the pros and cons of said proposal. I had told Michael that I couldn't do it and I named off every excuse in the book with ease. But then I would return to the subject the very next day because it had never truly been put to rest in my mind. The idea persistently poked and prodded at me, even when I thought that I had finally made up my mind. The reason that it bothered me so much to say no was because it was actually possible for me to go.

It just not practical, realistic or a smart choice to make.

Life is on my mind

Day 8 (but not really day 8): A moment you felt most satisfied with your life.

I strangely find this a difficult question to answer, mostly because I experience a sense of satisfaction, though many are fleeting, everyday. Sometimes it occurs when I wake up, sometimes it occurs just before falling asleep. Most times the satisfaction finds me on my trips to and from school. Driving on the country roads that overlook the hill country really give me a chance to reflect on what I have.

I have a loving boyfriend

I have a supporting family

I am doing well in school and graduate next year

I am crazy about my job and coworkers.

I have already started writing, even if it is for myself, it's still something!

I have more than I could ever ask for. Though I frequently complain about the downfalls of each and everyday, I am still fortunate and incredibly happy with my life. I am not claiming that every aspect of my existence is or was picture perfect, but I most certainly will say with confidence that I am very satisfied with how things are working out for me. It will be better when I graduate. Then I can start traveling. If life's amazing now, imagine how it'll be when I am with Mike?! God, I can't wait to graduate and get the Hell out of here.

Oh! There I go again. I'm totally happy. Compleeetely satisfied.

Prepare to be spammed, blog.

I am here to announce to the world/internet that I am about to attempt what most buzzed, highly distracted, and chat room immersed young adults, like myself, consider to be the unthinkable. I am going to do my homework (I don't have class tomorrow so that makes me an overachiever) and catch up on the many blog topics that I have yet to post because I have been too busy being lazy chatting on 20sb. Can you tell that I am feeling productive today?

Plus, I actually feel like I've let my readers and myself down for not keeping to the challenge, so I figure now is a great time to commit to something I've already committed to, and what better way to do so by starting with the topic I have been dreading all week? Let the religious talk commence!

(Deep breath)
Day whatever: Your views on religion.

Honestly, I don't think I am ready to even be honest with myself about my own views. I am at a stage in my life where talking to someone or something that I feel has never heard my prayers in the first place is a little ridiculous. However, my want to believe in something is very strong. I expect that with time, I will find myself comfortable with a set of beliefs that suit me. Either I have to search for it or the faith will be delivered to me instead. Right now, I am more focused on finding myself and believing in myself.

If their is a God, I'm sure He is patient and will wait for me as I have been waiting for him. We just have to find one another at the right moment. Right now is not that moment.

I still get a sense of wonder and respect when I enter a church, and surprisingly, the feeling gives me hope that perhaps God never left me. I lose that hope during prayer though. I feel empty and even look forward to the Amen so I can stop pretending that I am speaking with God. I have not and never have experienced any connection with Him. When people tell me to thank God for my success and for what I have, I think to myself, "But I worked for these things, not him." Why give credit to something that has never seemed to help me before? As a step to being honest with myself, I have to admit that for a while I believed that religion as a whole was kind of silly. Now I crave a sense of spiritual direction and faith. I am tired of believing that you only have yourself in the end. I am just afraid that if I do end up believing in something, I'll just be let down and feel more alone than I had before.

For a long time I've followed blindly in the shadow of my family's faith because I feared that if I strayed, I would be looked at as the different one, the one that they all had to save from the flames. I didn't want all eyes on me and if all eyes ever were on me, I would hope that it would be for something they could be proud of me for.

But in the end, I guess what they have chosen to believe and what I choose to believe should not depend on or dictate the other. I just want to be at peace with this. Until then, I'm agnostic like I have been since high school, because humans all need labels and I'm sure whoever created this damn challenge had a label implied when they asked about our views on religion.

...And now I resent you challenge. Curse you for making me be honest with myself! I am going to finish you just to spite you!

What day is it again?

I have been putting off this post all day. At first I was excited. I logged on as soon as the shouts of children outside of my door and the crash of plastic toys colliding became too much for my REM cycle and it decided that enough was enough. I was still a little out of it and I vaguely even remember logging on. That's how pumped I was to post today. My subconscious acted for me.

Then I saw the topic that I was supposed to write on and I chose to study instead.

Now that I am finished studying and have already put off writing with another DVD of That 70's Show, I am faced with a dilemma presented on the computer screen I so frequently visit. Either I write the truth for fear that my friends and family will be exposed to something I've managed to keep somewhat under wraps, or let loose a secret that defines a period of my life that I am not very proud of.

So here's the topic: A time I thought about ending my own life. 

Here we go.

Freshmen year of high school was a disaster. The school year started off with a phone call from a friend telling me that my ex-boyfriend from two years previous had died in a car accident. I took his death very hard. What made it worse was that specific friend reminding me that before his passing, he had planned to ask her out. I was bitter toward her for a while after that. His interest in her was all she seemed to recollect about his life, and she flaunted it. But every night that led up to his funeral, I was wounded by the regret of not trying harder to make it work between us. Maybe then I would be happy like I was when I was with him. Maybe then he wouldn't have sneaked out for a late night drive.

I decided not to attend his funeral for one reason: the last time I saw him, he was smiling and laughing and was asking me to write something in his yearbook. I don't remember what I wrote, but I hope it reminded him of what a wonderful person I thought he was. I knew that if I went to his funeral, that would have been the last picture of him ingrained in my memory, and I didn't want that for either of us. He deserved to be remembered in the way that I remember him now.

As time heals most, it healed me, but only after a series of events occurred that warped my views on life, friendship, and love. My attitude had darkened and remained so for an extended period of time. My friends had little patience for it and cut contact with me. I was encouraged to end my own life by someone whose heart I had apparently broken. My friends practically dared me to do it, but did not fail to mention that they would not be attending my funeral if I had done so. I guess they had a different philosophy on funerals than I had. My parents' relationship was facing a rough patch that was not easily overcome. All of this hit me like a train, and I deteriorated beneath it.

Mom mentioned therapy. My therapy was my writing. Staring off into space helped too sometimes.

The idea of ending my own life occurred frequently during that time. With my friends gone, I had no one to talk to about what I was going through. They had all blocked my number and ducked away from me in the halls at school. The only person who had stuck around to pick up the pieces was an ocean away and was the boyfriend of one of the girls who stopped talking to me. He tried his best to keep his interactions with me under wraps for fear of more unwarranted conflict, but eventually I didn't hear from him either. I fantasized about dying, and out of spite did I envision all of these people attending my funeral, feeling sorry for every time they had ever hurt me or left me alone to deal with myself. I wanted to die to pass my suffering onto them. I wanted them to feel the way that they had made me feel, but worse. I felt so much and so little at the same time. It is an emotion as twisted and as undefinable as love. You simply have to experience it to know what it is.

That was when I cut myself. At school, I saw lines embedded in teen wrists all of the time and I scoffed, believing that the cuts were a cry for attention, that they were pathetic.

And they are cries for attention. But when I cut myself, I wasn't doing it in hopes of bleeding out, and I wasn't doing it so that people at school or at home would see them. I did not wear the cuts like trophies as some people do.

I hid them.

I was ashamed of them.

I hated them.

I hated myself for making them.

I was just so desperate for some other form of pain to distract me from what I was feeling. It worked too. For a moment I wasn't so focused on losing a friend, being lonely, being ignored, or possibly living in a divided house. I was focused on the shame of making myself bleed for the sake of having a temporary release from everything. The worst is that the scars are still there, always reminding me of what I went though and what I was willing to do to myself to escape from it.

Recently I had a friend who mentioned wanting to chug bleach. I was on that situation like nobody's business. My own experiences led me in that direction. I had to be the friend that I didn't have so many years ago. But when I called my other friends to ask if they had heard anything from this friend, I received a series of aggravating responses.

"Oh, she'll be fine. She does this a lot."


"It doesn't mean anything. She won't do it."


"Well do you want me to go over there? ...I'm kind of busy."

I was disgusted. I was angry. I was terrified. And it reminded me of when I was crying out for help and no one showed up to do so because they didn't take me seriously enough to be concerned for me.

My advice here is directed to those who have a friend who is in the rut and obviously needs help. Do not ignore them, because their cries for you could be communicated in different ways. Maybe they get mad at you more often. They might even yell at you. They might even ask you to leave them alone. But do not let them get to the point of wanting to die. They may fight you the entire time, and they could hate you after all is said and done, but as a friend you did your job. You kept them alive. You don't get a trophy for doing so, but helping a friend overcome a trial like that should be good enough.

Ways of contacting me are littered all over this damn site. If you are or feel alone and are facing something that seems impossible to overcome, please, email me. Talk to me. If the people around you fail to be a friend, I will gladly step in and substitute for them. Remember, help comes in many forms. I may not be able to offer physical consolation, but as a writer, I will gladly offer to you my words.

So now you know.

(Okay, I know. I fail at following directions. That is why I drove boss man back at work insane during my first month at the lounge. But I am sorry kids. I put too much effort into this, so the rules of the challenge are just going to have to be broken. Plus, I read the challenge while half asleep. You can't blame me. But don't worry, I will cover religion tomorrow. Maybe. I would rather talk about THIS than religion right now. Stupid funeral protesters can kiss my gay friendly and soldier supporting ass.)

Day One: Me & Michael

Firstly, in reference to the BIG FAT LIE on my previous post, I am sorry that I did not start the challenge yesterday as promised. I passed out while watching Red Forman hate on Eric. What's new?

So here we go.

Day One of Super Awesome Challenge:
"Describe your current relationship. If single, describe how single life is."

As most of my avid readers know already, I am in a relationship with a Coastie who is currently studying in Petaluma, CA to become an EMT. What all of you do not know is how our relationship came to be. The story is messy, chaotic, and as some say, "could totally be a romance novel." I agree with all of these descriptions. But it is easier to round the five years we spent as friends online into a few words. The difficult part is really spelling it out for people who do not understand the dynamics of meeting people virtually. It is scary as Hell and can really warp your sense of who is person is and who you fantasize them to be.

The difference is that when I met Michael online, he was everything I had already fantasized the man of my dreams to be: intelligent, relaxed, understanding, mysterious, charming, and compassionate. I say mysterious because I don't want him to give everything away on day one, but meeting someone online? Well, it comes with the territory. Then again, how can you truly know someone online? Well, at first, I really didn't. But the more we talked the more we opened up to one another. God, did I fall hard.

But what can I say? He lived in New York and I was a Texan girl still working on graduating high school.

We both found relationships elsewhere, but remained good friends... with a lot of tension remaining between us. I won't discuss the nature of the tension, but let's just say that eventually, it made being in a relationship with someone else very difficult for the both of us. (Not THAT kind of tension, perverts.)

It was a rotten situation for all sides and it was unfair for my boyfriend at the time, but the realization that I deserved better was gifted to me by his actions, not my own. It is hard to stay true to oneself while staying true to another, but I managed to do so successfully until the relationship that I was involved in collapsed in on itself years later. It was then, though I was devastated, that I found it easier to decider the code in my head that disguised what (or in this case, WHO) I was really made for and who was made for me.

Last March we both found ourselves available, and it was then, after all of the waiting, that he decided that enough was enough. During all of the years we spent apart, Michael enlisted in the Coast Guard and was sent to Homer, Alaska for a two year period of buoy tending. And let me tell you, it's not an easy job guys. But he still made time for me, a whole week of leave to be exact. He bought me a plane ticket to fly up there so we could finally know. There was doubt, this fear that maybe we were fooling ourselves. But I was most vulnerable to the even scarier thought of never knowing. I was also still in pieces from the previous and fresh break up.

The moment I saw him was like the moment on the ice in the movie Serendipity. Oh yeah. I found my soul mate kids. What makes me giddy is knowing that this is just the beginning.

A not so Merry Christmas after all

My brief hiatus from Blogger was justified I assure you. I say this with extreme distaste because after being forced back into Texas against my will and due to the many brief instances of bad luck that followed, I was pretty set on something going my way. Just a little bit. It's the holidays. So I thought that Mike flying down from New York on Sunday would have satisfied my desire for something good to happen. But I was wrong. You see, shit cloud decided to disguise itself as a blizzard and poo snow all over the Northeast instead, keeping Mike stranded at the airport and unable to fly at all because the planes were grounded. There was nothing that we could do. Ugh.

I took it hard at first. The night that he was supposed to fly in I kept taking note of the time, counting down to 6:14 when his plane was supposed to land. The wait was unbearable because I knew that reality wouldn't set in until 6:14 had come and gone. When it did, the sadness was somewhat alleviated. Amber came over with wine and whiskey and stayed to raise my spirits. My parents tried to make me feel better by making me laugh. They all tried so hard. We played board games, sat outside and talked. But my mind wandered to more creative ways to make the situation feel even more unmanageable. The entirety of the night I couldn't help but think, "Mike could be sitting next to me right now" or "Mike would have laughed at that too." Later that night when everyone retired to their rooms, I thought "he should be sleeping next to me tonight."

Fuck you snow.

The next day when Amber left I found that I had little motivation to take the time to do anything productive. I immersed myself in video games and liquor, which was what I did the previous night minus the video games. I was supposed to be taking care of my apartment situation, which is a mess. I also needed to drive into town to get my Jeep inspected. There are a variety of things that I was supposed to be taking care of, but all I wanted to do was sleep and wait until after Thursday so the "what ifs" would go away.

Now that it's Wednesday I'm feeling alright- well, in a relatively better state than before I suppose. Booze, friends, and laughs were involved. Many laughs. An entire night dedicated to nostalgia and a good time. Now I understand why Mike's schedule fills up so fast when we're not together. Distractions are key to escape. I envied him for that for a while, but now that I got my own taste of what it is like to run away from the situation for a night, I can't be upset anymore. He's hurting too.

I figured that a week of posts dedicated to the sadness I've been experiencing would really force some of my readers away. No one likes a downer. So I figure the best way to go about getting over it is to write it out in one post and move on to bigger and better things. Funnier things. Things that make no sense. Y'know, the usual shit I rant about. But in the end this is a Blog about my life and right now things aren't going smoothly. So here's my crash ya'll. The lowest of the low. Everyone has been telling me that my luck can only get better from here, but that was frequently preached after the New York incident so I am preparing myself for the worst. It can always get worse. But that does not mean I'm not hoping for things to get better.

In the end, I still have Michael. I still have love. That's all that matters.

I'll Be Home For Christmas: The Darker Side of the Tree

If you have been following my posts chronologically for the past few months, especially during the month of October when I was preparing to fly to Alaska, you'd be caught up on how difficult it was to communicate to my family that I was ready to start my life with Michael. I'm not a Mother, I've never been a parent or a figure of the sort, so I acknowledge the fact that I won't understand their discomfort with the idea until later on when I do decide to have children.

But when you are ready to break away from an adolescent lifestyle and actually make some big decisions about your future with someone you love, it's very hard to give the people who disagree with the changes the time of day. However, on this trip I have discovered that there will always be opinions that you may not agree with, but they still deserve a listening ear.

I have enough respect for the situation to not share all of the details with my readers, which I am sorry about, because there is a lot that I want to say that I really just can't. I will tell you that my trip to New York was unexpectedly cut short due to some family conflicts caused by a variety of miscommunications, but there is nothing I can really do about it now. I am back in Texas, doing my best to cope with what has happened, while Mike remains in New York with his family during the holidays. The worst part, other than the fear of his family disliking me, is the forced separation. I have never felt so much resistance within me when standing in line for security at the airport. When I passed the threshold, and Mike watched me walking away from a distance, I could feel an absence within me. Something left me when I let go of his hand. More left me when I saw his face. I don't know what I took home with me, but I'm convinced that it's not much.

Luckily there were some friendly faces awaiting me when I got home. I have great friends. It was also nice to see my Mom, who insisted that I share a bed with her because Dad is out of town and she missed me.

I have updated you the best I can without overstepping my boundaries, so I guess this serves as a warning that I might not be as peppy as I usually am. I think my blog and my readers will help me heal. Hopefully that happens before Christmas.

When the walls come down, what is left?

Sometimes I feel terrible about the bullshit I put Mike through with my insecurities. I mean, it's nearly impossible to not let your fears reflect in the way you go about handling things. Even if you have a strong will, I'd imagine because you are a homo sapien that you'd slip up once in a while, even if all of your defenses are intact. The more I try to be less vulnerable, the more I make myself vulnerable. God, who am I kidding? I am always vulnerable. My walls were destroyed ages ago and I've never been motivated to rebuild them. And even if said metaphorical walls were in existence, they wouldn't be very stable.

My problem is that I don't want to pretend that something doesn't bother me, because then I feel like I'm lying. Even if that philosophy withstands for a few minutes and I say that I'm alright when I'm not, I always end up slipping because Mike has evolved to the point of seeing right through me. My transparency bothers me. Don't most women want their significant other to be able to pinpoint when something is wrong?

I'm not sure how I feel about it. I'm torn between wanting to be heard and wanting my emotions to remain behind lock and key for fear of a reaction- mostly mine. For years I was stuck in a situation where my partner didn't care or respond to the way I felt about things that he would do or say. The moment I'd open my mouth, the TV's volume would instead boom over my voice. I then grew accustomed to dealing with my own shit. Alone. And I feel like all of those things began to eat away at me inside and I am just now beginning to recover from all of the damage that was inflicted over the course of two years. It's not fair to Mike that he has to deal with my shit while I recoup, because it reflects frequently in our relationship.

From my 2 cents

If Mike walks ahead of me on the sidewalk, I remember how the other man never wanted to walk beside me, never wanted to hold my hand. Then I feel hollow, like for a split second history is about to repeat itself, and I mentally plead for Mike not to ask me what is wrong because I just know that no matter the issue, if it involves the other man, it will hurt him. He will get frustrated, but I won't be able to see that because he is not so transparent. He's a sturdy brick wall, and I crumble like aged chalk that turns to dust with contact.

I strive to move beyond this so I can fully enjoy what Michael and I share, because if I don't, something is going to deteriorate. Something I don't want to.

Insecurities taking over again

( So last night I couldn't manage to get a signal for the interwebz, so here is the blog entry I typed up last night, which seems completely stupid now that I've met his family. )

12/04/10
1:00 am in Seattle, Washington

I thought meeting the boy's family was supposed to be easier for the girl. I have witnessed my Dad, my Brother, both of my Grandfathers and all of my Uncles make threat after threat to my previous boyfriends. Each and every one of them were shaken to the core. I mean, I have the stereotypical Texan Father. With a beer in one hand, and a gun in the other, he will make any man whose eyes have strayed in my direction cry. All the men on my side are protective to the point of possible warranted therapy.

But I have been scared shitless for the last month because I have no idea what to expect from a large Italian/Irish family in New York. I am going to be the awkward girl from the South. My last experience of "meeting the family" included screaming, getting kicked out of the house, a lecture from his Step Mom about how she thinks that her son spent too much money on me, etc. It was chaos. Absolute chaos. And I'm aggravated that all of those experiences reflect in my view of meeting Mike's family.

Because this is the meeting that matters.

Paranoia aside, I'd like to let everyone know that my Alaskan adventure has officially come to an end. I am sorry that I didn't keep ya'll up to date on everything that I had seen and done, especially considering the fact that I can't upload my pictures until I get back to Texas in January. I have so many stories to share, but I am going to have to share them when I have more time. I'm currently in Seattle, Washington with Michael at the airport, waiting for our early morning flight to New York. Flying all day drained my motivation to share said stories through this medium. 

God I need sleep. Maybe I'll dream up some way to not make a fool of myself when I met his Mother in twelve hours.

Reviving the past to put it to rest

Writing a book about yourself can be easy if done right. Everything is from your perspective, so it is simple to stay consistent with your main character because the main character is you. The difficult part, which I discovered today, is writing about the darker times in which life was not so friendly. The moment you put it on paper, every time you proofread, you relive it.

It’s the past. You are supposed to learn, let go, and move on. But when you write it out, it become further ingrained, and you are forced to think about it more. When it’s written out, it’s available to anyone willing to read it. It makes it so permanent and because of that it will be impossible to forget those memories. Maybe when my story is out in the world, hopefully mass produced, my readers will be able to experience it all with me. Maybe then, when I read my own words, I won't feel so alone.

But isn't that the point? Sharing your experiences with others so people can relate to them? I hope that I am doing a favor to some by reliving everything all over again. Then it will be worth it. Then I can let go.

Some Things Never Change

I have been friends with these girls for almost ten years and I still haven't grown out of making that face when everyone gathers together for a group picture, which is a rarity these days. When I leave, I will no longer be a part of those pictures, if they ever do happen in my absence. So I am going to take the time to write something to these girls who have been the glue that held me together for so long.

Do not ever lose your love for one another, no matter how much you have to tolerate or stress about. It is hard maturing into a different person while maintaining friendships with people who are changing too. Interests conflict, point of views shift, lifestyles alter. Sometimes we are so different it is hard to relate to people who helped define your childhood. But that feeling of closeness always returns with a "remember when?" So even if life leads you elsewhere, even if separating yourself is necessary for the sake of your sanity, never lose that love. I can't claim to be able to count our arguments on one hand. Some seem stupid now. But in the end, when the feud dies, we always go back to how we were: friends. Even after threats have been made and lines have been crossed.

No matter how long we go without speaking, you will be my bridesmaids, you will be the people that I call when I am starting my family, the girls that I cry to when I miss my sailor, my backing if things take a turn for the worst. Always. But if you let that love slip away, that gift that comes so rare these days will be lost to you. Friendship is so fleeting. So is love. We have both.

Is it hot in here?

I know that it was expected that I would have to take the heat from this recent change in direction for the rest of this year, but my fingers are singed from the flame. So just know that when I type this, it is excruciatingly painful and you should be lucky that I am writing this at all because I am bleeding all over the keyboard and that can't be hygienic.

There is really not much to say other than I'm sad. I'm sad because of the reactions I received throughout the day. I am sad because there is this idea being nurtured that I should have to defend myself when it comes to making a decision of this magnitude. And not only that, I am sad that people gave me so much encouragement when the idea was premature, then right as I made this leap of faith, they pulled back and questioned me.

The worst part is, I'm letting it bother me. But maybe it should. I don't know.

When I leave for Alaska, I'm hope to be leaving behind something that has plagued me since I was a little girl- doubt. Beforehand I used to contemplate the idea, toying with it in my head. I always pulled back self consciously because I was afraid of everyone's reactions. "What would everyone think?" I never once thought to myself "what if it never works out between us?" Doesn't that say something? I was tentative because of my fear of what other people would think and was focused on that rather than Mike himself.

But maybe the fear was just, because it is happening as I had expected it to. Sorry NASA, the mushroom cloud of rage is my fault.

Okay honey, step away from that noose and let's talk.

I really cannot wrap my head around the fact that when some people are going through a tough stage in their lives, they immediately succumb to this notion that no one on Earth has ever felt or experienced what they have. And they voice this with pointed fingers when you reach out to pull them out of the shithole they dug themselves. I don't know whether to laugh at them or feel sorry for them. I don't know whether to help them or throw my hands up and say "fuck it!" You cannot help those who seek pity, not advice. I would like to believe that I am in complete understanding when I am feeling down that there are people out there who feel the same way. It took me a while to get to this point, but I'm here now, and it's refreshing. Either that, or I need a reality check too.

Please, please, please do not let yourself fall so deep in this hole that you cannot accept reality when someone is trying to give it to you, because if this is a reoccurring state you put yourself in, you are going to be one lonely, lonely person.