today I am wearing your shirt.

it is hidden beneath a thick, bulky sweater
because I need something you to hold on to, to physically feel.
I feel this inane need to protect it from the gaze of strangers
who wouldn't even know it was yours,
who wouldn't know your shirt
from my shirt
from any old shirt anywhere
and who wouldn't care.

it is hot today,
unseasonably so,
and I am buried in this mammoth sweater,
sweating, for
no
fucking
reason,
waiting in a frenzied haze of shallow breathing
and racing thoughts
for a response, any response,
to the fragile, pathetic little message my fingers sent before my brain could intervene that asked
quietly,
meagerly,
pitifully
are you going to break up with me?

my brand of feminism is riddled with misogyny

everything is laughter and foreplay until i suddenly remember how much i hate the way my voice sounds
and my fucking laugh
and i want to get my chin reshaped
and my nose
and i have split ends
and i need collagen in my top lip
and just as i'm thinking that i hate my body
you tell me i'm beautiful.
i try to smile but i mostly just wince
and i know
what a privilege it is
to look in the mirror and see the only thing standing in my way
and whine about it in my blog.

on April 20th it said: tell us about the last person who hurt you

And where shall I begin?
With the cruelty of his grin or the anger in his elbows?
Or our hundred million sorrows?
The faults that weigh his shoulders down?

Or tell you where my mind is now -
the sweetness in his lying eyes,
the painful gaps between troubled sighs,
the guilty gasps between her thighs,
the dissonance of our demise.

My mind constructs our arguments,
reiterates the same laments, retaliates with force enough
to block out our destructive love.

this convoluted elementary school history lesson riddled with inaccuracies brought to you by Bravo

the alarm took me by surprise at two o'clock this morning,
interrupting the utter silence with the way it howled through the town,
slow and sad and warning.
I wondered what it sounded like 100 years ago
when British soldiers burned my sleepy little village to the ground,
and I could see men crawling in through the windows
and pulling us out by our hair, me and my sleeping mother, to set our lives on fire.
though I'm sure that isn't how it happened,
it felt real
until the alarm stopped
and I started thinking again about the episode of the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills I had just watched
and what a bitch that Lisa Vanderpump is.

in which everything is perfect except for one thing

the way you purposely do things just to make me laugh
and extol the virtues of my features
every time I get sad
and you take me to the zoo on my birthday
(because I fucking hate my birthday, but I fucking love the zoo)
and you take me out so I can finally wear that ruffly nude dress that was too short for my cousin's wedding
and you put on a tie
(even though you'd prefer to just keep your tee shirt on)
and when I collapse into bed,
you take me by the hand and turn on Billie Holiday singing "The Very Thought of You"
and dance around the room
and we stay up all night
until 4:00am when we stumble out to my car
and drive and drive and drive
and finally stop
and I have to pull away without you.

what it takes (i guess)

not the death of two (younger) siblings;
the first a 23 year old sister struck by a car on her nightly run,
the second a brother in his 50s,
who came home from work
to take a nap on the couch
and lose his battle with lung cancer,
leaving his wife with three growing sons and no means to pay the bills,
or the death of both parents:
the sudden diagnosis and the rapid way it took her mother,
the lengthy decline of her father who held on to the bitter end,
keeping his grandchildren awake in fits of giggles with his loud, middle-of-the-night singing
and other equally amusing side effects of senility.
nor 30-odd years of struggling to pay the bills,
while feeding and clothing and raising six (SIX!) daughters
on the income of an exhausted, overworked husband.

no, no
it was my sister,
23 and fickle,
breaking up with her Catholic boyfriend of four years without a care in the world
to drive across the country with a 20 year old redhead
some punk kid she met in a bar
that at last drove my stoic martyr -- i mean mother -- to tears
that she was not too ashamed to silently bury into her pillow
and then deny afterwards.

we met at a wedding

and spent the night in drunken conversation.
we were both nursing broken hearts,
finishing summers spent wallowing in the senselessness of loving the disloyal.
you laughed at my clumsy youth through the haze of vodka tonics
while i wondered if you'd kiss me.

months and months and months of
s l o w l y
getting to know each other,
trading secrets and ideas
while i pretended not to notice
you pretending not to notice
that i had purposely unbuttoned my shirt.

fastforwardto:

four in the morning
when you whisper my name so quietly that i wonder if you're hoping i'm asleep,
and my response comes out so urgently it sounds as if i was afraid it would get stuck in my throat.
you inhale
and everything but my heart stops,
fixes in place for years
until you speak.

"i love you."


the world picks up again, only now
there is no one in it but you.

Grazed Knees

They warn you not to go to bed angry,

but I've found it usually works:

time and sleep and silence cure my ailments.

But this morning I opened my eyes

with my fists still clenched and my heart still compressed

and ugly inside things

clawing at my rib cage

and climbing my throat,

trying to push themselves out of my mouth and,

finding my jaw unwilling to loosen,

they settle for second best and burn my tongue.

I sit boiling, rigid, and hell-bent on containment,

and finally see why you tell me

anger is a wasted emotion.

Lost in my Mind

It started with the way you -

where did it start? -

perhaps it was the smile,

no, I think it was the accent that shows up for certain, specific vowel sounds,

and then I think it was that look you get sometimes-

that momentary dissolution into reaction

that I find so charming that I often feel unable to resist the urge

to say bizarre little things

just to watch you delight over them, for an instant or so.

My head is running away from me

and taking all my good sense with it.

A Nervous Tic Motion of the Head to the Left

Nothing nothing nothing

sounds the way I want it to

or says the things I want to say

without telling the whole internet

all my dirty secrets.

Don't You Want to Share the Guilt?

When you are involved and he belongs to someone else,

your self becomes less of a self.

You only get fragments.

At first they're the good parts:

excitement and giddiness,

until confusion seeps in, and confessions pour out

and then you get the sad parts and the mad parts.

All the while you're constructing yourself as an image,

spending hours creating an idea

made of lipstick and moisturizer and deep-conditioned ends,

so when he shows up -- late,

if he shows up --

you can smile and sympathetically nod,
offer yourself as affirmation,

until he exhausts himself of complaints

and you reach out to touch his arm

and provide a different way for him to exhaust himself.
This is what validates you.

And he pants

and he begs

and he whines,

and he's so much like an animal

he makes all men animals.

It is guilt

and control.

You torture yourself with pictures of his "real life",

consoling yourself with whatever flaws you can find to tear it apart --

she has man lips --

as if that's some sort of a sin she should be punished for.

As if you're entitled to do the punishing.

You are appearance.
He is not interested in insightful or profound,
so you dilute yourself,
hollow yourself out,
tightly contain everything you,
because he might get annoyed.

You don't get a whole person.
You are not a whole person,
You don't deserve a whole person.

He leaves over and over and over --
because you tried to be a real person,
you demanded attention that you didn't deserve,
you used the word 'feelings' --
but he always comes back,
pleading, insisting that he needs you.
This makes you feel secure.

You know it's only you because you're there,
but you like his reason better.

He gets to disappear
and leave you to contend with
all the ugly little pieces.

The Longer I Lay Here

   Two posts in one day? Talk about narcissism! But seriously people, shit's about to get real.

   I just had a long conversation with Johnny, who you may or may not remember and are welcome to catch up on here. He and I have fallen out of touch with each other, due to time, distance and the awkward stiff exchanges that have developed in their wake. It's often easier to let things fall by the wayside, to succumb to the seeming inevitability of drifting. Until today, when he pissed me off.
   I posted a dreamy facebook status about the romance of youth and letting the world break your heart, and he responded with a snarky psychoanalysis, claiming I was projecting frustration I felt with my own apathy onto the rest of the world. I responded with a sarcastic thank you for his insights, and forced myself not to send him a text message demanding that he never dare psychoanalyze me ever again, for fear of death or whatever.
   Tonight I saw him on facebook chat and decided to make a joke of it, asking very sarcastically when his interest in psychoanalysis had developed. He responded sincerely, the bitter undercurrent evidently (and fortunately) having been swallowed whole by the internet, explaining that it was an ongoing process, "sparked by the fire of self-discovery." Driven by his sincerity, I told him I was in the process of redefining my own identity and trying to overcome my fears of intimacy and communication through breaking down my mental barriers, but that it was still in its infancy and I wasn't sure "which barriers were appropriate." He responded with: "You are awesome. Honestly. I'm so glad we can talk like this and I want to support you any way I can." This led to an hour and a half of confessional honesty, a baring of egos and self-inflicted obstacles on relationships and the construction of self-images and the limits of our very similarly contained selves.
   The conversation ended with an agreement for another later in the week. Whether it will happen or not- your guess is as good as mine. Either way, I'm happy and nervous that I overcame a little bit of myself tonight. And that's one of the best things I've been able to say to myself in months.

Tell Me in the Morning

   The Weekend That Shall Forever After Be (Kind of) Remembered as The Birthday Bender


   I got drunk Friday at noon, and basically stayed that way until Sunday morning. It was the most exhausting weekend of my life.
     We spent Friday afternoon talking to the most country bartender ever, who told me about "an article" he read that was talking about sexting, explaining that there are vibrating devices your phone hooks up to that you put between your legs that are signaled every time you receive a text. The ride home was spent laughing with Sister #3, who turned 31 Friday, about how how grossly misinformed he was.
     "I wanted to be like- you have OBVIOUSLY never sexted" I gasped.
     "I know, seriously! Because THAT IS NOT WHAT HAPPENS!" she added, equally hysterical.

   Saturday we went on a Pub crawl. Bobby came along and I got so wasted that at one point I actually pointed to him and yelled to my cousin, who has read my blog via my Twitter account, "THIS IS BOBBY MCGEE! THAT'S HIM!" (Note: When you are drunk enough that you TALK ABOUT YOUR OWN BLOG, you should have stopped drinking at least an hour ago. And that wasn't even where it ended.) There was also a sing-along, which was super awesome, and at one point we talked about Pink Floyd and I insisted repeatedly that The Wall album "gets me on a level that no person EVER will. EVER. EVER." Which was true when I was fifteen. Not as much anymore.

   Then I went to Girls Night with several of my friends where I rambled nonsense and told them over and over "I broke my phone and I DON'T EVEN CARE!" 

   I dropped my phone hard enough to destroy the screen, and now I kind of do care about that. I also spilled an entire drink in my lap. I hold my liquor really, really well. Anyone want to party?

Maybe I'm Just Tired

Sometimes I miss you to the bone

in a way that keeps me up at night

you used to keep me up at night,

with your pleading and your laughing and the guilt-ridden, empty promises

you forgot to take with you

when you disappeared.

i finally shut you out

but my mind let you back in

while i was sleeping.

Waking Up and Walking Out

     For the past week I've been writing an entry in my head, a sprawling ode to self-discovery and the self-awareness I've been bathing in, a hard-earned and much-needed achievement after about a year and a half of drowning in a sea of purposelessness and lack of of identity. It's still a process, but I finally feel like I'm in motion.

   19 was a bad year for me, and 20 has been better, but hasn't been spectacular, to be honest. My last semester away at school, happening when I first started this blog, was brutal. I spent sixteen weeks anxiety-ridden and desperately lonely, fearful to leave my room, refusing to eat for days at a time. Most of the time I lay in bed, deriving a sad, singular sense of power from the hunger that spread through my limbs and settled there. I spent hours in front of the mirror, analyzing every inch of my body, determining what needed to be smaller and calculated the exact caloric content of everything I put in my mouth. I felt instantly rejected by every person I encountered, despite the fact that I almost never made any attempt to interact with anyone. The happiness I had was in Bobby and Mr. Fantasy. Bobby, being 3 months younger and, due to the times of our birthdays, a school year behind me, was away at his first semester in college. He was the first person I talked to when I woke up in the morning, and we maintained contact until one or both of us went to bed, he amusing and sustaining me with anecdotes and questions, giving me a sense of purpose and security at a time when I was totally without either. Mr. Fantasy kept me occupied in the evenings, his attention supplying me with scraps of confidence that I absorbed like a sponge. Every time I left my dorm room, panic swelled so powerfully inside of me that I could barely stop myself from shaking. I felt disconnected from everything, like I could drift away into nothingness, and no one would notice. When my sister, hearing my complaints about being bored and lonely, suggested I transfer home, it was like suddenly there was possibility again. I did the paperwork, packed and fled in a manic state of grief and fear and relief and regret.

   If school was floating, home was drowning. I sank into myself, feeling the bitter weight of my failures. Mr. Fantasy disappeared, unsurprisingly breaking the promises he'd spent the past four months making. When Bobby introduced me to his friends from school, I spent the afternoon paralyzed, begrudging his freedom and happiness, resentful of these strangers he had built a life with. I felt like I didn't belong anywhere. I was nervous, uncomfortable and frenziedly defensive. His life was just beginning, and mine was ending. I was angry with myself. I wasn't able to recognize or understand this, so I instead began searching for things to hold against him. I found them, and spent the next several weeks repeatedly thrusting them at him urgently, forcing him to apologize for innocuous statements and behaviors. He did so confusedly at first, and then with resistance, and then he finally pushed back. I withdrew completely, telling myself over and over and over again that he had committed some terrible wrong, though not bothering to invent what it had been. I was afraid at how much I had depended on him the semester before, terrified at the feeling that I needed him to get through the day.

   I spent the next nine months in miserable excess. I traded my dorm room's bed for the couch in front of the television, and ate until I felt sick, trying to consume my own grief or fill the sheer emptiness inside of me, take your pick. I hid from the mirror, catching glimpses of myself only in pictures, and being overwhelmed with disgust. I felt totally powerless. Mr. Fantasy started dating someone new. I tried not to think about it. I reconnected with Bobby, and there was awkwardness as we struggled to rebuild the relationship I had decimated. Spring ended. Mr. Fantasy proposed to his girlfriend. Summer ended.

   School and work started and I was too busy to think. I replaced meals with coffee and started hating the mirror less. Fall semester wasn't fun. I went to school all day and worked long shifts. I requested a Saturday off and Bobby came home. We went out to lunch and exploring in a park. I remembered what it felt like to be happy. That was a good day. I got the nerve to demand a day off per week. I felt like I could breathe again. Fall ended.

   Winter. Two new nieces were born. Another baby is expected in May. I'm not sure where I am now. Putting the pieces together. This semester is better. I've accumulated enough credits to graduate on time, which will be a year from now, and then I can go anywhere for my Master's. I like my classes. They're challenging and interesting. They're giving me answers to questions I've had about the world for my whole life. I've been forcing myself to look ahead when I walk, rather than at the floor. I'm searching for ways to validate myself that don't involve male attention, though I'm not sure yet what they'll be. I'm dancing as I get dressed in the morning. It's the little things, right?

A Half-Assed Post Full of Pictures Because I Missed You Guys

   I've been a terrible blogger. I'm sorry. I'm hoping to be back more often. Here's what you've been missing:

Esther moved to Florida for school. 

I miss her a lot but I'm super happy and excited for her.

I had my Annual Christmas party. This is Bobby & me posing with Santa.

Everyone said it was the best one yet, but I thought it kinda sucked. For some reason I was super uptight and kept turning the music down and making everyone use coasters. I think the problem was that I stopped drinking after like a half hour, when I clearly should have done like sixteen shots and cried or something. Ew, am I growing up or something?

Me & a lady I like at a Christmas party where she's dressed like snow & I'm the Virgin Mary.

I drank way too much, came home and threw up on the living room floor. I got mad class, yo.
(Guess I don't have to worry about that "growing up" thing I referred to back there, eh?)

New Year's Eve I wore a gold sequin sheath dress and a bird mask. 

I'm here with Bobby's sister, who is the most beautiful and coolest chick of all time.

We started drinking at 2pm. By 3:30 there were costumes and dancing. Somehow I ended up with the clown, which is so fucked up and not okay at all.

Happy New Year!