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?

Over the Hills and Far Away

   It's funny how long things can seem to stay exactly the same for so long, and then how suddenly everything seems to change all at once.
   Mr. Fantasy asked his very-recently-new girlfriend to marry him. I'm not that upset about it. I'm not sure if I'm still in shock or just over it.
   I stayed up until 7am talking to a stranger this week- I guess we're not strangers anymore. :) We met through Esther, who has been friends with him for years.  We talked about a lot of things- past relationships, religion (his unwavering faith in God, my lack thereof), and politics (again, siding with opposite beliefs).  Somehow we barely noticed the hours passing and suddenly the sun was up.
   I'm trying so hard to evolve, emotionally. I read somewhere that introverts delude themselves into thinking they don't need anyone, and therefore they internalize everything, and end up emotionally underdeveloped because of it. I'm certain I'm in this situation, and thus am struggling to develop more personal relationships where I feel comfortable divulging things. So, when he asked me questions, I answered them. For the most part.
   When he tried to share my bed in the morning, I shrugged apologetically and got up. He left, after a few embraces, and went home.

   Last night I saw him again and he seemed a lot less interested. Naturally, this caused me to be maddeningly attracted to him. The more standoffish he became, the more fervently interested I became, and at the end of the night when he went home, I went to bed in a frenzy of restlessness and laughter, peppered with self-loathing.
   I was hoping the infatuation would have worn off by the time I woke up this morning, but no such luck. All day I've been wandering around dizzy, barely able to stop smiling for longer than a minute at a time. I'm stumbling around like a damn fool.

   He'll get a name if he comes to deserve one.  So... new beginnings, anyone? :)

As Lovers Go

   Last night I (very!) unexpectedly heard from an ex; the last on my list of favorite first kisses, which was maybe the most perfect first kiss I've ever had. I guess now he needs a name; I'll call him Dear Sergio.
  We met and walked through the streets of our silent little town, eventually settling on opposite benches in the park, catching up and reminiscing simultaneously.
   "Remember when we just walked up to those random kids and lay down next to them over there," I asked, pointing to a large cement circle that serves as a fountain in the summer months.
   "Yeah, that was... Why did we do that?" he asked, and we both laughed.
   "Remember when you used to break into my car during soccer practice and take pictures of yourself wearing my clothes and send them to me?" he asked, smirking.
   "Yeah, that was awesome." 
   "No wonder I had to start locking my doors," he said, laughing, and then added "Actually, I still don't."
   I immediately began plans to sneak back into his little red car and do it all over again, before remembering he's dating someone else. They got together three days after we broke up, almost two years ago. Ouch, right?  But I understood. I was shady and scared and secretive. We were young. I was leaving for school, moving 500 miles away at the end of the summer. Our relationship was as temperamental as the constant thunderstorms we had that summer; furious, fleeting, recurring. We spent hours in each others' arms, watching them, quietly absorbing our beautiful reflection. Until he found someone who would hold his hand in front of people. Someone willing to change her relationship status on facebook. Someone who could fall in love with him. Who did.
   "A lot of crazy stuff has happened in this place," he said, motioning around us.
   "Yeah... I think I threw up on you here somewhere," I admitted.  He laughed with his typical good nature, and pointed out the place where it had happened. (I've never understood how he had any interest in dating me after that, but he did. His libido's a champ, I guess.)
   "It all seems like it just happened, but it was so long ago. Years." Neither of us could comprehend how much time had passed.
   The time we spent on the benches stretched as slowly and sweetly as the years we'd spent together, and our subsequent years apart. We reveled in each others' company, in how easy and comfortable it still is. When we finally got too cold to ignore, he walked me home and hugged me goodnight, holding me a little too long, needing to decimate the distance silence and apartness had created.
   Lying in beds just blocks apart, we texted back and forth, him trying to admit to missing me as nonchalantly as possible. I sidestepped the issue repeatedly, not interested in making him a cheater. I've already done that. He has no impulse control and my ego is boundless. Those factors compounded with our mutual possessiveness is dangerous. It hardly occurs to us that we're wrong. Until the sun rises. And I'm sick of waking up guilty.
   I still did, this morning. I stayed in bed until noon, closing my eyes tightly to the sun's rays that peeked through my window, reminding me of the sins I've committed. For the record, we stayed in our own beds and just said goodnight. But I can't shake the guiltiness. 
   We've promised each other countless times; no matter what happens between us, we will always love each other. Because we were so blissful, so young, so volatile. And all our angst and frustration dissipated in our laughter and drawn-out embraces, our agonizing delusions. And we might. There will always be a deep current of affection and appreciation between us, I think; I hope.
   The dichotomy of night & day is hard to reconcile. The streets look so different without the sun, illuminated only by the moon and occasional streetlight. Traditionally, the night is filled with sin, but I still feel that teenage innocence under the stars.
   I'm happy for last night; the last time I saw him, it ended bitter and ugly, in heartbreak. This was sweeter. And, though I promised him the next thunderstorm, I think that's one I'm going to break. I'm not seventeen anymore, and at some point, I need to accept that he isn't mine, and hasn't been since I was. I think I'm ready to.

Always Where I Need to Be

   It really seems as though things are over between Mr. Fantasy and me. And I'm... okay. I always forget that when I adjust to life without him, it's tolerable and even fun. I get so wrapped up in him and our relationship that I isolate myself in it and forget how absolutely wonderful everyone else in my life is. Plus, I've been reconnecting with a lot of girls from high school and that's been really fantastic.
   I haven't heard from Simon in about a week; I spent the better part of a week inventing excuses to break our plans, until finally leaving his texts unanswered. It appears as if he has given up. I really hope so. (Yes, I feel like a bitch about this. No, I have nothing to say for myself.)
   As I mentioned, Bobby McGee and I had a pretty emotional (read: wasted) discussion in which we resolved our disagreements and broke through the distance. Finally. My life feels back on track.
   I applied to a new school last week; in the same city as my current school, but with my new program. (This is the third time I'll be changing majors: I started college as a Journalism major, switched to English Education for about a half of a semester, and now am going for Urban and Public Policy. Third time's the charm?) This will also put me at the same school as Johnny, who has already promised to give me a tour. (Granted, he promised that after given the ultimatum: He gives me a tour or I call him three times a week mid-panic attack asking for directions. And I'm really, really, really, really bad with directions.)
   This is pushing Portland further back, but now I'm thinking I should finish school in New York state, where I get the tuition of a resident, and then go to Oregon after college, which has been my plan since high school. I'm terribly fickle though, so we'll see.
   And I have a job interview tomorrow! (Could my waste of life status be changing?! Or, at least the severity of my waste-ness could be lessening?! We'll see!) I'm interviewing to be a waitress in a coffee shop a few blocks from where I live. I'm hoping I get that, although the business also has an ice cream shop where they may place me, and I wouldn't mind that either. I'm crossing my fingers!
   Also, about that friend of Bobby McGee's I mentioned in my last post (the one I argued with)- feeling remorseful for my bad attitude, I apologized and promised him next time he's in town I'll throw a party in his honor. (I love throwing parties. It's way better than going to them, because I get to be in charge of everything AND I get to make lists, and I'm a crazy control freak with a list-writing obsession.) He then reminded me that both Esther and I had essentially abused the hell out of him the entire night (me verbally, and her physically). I had totally forgotten that until he mentioned it, and suddenly I was inundated with memories of her punching the hell out of him repeatedly in various locations over a period of several hours. I apologized for her as well, and silently thanked the universe that the conversation was taking place over the internet and not in person, where he would have been less inclined to take my apology, the sincerity of which would have been diluted by laughter at the memories of how bad ass Esther truly is.
   Anyway, I just wanted to let you guys know: I'm alive. And happy :)

I'm Bored, You're Amorous

   I knew it was coming; it's inevitable. He's perfect, but it just isn't there. Are my standards impossible? We're pretty compatible. We enjoy each others' company. I just don't feel anything. Is it wrong to want someone I get excited about?
   And I feel sick every time he looks at me. He's so open and vulnerable. I don't know how to tell him to put his heart back. I can't take it. And there's no way he can have mine; I'm not sure I even have one.
   The longer I force myself to fake it, the worst it's going to be. I'm sorry Saint Simon, I'm too sinful for you.

A Moment of Stillness

   One of my classes was cancelled today, and fortunately, it was the class I share with sister #4. Listless, we wandered through hallways in circles, eventually settling on a bench.
   What began as an analysis of our current lives; her overall contentment with the stability she's found, though perhaps lamenting a shortage of excitement, my driving need to get out, shifted towards the inevitable when discussing things I need to escape from: Mr. Fantasy.
   "I just...don't think he's a good person," she concluded.
   I really struggled with that one. Torn between so many responses, I looked away to avoid saying any of them.
   "You don't have to respond," she said.
   "I, uhm... Well. Maybe you're like Mom and I'm like Dad because... well. You know how if someone is cool in a lot of ways but they're a racist I just don't like them?"
   "Yes."
   "Well, Mom's like that with womanizers. If a guy is cool in other areas, but treats women like shit, she hates him automatically. Whereas Dad and I... We have an easier time separating someone from that. Like... 'Yeah, he treats women like shit, but he's got all this other stuff going on...'"
   "Yeah," she responded, "but all that other stuff doesn't matter if you are the woman he's treating like shit. You don't want to be his friend. You don't want to hang out with him and... whatever. It doesn't matter if he's cool otherwise, because he's treating you like shit. And maybe I'm biased because you're my sister and seeing what he does to you hurts me, but... I just don't think a good person would do the things he does."
   That was hard to hear, and even harder to formulate a response to. Eventually, I just stuttered out some form of agreement.
   "And don't you feel like... this has been how many years?"
   "Four," I mumbled.
   "Don't you feel like you've just wasted all this time and energy and four years?!"
   "Yes," I admitted, "but there develops this...desperation. For something to hold on to, to say it was worth it. To... I need proof of the last four years of my life." What I find impossible to express is the depth of the desperation for the effort and the years to add up to something, to have meant something that can be translated into some truth, something other than disillusionment and distrust; some tangible thing I can walk away with, knowing or feeling or seeing, something that could compare to the endless things he takes from me.
   She paused for a moment, inhaling the magnitude of pathos I had laid bare on the floor. I don't open up very often. No one's ever sure how to react when I do.
   "Do you think it's just going to be like this until you get over him, or do you think he's going to change?"
   Ouch. I sat breathless for a minute, almost stunned by the question. Even though I ask myself that same goddamn question all the time. And I know the answer. And I hate the answer. I hate, hate, hate the answer. 
   Visions of our future inundate me, his promises deluge my mind. I'm filled with whining, smiling whispers and reassurances of good intentions, doused with sugar-sweet affection and hopefulness.
   Until: the cataclysm of consequences, moments of brutal realization, every single promise broken, every whisper silenced by deafening actions. I realize the past four years of my life do compose something, they do combine to form a truth and that is this:
   "He's never going to change," I confessed, slowly, feeling my heart contract, pull into itself so tight and small it might explode. "He's... he will never change."
   "That sucks," she sighed,
   "Yeah," I breathed. "Yeah, it does."


   So maybe the truth I can leave with, can carry with me, is this: People don't change unless they want to. And sometimes even then, they can't. Despite possible fluctuations in maturity and hormone levels, people are the same at 17 as they will be four years later, and even forty years beyond that.
   And if I haven't been incentive enough, I never will be.
   "I will never be enough for you," I remember confessing, teary-eyed and scared. 
   "You are. Of course you are. Stop," he pleaded. "It hurts me when you say things like that."
   Well lover, it hurts me every time you leave. And I'm awfully tired of watching you walk away.

  This time this time, this time, no, this time, wait, no this time, wait really guys THIS TIME! Or next time... How can I possibly expect him, or anyone else for that matter, to take me seriously when I can barely take myself seriously? I will be stronger. I will resist. I will leave us behind me.

   Right now I carry our burdensome weight on my back. But I'm headed into the sunshine, and I'm sure I'll shed it soon.