I went to a Coldplay concert on saturday. They were preceded by two bands, Bishop Briggs and Alessia Cara. Both were excellent. It was the first concert I've ever been to and it was hands down one of the most incredible nights I've had in a really long time.
Section the first: I am there.
I can feel the music reverberate through the air, the drums beating in my sternum. My lips part and I'm flying, caught up in the exuberance of her expression, her closed eyes and dancing lights. I know she belongs in her skin and I long to belong in mine. I can't hear what she says, but I can hear what she feels. She offers up her soul to the crowd and it rolls across the seats, collecting energy and light and love, rising and filling the room with vibrancy.
He's filling up so much space for being so small. The noise is overwhelming and all consuming. I become part of everything and nothing and I forget that there is anything that isn't light and love and music. He spreads his arms, hugging the air and grabbing energy up in his palms. He consumes the stage, claims it and travels with such manic confidence it takes my breath away. He must feel so free.
If I close my eyes I float. The music and clapping and singing and cheering meld together and surround me, fill my skull with wind chimes. It is almost quiet. There is almost too much to comprehend, and I feel oddly cleansed. There is so much being forced into me that there is no room for my own thoughts, my own emotions, my own worries. I have achieved a clarity I did not think possible.
Section the second: I am here.
I am sitting in class under the glare of stagnant florescents. The whir of an air conditioner, shuffling feet, breaths and murmurs, rehearsed speech and broken discussion. There is too much room for my thoughts and doubts, so much that they extend beyond the solitary sphere of my core. They lengthen outward in waves, altering my expression and manner, brushing out of the folds in my clothes and tying my hair into knots. My body feels as empty as the room, like I could deflate or collapse. I want to leave, to walk out of the door and into the clouds.
But They are in my way. These paper people with their lists and landmarks and I'm suffocating. I can't even feel my heartbeat anymore because I've stuffed myself full of boxed information and there just isn't room for passion in the blueprints of my warehouse chest. The inefficiency of caring is too much of a cost. Better wrap it up because I don't have time for concerts and stories, so a beating heart would just get in the way. My stagnant heart sits behind a desk and waits for the clock to stop ticking.
Monday, August 29, 2016
Wednesday, August 17, 2016
string
Our lives crossed and uncrossed
like pink candyfloss string
that would melt on the tongue
(those sweet fleeting treats)
Bringing cavities back
from when we were young.
With your pulled-toffee eyes
melting, soft, into mine,
and that new-penny smile
(always smile, always smile)
Dear, you spent it too quickly,
forgetting the time.
Cat's cradle cord binding
our fingers together
and ice cream that dripped
from your soul to my soul
on can-telephone wire
(pulling tighter and tighter)
But we'd rust long before
that connection ran cold.
And you hid in the trees
(disregarding my pleas)
as I skipped and I tripped
on those candyfloss strings.
When I reached through the leaves
you were gone, please don't leave.
But you were, and you had
and I'm terribly sad
and I wish you were here
but you untied your string.
like pink candyfloss string
that would melt on the tongue
(those sweet fleeting treats)
Bringing cavities back
from when we were young.
With your pulled-toffee eyes
melting, soft, into mine,
and that new-penny smile
(always smile, always smile)
Dear, you spent it too quickly,
forgetting the time.
Cat's cradle cord binding
our fingers together
and ice cream that dripped
from your soul to my soul
on can-telephone wire
(pulling tighter and tighter)
But we'd rust long before
that connection ran cold.
And you hid in the trees
(disregarding my pleas)
as I skipped and I tripped
on those candyfloss strings.
When I reached through the leaves
you were gone, please don't leave.
But you were, and you had
and I'm terribly sad
and I wish you were here
but you untied your string.
Monday, August 15, 2016
emotional investments
So I've been thinking a lot lately about my tendencies as a human person. As in how likely I am to act or feel a certain way in any given situation. And (plot twist) I don't really have a good structure for this post, so I'm just going to be saying words until I get across what I'm thinking.
I'm a little worried because I don't think I'm capable of being emotionally vulnerable anymore? Like, obviously I still have emotions and I'm not the most detached person on the face of the planet, because I still care about things, but I think I've trained myself to not ever get emotionally invested in things enough to get hurt by them. Thinking back, I can't even remember the last time I got so invested in something that it hurt when I lost it. Not in recent memory. It must have been when I was a kid, but I can't point to the exact moment in time when I stopped getting my hopes up about stuff.
I know I was emotionally invested (hereafter referred to a EI) in dance because I'm still not over it, but that was more a long term commitment than anything else in my life. I'd been in it since I was maybe 4 years old, so obviously growing up intertwined with something will be hard to lose. I was EI in that birthday party I mentioned a couple posts ago. The one when I was around 8 or 9 and I spent ages planning this party and had all these expectations only to be let down hard and super disappointed. But I can't think of anything else, especially not recently.
So let's look at this logically. I got EI in things when I was a kid because kids don't know any better. I didn't have any friends from the ages of 12 to about 16/17, so that saved me from getting EI in any friends that would go on to leave me. I got very used to the idea of having surface friends that I would talk to and who said we were "friends", but then would have other actual friends that did not include me. I got very used to the idea of being independent emotionally and not ever telling anyone how I felt. It just seemed like such a stupid idea, to tell other people about feelings that could end up changing. Then, when they did change, you would seem like this moody idiot who didn't know what was going on in your own head. I was EI in dance because it was all I knew. But even though I have friends now (my current definition: people with whom I talk to/who contact me on a nearly daily basis. They appear to care about what happens in my life at least occasionally), I don't know how capable I am of being EI in them. I think if they stopped talking to me I would be bummed, but it's not a new situation to me so I'd just take it and move on. I care about them, but I'd know they have other friends so they'd be fine without me. And me, well, I've mastered the art of being alone. I wouldn't mind (at least that's what I tell myself. Stay tuned to find out more!!). And even with this guy I mentioned a few posts back, I don't think I even care that much?? I thought I was letting myself get emotionally vulnerable. Like, hey, I'm letting myself like this guy who I think likes me also. Does this mean I might finally know what people are talking about when they get so hurt by breakups and stuff? I was genuinely intrigued by that. Genuinely curious to know what it felt like to get EI in something that ended poorly or just didn't last. BUT GUESS WHAT. He stopped replying to my messages a few days ago, and I don't even care. Like, that sounds harsh, but it's literally only been maybe 2 or 3 days since we've had a conversation, and I've almost forgotten entirely what I saw in him in the first place. I remember enjoying his company and liking his music and liking the attention. I remember getting all caught up in the idea of being in any sort of relationship/friendship/whatever the heck it was, and I don't doubt that there was some infatuation going on, but legitimate EI?? I don't think so. But that kind of sucks because I thought I was. I thought I was letting myself be vulnerable and open to getting hurt but it's been 2 friggin days and I'm ready to move on. I kind of hope he stops talking to me altogether, honestly.
Like, what the heck? I should definitely care more, right? And I was thinking that maybe it was just this specific instance. Oh, he just didn't click with you properly, it was really super long distance, you were trying to force it because you craved the attention on a psychological level, etc etc. But I'm really worried that it applies to all areas of my life. Maybe the reason I feel isolated is because I have literally trained myself to not know how to connect with people. Maybe I'm fine with people leaving because it's all I know, so why should I expect things to ever be different? I don't know how to let myself hope for things anymore. I mean, really invest myself in things. The voice in my head is always warning me about people not really caring, about people leaving. It's always preparing a Plan B for when things don't work out.
I don't know, I think I'm just finally realising that I am the Alpha and Omega of my own issues. I've blamed myself for my problems in the past because I hate blaming other people for things, but I've never understood just how much of those things stemmed from barriers I'd built around myself. I feel like I sound ridiculously dramatic about all this. Sorry 'bout that.
I'm a little worried because I don't think I'm capable of being emotionally vulnerable anymore? Like, obviously I still have emotions and I'm not the most detached person on the face of the planet, because I still care about things, but I think I've trained myself to not ever get emotionally invested in things enough to get hurt by them. Thinking back, I can't even remember the last time I got so invested in something that it hurt when I lost it. Not in recent memory. It must have been when I was a kid, but I can't point to the exact moment in time when I stopped getting my hopes up about stuff.
I know I was emotionally invested (hereafter referred to a EI) in dance because I'm still not over it, but that was more a long term commitment than anything else in my life. I'd been in it since I was maybe 4 years old, so obviously growing up intertwined with something will be hard to lose. I was EI in that birthday party I mentioned a couple posts ago. The one when I was around 8 or 9 and I spent ages planning this party and had all these expectations only to be let down hard and super disappointed. But I can't think of anything else, especially not recently.
So let's look at this logically. I got EI in things when I was a kid because kids don't know any better. I didn't have any friends from the ages of 12 to about 16/17, so that saved me from getting EI in any friends that would go on to leave me. I got very used to the idea of having surface friends that I would talk to and who said we were "friends", but then would have other actual friends that did not include me. I got very used to the idea of being independent emotionally and not ever telling anyone how I felt. It just seemed like such a stupid idea, to tell other people about feelings that could end up changing. Then, when they did change, you would seem like this moody idiot who didn't know what was going on in your own head. I was EI in dance because it was all I knew. But even though I have friends now (my current definition: people with whom I talk to/who contact me on a nearly daily basis. They appear to care about what happens in my life at least occasionally), I don't know how capable I am of being EI in them. I think if they stopped talking to me I would be bummed, but it's not a new situation to me so I'd just take it and move on. I care about them, but I'd know they have other friends so they'd be fine without me. And me, well, I've mastered the art of being alone. I wouldn't mind (at least that's what I tell myself. Stay tuned to find out more!!). And even with this guy I mentioned a few posts back, I don't think I even care that much?? I thought I was letting myself get emotionally vulnerable. Like, hey, I'm letting myself like this guy who I think likes me also. Does this mean I might finally know what people are talking about when they get so hurt by breakups and stuff? I was genuinely intrigued by that. Genuinely curious to know what it felt like to get EI in something that ended poorly or just didn't last. BUT GUESS WHAT. He stopped replying to my messages a few days ago, and I don't even care. Like, that sounds harsh, but it's literally only been maybe 2 or 3 days since we've had a conversation, and I've almost forgotten entirely what I saw in him in the first place. I remember enjoying his company and liking his music and liking the attention. I remember getting all caught up in the idea of being in any sort of relationship/friendship/whatever the heck it was, and I don't doubt that there was some infatuation going on, but legitimate EI?? I don't think so. But that kind of sucks because I thought I was. I thought I was letting myself be vulnerable and open to getting hurt but it's been 2 friggin days and I'm ready to move on. I kind of hope he stops talking to me altogether, honestly.
Like, what the heck? I should definitely care more, right? And I was thinking that maybe it was just this specific instance. Oh, he just didn't click with you properly, it was really super long distance, you were trying to force it because you craved the attention on a psychological level, etc etc. But I'm really worried that it applies to all areas of my life. Maybe the reason I feel isolated is because I have literally trained myself to not know how to connect with people. Maybe I'm fine with people leaving because it's all I know, so why should I expect things to ever be different? I don't know how to let myself hope for things anymore. I mean, really invest myself in things. The voice in my head is always warning me about people not really caring, about people leaving. It's always preparing a Plan B for when things don't work out.
I don't know, I think I'm just finally realising that I am the Alpha and Omega of my own issues. I've blamed myself for my problems in the past because I hate blaming other people for things, but I've never understood just how much of those things stemmed from barriers I'd built around myself. I feel like I sound ridiculously dramatic about all this. Sorry 'bout that.
Sunday, August 14, 2016
ocean
Sorry for another old one, but I've been cleaning out my room so I've been finding loads of stuff I wrote ages ago. This one is from 6th grade. It is equal parts fun and nauseating to read old work.
My life is an ocean, I'm finding my way
through these miles of perilous sea
I sit on my raft day after day
praying for someone to find me
I do see a lighthouse, a light upon far,
but it's further away than I think
I am a real dreamer, I follow my star
but right here and right now I may sink
I fear for myself, but where are my friends?
The meaning is gone with the dark
A storm cloud hovers o'er, a foul mist descends,
just like a biting remark
The sun just came up, the horizon turns light,
the boards that I'm on start to groan
I open my eyes and my! What a sight!
I'm here in my room, all alone
My life is an ocean, I'm finding my way
through these miles of perilous sea
I sit on my raft day after day
praying for someone to find me
I do see a lighthouse, a light upon far,
but it's further away than I think
I am a real dreamer, I follow my star
but right here and right now I may sink
I fear for myself, but where are my friends?
The meaning is gone with the dark
A storm cloud hovers o'er, a foul mist descends,
just like a biting remark
The sun just came up, the horizon turns light,
the boards that I'm on start to groan
I open my eyes and my! What a sight!
I'm here in my room, all alone
Saturday, August 13, 2016
year 2194
NAR Archives ©2194
It began with panic, thick and stifling.
No, that's not it. It began with the sirens. With the speakers blasting warnings across our sector of the North American Republic.
It began with people running, frantically attempting to locate family members while the police force herded us off the streets and down into the shelters. With the masses craning their necks to the sky, as if seeing the missiles before they hit could somehow stop them from destroying us all.
It began with four words. The bombs are coming.
The panic came afterward.
Now it has been four months since the bombs came. Sixteen weeks since they locked us in these deep concrete cellars. One hundred and twenty-three days since I last saw the sun.
They say our sector is lucky. We are on the outskirts of the Republic, far enough away from the pole that some people lived here even when it would still be covered in snow for most of the year. Far enough from the capital that we did not suffer direct hits from the Union of Northern Asia. But even one bomb of substantial size can destroy eighty square miles, and there was not just one bomb. If the bombs detonated on or near the ground, the shelters beneath the capital and surrounding areas might not even be livable anymore because there would be giant craters blasted out. There would be nothing.
So yes, we are lucky that we have a shelter to stay in. This vast and winding system of levels extending far below the surface, all concrete and blocky rooms, everything numbered, everything labeled. Yes, lucky that we have food and water to last a good amount of time. Or so they say. The leaders won't tell us how long. I suppose that's to prevent worry, but we find ways to worry regardless.
And making another mark on the wall to signify yet another day without the sun or rain or sky I do not feel so lucky. This is worse than the flashblindness in people who were not ushered into the ground before they saw the explosions. That goes away after a few minutes in most cases, but mine is mind blindness, and it does not end. I do not care to see these lifeless grey bunkers one more day. I cannot bear the same boring walls and flickering fluorescent lights one more hour. Up there, before the bombs, it was warm and wet and we rarely saw even sleet, but it was open and the sky stretched on forever. It was overcrowded from the vast world population of near twelve billion people migrating towards the poles, but at least then all of us weren't all trapped in the same concrete boxes together all the time like we are now.
There aren't that many people any more though. War tends to do that. Kill people, I mean. There weren't enough shelters for everyone to stay in; there wasn't enough warning for everyone to get to safety. So many people I knew didn't make it.
I just wish I understood the mentality behind wars of such destruction. At some point it would seem that they'd understand that we're all just people, right? We're all just humans trying to not die. Is that truly so hard to understand?
I would love to hate the people who put us here, but I wouldn't know the first person to point a finger at. Should I blame the idiotic leaders who decided we could use a little more destruction and decided to blast each other with bombs? Or perhaps I should go a little further back before the pressure of so many people in one place forced that conflict upon us. Oh, I would love to hate those people centuries ago who pumped chemicals into the air and oceans without a second thought. Who couldn't for the life of them stop using those awful machines and factories, and who were too greedy and too blind to see that they were killing everything, including themselves.
I would love to hate them, but they're dead. So no, I don't hate them. I envy them. I envy their freedom and carelessness. I envy that they got to light the fuse and then die before the world exploded. Before people's hair began falling out in clumps and got their skin blistered and burned off. Before the radiation hazard trapped us underground for at least five years, if the experts really are experts on the subject.
Not that anywhere up there is really livable anymore, what with the plumes of smoke and soot and dust that hung in the atmosphere for several weeks. A nuclear winter, they called it, with fear in their eyes. How carefully detached they sounded when they described it! Semidarkness and frost and low temperatures and radiation. Ruined vegetation and animal life. Anything and everything we had left on this burnt out husk of a planet. All of it gone. All of it destroyed.
The only friend I have from before is Phoebe. She was in tears for days after the announcement about the nuclear winter before finding solace in history. She has become so obsessed with the past, where everything is dead and yet more alive and vibrant than we are. It must be nice to be a part of history, to have done your part and passed on in due time. They don't know the terrible inevitability of knowing the human race is coming to an end and having no way to stop it. They don't know the horror of a life not yet lived.
The archives —which they only open to Phoebe after she completes almost twice as many service hours as the rest of us— are essentially where she lives in her free time. She pours over old reports and pictures like they hold the answers to life instead of just more unanswerable questions.
"Do you think they knew?" She asks, holding up a plastic-sheathed picture of a factory belching smoke into the air, then a shot of a highway choked with cars. "What they were doing?"
I touch a black and white photograph of a smiling man in a bowler hat standing outside of a factory. He is waving and pointing to a sign that identifies the building as some company I've never heard of.
"They can't have," I say quietly. "If they knew, they would have stopped."
Right?
I wrote that sophomore year for a research project exploring how the misuse of technology could negatively affect the future, so the weirdly specific details of this story were backed up by sources. The poem year 2156 I published here in April was from the same project.
It began with panic, thick and stifling.
No, that's not it. It began with the sirens. With the speakers blasting warnings across our sector of the North American Republic.
It began with people running, frantically attempting to locate family members while the police force herded us off the streets and down into the shelters. With the masses craning their necks to the sky, as if seeing the missiles before they hit could somehow stop them from destroying us all.
It began with four words. The bombs are coming.
The panic came afterward.
Now it has been four months since the bombs came. Sixteen weeks since they locked us in these deep concrete cellars. One hundred and twenty-three days since I last saw the sun.
They say our sector is lucky. We are on the outskirts of the Republic, far enough away from the pole that some people lived here even when it would still be covered in snow for most of the year. Far enough from the capital that we did not suffer direct hits from the Union of Northern Asia. But even one bomb of substantial size can destroy eighty square miles, and there was not just one bomb. If the bombs detonated on or near the ground, the shelters beneath the capital and surrounding areas might not even be livable anymore because there would be giant craters blasted out. There would be nothing.
So yes, we are lucky that we have a shelter to stay in. This vast and winding system of levels extending far below the surface, all concrete and blocky rooms, everything numbered, everything labeled. Yes, lucky that we have food and water to last a good amount of time. Or so they say. The leaders won't tell us how long. I suppose that's to prevent worry, but we find ways to worry regardless.
And making another mark on the wall to signify yet another day without the sun or rain or sky I do not feel so lucky. This is worse than the flashblindness in people who were not ushered into the ground before they saw the explosions. That goes away after a few minutes in most cases, but mine is mind blindness, and it does not end. I do not care to see these lifeless grey bunkers one more day. I cannot bear the same boring walls and flickering fluorescent lights one more hour. Up there, before the bombs, it was warm and wet and we rarely saw even sleet, but it was open and the sky stretched on forever. It was overcrowded from the vast world population of near twelve billion people migrating towards the poles, but at least then all of us weren't all trapped in the same concrete boxes together all the time like we are now.
There aren't that many people any more though. War tends to do that. Kill people, I mean. There weren't enough shelters for everyone to stay in; there wasn't enough warning for everyone to get to safety. So many people I knew didn't make it.
I just wish I understood the mentality behind wars of such destruction. At some point it would seem that they'd understand that we're all just people, right? We're all just humans trying to not die. Is that truly so hard to understand?
I would love to hate the people who put us here, but I wouldn't know the first person to point a finger at. Should I blame the idiotic leaders who decided we could use a little more destruction and decided to blast each other with bombs? Or perhaps I should go a little further back before the pressure of so many people in one place forced that conflict upon us. Oh, I would love to hate those people centuries ago who pumped chemicals into the air and oceans without a second thought. Who couldn't for the life of them stop using those awful machines and factories, and who were too greedy and too blind to see that they were killing everything, including themselves.
I would love to hate them, but they're dead. So no, I don't hate them. I envy them. I envy their freedom and carelessness. I envy that they got to light the fuse and then die before the world exploded. Before people's hair began falling out in clumps and got their skin blistered and burned off. Before the radiation hazard trapped us underground for at least five years, if the experts really are experts on the subject.
Not that anywhere up there is really livable anymore, what with the plumes of smoke and soot and dust that hung in the atmosphere for several weeks. A nuclear winter, they called it, with fear in their eyes. How carefully detached they sounded when they described it! Semidarkness and frost and low temperatures and radiation. Ruined vegetation and animal life. Anything and everything we had left on this burnt out husk of a planet. All of it gone. All of it destroyed.
The only friend I have from before is Phoebe. She was in tears for days after the announcement about the nuclear winter before finding solace in history. She has become so obsessed with the past, where everything is dead and yet more alive and vibrant than we are. It must be nice to be a part of history, to have done your part and passed on in due time. They don't know the terrible inevitability of knowing the human race is coming to an end and having no way to stop it. They don't know the horror of a life not yet lived.
The archives —which they only open to Phoebe after she completes almost twice as many service hours as the rest of us— are essentially where she lives in her free time. She pours over old reports and pictures like they hold the answers to life instead of just more unanswerable questions.
"Do you think they knew?" She asks, holding up a plastic-sheathed picture of a factory belching smoke into the air, then a shot of a highway choked with cars. "What they were doing?"
I touch a black and white photograph of a smiling man in a bowler hat standing outside of a factory. He is waving and pointing to a sign that identifies the building as some company I've never heard of.
"They can't have," I say quietly. "If they knew, they would have stopped."
Right?
I wrote that sophomore year for a research project exploring how the misuse of technology could negatively affect the future, so the weirdly specific details of this story were backed up by sources. The poem year 2156 I published here in April was from the same project.
Thursday, August 11, 2016
it's not changing
I'm scared I'm so scared of the future I'm scared of making the wrong choices and of going down the wrong path and I'm scared I won't amount to much and that I won't get to do what I enjoy, no that's not it, I know if I work hard enough I should be able to write in some capacity I should be able to write what I love but
that's not the problem the problem is getting there the problem is getting through this school year it's getting into colleges and figuring out how to pay for it, but that's not even the issue the issue is that I don't know where I want to go I don't know what I want to study I don't know I don't know I don't even have a clue of what I'm going to do with my life and how do I apply to university if I don't know where to apply to, and this school year I don't know how I'm going to get through this school year when I want
to be happy and I want to love myself and I want to have hope but all of my friends are fake friends with better versions of me to talk to so I'm just the one they talk to when they aren't busy when their real friends aren't busy and that's
fine I like being alone I'm okay with my own company but when I feel like I connect with someone and that it should go somewhere but then they spend all their time with other people it makes me wonder what I'm missing what essential link in life I haven't figured out because there's got to be something there's got to be some
spark I don't have because when people say they like me and they say I'm great and they say they're glad I'm their friend but then I'm always the one starting conversations or all I see is them doing things with other people it hurts it hurts like being lied to it hurts like when I was a kid and I spent ages planning this birthday party and
I was so excited and I waited and waited and had all these kid expectations for how fun it was going to be but then only 2 people showed up and after that I never let myself get my hopes up again because all I could think of was 9 year old me thinking she was finally going to have friends and have birthday parties and connect with people and years went by and I never had another party and I slowly realised that my friends didn't need me nearly as much as I needed them and hey guess what they all had other better friends and that never changed because the years
kept going by and I kept being me by myself waiting to connect waiting for that spark that would tie me to another human being and tether me in some tangible way but it hasn't it hasn't
it hasn't I have friends and I have people I care about but if I were to move away tomorrow it wouldn't take long to lose contact it wouldn't take long for them to forget about me and move on because I don't matter very much to them and I wish I did but I don't want to be selfish and demand love like that because if I haven't managed to connect with anyone yet maybe there's just something
wrong with my brain maybe I just don't understand how people work and maybe that's okay because I'm okay I'm okay I'm Okay and you need to believe me because I'm telling
the truth I'm better than I've been in years but when those years have dragged me through the dark and scraped me raw with glass then better than that probably isn't Great but it's good and I'm good and I'm tired and I'm slipping and the future is so foggy I can't see 10 feet in front of me and I'm having to walk into it smiling at people because
people can't know that you aren't better because you say you are and how embarrassing would it be if you told them you were strong and then you fell but I'm scared that this is all there is that even healthy me is never going to be okay and that is terrifying because I don't know where to go and frankly I'm losing interest in life by the day
that's not the problem the problem is getting there the problem is getting through this school year it's getting into colleges and figuring out how to pay for it, but that's not even the issue the issue is that I don't know where I want to go I don't know what I want to study I don't know I don't know I don't even have a clue of what I'm going to do with my life and how do I apply to university if I don't know where to apply to, and this school year I don't know how I'm going to get through this school year when I want
to be happy and I want to love myself and I want to have hope but all of my friends are fake friends with better versions of me to talk to so I'm just the one they talk to when they aren't busy when their real friends aren't busy and that's
fine I like being alone I'm okay with my own company but when I feel like I connect with someone and that it should go somewhere but then they spend all their time with other people it makes me wonder what I'm missing what essential link in life I haven't figured out because there's got to be something there's got to be some
spark I don't have because when people say they like me and they say I'm great and they say they're glad I'm their friend but then I'm always the one starting conversations or all I see is them doing things with other people it hurts it hurts like being lied to it hurts like when I was a kid and I spent ages planning this birthday party and
I was so excited and I waited and waited and had all these kid expectations for how fun it was going to be but then only 2 people showed up and after that I never let myself get my hopes up again because all I could think of was 9 year old me thinking she was finally going to have friends and have birthday parties and connect with people and years went by and I never had another party and I slowly realised that my friends didn't need me nearly as much as I needed them and hey guess what they all had other better friends and that never changed because the years
kept going by and I kept being me by myself waiting to connect waiting for that spark that would tie me to another human being and tether me in some tangible way but it hasn't it hasn't
it hasn't I have friends and I have people I care about but if I were to move away tomorrow it wouldn't take long to lose contact it wouldn't take long for them to forget about me and move on because I don't matter very much to them and I wish I did but I don't want to be selfish and demand love like that because if I haven't managed to connect with anyone yet maybe there's just something
wrong with my brain maybe I just don't understand how people work and maybe that's okay because I'm okay I'm okay I'm Okay and you need to believe me because I'm telling
the truth I'm better than I've been in years but when those years have dragged me through the dark and scraped me raw with glass then better than that probably isn't Great but it's good and I'm good and I'm tired and I'm slipping and the future is so foggy I can't see 10 feet in front of me and I'm having to walk into it smiling at people because
people can't know that you aren't better because you say you are and how embarrassing would it be if you told them you were strong and then you fell but I'm scared that this is all there is that even healthy me is never going to be okay and that is terrifying because I don't know where to go and frankly I'm losing interest in life by the day
you
I found this poem on my phone from November of 2015. I don't remember why I wrote it.
you
with the butterfly eyes
and the hands like a river
you were never meant
to walk the path of the masses
you
with the dreams made of granite
and that scent of vulnerability
tucked into your every movement
you were never meant
to fall beside the leaves
and decay with time
you
with the rain laughter
and the lighthouse voice
calling for me in the dark
you were always meant
to soar beyond this mortal sphere
you
with your dandelion wishes
blown asunder
and your tapping feet never still
you ran from that future
and lost yourself in the crowd
you
with the butterfly eyes
and the hands like a river
you were never meant
to walk the path of the masses
you
with the dreams made of granite
and that scent of vulnerability
tucked into your every movement
you were never meant
to fall beside the leaves
and decay with time
you
with the rain laughter
and the lighthouse voice
calling for me in the dark
you were always meant
to soar beyond this mortal sphere
you
with your dandelion wishes
blown asunder
and your tapping feet never still
you ran from that future
and lost yourself in the crowd
Saturday, August 6, 2016
healing, never healed
I've been working on myself. Trying to fix my flaws and combat destructive thought patterns before they destroy me. I've recently begun this thing where when something triggers certain emotions or certain thoughts, I'll see a second version of myself feeling those things. I split my thoughts into two so I can allow part of me to feel those things, and the other part of me to comfort her. This way, I can accept more fully that people are never completely fine or "better". Today I had a brief experience where I was able to utilise this newfound coping mechanism while also relearning a truth it seems I have been trying to avoid.
Briefly, first: a few days ago I got to do a photo shoot with a friend of mine who is sort of a professional photographer. He posts pictures on his instagram all the time of other people he has taken pictures of, whether it be for senior pictures or just random shoots. And today he posted a picture of this really gorgeous girl with a caption introducing her. He said who she was, that they'd known each other for a long time, that she was someone he'd love to shoot with again and again, that she's amazing, and that she is going to be a famous ballet dancer someday.
I read that, and my chest caved in. My mind kept zeroing in on those different phrases. "Amazing. Could shoot with her again and again. Going to be a famous ballet dancer someday." Going to be a famous ballet dancer someday.
It hurt. Goodness, why does it still hurt? It's been over a year since I left. I've grown. I've learned things about myself. I have fat on my body and I manage to not hate myself. But those words, that thin and beautiful girl. I'm not healed. The scars ballet left may not be fresh and bleeding anymore, but the scabs haven't even formed properly yet. So I saw that picture and I read those words and had to detach my strain of thought almost immediately. I had to let those thoughts live on in part of me, but not all of me.
The other Kate fixated on those words and the girl's face, on her arms and height and chest and stomach. The other Kate thought of her own weight and size and chest and stomach and arms and hips and calves and feet. She dragged memories of dance up from the abyss of our mind and held them to her heart and cried. I held this other me while she sobbed and mumbled about not being good enough and how that should have been her. How dancing was all she wanted but she would never be as thin or as beautiful as this other girl. I felt physically nauseous, as the mere thought of being fat made me want to throw up. To vomit up everything so I could give this sobbing Kate in my mind what she so clearly needed. But I couldn't. I just held her and let her cry. I let her hate herself and hate the thin and beautiful girl she doesn't even know. I stroked her hair and hugged her tightly because I love her. She is flawed and she is sensitive and she is cruel and she is tired, and I love her.
Briefly, first: a few days ago I got to do a photo shoot with a friend of mine who is sort of a professional photographer. He posts pictures on his instagram all the time of other people he has taken pictures of, whether it be for senior pictures or just random shoots. And today he posted a picture of this really gorgeous girl with a caption introducing her. He said who she was, that they'd known each other for a long time, that she was someone he'd love to shoot with again and again, that she's amazing, and that she is going to be a famous ballet dancer someday.
I read that, and my chest caved in. My mind kept zeroing in on those different phrases. "Amazing. Could shoot with her again and again. Going to be a famous ballet dancer someday." Going to be a famous ballet dancer someday.
It hurt. Goodness, why does it still hurt? It's been over a year since I left. I've grown. I've learned things about myself. I have fat on my body and I manage to not hate myself. But those words, that thin and beautiful girl. I'm not healed. The scars ballet left may not be fresh and bleeding anymore, but the scabs haven't even formed properly yet. So I saw that picture and I read those words and had to detach my strain of thought almost immediately. I had to let those thoughts live on in part of me, but not all of me.
The other Kate fixated on those words and the girl's face, on her arms and height and chest and stomach. The other Kate thought of her own weight and size and chest and stomach and arms and hips and calves and feet. She dragged memories of dance up from the abyss of our mind and held them to her heart and cried. I held this other me while she sobbed and mumbled about not being good enough and how that should have been her. How dancing was all she wanted but she would never be as thin or as beautiful as this other girl. I felt physically nauseous, as the mere thought of being fat made me want to throw up. To vomit up everything so I could give this sobbing Kate in my mind what she so clearly needed. But I couldn't. I just held her and let her cry. I let her hate herself and hate the thin and beautiful girl she doesn't even know. I stroked her hair and hugged her tightly because I love her. She is flawed and she is sensitive and she is cruel and she is tired, and I love her.
Tuesday, August 2, 2016
500 lb anvil
The past couple years have not been good for my mental health. But, if you've been paying attention, the past few months have been fine. They've been good. The end of the school year was looking up, even if I was stressed. In June my brain relaxed a bit. I was removed enough from the period of my life where I hated everything about myself that I felt really good. England helped me feel more calm than I had in ages, and I was able to sort out my stress and reorient my thoughts in a more positive direction. I felt like I had grown past that angsty-depressed mess that had plagued me for so long. I felt prepared to face the school year, stress and all, because I was finally okay with who I was and my mind felt clear and light.
And I still feel that way! I promise I'm alright. But I've been up at the school this week working on summer assignments, and guess what I noticed today?
They're not gone. Those thoughts, those emotions, those fears, those insecurities. I didn't send them packing, I buried them. I didn't move away, I took a vacation. Today I was sitting in a classroom surrounded by peers and talking about assignments, and I felt it. I felt those feelings hanging over me like a 500 lb anvil (you know, like in the cartoons). I thought about the stress and the future and that anvil swayed on a creaking rope tied to the sky. Other people talked and laughed with their backs turned to me, and my brain sunk down in my skull, into this inky sponge that absorbs my thoughts and numbs everything. I'd forgotten what it felt like, that numb panic, those drowning thoughts that crashed against the inside of my head and were too loud to ignore. And today I felt it. I saw the anvil and my chest seized up.
Because I want to be okay. I like feeling happy. I like not hating myself. I like being calm and I like knowing that it will all work out in the end.
But that anvil, that girl I was...I know how that anvil feels when it falls and breaks my ribs and crushes my lungs. And I know that girl. I know her well and can feel her breathing down my neck, waiting for her time to wrap those fingers around my neck and squeeze.
So here's hoping for a good year. For that rope to hold my anvil in the sky and that girl to find a new hobby. But...if not, I'm preemptively apologising for my future state and I ask for your understanding. We can't all be strong.
And I still feel that way! I promise I'm alright. But I've been up at the school this week working on summer assignments, and guess what I noticed today?
They're not gone. Those thoughts, those emotions, those fears, those insecurities. I didn't send them packing, I buried them. I didn't move away, I took a vacation. Today I was sitting in a classroom surrounded by peers and talking about assignments, and I felt it. I felt those feelings hanging over me like a 500 lb anvil (you know, like in the cartoons). I thought about the stress and the future and that anvil swayed on a creaking rope tied to the sky. Other people talked and laughed with their backs turned to me, and my brain sunk down in my skull, into this inky sponge that absorbs my thoughts and numbs everything. I'd forgotten what it felt like, that numb panic, those drowning thoughts that crashed against the inside of my head and were too loud to ignore. And today I felt it. I saw the anvil and my chest seized up.
Because I want to be okay. I like feeling happy. I like not hating myself. I like being calm and I like knowing that it will all work out in the end.
But that anvil, that girl I was...I know how that anvil feels when it falls and breaks my ribs and crushes my lungs. And I know that girl. I know her well and can feel her breathing down my neck, waiting for her time to wrap those fingers around my neck and squeeze.
So here's hoping for a good year. For that rope to hold my anvil in the sky and that girl to find a new hobby. But...if not, I'm preemptively apologising for my future state and I ask for your understanding. We can't all be strong.
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