So, my little peonies.
I am dead. I am a soundly crushed thing, so bested and beaten that I can't summon muscle tone, apart from these typing fingers. I really don't even want to get in to why, as any mention of it leaves me cold.
I have spent the better part of my life as a battering ram, daring the challenges to come so I could rejoice in the moment of impact. No matter how bad it got, some combination of attitude and pig-headedness got me through to the other side. I can't fight anymore. There is nothing left in me. Only a resonant, empty chest where every thud rolls from wall to wall like a cathedral. Only brittle, hollow bones like a bird. And yet, there seems to be just a little bit more. Enough to get me out of bed, to see my teeth brushed, my errands run. I do feel at the end of my rope. I'm not much of a crier, but lately I've found myself sobbing like a child, sagging against trees and support beams of bridges, unable to stop myself. The tears of a child who has tried everything to win the game, but just doesn't seem to have anything resembling a winning hand. I am out of things to try. I am out of rose colored glasses to change the tune of the song, when I can't turn off the radio. I am out. I have been wrung dry. I am fucking empty.
I turned off the lights to go to sleep last night, tucking myself in with the last remnants of my stoicism.
"We are fine. This is fine. It's a matter of attitude. Find the blessing. Find the lesson. We are fine."
Over and over again, I repeated this in my mind. But, ladies and gentlemen, we are not fine. I am not fine. Somewhere in the middle of this mantra, the dam broke. Cue the floodgates. Not small tears, but big, juicy, fat ones. Until they were no longer separate droplets, but great sheets of salt water pouring down my face, into my nose and gaping mouth, stretched wide with pain, almost yawning.
I don't think I've ever come closer to suicide. I could have reached out and brushed up against it's plated scales with a finger. Closer, maybe. I could feel it's cold breath like hands on my shoulders, pulling. In all of my years, in all of my battles of every kind, I have never been so close to letting myself be pulled under. Over and over again, images of me telling my family and friends the news would slap up against me like waves, tugging.
What is the plan? What is the plan? All I need to find my way out of this hopelessly tangled necklace is to find the best plan. How can I make the best of this? How can I best survive this? How can I survive this at all? What is my next move? In a quiet moment, sticky with half-dried tears, I realized that I had exhausted my options. There were no feasible maneuvers on the chess board. There was no good way, anymore.I watched my future play out in my mind's eye. It wasn't enough currency. The price was higher still.
I pictured all of the ways I could end. All. Of. The. Ways. I formulated a dozen prototypical plans. After twenty three years of trying to do what I thought everyone else would want me to do, and succeeding, despite all universal interference screaming at me to cut it the fuck out, the straw floated gently down, nestling amongst its brothers before the added weight snapped the camel's back in two.
I knew how I would do it, after an hour or so of bizarre, frenzied planning underneath the covers with wide, panicked eyes. For the second time in my life, I realized that I COULD do it, too. Stabbing down in one swift motion before the better half of my brain could catch up with me, much like ripping off a band-aid. Easy as a dream.
I waited for some idea to flicker into my mind, to save me. One did. I spent the rest of the night covered in snot, planning a move to Massachusetts. My heart started to beat a little faster. Is that a thing that someone could possibly do? I ironed out the details in my mind, as far as my ironing arm could reach. I could pawn my belongings. Pile what was left into a car. Drive. Drive. Drive. Put a thousand miles in between me and this exceptionally sweaty hell on earth, where god has salted the fields, ensuring that no brilliant seed of mine would take root. Where every effort blows away in the wind, weightless. Anchor-less. Drop this degree as easily as one brushes away a mosquito. It's weight on my shoulders would make the dropping easy. Just let it slide down the ol' arm, catching for a second on the fingers, then...thump. So beautiful. To just let this go. To hit reset. To start back where I was before I ever came here and did this forbidden thing out of fear of poverty, and the fear that I would not find my way to successful adulthood unless a pre-packaged way had been rolled out like a carpet before me. Choose the pre-sets, Davis. You can't go wrong.
The universe started giggling when I made my choice, I think. The laughter has surely by now grown into a roaring guffaw. I picked all wrong, and have done, my entire life. I have allowed my incessant worry wart-ism to inform all of my major life decisions. Before I began nursing school, I knew it was the wrong choice. I remember vividly the moment when I realized this, sitting in the front row of my favorite psychology class, in the last semester of my first undergrad degree. I knew I would much rather be going to graduate school for psychology, but I was already so far into my nursing applications,and my mom was already so happy and invested in this future for me. I was afraid to tell her. I was afraid to move on this knowledge. I closed my eyes and hoped it would pass.
I have paid the price for letting my fear lead me by the hand. I wonder how much longer I will have to pay that price.
I wonder what the answer is. I wonder where my muscle tone is. I wonder what to do. I wonder how to do it.
I woke up, this morning.
Saturday, October 12, 2013
Saturday, October 5, 2013
Dirty Sock
I feel like an old, dusty, dirty sock that someone kicked under a dresser. That probably has a lot to do with the fact that I am actually very dirty. I haven't bothered to wash my hair in a few days, and I have eyeliner in splotches all over my face. I'm getting through the gauntlet that has been the last few months, but "getting through it" doesn't at all mean "getting through it with shiny hair and a freshly scrubbed face". There must be something cathartic about matching your outward appearance to your inward. Even if people don't know the details, they can take one look at you and know that something is wrong. It's a way for me to express myself, I suppose, without having to ACTUALLY express myself, verbally.
You can't indent paragraphs on this goddamned contraption, and it is driving me crazy.
I just have to put gigantic spaces in between, like this.
One of my most pressing issues is my spiral into complete insanity. I'm sure you can see how this constitutes as a pressing issue. To summarize, I have lived every single one of my twenty-three years with this FEELING. It's that feeling you get when you know you're supposed to be doing something extremely important, but you can't remember what it is. It keeps beating on the door of my brain, reminding me that I'm not where I'm supposed to be. I'm not doing whatever it is that I'm supposed to be doing. If I were a Christian, or a Muslim, or spiritual in any way, shape, or form, I could reconcile myself to this idea. I could understand it. I would think to myself that the Almighty must have big plans for me. I could take comfort in the solidity of that. As you all know, I also watch too much Oprah. I've heard her say so many times, "life will tell you that you're going in the wrong direction gently, at first. Eventually, if you don't listen, those lessons will turn in to disasters. Eventually, it will beat the door down to get your the message". This is exactly what I've felt since the day I was born. Those of you who have known me longest have seen it for so many years. When I was a kid, I tried to find my life path by trying every hobby available to me: violin, tae kwon do, sewing, painting, volleyball, singing, writing, counseling, film making, even nursing. The list goes on and on. My entire family will always make fun of me for my lack of commitment to any of these things. But in my head, it was like this:
"Look at that woman play the violin. I wonder if I'm supposed to play the violin? Is that the thing? I'll take lessons. I'll bet that violin is totally the thing. I'll bet that's what I'm supposed to be doing. I'm throwing myself in to this. I can't believe I've finally found the hand to scratch this itch. I've found my path."
2 weeks later...
"Nope, no. No. This doesn't feel right. The violin is so beautiful, but this isn't the thing. This isn't what I'm supposed to be doing. I have to find it. I can't believe this isn't it. I have to find it."
I can't imagine myself without this fever. It's been chasing me around since I was a kid, and I never get tired of it. Unfortunately, where it was only a dull thud of a knock in the back of my head all throughout my childhood, it has now grown into an absolute THUNDER CLAP. I can't ignore it. It is beating SAVAGELY behind my eyes every second of every day. WAKE. UP. WAKE. UP. YOU KNOW WHERE YOU NEED TO BE, SO GO. WAKE UP, AMBER. SMASH, SMASH, SMASH.
Now, let's just say that I am buying in to this, that there really is some unexplained force trying to get my attention. Which, of course, I don't. But if I did, I do think I know where it wants me to go. I have imagined myself living in every location on planet Earth, and have landed on Massachusetts. For various reasons, all of which I am too embarrassed to discuss here. Now that I've found my latest inclination, I am so hungry for it. I'm like a starved dog, straining at the leash. Every day of nursing school in between myself and Massachusetts is a torment. I can see the thing that will finally make this horrible emptiness go away, and I am desperate for it, panting, shivering, whimpering. Absolutely desperate.
When I talk to my parents about it, I think they are mildly alarmed by my intensity. Hell, I'm mildly alarmed by my intensity. For the past few weeks, I've used this unexplained desperation for Massachusetts as evidence that I am finally on the right path. I'm finally going home. I've finally found it, and once I'm there, I don't have to keep running. I just needed to find my home, is all. I've searched for it in hobbies, people, and places. I'm afraid of what might happen if Massachusetts turns out to be another violin lesson. That will mean, of course, that this profound sense of "WRONG" won't be the violin, or nursing, or Massachusetts...it'll be me. I've just carried the malcontent with me wherever I go.
Don't get me wrong, I am moving out of the South, regardless. Emotional Brain wants the move as a way to find my true purpose, which could be complete and utter bull shit. Luckily, Logical Brain also wants to go away. So, even if I move there and end up still having this incessant itch, at least it will be an improvement on my current situation.
The South makes me feel alone. 99% of the people here disagree with me on every platform there is. I want to be surrounded by like-minded people, much like everyone else. I respect the popular views of this area, I just don't share them. I'd rather live in a state with laws that I agree with. Simple as that.
Nursing makes me feel alone. You are told to look and act a certain way. If you don't follow those rules, you get kicked out. Which I get. As my dad says, business owners are allowed to hire you or fire you as they see fit. If they feel you don't represent their company from an aesthetic standpoint, then it's their right to fire you. I see that. I do. It doesn't make me feel any less isolated, though. I have to wear a mask every time I come to work. It feels like trying to fit in to a sorority all over again. Covering all of my tattoos is something that I both love and hate. I love covering them because it's usually the only time when I don't feel like I am being judged way ahead of time. I hate covering them because I resent having to pretend to be someone else in order to receive a patient's trust. Diversity is one of the most miraculous things about the human race, and it is being beaten out of us as we enter the job market. We all look the exact same, and pretend to feel the exact same way about everything. It's maddening. We're all a little bit forced to cover up the miracle. From a Christian standpoint, I'd imagine the Christian god made us all so different for a reason. We spit in a creator's face by sweeping his masterpieces under the rug, where no one can see. No one seems to mind this. Just me. If I ever verbalize this distress, people just pat me on the head and tell me that it's just a part of growing up. Untrue. It might be part of the ritual of "growing up" that humans have created over time, but it isn't the best way.
So, what are my options? Flow with the river of things that I love and lose my job? Get stared at? Become alienated from people who are threatened by differences? Or paint myself into a different box, and be "loved" by people who haven't even seen me? Keep my job and the salary that I depend on? Which is the better option, here? What is the answer? I really couldn't tell you. I get pulled in both directions. That seems to be the trend, these days. The Davis family motto is "Hold fast". I think I'm going to have it changed to "I don't fucking know".
You can't indent paragraphs on this goddamned contraption, and it is driving me crazy.
I just have to put gigantic spaces in between, like this.
One of my most pressing issues is my spiral into complete insanity. I'm sure you can see how this constitutes as a pressing issue. To summarize, I have lived every single one of my twenty-three years with this FEELING. It's that feeling you get when you know you're supposed to be doing something extremely important, but you can't remember what it is. It keeps beating on the door of my brain, reminding me that I'm not where I'm supposed to be. I'm not doing whatever it is that I'm supposed to be doing. If I were a Christian, or a Muslim, or spiritual in any way, shape, or form, I could reconcile myself to this idea. I could understand it. I would think to myself that the Almighty must have big plans for me. I could take comfort in the solidity of that. As you all know, I also watch too much Oprah. I've heard her say so many times, "life will tell you that you're going in the wrong direction gently, at first. Eventually, if you don't listen, those lessons will turn in to disasters. Eventually, it will beat the door down to get your the message". This is exactly what I've felt since the day I was born. Those of you who have known me longest have seen it for so many years. When I was a kid, I tried to find my life path by trying every hobby available to me: violin, tae kwon do, sewing, painting, volleyball, singing, writing, counseling, film making, even nursing. The list goes on and on. My entire family will always make fun of me for my lack of commitment to any of these things. But in my head, it was like this:
"Look at that woman play the violin. I wonder if I'm supposed to play the violin? Is that the thing? I'll take lessons. I'll bet that violin is totally the thing. I'll bet that's what I'm supposed to be doing. I'm throwing myself in to this. I can't believe I've finally found the hand to scratch this itch. I've found my path."
2 weeks later...
"Nope, no. No. This doesn't feel right. The violin is so beautiful, but this isn't the thing. This isn't what I'm supposed to be doing. I have to find it. I can't believe this isn't it. I have to find it."
I can't imagine myself without this fever. It's been chasing me around since I was a kid, and I never get tired of it. Unfortunately, where it was only a dull thud of a knock in the back of my head all throughout my childhood, it has now grown into an absolute THUNDER CLAP. I can't ignore it. It is beating SAVAGELY behind my eyes every second of every day. WAKE. UP. WAKE. UP. YOU KNOW WHERE YOU NEED TO BE, SO GO. WAKE UP, AMBER. SMASH, SMASH, SMASH.
Now, let's just say that I am buying in to this, that there really is some unexplained force trying to get my attention. Which, of course, I don't. But if I did, I do think I know where it wants me to go. I have imagined myself living in every location on planet Earth, and have landed on Massachusetts. For various reasons, all of which I am too embarrassed to discuss here. Now that I've found my latest inclination, I am so hungry for it. I'm like a starved dog, straining at the leash. Every day of nursing school in between myself and Massachusetts is a torment. I can see the thing that will finally make this horrible emptiness go away, and I am desperate for it, panting, shivering, whimpering. Absolutely desperate.
When I talk to my parents about it, I think they are mildly alarmed by my intensity. Hell, I'm mildly alarmed by my intensity. For the past few weeks, I've used this unexplained desperation for Massachusetts as evidence that I am finally on the right path. I'm finally going home. I've finally found it, and once I'm there, I don't have to keep running. I just needed to find my home, is all. I've searched for it in hobbies, people, and places. I'm afraid of what might happen if Massachusetts turns out to be another violin lesson. That will mean, of course, that this profound sense of "WRONG" won't be the violin, or nursing, or Massachusetts...it'll be me. I've just carried the malcontent with me wherever I go.
Don't get me wrong, I am moving out of the South, regardless. Emotional Brain wants the move as a way to find my true purpose, which could be complete and utter bull shit. Luckily, Logical Brain also wants to go away. So, even if I move there and end up still having this incessant itch, at least it will be an improvement on my current situation.
The South makes me feel alone. 99% of the people here disagree with me on every platform there is. I want to be surrounded by like-minded people, much like everyone else. I respect the popular views of this area, I just don't share them. I'd rather live in a state with laws that I agree with. Simple as that.
Nursing makes me feel alone. You are told to look and act a certain way. If you don't follow those rules, you get kicked out. Which I get. As my dad says, business owners are allowed to hire you or fire you as they see fit. If they feel you don't represent their company from an aesthetic standpoint, then it's their right to fire you. I see that. I do. It doesn't make me feel any less isolated, though. I have to wear a mask every time I come to work. It feels like trying to fit in to a sorority all over again. Covering all of my tattoos is something that I both love and hate. I love covering them because it's usually the only time when I don't feel like I am being judged way ahead of time. I hate covering them because I resent having to pretend to be someone else in order to receive a patient's trust. Diversity is one of the most miraculous things about the human race, and it is being beaten out of us as we enter the job market. We all look the exact same, and pretend to feel the exact same way about everything. It's maddening. We're all a little bit forced to cover up the miracle. From a Christian standpoint, I'd imagine the Christian god made us all so different for a reason. We spit in a creator's face by sweeping his masterpieces under the rug, where no one can see. No one seems to mind this. Just me. If I ever verbalize this distress, people just pat me on the head and tell me that it's just a part of growing up. Untrue. It might be part of the ritual of "growing up" that humans have created over time, but it isn't the best way.
So, what are my options? Flow with the river of things that I love and lose my job? Get stared at? Become alienated from people who are threatened by differences? Or paint myself into a different box, and be "loved" by people who haven't even seen me? Keep my job and the salary that I depend on? Which is the better option, here? What is the answer? I really couldn't tell you. I get pulled in both directions. That seems to be the trend, these days. The Davis family motto is "Hold fast". I think I'm going to have it changed to "I don't fucking know".
Thursday, June 13, 2013
Meditations on Perfection
The attainment of perfection has been on my mind a lot, lately. Actually, it feels like it’s been hovering around buzzing like a bee in the back of my brain my entire life. I have struggled mightily my entire life to become perfect, clean and pristine in several realms. First and most importantly, you have to have flawless body- shoulders of a ballerina, waist of Scarlett O’Hara, hips and boobs of Sofia Vergara, defined, yet delicate jawline…the list goes on. The toes must be manicured, the eyebrows must be expertly shaped, the hair must have no split ends, the makeup must be applied. On top of this exquisite physique the house must be clean enough to drop a piece of fruit on the ground and be able to eat it without fear of contracting some tropical disease (this is Houston…it counts as tropical as far as I’m concerned). The dog must be walked every single day. Grades must be at the top of the class. It is mandatory to be both wise and ethical to a fault. It is mandatory there is always such an unmistakable sense of direction and purpose that you’ll never once wonder if this is really the path you should be walking on. The social calendar must be full, and each and every event attended with the effortless social graces of a southern belle.
The list goes on, and on, and on, and on. Forever. Infinitely. I think I assumed (and am working my way out of currently assuming) that if I manage to achieve perfection in all facets of life, I will be happy. Life will be good. How could it not be? It’s perfect- beautiful and blameless as a newborn. Everyone will love me, and I will love everyone with a gracious and humble heart. No one will have a single word to say against me. Ah, sublime.
The only issue is that this, of course, is an impossibility. I have exhausted myself to the point of probably five mental breakdowns in my life in the tireless pursuit of not having a single thing wrong with me.
To someone as anxiously OCD as I am (though I hide it well), flaws in the plan are not to be endured. And yet, there they are. Life has never once been perfect. Not a single time. And so I won’t allow myself to be happy in those moments that are truly good, because while good, there are still things wrong with the bigger picture. I am still not small. I still can’t cook. My boyfriend-who-isn’t-my-boyfriend refuses to commit himself to a title yet demands all of the accoutrement of it. I’m not sure if I want to be a nurse. I’m not sure if I should leave my boyfriend-who-isn’t or if I should stay because he has enriched my life in so many stupid, impossible, unforeseen, happy, giggly, delightful ways. I can’t focus on school work because the only thing I’ve ever cared about is the class that occurs outside of a classroom. The amount of things that I don’t know STAGGERINGLY outnumbers the amount of things that I know for sure. In fact, I don’t think there is a thing that I know for sure. Not a single thing. It feels like trying to run a marathon on the ever-tilting walkways of a fun house. To be so unsure of everything is so uncomfortable for me. It isn’t perfect. It’s a fucking mess. Every decision I make is one that I’m unsure of. I haven’t had a boyfriend-who-isn’t in so long; will he still want me when he knows that I can barely boil an egg, or when I gain ten pounds because I eat too much ice cream, or when I try to push him to be a boyfriend-that-actually-is? Will my friends still want to know me when they realize that my apartment is at times a disaster, or that I never return phone calls, or that I’m the most anxious, question-filled person alive?
…Am I doing it right?
To not have an answer to that question…that deafening silence of a response is just insufferable. And yet, that really isn’t something that will ever go away. No matter how old I get, I’ll never be certain. So what really needs to happen is that I need to learn how to relax into the discomfort of imperfection- crack open my tightly clenched, quivering little heart and just let the desire to control everything and everyone around me to achieve optimal circumstances GO. Just let it go. In twenty-three years it hasn’t taken me anywhere I dreamed I would be. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Nothing does, and nothing is. The stunning, improbable miracle of life is so incomprehensibly beautiful on its own that it really is enough to have lived at all. I’m grateful for the opportunity to watch this life, and to actively move around in it. Hopefully now I’ve begun the process of letting the idea of becoming comfortable with imperfection trickle into my skull layer by osseous layer. Cross your fingers that one day it’ll make it all the way down to my brain.
The list goes on, and on, and on, and on. Forever. Infinitely. I think I assumed (and am working my way out of currently assuming) that if I manage to achieve perfection in all facets of life, I will be happy. Life will be good. How could it not be? It’s perfect- beautiful and blameless as a newborn. Everyone will love me, and I will love everyone with a gracious and humble heart. No one will have a single word to say against me. Ah, sublime.
The only issue is that this, of course, is an impossibility. I have exhausted myself to the point of probably five mental breakdowns in my life in the tireless pursuit of not having a single thing wrong with me.
To someone as anxiously OCD as I am (though I hide it well), flaws in the plan are not to be endured. And yet, there they are. Life has never once been perfect. Not a single time. And so I won’t allow myself to be happy in those moments that are truly good, because while good, there are still things wrong with the bigger picture. I am still not small. I still can’t cook. My boyfriend-who-isn’t-my-boyfriend refuses to commit himself to a title yet demands all of the accoutrement of it. I’m not sure if I want to be a nurse. I’m not sure if I should leave my boyfriend-who-isn’t or if I should stay because he has enriched my life in so many stupid, impossible, unforeseen, happy, giggly, delightful ways. I can’t focus on school work because the only thing I’ve ever cared about is the class that occurs outside of a classroom. The amount of things that I don’t know STAGGERINGLY outnumbers the amount of things that I know for sure. In fact, I don’t think there is a thing that I know for sure. Not a single thing. It feels like trying to run a marathon on the ever-tilting walkways of a fun house. To be so unsure of everything is so uncomfortable for me. It isn’t perfect. It’s a fucking mess. Every decision I make is one that I’m unsure of. I haven’t had a boyfriend-who-isn’t in so long; will he still want me when he knows that I can barely boil an egg, or when I gain ten pounds because I eat too much ice cream, or when I try to push him to be a boyfriend-that-actually-is? Will my friends still want to know me when they realize that my apartment is at times a disaster, or that I never return phone calls, or that I’m the most anxious, question-filled person alive?
…Am I doing it right?
To not have an answer to that question…that deafening silence of a response is just insufferable. And yet, that really isn’t something that will ever go away. No matter how old I get, I’ll never be certain. So what really needs to happen is that I need to learn how to relax into the discomfort of imperfection- crack open my tightly clenched, quivering little heart and just let the desire to control everything and everyone around me to achieve optimal circumstances GO. Just let it go. In twenty-three years it hasn’t taken me anywhere I dreamed I would be. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Nothing does, and nothing is. The stunning, improbable miracle of life is so incomprehensibly beautiful on its own that it really is enough to have lived at all. I’m grateful for the opportunity to watch this life, and to actively move around in it. Hopefully now I’ve begun the process of letting the idea of becoming comfortable with imperfection trickle into my skull layer by osseous layer. Cross your fingers that one day it’ll make it all the way down to my brain.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Dear body:
We are having issues at the moment. I know you can tell. My heart is pounding a little bit, and my mind is racing. So I'll just come right out and say it.
Why can't you just look like Kate Moss? I feed you well. I give you spinach and carrots and kale and broccoli and bell peppers and onions. I take a multi-vitamin. I take fish oil. I go to the gym and lift heavy weights, and do cardio. I walk my dog to promote venous return. I go to therapy so that I won't ever abuse you ever again, so that I won't throw up or starve or deprive you of anything that you need. Sure, I eat ice cream occasionally, but COME ON. I DO EVERYTHING. I take such good care of you! I just don't understand how I can still look the exact same. I get no credit. Even when I was the fittest I'll ever be in my life, I still looked exactly the same. There was MAYBE a one jeans size difference. On a good day.
Are you trying to tell me something? Is there a message that I'm supposed to be getting? The answer, of course, is "yes". I already know what you want to tell me. I get it. "Accept that you look the way that you look, and move on". But just hear me out. There is a boy at the gym who is an Adonis. He's a medical student. He works at Ben Taub, the best trauma center in the Medical Center. He has so many muscles and he covers them with a sexy white lab coat. He's so beautiful that he would only go for Kate Moss because he CAN. He can be picky. He's probably already dating some attractive Christina Yang med student who looks exactly like Kate Moss. From the waist up. Because my understanding of Kate Moss is that she is caucasian.
So you see, I'm rarely physically attracted to men. And I'm attracted to this one. So can't you do something? You're replicating my DNA 24/7, can't you just remodel me a bit? CAN YOU PLEASE JUST DO THAT? Because I already feel like I will never get married...so why are you narrowing the selection pool? Why can't you just make me universally beautiful so that at least I stand a chance of snagging someone that I am attracted to?
Really, though. You don't understand. Ordinarily I wouldn't have much of a problem with the way that I look, but I've been born into a world that doesn't agree. I was born into a world that will never stop letting me know that my body isn't appealing enough to be on TV. When all of my favorite books get turned into movies, I see that you can't live an adventurous, happy life unless you've got a BMI of 17. In every love story I've ever seen immortalized on the big screen, you can only have a beautiful romance if you have slim hips and wear a size zero. I live in a world that continuously tells me that I am not okay, that I can not be happy, that I can not have a fairytale wedding. I've never seen anyone that looks like me do anything that I want to do.
So what's a girl to do? I can't develop an eating disorder. That kind of pain and torture is such a pain in the ass that no amount of impending singledom could force me down that road again. So that's out. But the rules of TV and movies and cheerleading and popularity and envy all tell me that I'm just a genetic rotten apple. I guess the only productive thing to do is to rewrite the rules, eh?
Because it's like this: my viewpoint is the only viewpoint I'm ever going to have. Whichever way I decide to tint the world, I'm seeing it through the lens that I choose. The entire world might be confused about what is truly spectacular, but that doesn't mean that I'm not entitled to my own opinion.
And really? Honestly? My opinion is that I'm a fucking catch. Sure, I have wiiiiidddeee hips and a huge butt. Sure, I have bowed legs and just generally look like a giant put his hand on my head and gently smooshed me down (that's a hilarious visual).
But I'm smart. I learn everything that I can...not just when I have to, but every other hour of every day, too. And I'm good. I work so hard to do the right thing even when nobody is looking, because I know that's the only way that goodness is worth much at all, when it's real. I love to entertain people and I love to laugh. I love to go outside. I love to go adventuring. I try hardest, I think, to understand the world around me, even though I'm not sure what good it'll do.
I may eat a lot of ice cream, but I think all of those things make me pretty fantastic. If only someone would stop to look.
Welp, I'm glad that I just wrote an entire blog post to my body as if it were a seperate entity, and exposed my just SUPER intense bouts of insecurity to the world. Hopefully no one will ever read this.
We are having issues at the moment. I know you can tell. My heart is pounding a little bit, and my mind is racing. So I'll just come right out and say it.
Why can't you just look like Kate Moss? I feed you well. I give you spinach and carrots and kale and broccoli and bell peppers and onions. I take a multi-vitamin. I take fish oil. I go to the gym and lift heavy weights, and do cardio. I walk my dog to promote venous return. I go to therapy so that I won't ever abuse you ever again, so that I won't throw up or starve or deprive you of anything that you need. Sure, I eat ice cream occasionally, but COME ON. I DO EVERYTHING. I take such good care of you! I just don't understand how I can still look the exact same. I get no credit. Even when I was the fittest I'll ever be in my life, I still looked exactly the same. There was MAYBE a one jeans size difference. On a good day.
Are you trying to tell me something? Is there a message that I'm supposed to be getting? The answer, of course, is "yes". I already know what you want to tell me. I get it. "Accept that you look the way that you look, and move on". But just hear me out. There is a boy at the gym who is an Adonis. He's a medical student. He works at Ben Taub, the best trauma center in the Medical Center. He has so many muscles and he covers them with a sexy white lab coat. He's so beautiful that he would only go for Kate Moss because he CAN. He can be picky. He's probably already dating some attractive Christina Yang med student who looks exactly like Kate Moss. From the waist up. Because my understanding of Kate Moss is that she is caucasian.
So you see, I'm rarely physically attracted to men. And I'm attracted to this one. So can't you do something? You're replicating my DNA 24/7, can't you just remodel me a bit? CAN YOU PLEASE JUST DO THAT? Because I already feel like I will never get married...so why are you narrowing the selection pool? Why can't you just make me universally beautiful so that at least I stand a chance of snagging someone that I am attracted to?
Really, though. You don't understand. Ordinarily I wouldn't have much of a problem with the way that I look, but I've been born into a world that doesn't agree. I was born into a world that will never stop letting me know that my body isn't appealing enough to be on TV. When all of my favorite books get turned into movies, I see that you can't live an adventurous, happy life unless you've got a BMI of 17. In every love story I've ever seen immortalized on the big screen, you can only have a beautiful romance if you have slim hips and wear a size zero. I live in a world that continuously tells me that I am not okay, that I can not be happy, that I can not have a fairytale wedding. I've never seen anyone that looks like me do anything that I want to do.
So what's a girl to do? I can't develop an eating disorder. That kind of pain and torture is such a pain in the ass that no amount of impending singledom could force me down that road again. So that's out. But the rules of TV and movies and cheerleading and popularity and envy all tell me that I'm just a genetic rotten apple. I guess the only productive thing to do is to rewrite the rules, eh?
Because it's like this: my viewpoint is the only viewpoint I'm ever going to have. Whichever way I decide to tint the world, I'm seeing it through the lens that I choose. The entire world might be confused about what is truly spectacular, but that doesn't mean that I'm not entitled to my own opinion.
And really? Honestly? My opinion is that I'm a fucking catch. Sure, I have wiiiiidddeee hips and a huge butt. Sure, I have bowed legs and just generally look like a giant put his hand on my head and gently smooshed me down (that's a hilarious visual).
But I'm smart. I learn everything that I can...not just when I have to, but every other hour of every day, too. And I'm good. I work so hard to do the right thing even when nobody is looking, because I know that's the only way that goodness is worth much at all, when it's real. I love to entertain people and I love to laugh. I love to go outside. I love to go adventuring. I try hardest, I think, to understand the world around me, even though I'm not sure what good it'll do.
I may eat a lot of ice cream, but I think all of those things make me pretty fantastic. If only someone would stop to look.
Welp, I'm glad that I just wrote an entire blog post to my body as if it were a seperate entity, and exposed my just SUPER intense bouts of insecurity to the world. Hopefully no one will ever read this.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
I'm Feeling 23
I really need to get over this thing about writing blog posts in my bathtub. I'm no electrical whiz, but I think eventually I'm going to end up electrocuting myself. So. Lots of things are happening right now. Lots of "yep, I definitely feel 23" things. And not in a Taylor Swift kind of way. I don't feel 23 because I'm at a club dancing with my friends. I feel 23 because I'm stuck in the middle of a career that I'm not sure that I'm crazy about, and also the fact that I just told a guy after our second date that I wasn't feeling it. For the first time. I've never done that before. I always found a way out of it...some way to brain ninja the guy into breaking it off so that I wouldn't have to be assertive and hurt someone in the process. That part is very adult of me. The bit that is most definitely 23 is that he called me on the phone to force me to tell him that way instead of over text, and I screened his call. And pretended to be in a loud bar so that I couldn't answer. See? I told you. 23.
BUT HEY, one step at a time. Me standing up for myself in respectful, understanding way despite his insistence that I was crazy and that I had no right still counts as at least one descended testicle. Maybe the other one will drop when I'm 33.
I keep worrying that this image that I have in my head about love will destroy any chance that I have at a real partner in life. I so desperately don't want to be alone for the rest of my life. But I don't want to disrespect the man that I deserve by settling for someone who doesn't feel right.
This post is going to be incredibly disjointed, I can already tell. I'm severely anemic, and as a result tachycardic, and there isn't enough blood flow to my brain. So bear with me.
Man, I'm starting to sweat. Maybe this bath thing wasn't such a good idea.
Anyway.
Romance. I think I read too many quotations. And every quotation contradicts some other quotation that I've read previously about how to look at things, and I get confused as to which one is correct. In the romance department, I've heard two opposing views:
1.) That the main thing keeping us from being happy is the idea of how things ought to be, and
2.) That you should never compromise, and that if you're patient and continue to work on yourself, the right person will come along.
As a habitual fantasy and sci-fi junkie, I can tell you that numero uno definitely might maybe a little bit have a point. My imagination is constantly stoked by stories of heroics and rescues, and people who are so certain of every step that they take. When I wake up the next morning to go take a test on a subject that I don't care about, in a field that I'm unsure of, where I DVR Oprah's Super Soul Sunday just to find SOMETHING inspirational about the world around me...I feel unsatisfied. To say the least. And I see people who are okay with this life, and wonder if maybe I've put myself at a disadvantage by already deciding how things ought to be. Everyone seems to be okay about the way things are. Everyone seems alright with marrying a person that doesn't inspire them, and make them better. There are times when I think that settling romantically is wrong, but when I'm alone on a Saturday night and they are making dinner for their families, I wonder.
I doubt all the time if I'm doing the right thing. I wish more than anything that Old Mother Willow would sprout up in the courtyard of my apartment to tell me which way was right.
The only thing I can really do is imagine what kind of woman I'd want to present as a role model for the daughter that I hope to have some day. If I end up never having kids, the fact that I used fictitious children as a moral compass in my youth is going t be extra weird. But I digress. I would want my daughter to believe that marriage is sacred, and that whoever enters in to it with her had better give her the most beautiful love story in the history of the world. I shutter to think what my reaction would be if Future Daughter told me that she was marrying a man who looked fantastic on paper, but didn't make her feel like a better person. It's simple addition, I suppose. 1+1=2. The right man shouldn't make you feel like less than you are, or even just the same. He should make you feel like you've gained SOMETHING.
God, that paragraph was perhaps the most embarrassing paragraph I've ever written. I'm sweating profusely from this bath, on top of my severe anemia/limited brain perfusion, so I'm just going to keep reminding you of that in the hopes that you will humor me in pretending like that didn't just happen. I'm almost positive that 1+1=2 is a One Direction song. Maybe I am in the right field...nurses don't need to be able to write prose. Oi.
Anyway, I'm too dehydrated at this point to continue putting words together cohesively, so my point is this: I'm 23, and I have NO IDEA what I'm doing in any aspect of my life. I have NO IDEA what the right answer is. Intuition seems to be a little shady of a thing to rely on, yet common folk wisdom has also proven itself to be a little dicey. I realize that my twenties aren't supposed to be worry-free, but a little stability and certainty would sure be nice. I hope I'm not the only one who feels this way.
BUT HEY, one step at a time. Me standing up for myself in respectful, understanding way despite his insistence that I was crazy and that I had no right still counts as at least one descended testicle. Maybe the other one will drop when I'm 33.
I keep worrying that this image that I have in my head about love will destroy any chance that I have at a real partner in life. I so desperately don't want to be alone for the rest of my life. But I don't want to disrespect the man that I deserve by settling for someone who doesn't feel right.
This post is going to be incredibly disjointed, I can already tell. I'm severely anemic, and as a result tachycardic, and there isn't enough blood flow to my brain. So bear with me.
Man, I'm starting to sweat. Maybe this bath thing wasn't such a good idea.
Anyway.
Romance. I think I read too many quotations. And every quotation contradicts some other quotation that I've read previously about how to look at things, and I get confused as to which one is correct. In the romance department, I've heard two opposing views:
1.) That the main thing keeping us from being happy is the idea of how things ought to be, and
2.) That you should never compromise, and that if you're patient and continue to work on yourself, the right person will come along.
As a habitual fantasy and sci-fi junkie, I can tell you that numero uno definitely might maybe a little bit have a point. My imagination is constantly stoked by stories of heroics and rescues, and people who are so certain of every step that they take. When I wake up the next morning to go take a test on a subject that I don't care about, in a field that I'm unsure of, where I DVR Oprah's Super Soul Sunday just to find SOMETHING inspirational about the world around me...I feel unsatisfied. To say the least. And I see people who are okay with this life, and wonder if maybe I've put myself at a disadvantage by already deciding how things ought to be. Everyone seems to be okay about the way things are. Everyone seems alright with marrying a person that doesn't inspire them, and make them better. There are times when I think that settling romantically is wrong, but when I'm alone on a Saturday night and they are making dinner for their families, I wonder.
I doubt all the time if I'm doing the right thing. I wish more than anything that Old Mother Willow would sprout up in the courtyard of my apartment to tell me which way was right.
The only thing I can really do is imagine what kind of woman I'd want to present as a role model for the daughter that I hope to have some day. If I end up never having kids, the fact that I used fictitious children as a moral compass in my youth is going t be extra weird. But I digress. I would want my daughter to believe that marriage is sacred, and that whoever enters in to it with her had better give her the most beautiful love story in the history of the world. I shutter to think what my reaction would be if Future Daughter told me that she was marrying a man who looked fantastic on paper, but didn't make her feel like a better person. It's simple addition, I suppose. 1+1=2. The right man shouldn't make you feel like less than you are, or even just the same. He should make you feel like you've gained SOMETHING.
God, that paragraph was perhaps the most embarrassing paragraph I've ever written. I'm sweating profusely from this bath, on top of my severe anemia/limited brain perfusion, so I'm just going to keep reminding you of that in the hopes that you will humor me in pretending like that didn't just happen. I'm almost positive that 1+1=2 is a One Direction song. Maybe I am in the right field...nurses don't need to be able to write prose. Oi.
Anyway, I'm too dehydrated at this point to continue putting words together cohesively, so my point is this: I'm 23, and I have NO IDEA what I'm doing in any aspect of my life. I have NO IDEA what the right answer is. Intuition seems to be a little shady of a thing to rely on, yet common folk wisdom has also proven itself to be a little dicey. I realize that my twenties aren't supposed to be worry-free, but a little stability and certainty would sure be nice. I hope I'm not the only one who feels this way.
Saturday, February 23, 2013
Finding My Bliss
You know, sometimes, when I'm not thinking clearly, I get upset that the world is so big and that I'm so small. Like no amount of my movement could even leave a thumb print. Even George Washington, Rosa Parks and Adolf Hitler will at some point no longer be known to the human race. But then I'll be walking my dog and I'll notice the leaves, and my eyes will suddenly open to this, right here: I can't believe the organization of this world. I think about the gas giant, Jupiter, and what it must look like a few miles in to the surface...you'd look around and all you'd see is this homogenous tan color, whipping and swirling around you. There's nothing else to see. And then you compare that to what I see everyday when I walk my dog, and the beautiful organization is suddenly new and fresh before my eyes. All of the species, all of the colors, the complexity of our ecosystem forming a long chain, much like DNA, that is nearly impossible to destroy despite our best efforts. If there is an extinction of species, a deletion in part of the chain, the world will look different for while, but eventually the wound is healed and the organization is again perfect. It's in this realization that the feeling of my own insignificance goes away so completely...because I'm so honored to take part. In a system so chaotically beautiful, even the smallest piece of the puzzle has infinite value. And not only am I a part of the complexity, but I was born a human being, a Watcher. And as such, I'm not just bestowed the incredible honor of taking part in the symphony, but I get to be in the audience, too. As a Watcher we don't just play the instrument, we are lucky enough to have awakened, to be conscious of the music, too.
That honor that I feel is always enough to drag me out of the Small Mind, where I worry about my pants getting too tight and where I eat too much sugar and where I have social anxiety. I suddenly remember who I am, a collection of particles that have made their way to this Earth, piggy-backing from supernova to supernova until they all came together as Me, who then was born and awoke with a conscious mind to watch it all happen. A collection of particles that will one day go to sleep, and the particles will continue on much in the same way. There is infinite bigness in that, I think.
The world is so good, sometimes.
In a different direction, back to the business of being human. Jobs.
Joseph Campbell, a guy whose name you should know, once said to "follow your bliss". His entire life's work can be summarized neatly in those three words. I take them very seriously. Find whatever it is that makes the hours fly by unnoticed, that makes work not seem like work at all, and DO. THAT. Find a way to make money from it, or find a way to reconcile yourself with the idea of living in a shack, but either way DO. THAT. Unfortunately it's not as easy as it seems. I think most of the pleasures of my life are not my own pleasures at all. I think for me, I get so caught up in what everyone else wants for me that I can't even tell the difference anymore between what I want and what I know everyone else wants me to want. I wasn't even sure how to go about identifying what my "bliss" was. I was advised, probably by Oprah, who I am embarrassingly in love with, to look for the things that I've done my entire life, whether sad or happy, young or younger (I almost said "young and old", but let's be real- I'm 23. I refuse to claim "old".). What have I always done? Which things did I do as a kid that I still do now, that I do without thinking and without need for recognition because that's how I can express myself to the universe? I found a few gold veins running through my history, and they took me by surprise. These things are so habitual to me, so ME, that I didn't even think of them as activities...they are just me, as easy and unnoticeable as breathing. I write! I write, I write, I write, I write. I have always written. Literally, always. When I get the opportunity to write it's like I've been holding my breath for months and months and finally I can get air. Writing is another organ to me, another functional unit of my self that keeps me alive. It's so much myself that I didn't even realize that it was there. I take it for granted in the same way that I take my pancreas for granted (Side note- with all of the ice cream I've been eating lately, I have developed a newfound respect for my pancreas. I'm a fan.). I'd like to give props to my sister, Miranda, who knew that writing was my bliss long before I did. I remember everytime I was unsure of my major or what I wanted to do with my life, she'd always quietly insist that I was born to write. I'd say, "yeah yeah, but really, what should I do?". So, Miranda, way to see clearer than I can. And might I take this chance to say that I love you, not just because we're sisters, but because you are the oldest, wisest soul that I know. You are good at everything, you know everything, and you have always been unshakeable and steadfast in a way that I have always admired. I don't say it enough, but I appreciate the hell out of you just being you.
ANYWAY.
Another thing I've always compulsively done is wander. I love to walk. And what's more, I love to walk and not have a single clue where I'm going. I've done it my entire life. In a suburban town without much adventure, I'd go outside to see what I could find. I scouted through the woods just to see where I came out when I got to the other side. I will find a way to be near water and trees, I always have. When I was very young I'd go alone, and then we got a dog, and she came with me. Now I have my own dog, and he comes with me. We find things. I walk along the banks of the bayou by my house until I see a path that I haven't seen before, and I go see where it takes me. I like to discover things outside, and I love to be lost. Like writing, the impulse to go walk around with my dog and find things is so much a part of me that I've never even noticed it.
Anyway, I'm writing all this from a bathtub, and I'm starting to prune in ways never before imagined,so I have to go. I hope all of this came across. I hope, as they say, you're "picking up what I'm throwing down". I hope you've heard me. Talk to you guys later.
OH WAIT, before I go, I adopted an American Black Bear named Bill. Don't tell anyone. He lives in a wildlife sanctuary in Boyd, Texas. I'm going to visit him in a few weeks to bring him apples and a rubber ball. I'm stoked. Just had to share. Okay.
That honor that I feel is always enough to drag me out of the Small Mind, where I worry about my pants getting too tight and where I eat too much sugar and where I have social anxiety. I suddenly remember who I am, a collection of particles that have made their way to this Earth, piggy-backing from supernova to supernova until they all came together as Me, who then was born and awoke with a conscious mind to watch it all happen. A collection of particles that will one day go to sleep, and the particles will continue on much in the same way. There is infinite bigness in that, I think.
The world is so good, sometimes.
In a different direction, back to the business of being human. Jobs.
Joseph Campbell, a guy whose name you should know, once said to "follow your bliss". His entire life's work can be summarized neatly in those three words. I take them very seriously. Find whatever it is that makes the hours fly by unnoticed, that makes work not seem like work at all, and DO. THAT. Find a way to make money from it, or find a way to reconcile yourself with the idea of living in a shack, but either way DO. THAT. Unfortunately it's not as easy as it seems. I think most of the pleasures of my life are not my own pleasures at all. I think for me, I get so caught up in what everyone else wants for me that I can't even tell the difference anymore between what I want and what I know everyone else wants me to want. I wasn't even sure how to go about identifying what my "bliss" was. I was advised, probably by Oprah, who I am embarrassingly in love with, to look for the things that I've done my entire life, whether sad or happy, young or younger (I almost said "young and old", but let's be real- I'm 23. I refuse to claim "old".). What have I always done? Which things did I do as a kid that I still do now, that I do without thinking and without need for recognition because that's how I can express myself to the universe? I found a few gold veins running through my history, and they took me by surprise. These things are so habitual to me, so ME, that I didn't even think of them as activities...they are just me, as easy and unnoticeable as breathing. I write! I write, I write, I write, I write. I have always written. Literally, always. When I get the opportunity to write it's like I've been holding my breath for months and months and finally I can get air. Writing is another organ to me, another functional unit of my self that keeps me alive. It's so much myself that I didn't even realize that it was there. I take it for granted in the same way that I take my pancreas for granted (Side note- with all of the ice cream I've been eating lately, I have developed a newfound respect for my pancreas. I'm a fan.). I'd like to give props to my sister, Miranda, who knew that writing was my bliss long before I did. I remember everytime I was unsure of my major or what I wanted to do with my life, she'd always quietly insist that I was born to write. I'd say, "yeah yeah, but really, what should I do?". So, Miranda, way to see clearer than I can. And might I take this chance to say that I love you, not just because we're sisters, but because you are the oldest, wisest soul that I know. You are good at everything, you know everything, and you have always been unshakeable and steadfast in a way that I have always admired. I don't say it enough, but I appreciate the hell out of you just being you.
ANYWAY.
Another thing I've always compulsively done is wander. I love to walk. And what's more, I love to walk and not have a single clue where I'm going. I've done it my entire life. In a suburban town without much adventure, I'd go outside to see what I could find. I scouted through the woods just to see where I came out when I got to the other side. I will find a way to be near water and trees, I always have. When I was very young I'd go alone, and then we got a dog, and she came with me. Now I have my own dog, and he comes with me. We find things. I walk along the banks of the bayou by my house until I see a path that I haven't seen before, and I go see where it takes me. I like to discover things outside, and I love to be lost. Like writing, the impulse to go walk around with my dog and find things is so much a part of me that I've never even noticed it.
Anyway, I'm writing all this from a bathtub, and I'm starting to prune in ways never before imagined,so I have to go. I hope all of this came across. I hope, as they say, you're "picking up what I'm throwing down". I hope you've heard me. Talk to you guys later.
OH WAIT, before I go, I adopted an American Black Bear named Bill. Don't tell anyone. He lives in a wildlife sanctuary in Boyd, Texas. I'm going to visit him in a few weeks to bring him apples and a rubber ball. I'm stoked. Just had to share. Okay.
Sunday, February 10, 2013
Darkness
There is only one thing going on in my mind right now; only one phrase. There is so much darkness. Over and over. That's all I hear in my mind. Such surprise at the knowledge that this world is full of light and beautiful things, but that I feel none of it. None of it penetrates. I'm surprised at the depth and breadth of the emptiness. There is so much darkness, and I'm alone.
No one can tell me what is wrong with me. I've had so many vials of blood drawn. Is it adrenal fatigue? Is it hypothyroidism? Is it hormonal? Is it a serotonin deficiency? No one knows. And what is so truly terrifying is that if no one knows, no one knows how to make it go away. We don't know how to treat it.
The only thing we really can do is throw an SSRI my way. One of the main side effects of an Selective Serotonin Reputake Inhibitor is weight gain. As you all know, I'm a few years out of recovering from an eating disorder. I'm not yet far enough away from that raging hatred of self and body to swallow a pill that will more than likely make me gain weight. I can't even think of it. It is still a battle to accept myself as I am now, let alone with extra weight. I can't do it. But it's the only answer anyone can come up with. It's all I have.
It's a Catch 22. There is no way to win the game. I can't cut, I'm embarrassed enough of the scars that already pepper my arm. The only thing that I can do is stagger forward, try to keep my head above water...somehow go to class, somehow take the tests, somehow feed myself, somehow keep myself clean, somehow keep all of my friends from noticing what is happening to me. It takes all the energy that I've got just to text someone back with a smiley face so that they won't find out that I feel like I'm rotting away. No way out, stagnant, as good as dead. Falling, tripping, stumbling through a life that is glorious and heart wrenching in it's beauty, being unable to touch it.
How could someone so young be so sick? What is wrong with my body? It's so easy for the people around me to get up, to go to school, to take a shower, to study, to laugh and love and be the way they were born to be. Depression doesn't stay with me all the time, it does go away. And so I sit and burn in Hell while I wait for it to leave me, and eventually I am alright again. It could be weeks, months, or years until it comes back, but it always does...like the monster under my bed. Always I'm waiting. Is this what my life will always consist of? Will I be able to have a family, or will this monster come and cripple me, leaving me a worthless mother and wife?
All I know is that I deserve your respect. Every hour is a fight for me. Every morning when you're taking a shower and wondering what the day will bring, I'm talking myself into putting my feet on the ground. Every day is a heroic effort. Every day I have to coax myself into waking up, into socializing and grooming myself and keeping myself fed. There is a reason why my crippling depression comes as a surprise to most people. Because I'm damn good at forcing myself to show up when all I want to do is fade away. All I want is an answer. All I want is for someone to know why this is happening to me. I want someone to know how to make it stop. But nobody seems to know.
No one can tell me what is wrong with me. I've had so many vials of blood drawn. Is it adrenal fatigue? Is it hypothyroidism? Is it hormonal? Is it a serotonin deficiency? No one knows. And what is so truly terrifying is that if no one knows, no one knows how to make it go away. We don't know how to treat it.
The only thing we really can do is throw an SSRI my way. One of the main side effects of an Selective Serotonin Reputake Inhibitor is weight gain. As you all know, I'm a few years out of recovering from an eating disorder. I'm not yet far enough away from that raging hatred of self and body to swallow a pill that will more than likely make me gain weight. I can't even think of it. It is still a battle to accept myself as I am now, let alone with extra weight. I can't do it. But it's the only answer anyone can come up with. It's all I have.
It's a Catch 22. There is no way to win the game. I can't cut, I'm embarrassed enough of the scars that already pepper my arm. The only thing that I can do is stagger forward, try to keep my head above water...somehow go to class, somehow take the tests, somehow feed myself, somehow keep myself clean, somehow keep all of my friends from noticing what is happening to me. It takes all the energy that I've got just to text someone back with a smiley face so that they won't find out that I feel like I'm rotting away. No way out, stagnant, as good as dead. Falling, tripping, stumbling through a life that is glorious and heart wrenching in it's beauty, being unable to touch it.
How could someone so young be so sick? What is wrong with my body? It's so easy for the people around me to get up, to go to school, to take a shower, to study, to laugh and love and be the way they were born to be. Depression doesn't stay with me all the time, it does go away. And so I sit and burn in Hell while I wait for it to leave me, and eventually I am alright again. It could be weeks, months, or years until it comes back, but it always does...like the monster under my bed. Always I'm waiting. Is this what my life will always consist of? Will I be able to have a family, or will this monster come and cripple me, leaving me a worthless mother and wife?
All I know is that I deserve your respect. Every hour is a fight for me. Every morning when you're taking a shower and wondering what the day will bring, I'm talking myself into putting my feet on the ground. Every day is a heroic effort. Every day I have to coax myself into waking up, into socializing and grooming myself and keeping myself fed. There is a reason why my crippling depression comes as a surprise to most people. Because I'm damn good at forcing myself to show up when all I want to do is fade away. All I want is an answer. All I want is for someone to know why this is happening to me. I want someone to know how to make it stop. But nobody seems to know.
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