Friday, February 26, 2010

Hate And A Noose

If you don't know what I will be talking about, here's a link to an article that should be updating continuously as these tragic events at UCSD unfold.

This is what is happening at my school, a nationally renowned university of higher education. Can you fucking believe it? How does this happen? Is this even real life?

As today went on, I just became more and more worn out, as if the life was being choked from me.

Do you not understand? This represents "Be silent or die." Is this what this world is about? Is this what my community is about?

Thank God it's not. Thank God there are people here who care and stand up for this.

I've heard countless opinions today, talked about it multiple times, and the thought still shocks me. It shakes me to the core. I haven't begun to wrap my head around this yet. I've literally spent the day in denial, doing anything to take my mind of it. I almost lost it as I explained to my mom the events that are going on.

How do I tell my mom that I'm not safe in a place where she cannot protect me?

How do I tell my mom there's a question of a school shooting hanging about our heads?

How do I explain to myself why I don't want to go outside, why I don't want to be in the place that has brought so much joy and growth for me?

And all of these thoughts are nothing. They are nothing in comparison to everything going through my mind because I still cannot wrap my head around it.

The stories are terrifying and the climate is tense. The weather burdens our moods with a heavy grey and there's no way to get away from it.

So I will sleep it off and see what comes Monday. What else can I do?

These Stories Are Ringing In My Ears

We critiqued two stories in my fiction class yesterday. One of them was really interesting, about a guy who immersed fantasy and memory into his reality as he misses his ex-girlfriend. I thought it was really amazing. I love the feeling certain stories give me and this kid, the one I'm stalking to Espresso Roma (No, I'm not really stalking. I'm just finding him to be interesting from a distance and don't really have the nerve to tell him in person or in a way that's less creepy. How do you tell someone they're interesting to you when you know nothing about them and not be creepy? I'd rather be creepy from a distance.) Anyway, it was good. Reminded me a lot of the... I want to call them The Blake Years but damn it if I have to say his name all the time.

What shall I call them then? "A rose by any other name would still smell as sweet" and by any other name, that period of my life would still suck.

I don't want to call them The Blake Years because in fact, I don't want him to ever read this or for me to say this out loud in front of him because I really don't want to hurt him. In reality, I really want nothing to do with him anymore. Not in a bad way, just... we can't be friends, we're not more than friends, we're that awkward too much history. I said this to Stephanie- (well, I typed it out and it felt too personal to say, especially when I know certain readers do not have the full story, so ask me in person if you really want to know.) But it's true. It is too hard and I don't have what it takes to make our relationship/friendship/awkwarship anything. Therefore, no Blake, no Blake Years, just... the years I wasted. The years I wasted yet learned so much. Too long. Acronym?

The second story was about a girl Carmen who had a lot of family baggage and she has these mysterious to the reader scars all over her stomach. Turns out, she's a cutter, which none of us ever guessed during workshop. Espresso Roma Kid (ERK from here on out) asked why it wasn't on the wrists, and she said because the stomach was easier to hide. Then ERK was like "Oh good, so it's not like for attention" and then the workshop ended with everyone making slights about people who cut, like they listen to this certain band and dress this way and have razorblades just chilling in their bathroom all the time.

I've said it on here before and those who know me know this, I used to have a problem with cutting from eighth grade through sophomore year of high school. And if you've read some of my more depressing blogs on here, they usually have to do with a fear of relapsing. And it always hurts me so much when people make fun of self-injury. It's not funny. It's not something that only affects "emo" or "goth" kids. I haven't changed much in the way of looks and apparel and outward demeanor. Would you count me as an emo or goth kid? Would you look at me and say she cuts herself? Probably not. So why in the fuck do people have to always assume that? It pisses me off to no end.

I've had people make fun of me, not only behind my back, but to my face about cutting. People I trusted and loved tear me apart because of something that I couldn't help, something I was literally addicted to. I know their words and laughter hurts, and it's not what anyone dealing with self-injury needs.

I just hope if anyone can read this and be more aware then I did my part. If you ever want to know more about this, don't hesitate to ask me. It's a part of my past and made me who I am today. I'm not ashamed and would more than willing to share my experience with you. But please think about your words when you talk about this. You never know if the girl with the smiles plastered all over her face is actually hiding her pain beneath them.

You never really know.

Monday, February 22, 2010

I'm Blog-alicious.

Wow, so many of my friends have blogs. And I like it. It's really interesting to see that even when I LIVE with some of these people there are still parts of their lives that I'll never see or know about. But blogging makes that much less severe, so thank you everyone for pouring yourselves out on the internet for my personal pleasure of reading. Not really, but I like seeing these hidden moments in the lives of the people I love.

Speaking of seeing hidden moments of other people, I sufficiently stalked this kid in my writing class until the point where I found his music on myspace. Get this jazz?? He's pretty damn good. And his voice is so much more less annoying when he sings. He's playing a show this Monday at Espresso Roma at 8 and I think I'm going to go stalk him there too because I want to hear him live.

I'm super tired and apathetic to life this week, although I'm not exactly sure why. I'm still probably recovering from last week and I'm catching whatever Katie gave to me. That jerk! I need to be working on my story, but I just don't have the gumption at all. I pretty much just sat around and read today and baked some cupcakes for Muirons, which unfortunately no one showed up to again this week. Oh well, still have a lesson that I can do for next week.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

A Few Times I've Been Around That Track

Ah! I got so off track with life these past couple of weeks. I've had midterms every week since third week and it's been so consuming. I'm glad it's over! One week off and then one more midterm, then finals are just around the corner, then HOME! Woot! I cannot wait until I go home. I'm so excited to see my mom and my brother, Stephanie, Andrew, Amelia, and Ashtyn. Lots of A'sssssss.

I've totally been playing dodgeball. Our team is so bad ass! And I've been getting to know our HA's Michelle and J.R. better. They are so freaking amazing. I love spending Thursday nights with them and the rest of the dodgeball team. Speaking of, Potter was on our team this week and I freaking died. I'm pretty sure he knows me as "that one girl whose really obsessed with me from T-House." Oh well! I've decided he's my new Unattainable Object of Affection because I found out my current, now ex I guess, Unattainable Object of Affection is GAY!! I'm not talking that one specific person, but my cute little half-asian piece of hilarity Jared. He's gay. J.R. double confirmed it by saying "He has a boo!" A BOO! AAAAAH! It was so hard watching him in Foosh; my heart was breaking and aching all over the place. He's beautiful. But now he is SUPER Unattainable Object of Affection, so Potter it is. He's single and straight too, perfectly acceptable to drool over him and his Half Blood Prince of Dodgeball skills.

I saw that particular someone on Thursday. Totally ran into him coming around a corner. I was like REALLY! TODAY OF ALL DAYS! I wasn't wearing any make-up. I hadn't showered. My hair was all up and awful. It was the only day all week I hadn't at least looked presentable because that was the day of my midterm and I had pretty much pulled an all-nighter. Let's add to this equation-- I had just taken a poop and I was holding a HUGE (huge to me, but I guess it was only a medium) and an onion ring. There I was gross and unhealthy in front of Mr. Always Good Looking and Vegetarian Super Health Man. He was like "How are you doing?" And I was like "Not so well. You can tell by my very large soda I shall be running on solely caffeine today." And he made me feel better because he said he had only gotten two hours of sleep and had had a lot of espresso. So I didn't feel so bad for being so gross. But I haven't seen him in weeks and I wish that THAT wasn't the day. Damn it.

What else is going on? I applied to I-House. Woohoo! The whole apartment did. I'm really actually kind of excited about it. I looked more and more into what kind of programs they offer and they seem legit. We're all pretty excited about it, but we're going to have to see what happens.

I haven't ran in a LONG time. Actualy, I ran like... two Mondays ago about two miles around Campus Loop. Not the best idea as I hadn't run for over a week. So it's been about three weeks since I've really ran. I think I'm giving up on the 5k blog... maybe I won't. I need to get back into my groove. Obviously staying up until freaking... all hours of the night isn't good for wanting to ge up early in the morning to do things, so with that little self-guilt trip, I'm going to bed now.

I love you all! Good night, my dearies!

Thursday, February 11, 2010

From The Surprisingly Quotable Amy Adams

Thirty was a big deal for me. It was the age where I reevaluated everything - how I approached life and how I thought about myself. When I look at my 20s, or when I look at any period in my life, I think about how much time I've wasted trying to find the right man. It's like, if I could go back and do it again, I would have taken guitar lessons or something. I would have put my energy into something that paid off in the end, instead of trying to improve myself for men. Oh, the time and the energy, trying to impress somebody who was actually a big jerk, you know? But the truth is, once you have a great man in your life, it allows you - or at least for me - to look at yourself and grow as an individual. And gosh, if I had known I was going to find this, my 20s would have been completely different.

I always knew I loved her. Thanks Amy. I'm going to take guitar lessons!

Tuesday, February 9, 2010


I want to thank those people who read my work and told me how they felt about it. It means so much to me that I don't know what to say...

Usually, when I sit with a pen in hand or with hands poised above a keyboard, the words come to me. I cannot verbally articulate myself for the life of me, but writing has always been easy-- to bad it's taken me nineteen years to figure that out.

But this time is different. You, the beautiful people out there, have left me speechless, wordless, unable to move my hands across these keys in a way that would truly convey how endlessly thankful I am for your support and love and time. Man, you guys took time to read my simple short stories, even my dilapidated and mostly depressing blog entries, and that means incredible time to me as I know how precious time is.

Thank you for the tears, the texts, the questions, the comments.

You are my world. You are what I live for each and every day.
Thank you for being that.

Friday, February 5, 2010

A Memory in Two Parts, A Work of Good Fiction.

So, for my fiction writing class, we had to write about a childhood memory in completely a child's voice. So, no big, fancy words, no adult perspective. Completely childlike.

And you all know my infantile enthusiasm is unbridled, so this assignment ended up being really easy for me. I knew what memory I wanted to write about right away and as I thought about it, this really cool I guess metaphor came to my mind concerning the blue, yes blue, carpet that we had in the house I first lived in.

This week's assignment was to revisit that memory but now from an adult perspective. Ijust finished writing it. And, I'm not going to lie, although a good portion of everything written is fictional, a lot of the emotion isn't. And this piece has actually been really hard on me. It's very truthful in how I see my relationships and how I see my marriage. It reveals a lot about me that many people don't get to see. IN all honesty, I've only shared it with one person on this Earth and that person in return hurt me quite badly. Safe to say, I'm not looking to share it again for a long time.

But I thought I'd give you a glimpse, let you see something that some will never know resides deep within my heart and affects me daily. Isn't that sad?

Enjoy the following two posts.

Ocean and Sand Castles (Early Memory Part I)

I am floating on the blue carpet as Mommy puts Dexter to sleep. The carpet reminds me of the ocean Mommy and Daddy took me to last summer when it was fire hot outside and Mommy still had Dexter in her tummy. We drove a long, long ways and finally we turned a corner and I saw the big ocean for the first time. This is what the carpet reminded me of.

Mommy holds Dexter and softly lays him down in his crib. I jump up out of my ocean carpet and peek over the railing at him, like I’m playing peek-a-boo. He is already asleep so I say in a very small, inside voice, “Good night, good night, sweet baby brother” and kiss my hand so I can give it to him without waking him up. I reach out and touch his forehead and he wiggles a little bit. I laugh and Mommy shushes me, then pulls me out of the room with her. Mommy goes to the bedroom to do laundry, but I don’t want to go with her.

I go to the living room, swimming through the blue carpet all the way to the sandy kitchen. I get all of my sand toys and start building another sand castle. I can hear Mommy singing like the little mermaids from her bedroom. Daddy smiles at me as he cooks my favorite Saturday night chocolate pancakes.

“How tall is the sand castle today?” he asks.

“I don’t know yet, Daddy. It might all fall down like it did yesterday.”

“Well,” he says as he comes over to me and squats down on his knees, scooping into the ocean carpet, “if you take some of the water and make that sand wet, it'll help it stick together.”

I know that, but I don’t tell Daddy. I tell him “thank you.”

“Don’t make it higher than your head,” he says. “That’s a sure way for sand castles to fall over.”
I shake my head yes and continue building. He doesn’t know that I can make sand castles as tall as the moon. They go right through the roof. Daddy worries a lot. When we went to the ocean, he told me about the drowning and how the water gets all the way in your breathing until you can’t breathe anymore. But it was ok because I didn’t want to go too far in and all I wanted to do was make sand castles.

As Daddy is putting the plates and cups on the table, Mommy comes out from the bedroom with a pair of underwear in her hand.

“What is this?” Mommy says. I can tell she’s angry. I don’t know why.

“Mommy, it’s underwear,” I say. I get up to go to the table after making sure my sand castle isn’t going to fall. I can tell this one is going to be a big one. I pull out my chair and sit down, waiting for Daddy to serve the pancakes, but Daddy has stopped and is staring at Mommy.

What is this?” she asks again. And that’s when she did it.

She rushes towards Daddy, knocking over my big sand castle. They start yelling about the underwear. The sand is all over the floor. Mommy pushes Daddy. My sand castle is broken.

“It’s only underwear,” I whisper as I swim away. I’m not getting my pancakes tonight. I hear the crashes start in the kitchen. Dishes are breaking. Their voices are outside voices.

I know what to do. I have done this before. I reach in and carefully pull Dexter out of his crib and go to their bedroom. I set him down on their bed and go back to the door to lock it. I go back to him and lay down next to him, holding him close as he cries.

I tell him about the ocean that he missed while he was in her tummy. I tell him about the blue water and all of the sand. I tell him about the sand castles I made. I tell him about my sand castle I made today. I tell him how she made it all broken. I tell him it’s only underwear. I tell him that this will be over soon like last time.

I tell him this over and over until he is asleep and soon I am too.

She wakes me up and tells me to hurry up and get a jacket. I ask her where we are going. She says she doesn’t know. She picks up Dexter and takes him out of the room. I go to my room and find my jacket. I go out to find her and it’s hard to swim in a jacket. I can see from the living room she is putting Dexter into his car seat. His truck isn’t in the driveway next to hers and I know he is gone gone this time. As I fight to swim to the front door I trip over something she has dropped and fall into the ocean carpet.

I think this is what the drowning is like.

The End of Nuclear Perfection and Sand Castles (Early Memory Part II)

He came in from another late night at work and walked over to me lying on the couch. I curled my legs underneath me so my lap could form a pillow for his head. He laid down.

“I’m sorry I’m late again, honey. This stupid case is keeping us there through all hours of the night.”

Apparently, his law firm was working on some big case involving some multimillion dollar scandal. I mentioned that I thought I would have read about it in the newspaper by now. He said that people have been paid a lot of money to keep it from the public. No one can keep quiet for this long.

“It’s alright. I wish you were here more though. Maybe after this we’ll take a long vacation?”

I leaned down to kiss him when an unfamiliar smell caught my attention. It was perfume.

It was a perfume I never used but knew very well since working at perfume boutique two years ago. It was expensive and sexy, the kind a husband would give to his mistress.

I scratched his neck gently, pretending to give a loving massage while moving his collar around to see if I could find any traces of something that shouldn’t have been there.

A make-up smudge.

I froze.

I was only a little girl when my mom accused my father of cheating. I remember the night clearly. My mom and I had just put Dexter to bed and I had gone out into the living room to make pretend sand castles in the kitchen at the edge where our blue carpet and hardwood floors matched. The ocean meeting the sand.

Mom had gone to put away laundry and my father was making chocolate chip pancakes, my favorite. I haven’t eaten them since. It was a simple, Saturday night, the only night my family was ever all together as Mom usually worked late to support the family. She was gone a lot, but she was doing it to bring in income. My bastard father could never hold down a job, getting fired for showing up drunk or not passing the drug tests.

Apparently, the job searches were actually an affair. My mom found the lacy red panties bunched up in a pair of his pants that she was folding. He never could finish the job completely.

I remember when she rushed him asking him about the underwear and I had no idea what was going on. To me, they were only underwear. Now, they’re the symbol of my family’s downfall, the beginning of a violent divorce to terminate a violent marriage, the ending of my fantasy world of nuclear perfection and sand castles.

It still bothers me that as a six-year-old I knew when my parents fought that I needed to get my brother and I safely into their locked bedroom, that we were in danger inside our own home, that we weren’t safe in the security of our own parents. I cannot count how many nights I went through that routine with Dexter. I would have to wake him up and he would cry and I would cuddle with him on the bed, telling him stories to get him to go to sleep. Sometimes there are nights when he can’t fall asleep, he’ll call me and ask for me to simply talk until he falls asleep. He was one when my parents divorced. He doesn’t know why my voice is soothing to him. I pretend I don’t know either.

When my mom woke us up, she told me to get a jacket and that we were leaving. She didn’t know where. I knew we weren’t coming back. I grabbed this huge, overstuffed jacket that didn’t even fit me and tried to get out to the car. I tripped in the living room on the way out, falling into that deep blue carpet. I remember it was my ocean carpet. I remember finally understanding what the drowning my father had told me about felt like. He warned me about it and then showed me what it was like too.

Before I even got married to Blake, I told him about this. I told him how hard it has been for me to trust men, how I have always gotten hurt by those I bring my walls down enough to love. I told him to truly know me and to truly love me, he would have to break down those years of abandonment that my father left me with. I told him it would be the end of everything if he ever put me through what my father put my mom through.

He told me I was beyond perfection. He told me that he would prove himself to me. He told me I could trust him no matter what. And he held me through those nights where I sobbed, trying to let him in, thinking I was the one who was destroying this relationship with all the shit baggage that ass had left me with. He told me he would never, ever cheat on me.

Tonight happened though the way it did. I quietly twisted his collar around so he could see the make-up for himself. I pushed him off of me and walked to the bed room. I grabbed my jacket and knew I was leaving. I didn’t know where, but I knew I wasn’t coming back.

Monday, February 1, 2010

It Hurts Again

I have way too much stress this quarter.

I couldn't handle it on Saturday. I kind of lost it, in my own, private, indulgent way.

I sat in the shower letting scalding hot water pour down onto me and listened to "The Way She Feels" on repeat for about forty minutes.

It's been enough for me to indulge the want, the desire, to think about it, to acknowledge it, to accept its tormentous and occassional appearances in my life. I scratched at the itch until it went away.

It's been enough for me thus far but I have more years, more decades to live.

Will the itch ever be completely gone? Will I fail at holding myself back?

Whenever this occurs to me, I like to think that I can, that these four years haven't been for nothing, that my God isn't nothing.

And yet I worry that one day my indulgence won't be enough.

And I don't know what I'll do it if it does.