Day Ten: Someone I Need to Let go or Wish I Didn't Know

Day 10: Someone you need to let go or wish you didn’t know.


I am not sure I can complete this blog challenge. I have been thinking of people in my life that are really toxic to me and I cannot think of any particular person.

Usually cutting people out of my life is something I am good at. Once someone screws me over and betrays my trust, I cut them out. I have very little mercy for people who are damaging or toxic to me. Obviously, I wasn’t always this way and have had a few heated words with former friends telling them I wish I had never met them, and I still feel the same way, but more often than not, I do not let my relationship with someone become that negative.

Honestly, I am going to go ahead and say I cannot complete this post because this topic does not seem to apply to my life, in my opinion.

Obviously I will update this post if some epiphany happens. 

Day Nine: Someone I Didn't Want to Let go, but Drifted.

Day 09: Someone you didn’t want to let go, but drifted.

Most of my friendships end in a drifting sense. Rarely ever have I gotten into a huge fight with a friend and vowed to never speak to them again. More often than not I allow the rest of my life to get in the way of my friendships or my friends and I simply change too much and no longer have enough in common to maintain a relationship. Some of those friends I regret losing.

Probably none more than my friend KAM, she is one of those people that everybody loves. She has a quiet presence that I love about her. Most people are average people, not good, not bad, but KAM is a great person, one of the best people I know. I am not sure I have ever met a more loving and caring person than her. She would do anything for her friends and family and would always be there for them completely selflessly.

Anytime I ever needed her, she would be there for me. More than once she let me sleep in her bed with her, or she would force me to eat when I was dating Bitchell. She let me cry on her shoulder every time me and a boyfriend would break up, or my dad did something completely crazy, or because I was having a shitty day and generally felt not good enough. Some of my favorite memories involve staying up all night talking with her about everything and nothing. She truly was the embodiment of a best friend.

I think our drift apart rests primarily on my shoulders. KAM is great in so many ways, but she was never very good at laying her burdens on her friends. She wasn’t closed off or guarded by any means; I think she just felt guilty for asking anyone to carry some of her emotional baggage weight. However, this makes people like me feel guilty for always dumping on her, and anyone that knows me knows I have incontinence of the mouth.

I know I was a bad friend to her anytime I was in a relationship (which was an overwhelming majority of our friendship), but it was never on purpose. I always wanted her to call me and ask me to hang out, to come over, to get ice cream…because I freaking love ice cream. But more often than not, I was calling her to make plans and then I would forget about the plans or she would have something come up and we would fail at rescheduling and I would give up. My life gets so hectic sometimes, which sounds like an excuse and it kind of is, but for a while I had a very full plate. I needed a reminder of our plans and I unfairly put that burden on her instead of just being an adult and getting a day planner like everyone else.

Eventually holidays and birthdays started slipping by unnoticed and we totally fell out of touch. Recently I found her on the Internet; apparently she decided to come back into social networking. We are cordial and it is nice to be able to keep in contact with her, but so much has changed. Her life is totally different and kind of unbelievable! I have no idea how this course of events took place, but she seems to be happy and I could not be more happy for her. But, I miss her. I miss the friendship we had. I wish I had been better to her, because if anyone deserved the extra effort, she did. 

Day Eight: Someone Who Has Made Your Life Hell

Day 08: Someone who has made my life hell.

Okay, I hate this topic also. Seriously.

I suppose there is the obvious answer of everyone in middle school, especially the cunty girls. Or the neighborhood boys who were always jerks about everything and seemed to get off on making my life more difficult. But I think the person to take the cake is my crazy ex. To be nice, I will leave his name out of it and simply refer to him as Bitchell.

When I first met Bitchell, he was great. Instantly there was an attraction. It took a couple years for anything to happen between us, but when we started dating I was stoked. He was so attractive and funny. Hanging out with him was simple. I didn’t have to be smart or quick or guarded. I could just hang out. It was nice being with someone who wasn’t hyper secretive and openly cared about me. We both led totally separate lives and managed to come together and it seemed to really work at first.

We were total opposites. I was going to fake college, planning my transfer to a four-year university, I was working, and I was totally straight edge. He was jobless, not getting his education, and loved to party. I was fine going with him to parties and acting as the DD. Being able to be myself and laugh all night made the whole situation seem worth it. I thought I had met my match.

Then, he started taking a turn to crazy town. I am not sure how things progressed the way they did, but we went from being a happy couple to a totally dysfunctional couple in what, looking back on it, seems like minutes. I was raised by guys and grew up in a neighborhood with predominately males. Being around the opposite gender is comfortable for me. Most of my friends were and still are men. Bitchell did not like this fact. He became extremely jealous of my guy friends, thought all of them were trying to break us up, thought I was trying to hook with them. He reacted to this information by gathering a harem of random chicks to always be at his beckon call.

He would constantly rub his other girls in my face. Run to them any time we had a fight, portray me to seem crazy and irrational. On the other hand, he accused me of lying to him about who I was spending my birthday lunch with when he heard the waiter speaking to a different table. Heaven forbid I be in the same restaurant where men are allowed to eat. I was bombarded with questions and accusations of cheating and lying. If he had a single ounce of rationality, he would know that between school, work, taking care of my father, and dating him I had zero free time to cheat on him. I made the mistake of using this logic on him and was then accused of only being faithful because I didn’t have free time to be otherwise.

Multiple times I tried leaving the relationship. I knew he was dumb. I knew he was crazy. Then, in some twisted way he would win me back by driving past my parents’ house to see if I was home, or calling my phone 38 times a day (conservative estimation).

In a twist of fate I ended up living with him.

My father and I got into a petty fight and he told me if I didn’t like it I could move out. So, I grabbed a bag or two full of things and left. I did not want to burden my oldest brother by asking to stay with him; I knew his wife didn’t really want me there. I called Bitchell. The first night I stayed with him and he was very nice and supportive. The plan was to call my best friend and stay with her. Her parents had taken others in, I knew they loved me, I figured they would help me out. They didn’t. I stayed with my best friend only one night. My brother didn’t ask me to stay with him when we talked, so I stuck with my original assumption and did the only thing I could think of, I moved in with Bitchell.

Bitchell was living with his sister and brother-in-law at the time, so he and I shared a room. I kept telling him we were not together and insisted on sleeping on the floor at first. Eventually the comfort of the bed and his general craziness won me over and we, once again, became some semblance of a couple. Most of those nights were terrible and too personal to discuss here. To this day I still deal with the events that occurred during those months. I will always be scarred. Those nights have completed changed my sleeping patterns.

Living with Bitchell only exacerbated his insanity. To deal with his craziness and everything else in my life I decided to stop eating. My weight dropped more as I became more and more unhappy. Instead of eating on my lunch breaks, I chose to walk around for an hour, then I would go back to my active job and pretend I just had a very filling and satisfying meal. I would lie about what I ate and how much. I only ate around friends for show; even then I would mostly just pick at food or eat a plain salad without cheese, croutons, or dressing, just a squeeze of lemon wedge for flavor. Anytime I did eat a proper meal, I contemplated throwing it up. For once, I wanted to show someone on the outside, the way I felt on the inside.

Bitchell knew I was starving myself. He would watch me push my full plate of food away; defiantly saying I was full or had lost my appetite. He saw my body shrinking, saw me looking more and more gaunt. Yet, he continued with his psychosis.

When the lease he had with his sister expired, he and I got a two bedroom apartment together. I loved it. It was spacious and cute. I finally had my own space again. I was very firm with him that we were really not together anymore. He was never to enter my room without my permission, ever, especially at night. Of course, he only half respected these rules. He was smart enough to never try and crawl in bed with me, but he continued to treat me like his girlfriend. It was easier for me to pretend and go along with some of it.

Then I was allowed a few nights of freedom that led to one of the worst nights of my life. I met a guy through one of my girlfriends. I really liked this guy, he was attractive, older, straight edge (like me!), smart, nice, and seemingly mentally stable. Of course, I knew better than to tell Bitchell the great news, so I did the rational thing and lied to him. However, I under estimated his insanity. After an argument Bitchell grabbed my phone while my back was turned. I had forgotten to delete some text messages and he found out about the ‘other guy’. Bitchell fucking lost it! He punched a hole through my door, not in it but all the way through it, pushed me against my closet and started screaming at me. When I admitted I had been hanging out with other guy he became violent. For a few minutes, I thought he might actually kill me. His hands around my neck did not seem to have any inkling of letting go. He kept telling me he was going to kill me, it seemed logical to think he might.

That night I was trapped in my apartment for hours. He had my cell phone, he had my keys, he was obviously stronger than me, and he was faster than me. Every time I would bolt for an exit he would get there first and physically harm me in some way. When he eventually did allow me to leave, he made me promise not to go to the house of the ‘other guy’. I promised. Then I headed straight for ‘other guy’s’ house. It must have been two or three in the morning when I knocked on the door.

Eventually the ‘other guy’ and his roommates helped me get my phone back along with my keys and a bag or two of stuff. The boys made me call the cops. When the cops showed up Bitchell decided to toy with me and them. He continually called my phone, letting me know he could see me, but that I could not see him. The cops couldn’t do anything about someone they couldn’t find.

I filed a police report and promised the guys I would go to the courts.

I got a permanent protection order that doubles as a no contact order. The first judge I saw ordered me to move all of my things out of the apartment. She also order Bitchell to vacate while I there. Of course, in true Bitchell fashion he refused to leave and I was too scared to call the cops again, plus I had my brothers and the ‘other guy’ with me. I was just ready to be done with him.

A few months later I found out Bitchell had been evicted. Even though I broke the lease a collection company was coming after me for $2,000 worth of unpaid rent. My credit was better than his, so it made sense to ask me for the money. It took roughly two years to prove I was not legally responsible for any of the damages or unpaid rent. Within that time, Bitchell decided to email me an apology, and then he spent a night in jail and retaliated by portraying me as an obsessed nut job on his MySpace page.

Until recently, I hadn’t heard from him again. Then he decided to email me again, asking me a favor about some pictures of us on the Internet. I am still weirded out that he would go out of his way to find the pictures in which he is referring. I called the cops again. The issue went to court and was eventually settled out.

Even now, years after the initial incident I am still completely (and slightly irrationally) terrified of him. Receiving the email sent me into a string of panic attacks. Thinking about when I saw him in court for the first time in years makes me queasy. Constantly I am reminded of the ripple effect that relationship had on my life. I see the way it influences my current relationship and my possible relationships with others. Some ripples therapy might help. Other ripples have become more like unstoppable tidal waves, issues I will deal with for the rest of my life. 

Day Seven: Someone Who Has Made Your Life Worth Living

Day 07: Someone who made life worth living.

First off, I hate this topic. No one person has ever been my reason for breathing, my reason to continue living. I am my reason for living. But, in the spirit of things, I guess the reason I am still alive is my family. Not for the obvious reason of my parents procreating.

Depression runs in my family. I would probably say that I started dealing with depression in elementary school. It started off slowly, the way anything does. I didn’t want to go to school, I would sleep through my alarm, I could never turn my brain off, falling asleep was difficult, I was constantly paranoid about friends. Slowly it turned into something much more serious than standard feelings of insecurity that come along with growing up. Sleeping became more and more difficult. I would spend multiple nights in a row staring at the ceiling trying to find shapes in the popcorn. I would think about conversations with my parents, friends, teachers, they would replay as an infinite loop in my head. I would imagine altercation that I knew were about to happen between myself and my friends or family. I could almost always predict what would be said verbatim. Then, my alarm would go off and I would go to school. Rinse, repeat. Days would pass without any sleep. Yet, I was rarely tired.

At school and at home I would pretend to still be hyper, happy. I would laugh with my friends at all the jokes, none of which I found funny. I would tell stories animatedly, dance around, sing, and generally pretend to be an overly active yet well-adjusted kid.

Eventually it started to become more obvious that something was wrong. In middle school I stopped skipping because I didn’t “feel good” (aka over slept/didn’t want to go), my interactions with friends stayed relatively the same, but I was fighting with my parents and brothers a lot more. It sounds silly to say, because what preteen doesn’t fight with their family daily? But, I would argue and I would feel worse afterward because it seemed like I could never just make anyone happy, least of all myself. I didn’t understand why I constantly felt alone and numb.

Soon, the numbness turned into something painful. If there is a word to describe the feeling, I am unaware. Emptiness is the closest, I suppose. I felt like a shell, hallow. Looking back, I think my brothers and parents sensed something was wrong, they just were not sure of the seriousness. It seems that the roots of our arguments were how much and why I had changed. They knew something was different, maybe even that something was wrong, but I do not think they had any idea of what I was dealing with secretly.

I was never a cutter; I never wanted to show on the outside how I was feeling on the inside. Plus, as mentioned previously I am super vain, even back then. But, I do remember doing things that would cause pain in order to make sure I could still feel and in order to release some of the emotions I otherwise had no idea of how to express.

Pinpointing when things got really bad is impossible. I am not sure if I started heading to the next step because it is the likely progression of things, or if there was a specific incident that made it seem reasonable. At one point I grabbed one of the knives from the kitchen and decided to keep it in my room. The knife was my ‘just in case’. Fights with my parents would break out, they would try to show tough love, or find out why I was doing so poorly in school, why I was so different from my brothers. My brothers would tell me I bring all of these arguments on myself, if I could just fall in line and play it cool I would be fine. I always took this as my family saying I am not good enough. Then, I would go in my room, sometimes cry, sometimes wonder why I couldn’t cry, grab the knife and press it against my wrists. I never pressed hard enough to break the skin.

Sometimes, after school before my brothers and parents got home I would look in the medicine cabinet. I would look at all of the prescriptions and OTCs and wonder what would happen if I took them all. I wondered how many I would have to take to achieve the desired goal. Every time I shut the cabinet without taking a single pill.

I truly hated myself. Honestly, I think I truly hated my family. I wanted nothing more than to die. I thought it would be better. I knew my family would be upset, that they would blame themselves and I knew they shouldn’t. I knew the issues I was going through were my own and no fault of my family. Every single day I thought about ending my own life. And every single day I wanted to do it. At one point I had a letter written out, I had it folded neatly my bedroom’s desk drawer, next to my knife.

My fights with my family always pushed me that much closer to wanting to kill myself. But I knew they would never understand. And I knew the afterlife would not bring me solace if I unfairly punished my family in that way. There was no way I could, in good conscience, take my own life after sharing angry words with my family.

Eventually my mom got tired of me never sleeping, failing my classes, and generally being a complete stranger. She took me to the doctor because she thought there was something mentally wrong with me. Not in the sense of my psyche, but she thought maybe they missed some type of mental disorder. In the only good move my parent’s quack of a doctor ever made, he gave me a short mental health test. For multiple years my mom had brought me in to talk about my sleeping issues, days without sleep, long spats of nightmares, weeks of broken and minimal sleep. Dr. Quack always brushed it off as the quirks of childhood. For some reason, this time seemed different to him. It was like a light bulb went off in his head; he started to see the pattern.

He gave me a short test with simple questions asking about my sleep patterns, my mood, my weight, and if I ever thought of taking my own life. Obviously, I did not score in the “rainbows and sunshine” section of the test.

I have very little doubt that had my mother not intervened by taking me to the doctor and continued to let me spiral down, I would have attempted suicide. And, I do not want to say I am here solely because my mom took me to the doctor at the right time. It is not like she had some type of strong motherly intuition as to what was wrong with me. Had she not taken me to the doctor, and by some miracle had I not tried to end my life, the reason I would still be here is my family. As much as they infuriate me, I could never leave them with the burden of “what if”. Not upsetting my family any more than I already had was my reason to get up every day and put on a smile, regardless of how I actually felt. They were the reason I floated through life, pretending I was whole.

Now, I am mentally stable, off anti-depressants and still a horrible sleeper. But, I no long need a reason to get up every day, get out of bed, and do something…even if that something is sitting on the couch watching bad television and eating a can of Pringles. I no longer think of ending my life, keep a knife in my room, or have a letter to explain why I cannot continue living. I simply live. I live because I am enough. But, I am not sure I would be able to say any of this had it not been for the love I have towards my family. 

Day Six: Something You Hope to Never Do.

Day 06: Something I hope I never have to do in life.

Some people are meant to be parents. I do not think most people that are parents should have made the decision to procreate, but some people were put on this Earth for the purpose of bringing others into it. I know people that are meant to have kids. Their goal in life is simply to bring life to this planet. I cannot wait to see these few friends of mine have children and I look forward to seeing those children become well-adjusted adults. However, having kids sounds like the worst idea in the world, to me.

First off, I hate kids. Yes, that includes babies. Yes, that includes your kids. No, I do not think your kid is cute. And your pregnancy is fucking gross. It just is, I am sorry. Secondly, I am one of the most selfish people I know. Having kids of my own is one of the worst ideas ever. Seriously, bad idea. Lastly, I am vain. Not a little vain, but legitimately vain. If I could stare at myself for hours, I probably would. But being pregnant would put a serious dent in the amount of time I am able to bask in my own vanity.

Some girls are able to have kids and keep their body like it never happened. I work with one of those girls, honestly, I want to punch her in the face…but just a little bit and only because I am so jealous of her six-pack abs. If she were not one of the nicest girls I have ever met, I would hate her for being such a gorgeous bitch. But, I am not one of the girls lucky enough to have a body that would bounce back. I know this. I know that if I had kids, I would be ruined forever. A person as vain as I am cannot have a body that will always be…blah.

Also, I am an asshole. Like a really big asshole. If you have never been to yourkidsartsucks.com, go there. If I had kids, I would submit all of their shitty colorings to that site. But, I think what makes it worse, is that I am not sure I would be able to put on that fake smile all parents get when their kid draws them a picture of a cat that looks like a dick. I could not tell my child how great their dick-cat is, I would probably suppress a laugh, get out my phone, lie to my child by telling them I am taking a picture to show my coworkers, upload that horrible drawing to the Internet. No kid needs that.

I really like money. I like having money, I like spending money. Having kids would limit the amount of money I have because I would be spending all of it, but instead of spending it on a great pair of shoes and happy hour with my lady friends, I would be spending my money on art supplies so my child can draw me more dick-cats.

Having kids means you are forced to be around more than just your child. From what I can tell, parents always want to set up play dates. And eventually kids will go to school and make friends. They will want their annoying snot nosed friends to spend the night, stay over for dinner, come with us to the state fair. If I can barely stand my own hypothetical child, how am I going to have enough patience for the friends?!

Then they are in middle school. When I was in middle school I was the worst kid ever. Okay, that is not true. I was actually a pretty good kid. I never did drugs, drank, snuck out, I wasn’t too involved with boys; I was a fairly good kid. But, most middle schoolers? Gah, they are the worst. They are evil little humans at that age. I would probably do something like that woman who drowned her kids in a lake by trapping them in her car. I know the way karma works, and I know that one day my child would take it too far and I would snap. Then, I would go to jail. Spending time in jail is another thing I hope I never do.

Assuming my hypothetical child lives through middle school, I would have to put up with them in high school. Homecoming, prom, midterms, finals, college applications, drivers ed, dates, 16 and pregnant. Lions and tiger and bears, OH MY! I know what I put my mom through during dress shopping for Homecoming and Prom, I hope I am never on the opposite end of that. And I am not sure if I mentioned it before, but I am a big fan of money and providing for all of these things would cost me a lot of money. Not worth the mental anguish or dent in my pocket book.

With kids is seems that every time a parent should be done supporting them, there is more stuff to pay for. It starts small, diapers and formula. Sure, those things are expensive but that time is short. Then it is crayons and water parks. Eventually it is the latest pair of jeans and cell phone. Then it is car and college. You might think it is over after the wedding, but then they are buying a home and you are helping with the house warming and then your kids have kids. The cycle continues!

Children are basically hell.

I hope I never have kids. I hope I never lose my distaste for kids. I hate kids. 

Day Five: Something You Hope to do in Your Life

Day 05: Something I hope to do in my life.

It sounds silly and petty, but I want to get the fuck up out of Washington. I hate it here. Of course, it is beautiful. I am an equal distance from the desert and the ocean. In the same amount of time it would take me to get into the city, I can be in the woods.

Washington is great, I love it, but every day I fantasize about getting out. I have never thought I would only live here. As a young child I used to think about moving away from family, friends, everything I have ever known. Back then, it scared me. I looked forward to it, but I was afraid of the unknown. Now, I cannot think of many things I want more than something totally different. Sure, I am afraid of getting lost and not knowing my way around, being ignorant when people talk about different neighborhoods and towns, but none of that outweighs getting away from this coast.

Of course, I could leave any time I want. Forgetting that I am locked into a lease until the start of next year, I could up and move tomorrow. But, let’s be realistic. Moving is expensive. I would either have to sell all of my things or have a very pretty penny saved in order to afford to move and also be able to support myself while looking for a new job.

The great thing about working in the restaurant industry is that I will always have a job. Bars and restaurants are everywhere. I can move to any city in any state and work at whatever watering hole is willing to bring me on board. Regardless of economy bars succeed. As long as I stay in this industry, I will always be able to find work.

However, I cannot work in this industry and not cringe a little when I tell people what I do for a living. Not to mention, servers are a dime a dozen. And of course, I will probably never be paid to relocate while working in a bar. So, I think the most realistic option for me is to get my degree first.

Getting my degree first leads into its own set of problems. The older I get the more roots I set down. Leaving the industry can make it difficult to get back. Also, restaurants want people with current experience, not someone that has been working in an office for the last six months (or longer!). Not being transferred with an office can make finding a new job difficult for a plethora of reasons. With an unstable economy and job market, I worry about leaving my comforts too soon.

I have always wanted to just leave. Not tell anyone, to simply go, send a postcard when I get there. I still want to do this. I am pretty convinced I never will, but it is my not-so-secret pipe dream.

But, alas all of things that terrify me about leaving are the reasons I want to get out. I dislike the people here. The Seattle Freeze is too much for me. If you are not aware of the Seattle Freeze, it has nothing to do with weather and everything to do with the attitude of people in this area. Bing it. The predictability of the bars and restaurants is tiring. And honestly, why are there so many hipsters?!

I look forward to moving somewhere else. Somewhere no one knows me. I look forward to getting lost and exploring in a way that I cannot really explore out here. Making new friends and being around people that might have a similar outlook on life to me seems refreshing. Learning about the weather patterns are different climate zones of a new state sounds way better than trying to remember all the different convergent zones of the PNW. Living in a place where the buildings are not graded on their ability to withstand an earth quake sounds peaceful. Not worrying about an earth quake sounds awesome!

I understand that with every decision there are ups and downs. But none of the downs outweigh the good, to me.

I hope I am able to escape Washington. Like I said, I love this state, but I fucking hate it here. 

Day Four: Something You Need To Forgive Someone For.

Day 04: Something I have to forgive someone for.

Guess who has daddy issues? I know it is totally uncommon because most fathers are so loving, caring, and supportive of their daughters, I know that my nearly opposite experience is rare. I do not want to shock people too much but this is a writing project and I am obligated to write. Plus, I have missed a couple days due to not being around a computer. So, I might as well get going with the snark.

From a young age I was told to marry rich. It was rarely ever advice to be smart, push myself, go to school, get a good job, find a nice guy that respects me and loves me for who I am. No. It was “Fran, marry rich!” Eventually I did start getting the “you are not going to be svelte and dominative forever!” My father is correct, eventually my looks will fade, eventually I will get old. And it is unfortunate that I never had a college fund, stocks, savings bonds, or any type of cushion afforded to me by my parents. My brothers, both older, were given these things. Not all of it was from my parents. Some of the investments where from relatives that had lost interest, stopped caring, or were too confused on what year they were living in to be concerned with me.

My father’s logic was sound. I have to give him that. My brothers are only three years apart, so it makes sense to have college funds for both of them considering my parents would be paying for two educations at once. I am five years younger than my middle brother and eight years younger than my oldest brother. Both of them should have been out of college by the time I started. Therefore, my father figured there would be more than enough available cash to put me through school.

I am sure there was enough, had there not been enough I know my parents would have found a way. But, unforeseen issues arose. Firstly, my Freshmen year was really rough for me. I bombed. Those grades stayed on my transcripts, obviously, and my grandma dying played a large part in my horrid SAT scores. These parts of my high school career did not get me into any Ivy League colleges, or any colleges. So, I did what every kid who has no other options while refusing to go into the military, I went to fake college. Fake college is okay, most people call it community college but really it is high school with older classmates and teachers that give zero fucks. Calling it fake college is way shorter and easier and more accurate.

I was excited for my first quarter at fake college. I did well. I loved being able to pick my classes and picking the subject of my classes, picking the times, I felt like I was able to take a baby-step into adulthood. My second quarter included classes like English 105 and Polisci 100. I loved reading philosophy and participating in class discussions. I was looking forward to participating in the classes study group and then my father fell ill.

Taking care of my father became my biggest duty. Leaving for school involved a guilt trip and a threat at coming home to find my father no longer alive. During class my phone would go off to make sure I would come home after school instead of going to my study group or staying in the library to write my essays. Going to work was an ordeal. School took a backseat. My life was taking care of my father, taking him to the hospital, staying with him when I had to, and being thrown in the middle of my parent’s fights. Anytime I could escape, I did. I loved escaping to school. I loved studying, writing, seeing my friends and classmates, but I had bigger issues to worry about.

I flunked out of fake college my first year. Because I performed so terribly paying for school is now my responsibility. If I cannot afford school, I do not go. Failing out that year is rubbed in my face a lot. It was further proof that I will never be more than a pretty face. To my dad, it set my fate in stone.

I am not entirely sure he remembers, with accuracy, what those two years were like. I am not sure he knows what he put me through, my brothers through, my mom, my uncles. I don’t think he remembers going into my work and handing my manager a letter telling her not to schedule me more than one-four hour shift a week so that I could spend more time at home taking care of him. I don’t know if he remembers all of the times I had to rush him to the hospital. I do not know if he remembers calling my phone non-stop while I was at work, school, or out with friends. I do not know if he remembers calling me away from computer every five to 10 minutes while trying to write seven page essays on Thoreau. Yet, with all of these things he still feels free to cite my lack of drive as the reason to fail. My obsession with bad television and frivolity is the reason he throws out for my failing.

He needs to be forgiven. Maybe he doesn’t know that I am harboring this grudge. This is how I feel; this is how I remember those years of my life. Obviously, my memories are slightly biased, and I am sure there is more I could have done to pass my classes. But, at the end of the day, I can never think of any spare time I had to fulfill my responsibilities and maintain a good GPA.

Nothing gets accomplished by still resenting my father, but I do. 

Day Three: Something You Have to Forgive Yourself For

Day: 03. Something I need to forgive myself for.

There are plenty of things for which I need to forgive myself. We all make mistakes. Some of my mistakes have been huge; a lot have been making a wrong turn while driving (because I still do not know my right from my left!). But, I think the biggest thing I need to forgive myself for is where I am at in my life.

My dreams in life have changed, a lot, but they have always been difficult and abstract and something that involved my imagination and being artistic. I have never been good or original enough at drawing and painting to make it more than a hobby. I stopped acting during High School. Singing is a good time, but it only happens during karaoke, because I have absolutely no shame. Writing is the artistic outlet that I think I love most. So, I continue write, but my dreams have still not been fulfilled. No matter how much my dreams have changed, I never imagined at 26 years old I would be so unaccomplished.

At 26 I have not completed anything past my High School degree, and the closest thing to a “real” job I have held was getting screamed at for eight hours a day while working at Comcast. When I started working in restaurants, it was meant to be a means to an end. I was able to work part-time, pay my rent, pay my tuition, I could still afford to go shopping and go out with friends, and I could always cater my work schedule to make school a priority. But five years into the restaurant industry, I am not sure where I went wrong.

I make more money than I have before, but I think I am further behind in life than I ever have been. I never imagined in my wildest dreams, at my age, I would be doing exactly nothing with my life. The worst part about the whole thing is how incredibly easy it would be to fix my situation.

There is no way for me to go back in time and make different decisions, I cannot change what has happened to me, I cannot change the different situations that have landed me where I am. All I can do is worry about the future and do what I can to get to where I want to be. I know that I need to forgive myself for being so far behind on my dreams and aspirations, but I find it hard. Even if I achieved my Associates in the next few months and went to a real college to get my Bachelors, I would have a nearly impossible time not feeling behind.

Instead of dwelling on what I have not accomplished, being behind on my dreams, being behind on the abstract goals of success I have set for myself, I need to remember the goals I have set are still within reach. I am not too far behind, I am not too old, I can obtain the life and success I want. Achieving it years after I expected to is okay, I need to remember this and I need to forgive myself for being afraid, being lazy, getting distracted.

Holding a grudge against myself is obviously not working. I need to let go and move forward in life.

Day Two(point)Five: Something You Love About Yourself

Day 02.5: Something I love about myself

I dislike and disagree with my last post, but I feel that in the spirit of this challenge, I should leave it posted.

It is true that writing what I hate about myself was far easier than even thinking of something I love about myself. And I really do like my strength and self-control, but I think that is a weak topic and I think maybe the bad does outweigh the good. So, I wrote a new blog. It took me awhile to realize what I truly love about myself. I love my sense of self.  As I type this it sounds ironic considering I could not even think of something I love about myself, but I do.

I have no idea how I achieved my sense of knowing who I am and what I stand for, but I never remember not feeling this way. Even in middle school when most other kids are going through their awkward phase, trying to find their place, where they fit in, what they stand for, who they are, I knew. And while in some ways it was comforting to have such a strong sense of self, it also made that time in my life harder. I have also been weird, different, and it only served to even further set me apart. It probably didn’t help my case that not only was I aware enough, but also a big enough asshole with an acid tongue to tell the cunty girls in school that they will hit their peak at 17. Sometimes I was wrong; they capped younger. Kids at that age can sense difference.

Strangely, it also made me less self-assured at such a young age. When everyone around you is walking around peacocking, trying to impress each other, trying to look the most confident, trying to make it to the finish line of self-awareness first, it is strange to not have the burning desire to do so also. I thought, ‘Is this what I am supposed to be doing?’ I didn’t understand why more kids were not like me, it seemed so simple, just be you.

This same feeling carried on into high school. I watched as the kids around me grew up, succumbed to peer pressure, made poor decisions, tried to figure themselves out, tried to find their identity outside of what their parents imagined for them. Sure, I struggled with some of the same issues, but in general, I knew who I am. People always write in year books for the person to stay who they are, never change, and I always found that strange. Of course, I will grow up and evolve and change in the sense of maturing, but why would I ever really change, or be someone different than I have always been? It never made sense.

Sometimes my opinions change and evolve. Sometimes I cannot decide what I want to do with my life, but every day I wake up and I am the same person I was the day before, and the day before that, and every day before the last. I can never be anything other than who I am and I will never change that for anything or anyone, if for no other reason than because I simply cannot, no matter how hard I try. I love that about myself. I love that I will never change. I love that I know who I am and that was lucky enough to have always carried that knowledge. 

Day Two: Something You Love About Yourself

Day 02: Something I love about myself

This question is infinitely harder than the last. There are plenty of things I like about myself, but I am not sure what I love about myself. While typing this makes it sounds like I am a person without confidence, I would not go that far, I am extremely self-assured and confident, but I am not sure if I can pinpoint something I really, truly love about myself.

I think the thing I love most about myself is a double edge sword. I love my strength. Not my physical strength, but my mental and emotional strength. I rarely ever lose my temper, I rarely ever break down. It is not that I bottle up my emotions, I vent and I rant and after a 30 second rapid fire explanation of why I hate people who ask for chips and salsa I am back in my normal mood of  unemotional.

Plenty of people have told me my strength is like an emotional wall, and maybe there is some truth to that, but typically I find the good outweighs the bad. My strength does not allow me to break down at my work after a couple drinks, crying for hours. Or have a public freak out; including a screaming rant (this has actually happened, once). I do not get emotional and make rash decisions. I do not get wrapped up in my emotions. 

Day One: Something You Hate About Yourself

Day 01: Something I hate about myself.

Do I have to pick just one? I guess right now the thing I hate most about myself is my fear of failure. Not in the sense of being afraid that I might fail a class or that I might get rejected by someone I like, my fear of failure is on a totally different scale.

My brothers have always been pretty good at school, they have always been smart, they have always had the same friends, they are have always been kind of weird and shy, good students, respectful, they have always been the All-American boys. I have always been the exact opposite. Part of the reason I am the opposite is simply because I have a vagina. So, at the most basic level I am a gender opposite. But I think more than that, I was always expected to be like my brothers. It would make sense after all; we grew up in the same household, so how could we all be so different?!

Elementary school was really hard for me. First off, my brothers are a lot older than me. I saw their times tables and their algebra and was terrified! Was I supposed to know this stuff? How would they turn letters into numbers? And what do all of these symbols mean? I am surprised I didn’t have an anxiety attack while walking with my brother, Tom, to the first day of class. I was used to my friends at the daycare across the street, I had my routine down. Quickly, I learned the same kids that were my friend a week ago were blessed with popularity and because I was cursed with being strange and weird, these same kids that I ate backyard mushrooms with were no longer my friends.

The change in friends mixed with my kindergarten teacher, Mr. Heaton, started my schooling off with a rocky start. Mr. Heaton was my brother, Tom’s, third grade teacher. It was his first year teaching kindergarten and while I found his jerry curl mullet really sexy in the early 90’s, he was not the best person to be teaching a kindergarten class. Apparently my poor kindergartener penmanship did not qualify me to experience recess with the rest of the class. This was my first experience with failure. The type of failure that sets me apart from my peers and my family, different from the neighborhood boys not letting me play football for being a girl, something that sets me apart regardless of gender. I was set apart for not meeting the standards.

This same trend continued through middle school with common phrases being “Your brothers never had these problems…” and “I never had to have this conversation with your brothers…” or “Your brothers never spoke this way…” and into high school with other common phrases being “Your brothers were really good at this…” or “This was never an issue for your brothers…”. If I wasn’t getting these sentiments at school, I was getting them at home. And sure, I probably brought some of them onto myself. I have always been louder and more willing to express myself, even if that means calling my teachers morons (this happened more than once). But certain areas, like math and science, that have always been easy for my brothers were more difficult for me. And while teachers never seemed to point out that I was a much better writer than my brothers, they did point out that I was a much bigger asshole than my brothers.

I was the tortured artist and social butterfly in the family. I excelled at dating, drama, changing friends like most people change sticks of gum. This did not go over well. In a family where favoritism and sexism are prevalent, my skills were laughable. And while my mom would tell everyone, at the time, I was going to be the next Edgar Allen Poe, it didn’t seem to matter. My writing skills and interest were looked at as a flavor of the week. In their defense, it seemed logical to think that as I do not still want to act, sing, dance, etc.

Knowing that I will never live up to the standards my brothers set before has giving me the attitude of Why Bother? I am so afraid of trying and not meeting that standard, and thus having it held over my head (if you think my family would not do this, you obviously do not know my family!), that I would rather just not try. Getting over that hurdle is terrifying for me. If I fail, I will never live it down. I will have cemented the beliefs that I will never be more than a pretty face with an acid tongue. However, if I succeed, then why didn’t I try sooner? My family will be proud of me, of course, but I still know it will be said. Regardless of my success, it will be a lose-lose.

That type of pressure is a lot for me to handle. This is why my biggest fear is failing. Because I feel like regardless of what I do, I will still be failing. And I hate that about myself.