There are so many things that I do not know. What I do know are these things:
Whatever it means, I love you. I tend to interpret abstract concepts like love in a very expansive way, for the record. But I do. I love you. As my friend. As a lover. As a person. You’re great.
You have carried something special to me since the day I met you. I am not often drawn to people, and I’ve always had a weak spot for you. For whatever reason. Since the day I first laid eyes on you. When you spoke, you became the center of the universe. I can’t explain any part of it. But I’ve wanted, blindly, basely, irresistibly, to be connected with you in some way. For as long as I’ve known you. Unconditionally.
For what it’s worth (likely nothing!) I will always love you. In the way that I do. I obviously have strong romantic feelings for you, but I think you’re special enough, truly, that I could always be your friend. Whatever happens. I mean, provided that you don’t do something fucking stupid.
I think you’re very special though.
These are the things I know with every piece of my being, but cannot explain.
I’m not faking anything because I have to, anyway.
I’m feeling. Being. Enjoying things.
For so long I’ve been acting. I’ve been a shell that was filled with all of the wrong things. I had to study the art of seeming ok. Of being ok. Of smiling when good things happened, even if those good things meant nothing to me.
I haven’t felt self-conscious about a lack of happiness in a year. I haven’t looked around, realized that my listlessness was buzzkilling everyone in the room, and laughed because that’s what you do.
I’m full of (if not the right things) something now. I’m excited about stuff again. I’m better, I’m better.
I could scream with joy.
I never thought. I never thought it could be like this, again.
“To me, these strongly negative reactions to this woman’s critique really speak to how the term “politically correct” is a massive use of projection. The truth is not that people who think critically about how entertainment reinforces stereotypes and oppressions just go around getting all offended at stuff without even thinking about it, reacting solely on how our self-centered, solipsistic emotions react. The truth is that that’s exactly what uncritical fanboy fonts of unexamined privilege do whenever they’re told their favorite things might be alienating or offensive to other people.”—Fannie, “On Politically Correct, Again” (via morecoffee)
remember when i was under the delusion that my sexuality was anything that could be explained without getting extremely flustered and ending up shouting “I DON’T FUCKING KNOW THERE ARE PEOPLE WHO ARE CUTE AND IT MAKES ME UPSET”
Yesterday something clicked for me that’s never clicked before.
I figured out the answer to the gigantic hanging question mark in my life.
I am 100% taking joy in my own self from now on. Not as a reaction to something. I just am. I must.
I will no longer give my time and energy to those who do not respect me. I will expect reciprocal respect and energy and investment always, and if it is not given, I will move on. Because I am worth that.
I will never pine again. I will never overcompensate with bitchiness because I have nothing to fake anymore. I will never appease or attempt to impress again. I will not define myself by anyone’s opinion but my own.
I will trust myself. I do trust myself. I love myself. I finally get this somehow. It feels fucking awesome.
Goal 1: Complete a 5k at a jogging pace without stopping
Method: Successfully commit to and complete C25K
Time allotted: 9 weeks.
Goal 2: Continuously work to pare down time and increase distance.
Run 5k 3x per week minimum, gradually decreasing time and increasing diversity of terrain, absolutely including hills.
Complete sprints and interval drills 2x per week
Gradually work in resistance training
Gradually adjust to lighter weight shoes and using correct running form
Time allotted: 13 weeks
Goal 3: Anticipate and train for obstacles
Gradually work obstacles into training beginning at week 13. Climb, jump, slide, duck, and dive over and under various obstacles and work to retain balance and coordination each week.
Time allotted: 9 weeks.
Must adhere to training schedule exactly. If a training day must be skipped due to schedule or illness, time and progress must be made up.
If training day skipped due to injury, progress must be made up but time doesn’t have to be.
Body must have adequate fuel. Hydration must be prioritized all day, every day.
At least 6-7 hours of sleep per night.
Must track progress every day. Fitness journal will include before and after photos to visually map progress, daily entries (even on rest days) cataloging activity, food, hydration, soreness or pain, emotions, dosage of all drugs, time and distance.
Must take vitamins every day.
This is my new hobby while I’m broke and out of school.
because everyone in my life is busy and has places to be and things to do.
There is no place I’m needed, wanted, or expected. It would be nice, just once in awhile, to wake up and have someone be there. Someone who says, good morning, and hugs me and tells me to have a good day.
Weirdly enough, sex with you makes me feel put together. That’s the only way to explain it. After, all the fragments of me that seemed floating, escaping, disappearing: they are all back in the right places.
How strange is that? Afterward, I can eat and sleep like a normal person. I can take a deep breath and cease to recall all the shit that’s breaking me slowly, every day.
It makes sense though. I’ve always felt grounded by the physical. Body pain negates emotional pain and mental affliction. Body pain coupled with body pleasure, for me, is perfect. So it makes sense that the sex we have assists my ability to cope with stress.
It’s just funny. You smell amazing and kiss so well and every way you touch me is gorgeous and shivering and electric. I always thought I hated sex. And I really like it now. It’s nuts.
What you went through has affected you deeply, but it is no mark upon your character. You are not 'damaged goods' or 'not good enough'. You are not the sum of your bad experience. It does not make you any less. You are you, an important, worthy person. Do not waste time or emotions on anyone that cannot see *you* instead of what you went through.
Exactly. And I don’t. I just have these moments of intense frustration. Because even someone who acts like they’ll accept me and my baggage and scars and neuroses, in my experience of the world, secretly believes they can somehow fix me and heal me.
Which is nobody’s job. Except mine. And there’s nothing fucking wrong with me, you know? I’m still a whole person. I don’t even need fixing or whatever.
And if someone’s willing to acknowledge my scars, they’re afraid or unsure of them and that’s equally shitty because then I feel like I’m being quarantined. Like I’m marked or something.
My post was an open appeal to everyone. To think about their language, the potential experiences of their audiences (you never know what someone in the room has gone through!), and consider all the subtext they’re inadvertently shoving in everyone’s faces.
Because you’re right. Not a single one of us is the sum of our experiences. I struggled for years to define myself outside of the abuse/PTSD/etc. only to be shoved back into that box by people who don’t get what they’re saying. And it hurts, you know?
It really hurts to hear terms like, “damaged goods.”
Every time anyone talks about how a romantic relationship with a survivor is undesirable, I shrink inside.
Even if they don’t know what I went through and they’re just speaking innocently.
I mean, it makes sense to be up front about your emotional unavailability. But phrasing? Instead of, “I don’t want to date a girl who’s gone through x things,” you could say, “I don’t think I’m capable of being there for a person who’s been through x things.”
Because I don’t think any of us need to be told, indirectly, that there’s something wrong with us or unappealing about us. I’m pretty sure we’ve got that whole making-ourselves-feel-like-shit thing on lock.
Even if the problem was our pasts, rather than your emotional ineptitude, we can’t fucking help that. When you say shit like that, you’re adding to the heavy, rippling effects of my traumatization and you’re reminding me that I am broken. And no good anymore.
You’re basically saying that I was good enough before it all happened to me, and now I’m not. Fuck, does anyone have any clue how that feels? Is anyone willing to think before they just say something like that?
“If you’ve never been mentally ill (pausing to acknowledge the argument that the term “mentally ill” is a misnomer) and you’ve ever wondered what it’s like: you feel like a broken machine whose body and short-term brain and long-term brain are like like three people with complicated sexual histories together and they’re having a very passive-aggressive argument at a dinner party and it’s making everyone else in the room uncomfortable and some part of you is just meeting everyone’s uncomfortable stare and mouthing “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” But even that is a very important stage of mental illness that you reach after a not-insignificant amount of practice in self-awareness.”—Carly is doing a track-by-track analysis of Transcendental Youth by the Mountain Goats and it’s so intelligent and beautifully written. Also, it’s occasionally painfully accurate in a way that simultaneously makes you a little uncomfortable that someone put your brain on display but also extremely comforted that you’re not the only one. (via slothgrrl)
What gaslighting did to me, and other psychological abuses
You know what’s really ironic? Even if I was sane as hell before (I really can’t fucking remember anymore) I’ve got a few screws loose now.
Cause every time I feel something deeply in my core, in my head it’s, “you’re crazy, you’re emotional, you don’t make sense, you’re stupid, you’re a liar”
And if I try to rationalize it anyway, it’s "well it’s definitely your fault, you caused all this with your crazy craziness and your emotions and your skewed ideas of reality"
And then I realize that I’m having a fucking conversation in my head, with someone who hasn’t been near me for years, while you’re staring at me like, “what is it you wanted to say to me?”
And I want to say,
"I’m not important to you,"
"You don’t seem thankful for any of the kind things I do anymore,"
"I’m not sure what we’re doing is a great idea because it’s starting to hurt"
"I can’t tell if you even really like me because you say mean shit to me sometimes, even if you don’t mean it, the simple fact that you don’t consider how what you say may affect me means you either never gave a shit or have ceased to give a shit,"
"It’s like I’m here and that would be fine if you never talked about how the girl of your dreams is way up here, reminding me that I’ll always be down here, you know, like everyone fucking else,"
"You don’t even seem all that interested in sex anymore. When you initiate it’s less than two minutes of touching me and then your dick’s just out, that makes me feel great,"
"When I say I’m having a real issue, you basically just go about your business,"
"I’m sick inside because I like you, seriously, so much. I’m tired of only liking people who don’t really want me. It’s starting to ruin my life. I’m afraid. Please don’t fuck with my head. I’m so pissed off at myself because I got involved with you knowing what you wanted and didn’t want, and knowing how fucking crazy I was about you. I’m the one who’s stupid."
"I’m so stupid for wanting you to like me, I should have known better,"
"I’ve learned nothing. I’m all talk."
And if I were to say all this, in my head there would be screaming shit about how I should shut up and this is what people hate about me and this is why I freak everyone out and this is what pushes people away and it’s my fault for being me it’s my fault for wanting the wrong things and it’s my fault because I ultimately make the worst decisions.
And I can’t figure it out. Because you seem at times like you care about me. Am I imagining things? Am I blowing things out of proportion? Am I just overly defensive, all the time, nowadays? Am I just stuck in the past, emotionally, no matter how hard I fight?
And then I remember. I’m damaged goods. This is definitely what you don’t want. You said so.
And so I keep my mouth shut and play it off like I didn’t have anything to talk about in the first place. You know, like a sane person. And we watch tv instead.
Thanks, life. I’m so glad that I live an entirely circular existence. There is no beginning and no end to the insanity I’m apparently stuck with now, and I’m going to freak people out one by one until the day I fucking die. I was probably not too much to deal with before, but after hearing that all the fucking time forever, I’ve become it.
I used to think, this is just the way it is, and deal with it accordingly.
And I think I’d forgotten what it felt like the last time, hugging you goodbye and not knowing if I’d ever be able to again. For the next seven to ten months there will be a flag-wrapped casket sitting on the back burner, three rifle volleys playing on loop in the periphery of my thoughts.
And we go to bed every night thinking, oh please let him come home, bitter because even if your boy makes it back, someone else’s will not. Even if luck is on your particular side, another family will be missing a son, a brother, a father.
And you’d laugh your ass off now but as your sister, knowing I can’t protect you makes me sick.
I don’t believe in anything so I can’t pray for you. I wish I could have faith in something and ask it to keep you safe.
The offer of friendship was on the table 10 months ago, before you broke my table banging whomever in my bed and threw an absolute hissy fit because I left you, complete with emotional coercion and actual meanness.
10 months ago, I said, let’s be friends. And you couldn’t do that. You had to be spiteful and shitty and immature and I can’t stand you anymore, truth be told. It barely makes me sad these days, actually. That’s how lame you’ve been. I don’t remember what it was like to miss you.
And remember when we were on the phone recently? Talking about how mediocre we were together? On my end it may have had something to do with your incessant criticism. And passive aggression. And complete failure to understand what I needed from you.
So fuck you, honestly. Why would I want to be your friend?
I’ve been really scared and lonely lately. Something I carry with me is this fluttery pain in my stomach and it feels like being unwanted. It feels like not good enough and not smart enough and too weird. Too weird too weird too crazy.
And that pain stems from years of abuse and pain and being unloved.
And I might be at the point where I need you to care for me. And comfort me when I’m freaking out at night, awake. I might need you to not reject me or make me feel like I’m bothering you when I need to try to let out what I’ve been carrying around.
there is an ocean of secrets I don’t share with you
because I’m afraid that if I let one or two out
the tide will rip the floodgates off their hinges and sweep you far away from me
I won’t be able to stop myself and I’ll rip myself open and you’ll do what any sane person does and bail, so you don’t have to drown here with me.
I know I’m getting older because I don’t want to share my secrets with anyone. A combination of pain inflicted upon me when I opened up in the past and simple preoccupation with the present has kept me from telling you these things that only I know.
I don’t know if you or anyone deserves my confession, to plumb my deepest depths and know me to my bones. I don’t want anyone to know me that deep ever again. To hold me, in motionless terror, fingers tangled in my wires.
It’s easier to keep it all inside than to be fundamentally rejected.
A:Why not? Because I was tired of men. Hanging in doorways, standing too close, their smell of beer or fifteen-year-old whiskey. Men who didn't come to the emergency room with you, men who left on Christmas Eve. Men who slammed the security gates, who made you love them and then changed their minds. Forests of boys, their ragged shrubs full of eyes following you, grabbing your breasts, waving their money, eyes already knocking you down, taking what they felt was theirs.