Saturday, November 12, 2011

I remember when writing was my world. I made promises to write on my blog daily, which obviously, were broken. I dreamt of published novels, articles in Cosmo or Nat Geo or the San Francisco Chronicle. It's weird the way I grew; I started high school knowing who I was better than I do now. I knew I was going to write. I knew how I wrote and what I wrote about. I knew who I was. Then came the constant worry of being accepted, both at home and at school. So I drifted, forgot about the blog, and for a while there, about writing all together. I started dreaming of how my life could play out. I dappled in the ideas of owning my own businesses or becoming a Criminal Profiler, but those only cover one aspect of my life. Writing can consume everything. Sure, I could get degrees in as many things as possible, as a fall back, but writing is my passion. Writing will be my world.

Friday, November 11, 2011

200th post.

I can't tell you how unhappy I am. It's sad when you start to realize how little your family cares. Friends? they've always been just been thinly covered lies. There when you need them, but only because they're desperate for gossip, turning your personal tragedies into their bragging rights. But family is there forever. A mother to run to about silly fights and daily dramas, a father to be eternally proud of you -- the love is unconditional. For me, though, family means a step-mom who's repulsed by your existence one second then wishes you were closer the next and a father who can't speak more than three words without yelling and insults then leaves you crying of laughter seconds later. Even with this fucked up web of love and hate, I'll still defend them to the last day. "My mom has insomnia, so she was just really tired when she said all of that." "My dad's just been really stressed out since my sister was born, it's hard having a two year old." And just that easy, I lie to the whole world.

Then you have your friends, those ones that you call with a bad day, seeming to go through it all with you. Asking if you're alright but secretly praying you don't ruin the night with all your depressing drama. They'll never truly understand what you're going through. Sure, they might be sad themselves, maybe even prescribed help, but everyone is different. I've grown up without a mom, so to me having a full family, gorgeous body, and everyone loving you, yet still being insecure doesn't really appear on my radar. Of course I care my friends are hurting, I'm probably the one that cares the most. Bad day? I'm over there in a heartbeat with ice cream and a hand to hold. But where is that for me? Why when I put such effort into us, does my side go unacknowledged?

I guess that all just goes back to the fact that they'll never be able to see what I'm going through. They're the friends I call with a bad day in class or a fight with a friend, but if the topic gets too personal or vulnerable, the phone remains untouched. Just sleep off the negativity, and somehow I always wake up with a smile. No matter that I am actually completely alone, I somehow find the ability every time, to tuck it all away beneath a smile. Because who wants to hear that your mom and you ended the night cussing each other out? That's ghetto. And who wants to hear that your dad got mad and pushed you to the ground? That's borderline abuse. Anything that puts them in an awkward situation, makes them uncomfortable, or the worst -- pity you, those are the things you keep to yourself.

Maybe it's best I'm so good at hiding it all. Sure, there's the vague emotional status online, or a night where you breakdown with your friends. The times where for a moment you feel good you got it off your chest. Content despite the fact that the problems remain unfixed, just relieved you don't feel like the weight lies completely on you anymore; someone is there propping you up. Then you remember that these are temporary pains, all the fixables. You remember that the real issues tearing you apart inside, continue doing just that. The longer they are left alone with their roots planting deeper, the more likely the branches will destroy you.

Which leads me to think it's best to let it out and if the friends go running, so be it. But how pathetic would I sound with my petty arguments? Nobody is going to understand the runnings of my family. They're not going to understand that while the fight may have been about something as stupid as an inside-out cardigan, it picked away at what little relations we had left. That each fight brings me closer and closer to a mistake I won't be here to regret. Or there's the chance that it truly is nothing, and that by just saying it aloud, I'm speaking it into existence.

With all these what-if's, I have decided my opinion -- at least momentarily. I may have come to terms with this now, but I know there will always be that internal debate. But at the moment, and in a majority of my past moments, I believe it's best to leave it be. It's better it be left to rot your soul rather than risk affirmation of your deepest fears and have rejection prove that you really are alone in this world.

Wednesday, November 9, 2011


I talk too much
I laugh too loud
I cry too easily
I hurt too often
I obsess too quickly
I love too unconditionally
I trust too many
I judge too unfairly
I worry too frequently
I care too endless