I can't love music enough, ever. Mine is on shuffle, and somehow, it's coming up with the exact things I need to hear. Out of over fourteen thousand songs, it's giving me what my heart needs.
I think God's hands are on even the smallest things. Like the shuffle feature on your iPod, if thats where you go when you're weary and feel heart broken.
I need to remember that I can't love God enough ever, either. I don't do that like I should. I don't think anyone does.
"And it's time to go
I cannot stay, you cannot know.
My love, so dear.
Will it be faith, or fear?
You are forgiven, I open all my doors.
You are forgiven, what a heart is for."
-Deb Talan
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Twenty Eighth
I had a really long day.
It started at work, if we're going by the technical 24 hour containment. I was up til 2, coming home from work. I could have slept there. I didn't. It's harder to drive home when you sleep. So I came home, got to bed late. I got up late, too. I got in the shower late. When i was done, I continued to take my time, despite being incredibly late for church. When I was ready, i was so late I felt silly going aside from picking up my sister. I fooled around online, did little things, and left in enough time to get there just as they were getting out. Only to find my mother there, ready to bust me about not going. While I was there I missed someone close to me in a way I shouldn't have, and it made me feel worse.
I left church, and got food that is horrible for my body. I watched something, again instead of sleeping, that is perhaps not as good as other things I could have watched. Then I went to work, late again, a total shocker.
I do not like my Sunday's anymore. Which I find disappointing, but still true. I feel no connection to my Creator there. Once a month, maybe, when I can hear from a certain pastor. Almost always when I sing up on that stage, but thats not enough. And then I go to the job that I keep only because I need the money. It's for a family that is odd, even by my definition. The father makes me uncomfortable, the grandparents live downstairs, the mother...I don't quite know, though she is by far the easiest to stand. The child, whom I spend hours straight with, is a brat. She is spoiled and heavy and whiney and manipulative, among other things. She makes me crazy. This is as rare as a needle in a haystack; anyone who knows me can attest to how much I adore children. Yet this one gives me what feels like post-pardum depression every time i leave a shift with her. Thats just not healthy.
And that is where I arrived late, and quite why I arrived late. I took her from her mother, so I could care for her and we could play. She screamed. Thats what she does a lot. Often as if I am tearing her limbs off. It is incredibly frustrating, particularly because I am in a house full of people and three out of the four doesn't believe much in allowing her to cry. Do you have any idea how exhausting that is? It's almost nothing compared to having to take her outside twice in 85 degree weather with intense humidity, which improved her mood only slightly until she quickly overheated. I am in pain because of the bruises where she grabbed me. She has the most invasive hands and feet I have ever known, and thanks to her it is an enormous pet peeve of mine now when people wiggle their pointy hands or toes into me.
Better than that, she wouldn't sleep. Not at all. Not when she was supposed to take her usual nap, despite the fact that she was tired beyond belief. No, no. I had to deal with her refusal. Finally, finally, after six hours with a cranky, chunky, snot face, she falls asleep. And my night began to improve. I watched Amelie for the first time, and I fell in love. I listened to Jonsi and calmed myself some. They both have accents over one of their vowels that my mere English keyboard isn't letting me replicate. And I held the walnut baby as she slept. And there, after being horrifying all day, she just slept. She was quiet and she rested. And it was hard to be frustrated with her like that. She's just a baby, after all. But she's got enough head on her shoulders to be a right brat. She's being raised in a way I don't agree with and have a hard time being around. But it's not my call, just my problem once a week.
But at last I got to rest. But not enough. I don't know where I'm going with this. I don't know why I'm complaining. Probably because last week was so horrible that this being how this week started, I'm nervous about how it's going to go down now. Maybe I just need the illusion that someone will see this.
Maybe I just need a hug without chubby little hands clawing at my neck and screaming in my ear.
Maybe I need to cry about this semester and the loss of my car and the fact that I am struggling with feelings for one of my best friends when I don't want them. Maybe it's because my one creative outlet is on the brink of extinction, again. Maybe I need to scream because of how my father is driving my whole family apart.
Maybe I just need to sleep.
It started at work, if we're going by the technical 24 hour containment. I was up til 2, coming home from work. I could have slept there. I didn't. It's harder to drive home when you sleep. So I came home, got to bed late. I got up late, too. I got in the shower late. When i was done, I continued to take my time, despite being incredibly late for church. When I was ready, i was so late I felt silly going aside from picking up my sister. I fooled around online, did little things, and left in enough time to get there just as they were getting out. Only to find my mother there, ready to bust me about not going. While I was there I missed someone close to me in a way I shouldn't have, and it made me feel worse.
I left church, and got food that is horrible for my body. I watched something, again instead of sleeping, that is perhaps not as good as other things I could have watched. Then I went to work, late again, a total shocker.
I do not like my Sunday's anymore. Which I find disappointing, but still true. I feel no connection to my Creator there. Once a month, maybe, when I can hear from a certain pastor. Almost always when I sing up on that stage, but thats not enough. And then I go to the job that I keep only because I need the money. It's for a family that is odd, even by my definition. The father makes me uncomfortable, the grandparents live downstairs, the mother...I don't quite know, though she is by far the easiest to stand. The child, whom I spend hours straight with, is a brat. She is spoiled and heavy and whiney and manipulative, among other things. She makes me crazy. This is as rare as a needle in a haystack; anyone who knows me can attest to how much I adore children. Yet this one gives me what feels like post-pardum depression every time i leave a shift with her. Thats just not healthy.
And that is where I arrived late, and quite why I arrived late. I took her from her mother, so I could care for her and we could play. She screamed. Thats what she does a lot. Often as if I am tearing her limbs off. It is incredibly frustrating, particularly because I am in a house full of people and three out of the four doesn't believe much in allowing her to cry. Do you have any idea how exhausting that is? It's almost nothing compared to having to take her outside twice in 85 degree weather with intense humidity, which improved her mood only slightly until she quickly overheated. I am in pain because of the bruises where she grabbed me. She has the most invasive hands and feet I have ever known, and thanks to her it is an enormous pet peeve of mine now when people wiggle their pointy hands or toes into me.
Better than that, she wouldn't sleep. Not at all. Not when she was supposed to take her usual nap, despite the fact that she was tired beyond belief. No, no. I had to deal with her refusal. Finally, finally, after six hours with a cranky, chunky, snot face, she falls asleep. And my night began to improve. I watched Amelie for the first time, and I fell in love. I listened to Jonsi and calmed myself some. They both have accents over one of their vowels that my mere English keyboard isn't letting me replicate. And I held the walnut baby as she slept. And there, after being horrifying all day, she just slept. She was quiet and she rested. And it was hard to be frustrated with her like that. She's just a baby, after all. But she's got enough head on her shoulders to be a right brat. She's being raised in a way I don't agree with and have a hard time being around. But it's not my call, just my problem once a week.
But at last I got to rest. But not enough. I don't know where I'm going with this. I don't know why I'm complaining. Probably because last week was so horrible that this being how this week started, I'm nervous about how it's going to go down now. Maybe I just need the illusion that someone will see this.
Maybe I just need a hug without chubby little hands clawing at my neck and screaming in my ear.
Maybe I need to cry about this semester and the loss of my car and the fact that I am struggling with feelings for one of my best friends when I don't want them. Maybe it's because my one creative outlet is on the brink of extinction, again. Maybe I need to scream because of how my father is driving my whole family apart.
Maybe I just need to sleep.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Twenty Seventh
I dont understand our society, more often than not. It will constantly do backwards things, and we follow it. We watch it. We flow and ebb with it's changes and we either don't notice that it's a problem or, being America, pretend for as long as possible that it isn't there. We are a badly led flock, occasionally stupider than sheep.
Do you know what I've discovered in college this semester? I've had to remember how to think for myself again. I am in an English 102 class, and we have to take notes on everything we read. Articles we're given, what we go over in the book, among other things. Then we think critically about it. Then we discuss our opinions about the article she gives us, always a new one at the start of class. DO you know the last time I did that? Neither do I.
I'm in a Novel & Film class also. I love it, but it's a challenge and I never anticipated that it would be. But every class I have to think, and I have to compare. I have to end every homework assignment with 3 of my most interesting comments and/or questions. I don't know the last time I had to do that, either.
And maybe I missed some of that stuff because I was kicked out of high school and didn't do much education-wise after that. Maybe it's because I've been really listless and unmotivated for a long time and these things haven't been required of me for quite a while, so I haven't bothered to arise to a challenge that wasn't there.
I'm not saying I'm stupid, or that I don't think. I'm not stupid, and I do think; in fact I've always been very bright. It might not have always translated academically, but it's still true. And if you give me the right topic I can thing about it for hours, days, weeks, months, years even. But I'm the first to admit that it doesn't happen often, and there's only a few topics that have been able to keep my mind engaged for years straight.
But it's horrible to me that a bright 20 year old who has spent the last two years in a college environment has only just started to feel challenged academically. Seriously, society? I guess it goes to show how much education is actually valued. Although maybe I've been in the wrong classes with the wrong teachers. I'm not sure thats an excuse. Why should there be wrong classes that don't make a person think, with wrong teachers that don't challenge their students? But I'm probably being overly critical, or optimistic in my asking 'why?'.
There's another thing that ceaselessly bugs me though: weight and looks.
WHY DOES IT HAVE TO MATTER SO MUCH?!
Every single person that I know and love is endlessly beautiful (or handsome) to me. Seriously. If you insult the looks of any of my friends, I am instantly all over you in the worst of ways. Are they all perfect? With the hair, teeth, skin, body, clothing, etc? NO WAY! Is even one of them? NO! And you know what? THANK GOODNESS!
Our society preaches individuality. We do it in a way that no other place in the world can, because of the freedoms that we are given in our country. They say to be yourself while encouraging people to desire more than anyone else this mold of 'perfect'. Look like this model, resemble this ad, make yourself this kind of beautiful! Then it will be just what you want! That easy fix instant gratification happiness that they peddle to us all, YOU WILL ACHIEVE IT! Uhm...seriously. Dude. I call bullshit.
Do you know why my friends are so beautiful? Because they are so genuine. They are unique. They don't need some mold for perfect, because they are already marvelous and don't even for a moment need to reach in vain for something that can't be captured. And THAT is why they are beautiful. It's what their most gorgeous quality is.
A phrase I often use is, 'I'm no pixie'. While accurate, it cushions what I'm saying for whomever I'm saying it to. It cushions the fact for myself as well. And what is the fact? Well, I'm overweight. I'm 20 with stretch marks and not enough real reason for them. I don't have a particularly perky chest because it's too darn large to keep itself up (a fact that is not to be envied). I jiggle when I jump. I have enormous, Swedish hips. I don't wear make up and I don't disguise or primp the imperfections of my face. My favorite hair is after it's just air dried from the shower or in a sloppy bun. I will say all of this to you, I will tell you this. If I were in person with you, I'd be shrugging my shoulders and raising my eyebrows, indicating to you all, 'whats it matter?'. All the while attempting to disguise my deep loathing of most of what I just mentioned, and my overwhelming insecurity about it all.
Look, I'm the only one who knows what I really look like. After all, I'm the only one whose seen everything there is to me since I was old enough to bathe without adult supervision. And how, again, WHY is it okay to repulse myself, just because I'm too big to fit in societies perfect model?
ITS NOT!
It's just sad! Being naked should be fun! And I'm not talking about in the perverted or sexual way, but come on. It's down to just you. The body that you came into the world with, all you, no restraints. Whats more freeing than that, more personal? And so many hate it? Even when you're just alone. I'm not saying go join a nudist colony or anything, but few who have tried it can say they don't enjoy running around their living space, alone, in just their underwear or nothing at all! Dancing, even! WHY should a body be shaming, such an uncomfortable burden? Why can we love others and insist til we're blue in the face that they're beautiful or handsome, but vehemently reject it when it's suggested about ourselves? Why is it, once we hit puberty and even before that, so many are taught, somehow, not to love themselves?
No stranger who saw me walking down a street would label me beautiful. But ask any of my closest friends, and they will be ready in an instant to verbally spar with you if you have anything different to say about it. And I know God is with them, just ready and waiting to defend His beautiful creation and insist along with their voices something I have trouble understanding. What, exactly, is more important than that?
Can I say that I love living in my skin all the time? That every day I go against societies norms with reckless, marvelous, freedom & abandon? That I can manage to not care, and love myself just how I am all the time? Nope. Not even a little bit. I get insecure too. I've caved to what they've told me. That with this size, I can't be attractive or beautiful. I know that no one is harsher TO or ABOUT me THAN me. But there's no love in that. And thats not how I want to spend my days. Using my energy on hating something instead of loving it. Is it easy? Oh boy, no. Hah. But when is whats most worth it easy?
What I CAN say is that I have some really great days. Days when I'm not tied down by insecurity and don't even think to be ashamed as I prance around to music in undies. Times when I walk into a room and my first thought isn't to suck in my vile gut because I'm surrounded by people who don't have one. Days where I don't even think about it as a vile gut, just as my tummy. Days when I can see why other people, why the Creator of the freaking universe, think I'm beautiful.
Maybe I lost some of my point in this. It's not all societies fault. But every day that I don't hate myself, I remember afterward how amazing it felt not measuring to a mold. And I guess I just wish they'd encourage happiness within yourself that is less based on the outside of yourself. For all that they insist beauty comes from within, they sure place a lot on the kind thats outward.
Sorry society. I guess I just encourage real people who revel in the fact that they don't have to hold to a mold.
Do you know what I've discovered in college this semester? I've had to remember how to think for myself again. I am in an English 102 class, and we have to take notes on everything we read. Articles we're given, what we go over in the book, among other things. Then we think critically about it. Then we discuss our opinions about the article she gives us, always a new one at the start of class. DO you know the last time I did that? Neither do I.
I'm in a Novel & Film class also. I love it, but it's a challenge and I never anticipated that it would be. But every class I have to think, and I have to compare. I have to end every homework assignment with 3 of my most interesting comments and/or questions. I don't know the last time I had to do that, either.
And maybe I missed some of that stuff because I was kicked out of high school and didn't do much education-wise after that. Maybe it's because I've been really listless and unmotivated for a long time and these things haven't been required of me for quite a while, so I haven't bothered to arise to a challenge that wasn't there.
I'm not saying I'm stupid, or that I don't think. I'm not stupid, and I do think; in fact I've always been very bright. It might not have always translated academically, but it's still true. And if you give me the right topic I can thing about it for hours, days, weeks, months, years even. But I'm the first to admit that it doesn't happen often, and there's only a few topics that have been able to keep my mind engaged for years straight.
But it's horrible to me that a bright 20 year old who has spent the last two years in a college environment has only just started to feel challenged academically. Seriously, society? I guess it goes to show how much education is actually valued. Although maybe I've been in the wrong classes with the wrong teachers. I'm not sure thats an excuse. Why should there be wrong classes that don't make a person think, with wrong teachers that don't challenge their students? But I'm probably being overly critical, or optimistic in my asking 'why?'.
There's another thing that ceaselessly bugs me though: weight and looks.
WHY DOES IT HAVE TO MATTER SO MUCH?!
Every single person that I know and love is endlessly beautiful (or handsome) to me. Seriously. If you insult the looks of any of my friends, I am instantly all over you in the worst of ways. Are they all perfect? With the hair, teeth, skin, body, clothing, etc? NO WAY! Is even one of them? NO! And you know what? THANK GOODNESS!
Our society preaches individuality. We do it in a way that no other place in the world can, because of the freedoms that we are given in our country. They say to be yourself while encouraging people to desire more than anyone else this mold of 'perfect'. Look like this model, resemble this ad, make yourself this kind of beautiful! Then it will be just what you want! That easy fix instant gratification happiness that they peddle to us all, YOU WILL ACHIEVE IT! Uhm...seriously. Dude. I call bullshit.
Do you know why my friends are so beautiful? Because they are so genuine. They are unique. They don't need some mold for perfect, because they are already marvelous and don't even for a moment need to reach in vain for something that can't be captured. And THAT is why they are beautiful. It's what their most gorgeous quality is.
A phrase I often use is, 'I'm no pixie'. While accurate, it cushions what I'm saying for whomever I'm saying it to. It cushions the fact for myself as well. And what is the fact? Well, I'm overweight. I'm 20 with stretch marks and not enough real reason for them. I don't have a particularly perky chest because it's too darn large to keep itself up (a fact that is not to be envied). I jiggle when I jump. I have enormous, Swedish hips. I don't wear make up and I don't disguise or primp the imperfections of my face. My favorite hair is after it's just air dried from the shower or in a sloppy bun. I will say all of this to you, I will tell you this. If I were in person with you, I'd be shrugging my shoulders and raising my eyebrows, indicating to you all, 'whats it matter?'. All the while attempting to disguise my deep loathing of most of what I just mentioned, and my overwhelming insecurity about it all.
Look, I'm the only one who knows what I really look like. After all, I'm the only one whose seen everything there is to me since I was old enough to bathe without adult supervision. And how, again, WHY is it okay to repulse myself, just because I'm too big to fit in societies perfect model?
ITS NOT!
It's just sad! Being naked should be fun! And I'm not talking about in the perverted or sexual way, but come on. It's down to just you. The body that you came into the world with, all you, no restraints. Whats more freeing than that, more personal? And so many hate it? Even when you're just alone. I'm not saying go join a nudist colony or anything, but few who have tried it can say they don't enjoy running around their living space, alone, in just their underwear or nothing at all! Dancing, even! WHY should a body be shaming, such an uncomfortable burden? Why can we love others and insist til we're blue in the face that they're beautiful or handsome, but vehemently reject it when it's suggested about ourselves? Why is it, once we hit puberty and even before that, so many are taught, somehow, not to love themselves?
No stranger who saw me walking down a street would label me beautiful. But ask any of my closest friends, and they will be ready in an instant to verbally spar with you if you have anything different to say about it. And I know God is with them, just ready and waiting to defend His beautiful creation and insist along with their voices something I have trouble understanding. What, exactly, is more important than that?
Can I say that I love living in my skin all the time? That every day I go against societies norms with reckless, marvelous, freedom & abandon? That I can manage to not care, and love myself just how I am all the time? Nope. Not even a little bit. I get insecure too. I've caved to what they've told me. That with this size, I can't be attractive or beautiful. I know that no one is harsher TO or ABOUT me THAN me. But there's no love in that. And thats not how I want to spend my days. Using my energy on hating something instead of loving it. Is it easy? Oh boy, no. Hah. But when is whats most worth it easy?
What I CAN say is that I have some really great days. Days when I'm not tied down by insecurity and don't even think to be ashamed as I prance around to music in undies. Times when I walk into a room and my first thought isn't to suck in my vile gut because I'm surrounded by people who don't have one. Days where I don't even think about it as a vile gut, just as my tummy. Days when I can see why other people, why the Creator of the freaking universe, think I'm beautiful.
Maybe I lost some of my point in this. It's not all societies fault. But every day that I don't hate myself, I remember afterward how amazing it felt not measuring to a mold. And I guess I just wish they'd encourage happiness within yourself that is less based on the outside of yourself. For all that they insist beauty comes from within, they sure place a lot on the kind thats outward.
Sorry society. I guess I just encourage real people who revel in the fact that they don't have to hold to a mold.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Twenty Sixth
A couple nights ago I was hanging out with my sister in her room. We were just talking, thinking aloud a bit, being friends. It's nice, since it's taken us quite a while to get to this point. But there we were, and I was looking around her room. It's all purple, and all the same color, she's got some OCD and different colored walls apparently bother her. She's got playbills and her favorite notes up from retreats, and just people that she cares about. Her floor is way cleaner than mine, but the stuff she's got out you can tell is important to her, and the bits of organization she had out was nice.
And it got me thinking.
Your room can say a lot about you as a person. I know when I walk into someone's house I get a bit of a feel for them, a room says even more. But it doesn't always describe you accurately. My sisters room, Rachel's room, is just right for her. It says everything she doesn't even think about it saying, and it does so well.
The only thing my room would tell you is that I'm a little all over the place, and I really like books. I guess thats an apt description, though.Apt enough, but it doesn't say everything. I guess it just made me a little uncomfortable, that upon reflection the place where I live, sleep, and spend large quantities of time, wouldn't actually tell you much about who I am.
Maybe thats because even at 20, I don't know much about who I am either. I know things I like, I know things I dislike, and certainly I have more in my room than should just be fit in one room. For the past few years I have, both consciously and unconsciously, been accumulating for the eventual, unavoidable, fact that I will be moving out some day. It's my space for now, but it won't be staying that way for all that much longer.
I'm glad of that fact. Leaving the nest is a necessity. I'll feel multiple things when it happens, but I know glad will be one of them.
But for now, I'm not sure what my room says about me. Does this mean I should wonder what other people get, just from looking at me, just from meeting me? I don't know what comes across. I don't know what people find. I don't know what I let them see.
I just thought it was kind of interesting. And it made me want to clean my room. And mourn my lack of wall space.
Oh. and Happy New Year, I suppose. Away we go.
And it got me thinking.
Your room can say a lot about you as a person. I know when I walk into someone's house I get a bit of a feel for them, a room says even more. But it doesn't always describe you accurately. My sisters room, Rachel's room, is just right for her. It says everything she doesn't even think about it saying, and it does so well.
The only thing my room would tell you is that I'm a little all over the place, and I really like books. I guess thats an apt description, though.Apt enough, but it doesn't say everything. I guess it just made me a little uncomfortable, that upon reflection the place where I live, sleep, and spend large quantities of time, wouldn't actually tell you much about who I am.
Maybe thats because even at 20, I don't know much about who I am either. I know things I like, I know things I dislike, and certainly I have more in my room than should just be fit in one room. For the past few years I have, both consciously and unconsciously, been accumulating for the eventual, unavoidable, fact that I will be moving out some day. It's my space for now, but it won't be staying that way for all that much longer.
I'm glad of that fact. Leaving the nest is a necessity. I'll feel multiple things when it happens, but I know glad will be one of them.
But for now, I'm not sure what my room says about me. Does this mean I should wonder what other people get, just from looking at me, just from meeting me? I don't know what comes across. I don't know what people find. I don't know what I let them see.
I just thought it was kind of interesting. And it made me want to clean my room. And mourn my lack of wall space.
Oh. and Happy New Year, I suppose. Away we go.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Twenty-Fifth
On Tuesday, my interpreting teacher completely ignored me when I had my hand up to ask a question.
It was rude.
It was mean.
It was unnecessary.
It was unprofessional.
It hit me a lot harder than it should have.
This woman takes away any drive I have to enter this as a profession. She is not a nice person. She is two faced. She doesn't answer questions. She sets us on strange tasks. Compared to other programs, I know there's stuff we haven't learned that we should have. She tests unfairly, and is awful about it, absolutely awful. She does not encourage you unless your one of her favorites. And if she doesn't like you, she ignores your raised hand.
I left harper and I cried. I cried like the 7th grader who was told she'd never pass the grade or get out of jr. high, and who would only go on to fail and not go on at all. I cried like the 11th grader who was brought out into the hall and yelled at. Told she was faking being sick, she was lying, and that a fit was going to be pitched in the Dean's office to get her out of this school. Then had to listen to the teacher sigh happily and say, 'well I feel better, but I bet you don't.' I cried like the 16 year old who was kicked out of high school because of something she couldn't control.
I don't cry much. I hated doing it.
This happening makes me doubt...absolutely everything. I don't know if it's Satan trying to remove me from where I'm supposed to be, or God letting me know that I shouldn't be where I am. I don't know if I should stick it out and shove it in this woman's face that I CAN do this, or go somewhere else and prove only to myself that I am capable and this is good. My teacher is the head of the department. I have no power here, no power with her, no power against her. It's been a long time since I've questioned my choices like this. I don't enjoy it.
I'm young. Maybe I'm not even supposed to know what I want to do with my life. Maybe it's too soon for me to actually be going after it.
I don't know. I don't feel like I know anything right now. This semester has been killing me. I need a break, I need a breather. Maybe I just need to cry.
It was rude.
It was mean.
It was unnecessary.
It was unprofessional.
It hit me a lot harder than it should have.
This woman takes away any drive I have to enter this as a profession. She is not a nice person. She is two faced. She doesn't answer questions. She sets us on strange tasks. Compared to other programs, I know there's stuff we haven't learned that we should have. She tests unfairly, and is awful about it, absolutely awful. She does not encourage you unless your one of her favorites. And if she doesn't like you, she ignores your raised hand.
I left harper and I cried. I cried like the 7th grader who was told she'd never pass the grade or get out of jr. high, and who would only go on to fail and not go on at all. I cried like the 11th grader who was brought out into the hall and yelled at. Told she was faking being sick, she was lying, and that a fit was going to be pitched in the Dean's office to get her out of this school. Then had to listen to the teacher sigh happily and say, 'well I feel better, but I bet you don't.' I cried like the 16 year old who was kicked out of high school because of something she couldn't control.
I don't cry much. I hated doing it.
This happening makes me doubt...absolutely everything. I don't know if it's Satan trying to remove me from where I'm supposed to be, or God letting me know that I shouldn't be where I am. I don't know if I should stick it out and shove it in this woman's face that I CAN do this, or go somewhere else and prove only to myself that I am capable and this is good. My teacher is the head of the department. I have no power here, no power with her, no power against her. It's been a long time since I've questioned my choices like this. I don't enjoy it.
I'm young. Maybe I'm not even supposed to know what I want to do with my life. Maybe it's too soon for me to actually be going after it.
I don't know. I don't feel like I know anything right now. This semester has been killing me. I need a break, I need a breather. Maybe I just need to cry.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Twenty-Fourth
I'm scared. This world, our world, scares me. I am intensely discouraged that in the way our society works, it has actually become difficult to spend time with the only One who is with us all the time. Really, world? Really? It's only the One you were created by. The One all of us were created by.
We need to stop. All of us. For just a bit, at least daily. A minute an hour would be astounding, and should not at all seem irrational, but it does. I am terrified for what that says about our generation.
I think I just miss peace. It's been a long time since I felt it, in myself or in those around me.
And I fear. Many things. Probably too many things. But at the very least, I fear what is important. And I fear that it's being lost.
We need to stop. All of us. For just a bit, at least daily. A minute an hour would be astounding, and should not at all seem irrational, but it does. I am terrified for what that says about our generation.
I think I just miss peace. It's been a long time since I felt it, in myself or in those around me.
And I fear. Many things. Probably too many things. But at the very least, I fear what is important. And I fear that it's being lost.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Twenty-Third
[written July 31st. posted now.]
I think in life there are only two things that constantly go on, and consequently always go together.
Choices.
&
Change.
It is the nature of life to never stay the same. Change is always in motion. Choices too. Something you choose to do can make everything that is going on with you at that moment. When a large change of any kind happens, you choose to react to it. Always. They are in direct correlation with each other. Always. Big or small, simple of difficult. One of the two is always happening. And some people forget, though they never should, that there is ALWAYS the option of both. Always.
What what you do with one when the other shows up, regardless of the order, says everything about a person, at least to me.
I think in life there are only two things that constantly go on, and consequently always go together.
Choices.
&
Change.
It is the nature of life to never stay the same. Change is always in motion. Choices too. Something you choose to do can make everything that is going on with you at that moment. When a large change of any kind happens, you choose to react to it. Always. They are in direct correlation with each other. Always. Big or small, simple of difficult. One of the two is always happening. And some people forget, though they never should, that there is ALWAYS the option of both. Always.
What what you do with one when the other shows up, regardless of the order, says everything about a person, at least to me.
Twenty-Second
[written July 31st. posted now]
I have a sort of secret. It's not a real secret, it's not hidden tucked away in a drawer of shame, I just don't talk about it much. In nature, I have a weird appreciation for when it smells bad. Awkward as it is, it's true.
I'm sitting in front of a junky little like on the border of Hanover Park and Schaumburg. I'm sitting by it's man made vent thing, which probably explains the waters creepy color, and I have geese to the left of me. There is funny, hopefully plant stuff on the water, and directly in front of where I'm sitting, there is semi recent goose poop. And it smells. There are signs of the grass dying, and I can smell it. It smells hard, and the poop is pungent. The water smells, but I'm not sure like what. All I know is it's nothing good. And...for whatever weird reason...I'm happy here. Because right now, surrounded by all this...this bit of nature surrounded by what man has made...it feels honest. It certainly smells honest.
And I think that isn't how it is for a lot of people. Too many people I know are down with honesty. Because sometimes...it can smell bad. But in my experience, lies and fake things and dishonesty smell a lot worse. So I'll take a smelly lake over a beautifully furnished room indoors on a gorgeous day every time.
But hey. Thats just me.
I have a sort of secret. It's not a real secret, it's not hidden tucked away in a drawer of shame, I just don't talk about it much. In nature, I have a weird appreciation for when it smells bad. Awkward as it is, it's true.
I'm sitting in front of a junky little like on the border of Hanover Park and Schaumburg. I'm sitting by it's man made vent thing, which probably explains the waters creepy color, and I have geese to the left of me. There is funny, hopefully plant stuff on the water, and directly in front of where I'm sitting, there is semi recent goose poop. And it smells. There are signs of the grass dying, and I can smell it. It smells hard, and the poop is pungent. The water smells, but I'm not sure like what. All I know is it's nothing good. And...for whatever weird reason...I'm happy here. Because right now, surrounded by all this...this bit of nature surrounded by what man has made...it feels honest. It certainly smells honest.
And I think that isn't how it is for a lot of people. Too many people I know are down with honesty. Because sometimes...it can smell bad. But in my experience, lies and fake things and dishonesty smell a lot worse. So I'll take a smelly lake over a beautifully furnished room indoors on a gorgeous day every time.
But hey. Thats just me.
Twenty-First
[written July, 14th. posted now.]
I have a role. This tole, this talent, this identity. It gets me places. It's the work I do. It's what I'm considered by many friends. It's in my blood.
I'm Mama Sara.
Days shy of being 20, and technically childless, I'm a mother anyways. I have a mother's heart, arms, way of thinking, and the build of one too. I think fun is a chance to sit down and relax for five minutes, preferably with a book. I hold my friends when they've had too much to drink and need to throw up. I listen til 4 in the morning, and have good advice to boot. I watch children as a lively hood. Raising them for a few hours every day is my job. My role in a group of peers is the caretaker of all.
And I like it, for the most part. It's like...with all the abilities I lack, like being alluring or flirty or fun, gotta hoe I have something enhanced. And what I do is NOT hollow. I love it. Even when babies cry, throw up on me, and get snot all over my clothes. Even when the tears of my friend stain my shirt, and I rub their back or stroke their hair for comfort. Whatever it is, whenever they need it, I'm there. And they know it.
The only sad part of it is the extreme independence that comes along with it. Mother I may be, but I have no 'father' figure to match me. Even if I did, i'm not sure how much different things would be. I don't know how to be cared for in return, or how to act my age and be a 'crazy kid'. It's just not in my arsenal. Outside of going to the occasional concert or sometimes having a bit of alcohol, I'm a boring bum. And sometimes it's tedious. My lack of relying on others gets tedious. There's God, of course. And I have an even harder time letting myself, making myself, rely on Him instead of me. 'Cause we all know leaning on yourself alone can't get you that far. But...giving in is hard, and harder when I can't get His arms wrapped around me in a tangible way.
And really, moms need hugs too. Easy as it is to forget.
I have a role. This tole, this talent, this identity. It gets me places. It's the work I do. It's what I'm considered by many friends. It's in my blood.
I'm Mama Sara.
Days shy of being 20, and technically childless, I'm a mother anyways. I have a mother's heart, arms, way of thinking, and the build of one too. I think fun is a chance to sit down and relax for five minutes, preferably with a book. I hold my friends when they've had too much to drink and need to throw up. I listen til 4 in the morning, and have good advice to boot. I watch children as a lively hood. Raising them for a few hours every day is my job. My role in a group of peers is the caretaker of all.
And I like it, for the most part. It's like...with all the abilities I lack, like being alluring or flirty or fun, gotta hoe I have something enhanced. And what I do is NOT hollow. I love it. Even when babies cry, throw up on me, and get snot all over my clothes. Even when the tears of my friend stain my shirt, and I rub their back or stroke their hair for comfort. Whatever it is, whenever they need it, I'm there. And they know it.
The only sad part of it is the extreme independence that comes along with it. Mother I may be, but I have no 'father' figure to match me. Even if I did, i'm not sure how much different things would be. I don't know how to be cared for in return, or how to act my age and be a 'crazy kid'. It's just not in my arsenal. Outside of going to the occasional concert or sometimes having a bit of alcohol, I'm a boring bum. And sometimes it's tedious. My lack of relying on others gets tedious. There's God, of course. And I have an even harder time letting myself, making myself, rely on Him instead of me. 'Cause we all know leaning on yourself alone can't get you that far. But...giving in is hard, and harder when I can't get His arms wrapped around me in a tangible way.
And really, moms need hugs too. Easy as it is to forget.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Twentieth
[written june 23rd, and kind of forgotten about. posted now.]
Last night I had a bunch of my favorite songs on shuffle. I was listening and singing along, having fun with my music as per usual. Then a song came on. I won't say it's name, because it makes everything too obvious, but anyways. This song comes on, and honestly it's an amazing song. I love it to bits, and it's in my favorites for a reason. It's a sad song, but that just adds to it's greatness. So, as I'm singing along, i'm suddenly very sad. While I'm chiming along, someone I love pops into my head, in direct correlation to a sad song.
And suddenly, this person is absolutely associated with this sad song, and it's like the lyrics make up my relationship with them. I was really jarred. This person...used to have a lot of songs that made me think of them, but happy ones. There were even some songs that I considered us to share. Never before had a song that was sad entered that collection. This song was beautifully tragic. It's about feeling far away, and about losing someone, and that name, that person, is the one I think about.
Ouch.
It got me thinking about other people I don't think about often anymore. and still thinking about the first person, and I started getting downright depressed. It worsened as the next song came on my shuffle. It was a song that I used to consider 'shared' by us. Key emphasis on 'used to'. I listened to the song, silent all the while. I knew every word, every instrument, every bit of the melody. And for the first time...it was just a song. It didn't bring flashes of memories and old times. It didn't bring forth a sense of connection. It was just a song that I love and know. It was sad. And for some weird reason...behind all that...I felt free. And, "LeFou I'm afraid I've been thinking." "A dangerous past time." "I know."
I started to wonder, how was any of this my fault? Maybe I've just been clinging to connections I thought I had, and I've finally let them go. Maybe that connection was never there in the first place. Wouldn't be the first time I've been a fool like that. I'm sure it won't be the last. Maybe I was just letting go, all on my own. Finally moving on from something I shouldn't have held onto in the first place.
And it's sad. I was sad. But it's always sad. Growing up and moving on, letting go, it's terrifying. It's scary, and hard, and if you don't know you're doing it, when you understand at last that you've done it, it hurts. It's hard. Letting go of something is still losing it, even if it's by choice. And it will always be difficult. But that doesn't mean it's bad. Not at all. It's the opposite, even. Change has to happen. Transitions will occur. There's no stopping that, and it's better to let it go on than kill ourselves trying to pretend. We on't have to accept it joyously, but we can't act like it'll never happen. It will.
It just will.
Sometimes it will be for the better. Often, even. But it rarely feels like it at the time.
So a new song, with a different meaning than before, is what reminds me of an old friend. And old meanings are both lost...and let go of. It's hard. And it's good.
And I will keep listening to my songs.
Last night I had a bunch of my favorite songs on shuffle. I was listening and singing along, having fun with my music as per usual. Then a song came on. I won't say it's name, because it makes everything too obvious, but anyways. This song comes on, and honestly it's an amazing song. I love it to bits, and it's in my favorites for a reason. It's a sad song, but that just adds to it's greatness. So, as I'm singing along, i'm suddenly very sad. While I'm chiming along, someone I love pops into my head, in direct correlation to a sad song.
And suddenly, this person is absolutely associated with this sad song, and it's like the lyrics make up my relationship with them. I was really jarred. This person...used to have a lot of songs that made me think of them, but happy ones. There were even some songs that I considered us to share. Never before had a song that was sad entered that collection. This song was beautifully tragic. It's about feeling far away, and about losing someone, and that name, that person, is the one I think about.
Ouch.
It got me thinking about other people I don't think about often anymore. and still thinking about the first person, and I started getting downright depressed. It worsened as the next song came on my shuffle. It was a song that I used to consider 'shared' by us. Key emphasis on 'used to'. I listened to the song, silent all the while. I knew every word, every instrument, every bit of the melody. And for the first time...it was just a song. It didn't bring flashes of memories and old times. It didn't bring forth a sense of connection. It was just a song that I love and know. It was sad. And for some weird reason...behind all that...I felt free. And, "LeFou I'm afraid I've been thinking." "A dangerous past time." "I know."
I started to wonder, how was any of this my fault? Maybe I've just been clinging to connections I thought I had, and I've finally let them go. Maybe that connection was never there in the first place. Wouldn't be the first time I've been a fool like that. I'm sure it won't be the last. Maybe I was just letting go, all on my own. Finally moving on from something I shouldn't have held onto in the first place.
And it's sad. I was sad. But it's always sad. Growing up and moving on, letting go, it's terrifying. It's scary, and hard, and if you don't know you're doing it, when you understand at last that you've done it, it hurts. It's hard. Letting go of something is still losing it, even if it's by choice. And it will always be difficult. But that doesn't mean it's bad. Not at all. It's the opposite, even. Change has to happen. Transitions will occur. There's no stopping that, and it's better to let it go on than kill ourselves trying to pretend. We on't have to accept it joyously, but we can't act like it'll never happen. It will.
It just will.
Sometimes it will be for the better. Often, even. But it rarely feels like it at the time.
So a new song, with a different meaning than before, is what reminds me of an old friend. And old meanings are both lost...and let go of. It's hard. And it's good.
And I will keep listening to my songs.
Nineteenth
[Written July 13th, posted now.]
So I was talking to my dad today, and it was unusual for many reasons.
The first being, really, that I was talking to my dad at all. We don't do that often. Our relationship is not a great one, and it has little positive substance for many reasons. It's much better than it used to be, and probably better than it should be for all that's gone on between us.
Second was the topic, which was me. He said sometime he wanted to sit down and talk to me. Listen to me. Have me explain things to him. We have a therapist that every person in my family has talked to, Dr. Skiba. That man is one of my favorites in the whole world. I respect him greatly, and I have, at times, respected him more than my father. Recently, my dad has started having sessions with him. I think it's great. I think my father has a lot to work though, and I know first hand what Paul Skiba can do. I know for a fact that without him I'd have about a billion more issues than I do, and I'm hugely grateful. I know God put him in the lives of my family for a reason, and I love him for it, and I love Paul for who he is and what he's done.
The third strange thing was that the conversation I have with my father actuall got me thinking. That is, honestly, not something he can generally do. But from the session earlier that day, Dr. Skiba had apparently said something about me having developed the ability to love myself.
I was astonished.
My dad then proceeded to say that he'd like to know how I'd managed to do that. how I'd been through all that I had, and be how I am now. I didn't know what to say. I could feel myself naturally closing down, and shutting off to my father. Having that reaction to simply skimming the topic of what I'd been through. Being open and honest with my father was what hurt more than anything else. Why speak to him about the most difficult period of my life now, when he'd been detached and uninterested while it had actually been happening?
What got me most was the way he'd put it. He wanted to know how I'd learned to love myself. My first though when he said that was, "What on earth is he talking about?"
I don't feel like that term applied to me. It baffles me that anyone could think a phrase like that fits me at all. I don't really like myself, most of the time. I can't stand my weight, and all I can generally see of my personality is my flaws. They glare at me, hiss at me, haunt me constantly and overshadow the good. Between my father and my best friend, I have been monumentally screwed up on the male front. Between my weight and the things I've failed at, like high school, my confidence in myself....simply isn't. But...I can still see that I love myself, I love who I am, far more than my father liked himself. He made a point, and he surprised me again. He said that there were things I had done, things that I've managed in 20 years, and he's never pulled off in 52.
And I got thinking. And I remembered that it's all so relative.
The time you have is largely irrelevant. What you do during it, and the choices you make about what you're given...now there is something that matters.
What is more important? That on some random Tuesday, I hated myself and wanted to hide in bed all day, or that I gave my sister a hug and smiled at a stranger who looked a little down? Should I dwell on the fight I had with someone last week, or make sure I tell my mother that I love her and I know how blessed I am that she's in my life? Drown in the fact that I lost my teenage years to illness and got expelled from high school, or rejoice that I still have life to live, things to do, and places to make it to?
Sometimes I can pull off loving myself. Sometimes I like myself. And sometimes I hate myself. Sometimes I'm simply apathetic. But all of it is okay. Because I have an amazing support system of people, family, friends or otherwise, who are all around and loving me. And more than anything, I know that it's all being spear-headed by God. He puts me through stuff...that's for gosh dern sure. But He brings me though everything, too. Even when I forget about His love, and that of the people around me, it's still there.
They love me.
He loves me.
One day...I'll get there entirely, too.
For now, I'm stay content with letting you know something. Whoever you are, I love you. I mean it, even when you forget, it still stands. And it's my wish that you love yourself too, because it's a far cry better than the alternative. But even so, if you do or not, it doesn't change.
I love you.
So I was talking to my dad today, and it was unusual for many reasons.
The first being, really, that I was talking to my dad at all. We don't do that often. Our relationship is not a great one, and it has little positive substance for many reasons. It's much better than it used to be, and probably better than it should be for all that's gone on between us.
Second was the topic, which was me. He said sometime he wanted to sit down and talk to me. Listen to me. Have me explain things to him. We have a therapist that every person in my family has talked to, Dr. Skiba. That man is one of my favorites in the whole world. I respect him greatly, and I have, at times, respected him more than my father. Recently, my dad has started having sessions with him. I think it's great. I think my father has a lot to work though, and I know first hand what Paul Skiba can do. I know for a fact that without him I'd have about a billion more issues than I do, and I'm hugely grateful. I know God put him in the lives of my family for a reason, and I love him for it, and I love Paul for who he is and what he's done.
The third strange thing was that the conversation I have with my father actuall got me thinking. That is, honestly, not something he can generally do. But from the session earlier that day, Dr. Skiba had apparently said something about me having developed the ability to love myself.
I was astonished.
My dad then proceeded to say that he'd like to know how I'd managed to do that. how I'd been through all that I had, and be how I am now. I didn't know what to say. I could feel myself naturally closing down, and shutting off to my father. Having that reaction to simply skimming the topic of what I'd been through. Being open and honest with my father was what hurt more than anything else. Why speak to him about the most difficult period of my life now, when he'd been detached and uninterested while it had actually been happening?
What got me most was the way he'd put it. He wanted to know how I'd learned to love myself. My first though when he said that was, "What on earth is he talking about?"
I don't feel like that term applied to me. It baffles me that anyone could think a phrase like that fits me at all. I don't really like myself, most of the time. I can't stand my weight, and all I can generally see of my personality is my flaws. They glare at me, hiss at me, haunt me constantly and overshadow the good. Between my father and my best friend, I have been monumentally screwed up on the male front. Between my weight and the things I've failed at, like high school, my confidence in myself....simply isn't. But...I can still see that I love myself, I love who I am, far more than my father liked himself. He made a point, and he surprised me again. He said that there were things I had done, things that I've managed in 20 years, and he's never pulled off in 52.
And I got thinking. And I remembered that it's all so relative.
The time you have is largely irrelevant. What you do during it, and the choices you make about what you're given...now there is something that matters.
What is more important? That on some random Tuesday, I hated myself and wanted to hide in bed all day, or that I gave my sister a hug and smiled at a stranger who looked a little down? Should I dwell on the fight I had with someone last week, or make sure I tell my mother that I love her and I know how blessed I am that she's in my life? Drown in the fact that I lost my teenage years to illness and got expelled from high school, or rejoice that I still have life to live, things to do, and places to make it to?
Sometimes I can pull off loving myself. Sometimes I like myself. And sometimes I hate myself. Sometimes I'm simply apathetic. But all of it is okay. Because I have an amazing support system of people, family, friends or otherwise, who are all around and loving me. And more than anything, I know that it's all being spear-headed by God. He puts me through stuff...that's for gosh dern sure. But He brings me though everything, too. Even when I forget about His love, and that of the people around me, it's still there.
They love me.
He loves me.
One day...I'll get there entirely, too.
For now, I'm stay content with letting you know something. Whoever you are, I love you. I mean it, even when you forget, it still stands. And it's my wish that you love yourself too, because it's a far cry better than the alternative. But even so, if you do or not, it doesn't change.
I love you.
Eighteenth
[This was written July 10th, posted now.]
I am too much. I'm just too many things, honestly. I'm too unhappy. Too pessimistic. Too cynical. Too sarcastic. Too many contradictions. Too boring. Too weird. Too off beat. Too quiet, until I get too loud. Too mean. Too nice. Too shameless. Too self conscious, even if it's generally a secret. Too big. Too interested. Too intense. Too introverted. Too geeky. Too dumb.
I'm too much stuff, and it doesn't matter how large of small I am, I don't feel like I have room for it all inside me sometimes.
I'm too young. I'm nineteen.
I'm too old, coming up on twenty in mere days.
I'm too afraid. I have when things change.
I'm too bored. I can't stand for everything to always be the same.
I'm too structured. I over-rationalize taking a risk when it's offered to me.
I'm too flippant. I'll do things for no reason, other than an impulse.
I'm too cynical. I think this country has warped love out of recognition, and after 20 years of single I am unconvinced there is ever going to be takers.
I'm too much of a romantic. I have these views, but I want love anyways. Love like a song, simple and beautiful. And a good man to share it with.
I'm too young, getting too old. Standing too still, but it changes too fast. There's too many people, but I'm too alone. I'm relying too much on my' too much' self. But I'm not sure of how to change it for anything to happen. And I'm so incredibly sick of wearing pants.
I am too much. I'm just too many things, honestly. I'm too unhappy. Too pessimistic. Too cynical. Too sarcastic. Too many contradictions. Too boring. Too weird. Too off beat. Too quiet, until I get too loud. Too mean. Too nice. Too shameless. Too self conscious, even if it's generally a secret. Too big. Too interested. Too intense. Too introverted. Too geeky. Too dumb.
I'm too much stuff, and it doesn't matter how large of small I am, I don't feel like I have room for it all inside me sometimes.
I'm too young. I'm nineteen.
I'm too old, coming up on twenty in mere days.
I'm too afraid. I have when things change.
I'm too bored. I can't stand for everything to always be the same.
I'm too structured. I over-rationalize taking a risk when it's offered to me.
I'm too flippant. I'll do things for no reason, other than an impulse.
I'm too cynical. I think this country has warped love out of recognition, and after 20 years of single I am unconvinced there is ever going to be takers.
I'm too much of a romantic. I have these views, but I want love anyways. Love like a song, simple and beautiful. And a good man to share it with.
I'm too young, getting too old. Standing too still, but it changes too fast. There's too many people, but I'm too alone. I'm relying too much on my' too much' self. But I'm not sure of how to change it for anything to happen. And I'm so incredibly sick of wearing pants.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Seventeenth
So today, I just feel really meaningless.
It probably has to do with the fact that I'm on my period. And that it's the only feeling I can actually pin down at the moment, while others of all sorts simply riot around in me, around me. It probably has to do with the fact that I'm feeling a little lonely, and I just realized how much I've lost in relationships that used to mean more to me than anything. I'm sure it's partly because I've become so disillusioned lately. I'm sure being so busy and so tired has a hand in it, and I feel like I can't stop long enough be of any use right now. To anyone. Myself included of course. So I feel really meaningless.
And it's kind of a bummer.
It probably has to do with the fact that I'm on my period. And that it's the only feeling I can actually pin down at the moment, while others of all sorts simply riot around in me, around me. It probably has to do with the fact that I'm feeling a little lonely, and I just realized how much I've lost in relationships that used to mean more to me than anything. I'm sure it's partly because I've become so disillusioned lately. I'm sure being so busy and so tired has a hand in it, and I feel like I can't stop long enough be of any use right now. To anyone. Myself included of course. So I feel really meaningless.
And it's kind of a bummer.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Sixteenth
So today, i was driving with my windows down, which was lovely because lately it hasn't been nice enough to do that. But I was, and while I was turning there was this breeze that hit me just the wrong way. It came into the window badly and literally took my breath away. Just whisked it right out of my lungs. Now, this has happened before, and it'll happen again. My throat has issues like that, after all. But then I got a little bit sad, because the only thing that takes my breath away is the wind. Then again, I figured out some of my commitment issues today due to choosing a plastic spoon over a metal one.
So I'm really not that surprised.
So I'm really not that surprised.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Fifteenth
Tonight I was hugely impacted. There is this play, Love Person. I saw it and I was astounded. It changed me. It proved things to me. I'm different now.
The play was in four different forms of communication. English, ASL [American Sign Language], Sanskrit, and through emails. It took a look at how we communicate, how communication works, and how we connect through it. Not to mention just looking at languages and stuff.
And I just don't want to speak anymore. There's a part in the play where two of the characters are signing, and the hearing one gets upset and starts speaking English while she signs, and it throws her off and kinda screws her up. The deaf woman gets upset with her for doing so, and tells her 'You can't speak two languages at once'. And she's absolutely right. And then suddenly, my heart hurts that I haven't broken into the deaf community yet. That I don't really have anyone to share this language and world with, though it's almost entirely my fault.
ASL is such a beautiful thing, such a beautiful language, such a beautiful world. It trims away all the useless nonsense that English uses. You get to the point. You say what you need to. You're concise, and at the same time you explain things almost, if not better than you would in English. It is expressive, and it says everything without actually saying a word.
Things just don't occur to the hearing world. So much just doesn't. I get so angry that little things aren't done to make life just a little easier for the Deaf. Why can't we teacher the alphabet to our kids, or teach them to count in ASL numbers? What is so difficult about that? Baby sign language is exploding lately, and that's fantastic. Kids gain their motor skills far before their verbal ones. But...I don't know. I DON'T EVEN KNOW.
I can't get the words out. English feels so cluttered, so much, so ugly. Like it's meaning gets lost in all the extra. In all the detail, in all the small words, in all the length. I can't manifest what I want to. I'm over speaking. And I just can't find my words in the order they're 'supposed' to be in.
So screw it.
The play was in four different forms of communication. English, ASL [American Sign Language], Sanskrit, and through emails. It took a look at how we communicate, how communication works, and how we connect through it. Not to mention just looking at languages and stuff.
And I just don't want to speak anymore. There's a part in the play where two of the characters are signing, and the hearing one gets upset and starts speaking English while she signs, and it throws her off and kinda screws her up. The deaf woman gets upset with her for doing so, and tells her 'You can't speak two languages at once'. And she's absolutely right. And then suddenly, my heart hurts that I haven't broken into the deaf community yet. That I don't really have anyone to share this language and world with, though it's almost entirely my fault.
ASL is such a beautiful thing, such a beautiful language, such a beautiful world. It trims away all the useless nonsense that English uses. You get to the point. You say what you need to. You're concise, and at the same time you explain things almost, if not better than you would in English. It is expressive, and it says everything without actually saying a word.
Things just don't occur to the hearing world. So much just doesn't. I get so angry that little things aren't done to make life just a little easier for the Deaf. Why can't we teacher the alphabet to our kids, or teach them to count in ASL numbers? What is so difficult about that? Baby sign language is exploding lately, and that's fantastic. Kids gain their motor skills far before their verbal ones. But...I don't know. I DON'T EVEN KNOW.
I can't get the words out. English feels so cluttered, so much, so ugly. Like it's meaning gets lost in all the extra. In all the detail, in all the small words, in all the length. I can't manifest what I want to. I'm over speaking. And I just can't find my words in the order they're 'supposed' to be in.
So screw it.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Fourteenth
He is just not that into me. And I know it. And I try to be fine with it. And I normally am. But sometimes I'm not. And I hate, as usual, being the one just sitting around with one sided feelings. I KNOW he's not that into me. I know he doesn't look me like a girl. And I hate that he's my fall back when I'm bored and don't have any other crushes, then I suddenly can't get him off my brain. I just want to slough off these thoughts. Like water. Let them run over me, then slide off and away. And until I find a distraction in the way of a blue piece of plastic [a different guy] I don't think thats gonna happen.
And I find that infuriating. Even if I find someone else, they get set up against him. I mean, he's one of the best guys I know. He always has been. I hate when you have romantic epiphanies. Everything would be so much easier if I hadn't realized he was a guy. Because he hasn't, and won't, realize that I'm a girl. And that leaves me out to dry with some cliche metaphor that has to do with creeks and a lack of paddles. Laaaaaaaame. And it's even stupider, because I don't really want to be in a relationship right now.
Except for with him. And it doesn't help that I could see myself married to him.
...Dammit.
And I find that infuriating. Even if I find someone else, they get set up against him. I mean, he's one of the best guys I know. He always has been. I hate when you have romantic epiphanies. Everything would be so much easier if I hadn't realized he was a guy. Because he hasn't, and won't, realize that I'm a girl. And that leaves me out to dry with some cliche metaphor that has to do with creeks and a lack of paddles. Laaaaaaaame. And it's even stupider, because I don't really want to be in a relationship right now.
Except for with him. And it doesn't help that I could see myself married to him.
...Dammit.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Thirteenth
I never say this. Never. Because I never feel it. I don't bring it up a lot either way, aside from balking at compliments because I have no idea what to do with them [aside from holding them for ransom, tyler, ilu] but really. When my looks come up I'd rather hide or change the subject. Or just bat you off with a 'pshawf' and move on.
But this is me, right now. This is me after a night of accepting compliments, and having clean fwoopy hair, and lady bug finger nails. It's also me having an issue with taking pictures face on, but whatever.
And I will say it, because right now I feel it. And I almost never do. I understand, for this short time, why girls like to feel girly. Why it's fun to be called cute and pretty. Why it's something thats important to us. I feel adorable, absolutely adorable, and I can't really explain why. But it's a good thing. And because I rarely feel it, I find it worthwhile to document. That girl, right there in that picture, is adorable, and even she thinks so.
Whats the problem with our society anyways? If you are over 130 pounds, it's like you should be ashamed of yourself automatically. Why do sticks who can only frown get paid thousands of dollars to model? Why is that ridiculous, relatively unatainable standard what we are supposed to hold ourselves as young women to?! Forget it! What is it about us that we need to look at others to fashion ourselves after them, and why is society so hung up on things that lierally make everyday women sick? Girls and women should not die from anorexia or buliemia. Our country shouldn't be so obsessed with faces and body shapes. I mean, obesity, yea, thats a proper problem. But to be tall and curvy and weigh in at 147 pounds does not make a girl fat or huge.
Now, I'm not really tall though I'm damn curvy. And i'm bigger than is healthy, and I understand that. And I dont like it. But it shouldnt be what I hate most about myself. I shouldn't have been impressed with that as a kid. It shouldn't have been put into my head. And part of it was lack of male re-inforcement. My mother and other-mothers could tell me I was cute and adorable and beautiful til I was blue in the face, but my dad asks me when I have a total of three pimples if I've ever thought about that Proactive stuff. And the lack of friend-types saying things like that isn't exactly easy.
But what I hate most of all is the idea that this little girl will ever grow up to hate herself, because she lives in a society where looks are more important than almost anything else, and that she doesn't think she's beautiful. THATS what I hate far, far more than I have ever disliked myself.
I dare someone to ever try to tell me she's not beautiful.
But this is me, right now. This is me after a night of accepting compliments, and having clean fwoopy hair, and lady bug finger nails. It's also me having an issue with taking pictures face on, but whatever.
And I will say it, because right now I feel it. And I almost never do. I understand, for this short time, why girls like to feel girly. Why it's fun to be called cute and pretty. Why it's something thats important to us. I feel adorable, absolutely adorable, and I can't really explain why. But it's a good thing. And because I rarely feel it, I find it worthwhile to document. That girl, right there in that picture, is adorable, and even she thinks so.
Whats the problem with our society anyways? If you are over 130 pounds, it's like you should be ashamed of yourself automatically. Why do sticks who can only frown get paid thousands of dollars to model? Why is that ridiculous, relatively unatainable standard what we are supposed to hold ourselves as young women to?! Forget it! What is it about us that we need to look at others to fashion ourselves after them, and why is society so hung up on things that lierally make everyday women sick? Girls and women should not die from anorexia or buliemia. Our country shouldn't be so obsessed with faces and body shapes. I mean, obesity, yea, thats a proper problem. But to be tall and curvy and weigh in at 147 pounds does not make a girl fat or huge.
Now, I'm not really tall though I'm damn curvy. And i'm bigger than is healthy, and I understand that. And I dont like it. But it shouldnt be what I hate most about myself. I shouldn't have been impressed with that as a kid. It shouldn't have been put into my head. And part of it was lack of male re-inforcement. My mother and other-mothers could tell me I was cute and adorable and beautiful til I was blue in the face, but my dad asks me when I have a total of three pimples if I've ever thought about that Proactive stuff. And the lack of friend-types saying things like that isn't exactly easy.
But what I hate most of all is the idea that this little girl will ever grow up to hate herself, because she lives in a society where looks are more important than almost anything else, and that she doesn't think she's beautiful. THATS what I hate far, far more than I have ever disliked myself.
I dare someone to ever try to tell me she's not beautiful.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Eleventh
I am drowning. I am drowning and I'm doing it to myself. Not in anything so literal as water, but in life I'm sure not keeping afloat. I procrastinate and I shuffle my feet [and my iPod] and I shrug at my lack of motivation until it's a problem. Until riding the motions and putting things off becomes an active issue because there is just no avoiding it anymore. It's in your fave, it's angry, it's here to collect.
I hate the end of the semester. It's always like this. I'm suddenly up to my eyes in work I could have and didn't finish a month ago, stuff I haven't even looked at twice. But if I had, I would have had time and gotten to finish it once instead of flailing about it in dismay. I need to shape up and I know it do. But it's never til the shape I'm in is actually a problem that I actually care, or pay attention.
They don't tell you about this when you're younger. They let you be naive. And clinging to that isn't a bad thing. But it's tough to get slapped in the face. What do we condition our children with? In all honesty, we've even tried to make a game out of it. Good going by the way Hasbro. The game of LIFE. Though I might not be one to talk, I honestly love the frakking board game. I've played the board and the online version countless times. But there's nothing real about it.
According to the game, you don't even exist until college, which is either skipped over completely or breezed through. Then it's off to the hard parts. Get a job, grab a few pay days in between while you spin the multi colored wheel. Then what? Unavoidably, you have to get married. And what a grand thing it is. Everyone, at the exact same stop in their 'life' takes a pause at the stop sign to have a lovely wedding, at which point you choose your very own blue or pink colored and shaped plastic piece! It's so romantic!
What it doesn't warn you about is that maybe you got off to a bad start. Or maybe you're getting married because you have a bun in the oven. That your dad, mom, or sister might not approve. Maybe they're bad for you, or you've nothing in common. Which is going to go over REALLY well since the only thing you do is spend all your time in the car together. Maybe you didn't actually get married til you were thirty five, or he's ten years older. They never mention that.
Then! You're off again. This time you go through a few more 'trials' before you come to another stop sign. Guess what that means! It's house buying time. Sure, you can pick whichever one you like, but once again a pivotal decision hangs on a multi colored wheel. it goes round and round, and it's going to tell you how much of that tiny, funny colored money is going to go to a piece of cardboard that signifies your ownership. But once again, they don't tell you. I mean, you have such a marvelous paycheck, there's no way that you'd ever be in debt. You have no mortgage, nothing of that sort to worry about. AND if you get insurance, well, you're just set forever. Because it's not like insurance people can be completely impossible or anything. Besides. You have to land on the square for anything to happen to your car or house, or else they will ABSOLUTELY last you for your whole life without ever failing you.
And from there you proceed. You go to the doctors, if you land on the square. You go to a charity gala or a police ball, if you land on the square. You only have kids if you land on the squares. And then, just like your significant piece of plastic, you spend all of your time in the car with them. They never mention that if those little blank plastic faces had mouths you'd want to rip them after after a bajillion chorus's of 'are we there yet?' in a sure to be nasally voice. No no. That's not mentioned.
In the end, even if you never landed on the right squares to have kids, you might still land on the greatest grandparent award one, and get a little extra cardboard piece. Because that's what it's all about. It's about the little tiles with all the money. It's about having a crappy job with a ridiculously amazing paycheck. It's not about your anniversaries, or kids birthdays, or being there when a friend needs it. None of that is relevant in a game. Instead of being friends with the other players, the only other people in this little world, you're all racing to the finish. Racing to getting old. Racing towards retirement, honestly towards death.
I mean, what? What IS that?! What does that say about the people who make games for children? What does that say about how we're conditioned, or how we're conditioning them? I still hate finals. I still hate cramming and getting lost and getting stuck. I'm terrified of moving forward but frustrated with staying still. And I'm at a loss.
But I'd never give it up so I could be dictated by a spinning rainbow wheel.
I hate the end of the semester. It's always like this. I'm suddenly up to my eyes in work I could have and didn't finish a month ago, stuff I haven't even looked at twice. But if I had, I would have had time and gotten to finish it once instead of flailing about it in dismay. I need to shape up and I know it do. But it's never til the shape I'm in is actually a problem that I actually care, or pay attention.
They don't tell you about this when you're younger. They let you be naive. And clinging to that isn't a bad thing. But it's tough to get slapped in the face. What do we condition our children with? In all honesty, we've even tried to make a game out of it. Good going by the way Hasbro. The game of LIFE. Though I might not be one to talk, I honestly love the frakking board game. I've played the board and the online version countless times. But there's nothing real about it.
According to the game, you don't even exist until college, which is either skipped over completely or breezed through. Then it's off to the hard parts. Get a job, grab a few pay days in between while you spin the multi colored wheel. Then what? Unavoidably, you have to get married. And what a grand thing it is. Everyone, at the exact same stop in their 'life' takes a pause at the stop sign to have a lovely wedding, at which point you choose your very own blue or pink colored and shaped plastic piece! It's so romantic!
What it doesn't warn you about is that maybe you got off to a bad start. Or maybe you're getting married because you have a bun in the oven. That your dad, mom, or sister might not approve. Maybe they're bad for you, or you've nothing in common. Which is going to go over REALLY well since the only thing you do is spend all your time in the car together. Maybe you didn't actually get married til you were thirty five, or he's ten years older. They never mention that.
Then! You're off again. This time you go through a few more 'trials' before you come to another stop sign. Guess what that means! It's house buying time. Sure, you can pick whichever one you like, but once again a pivotal decision hangs on a multi colored wheel. it goes round and round, and it's going to tell you how much of that tiny, funny colored money is going to go to a piece of cardboard that signifies your ownership. But once again, they don't tell you. I mean, you have such a marvelous paycheck, there's no way that you'd ever be in debt. You have no mortgage, nothing of that sort to worry about. AND if you get insurance, well, you're just set forever. Because it's not like insurance people can be completely impossible or anything. Besides. You have to land on the square for anything to happen to your car or house, or else they will ABSOLUTELY last you for your whole life without ever failing you.
And from there you proceed. You go to the doctors, if you land on the square. You go to a charity gala or a police ball, if you land on the square. You only have kids if you land on the squares. And then, just like your significant piece of plastic, you spend all of your time in the car with them. They never mention that if those little blank plastic faces had mouths you'd want to rip them after after a bajillion chorus's of 'are we there yet?' in a sure to be nasally voice. No no. That's not mentioned.
In the end, even if you never landed on the right squares to have kids, you might still land on the greatest grandparent award one, and get a little extra cardboard piece. Because that's what it's all about. It's about the little tiles with all the money. It's about having a crappy job with a ridiculously amazing paycheck. It's not about your anniversaries, or kids birthdays, or being there when a friend needs it. None of that is relevant in a game. Instead of being friends with the other players, the only other people in this little world, you're all racing to the finish. Racing to getting old. Racing towards retirement, honestly towards death.
I mean, what? What IS that?! What does that say about the people who make games for children? What does that say about how we're conditioned, or how we're conditioning them? I still hate finals. I still hate cramming and getting lost and getting stuck. I'm terrified of moving forward but frustrated with staying still. And I'm at a loss.
But I'd never give it up so I could be dictated by a spinning rainbow wheel.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Tenth
It's a hard thing sometimes. Generally, being single doesn't bother me. Aside from the one person I'd say yes to, who has no idea, I'm not even looking. But sometimes, just sometimes, it truly tanks.
There's this song by Snow Patrol, 'Open Your Eyes', and really I love it quite a lot. I can't seem to turn it off for the past couple of days, actually. But I also can't help that it makes me feel lonely and sad. It's like a slap in the face, and a big ol' reminder that nobody cares about me like that.
But I hate feeling like this, because it makes me feel like I'm discrediting my friends, which isn't the case at all. It's just not the point. But none of my friends needs me to open my eyes just so they can see them. Not 'because I need you to look into mine.'
Corny? Yea, maybe a little bit. A lot, even. I don't really care though. A large portion of romance is about corn. My favorite couples are the ones that kind of make me want to throw up. I actually get sad for the couples that don't nauseate me, at least a little.
I don't understand it most of the time. I don't bring it up a whole lot, I only complain about it occasionally but sometimes I can't help getting irked that I'm single. On a normal day I'd never admit it, but I'm kind of wonderful. I know I'm no looker, but I know I'm not as bad as I personally think I am. My face is pretty cute, nice enough smile, and eyes that are worth someone wanting to look at them.
And though it's highly rare for me to admit it, I have quite the personality. There is good and bad to it, I'd never claim otherwise, and yea. I'm a bit of a nutter. Still, on most days I have more good than bad. I have a big heart and spend most of my time caring about other people. I have good taste when it comes to most things, and I love to listen. I also like to love.
But it doesn't matter? No, thats not it. It just hasn't hit the right person at the right time yet. And really, thats fine. God has a plan and it's bigger than I could comprehend. But that doesn't mean I'm not sad sometimes. Nineteen years is a lot of time and bunches of waiting. And patience is a virtue because virtues aren't easy. It would be nice if he came along soon, but if he doesn't, I'll wait. I'll be fine. I might get grumpy sometimes, and sad other times, sometimes it may even make my angry, but all of that's allowed. It's not bad, it's not frowned upon, it's not forbidden. It's completely alright. And I know why, it all comes down to the end.
Because it takes a special guy to say, "I won't waste a minute without you."
There's this song by Snow Patrol, 'Open Your Eyes', and really I love it quite a lot. I can't seem to turn it off for the past couple of days, actually. But I also can't help that it makes me feel lonely and sad. It's like a slap in the face, and a big ol' reminder that nobody cares about me like that.
But I hate feeling like this, because it makes me feel like I'm discrediting my friends, which isn't the case at all. It's just not the point. But none of my friends needs me to open my eyes just so they can see them. Not 'because I need you to look into mine.'
Corny? Yea, maybe a little bit. A lot, even. I don't really care though. A large portion of romance is about corn. My favorite couples are the ones that kind of make me want to throw up. I actually get sad for the couples that don't nauseate me, at least a little.
I don't understand it most of the time. I don't bring it up a whole lot, I only complain about it occasionally but sometimes I can't help getting irked that I'm single. On a normal day I'd never admit it, but I'm kind of wonderful. I know I'm no looker, but I know I'm not as bad as I personally think I am. My face is pretty cute, nice enough smile, and eyes that are worth someone wanting to look at them.
And though it's highly rare for me to admit it, I have quite the personality. There is good and bad to it, I'd never claim otherwise, and yea. I'm a bit of a nutter. Still, on most days I have more good than bad. I have a big heart and spend most of my time caring about other people. I have good taste when it comes to most things, and I love to listen. I also like to love.
But it doesn't matter? No, thats not it. It just hasn't hit the right person at the right time yet. And really, thats fine. God has a plan and it's bigger than I could comprehend. But that doesn't mean I'm not sad sometimes. Nineteen years is a lot of time and bunches of waiting. And patience is a virtue because virtues aren't easy. It would be nice if he came along soon, but if he doesn't, I'll wait. I'll be fine. I might get grumpy sometimes, and sad other times, sometimes it may even make my angry, but all of that's allowed. It's not bad, it's not frowned upon, it's not forbidden. It's completely alright. And I know why, it all comes down to the end.
Because it takes a special guy to say, "I won't waste a minute without you."
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