Caring Too Much, as per usual

Blame, Failure, fuck you, Journal, Partner, Personal, Relationships

I’m bitter toward those who reject me – but who the fuck wouldn’t be?

Thinking about all the people who have turned me down really drowns out the ones who have obsessed over me.

God it hurts to think about all age times that a guy has told me he doesn’t reciprocate the feelings. Then again, I go through men like I breath air. It’s like a natural part of my DNA to not stick with one, but love them deeply and thoroughly for like three seconds.

I’m unlovable. Aren’t I?

Will anyone ever actually care about me?

I’m sitting in a Starbucks right now wondering if anyone will ever want to sit in front of me in one of these damn cafes for longer than five months. If they have enough love for me in them to last.

Part of me still loves every single one of the douche bags who has hurt me – I’m thinly spread out over so many people. It’s hurting me, I don’t love anyone who loves me back and this is starting to feel like a goddamn curse. Fucking stupid curse, at that.

I just want someone who cares about me for who I am, every last flaw. But there is literally no one out there who fucking cares about me like that.

Even the band kids have more self respect than to date me. They smell my desperation and I reek of passion no one desires  – they run. I need different goddamn pheromones or some shit.

I’m that girl who is alright looking, ya know? I’m like semi-interesting but narcissistic and no one is here for that shit.

I’ll be fuckin single forever unless I date a goddamn stalker.

Why is everyone so shitty.

Where Are You?

fuck you, Her, Journal, no trust, Partner, Personal, Relationships, sex, sexual harassment, stalker

I started going to therapy, so far I’ve been twice. I’m not doing well. I’ve been increasingly more insecure and unhappy with myself over time – noticing things I hadn’t before and losing sleep over back fat or my stretch marks. I’ve been rejected, almost raped, and ghosted so many times now that I’m giving up on finding anyone worth being with. They’ve either fucked my sister or have confederate flags hanging in their room – or something equivalent. There’s the emotionally unavailable, the too eager, the borderline sexual assaulter, the one who loves too hard too fast and then it fades, the one who stays with me cause it’s convenient, the one who loves me but I don’t feel the same, the one who is way too old for me.

Where is the one who works with me? Where is that type?

Used

fuck you, Journal, no trust, Partner, Personal, Relationships

I am an idiot. I knew he hadn’t changed, that I was being used. I’m hurt and irritated at myself for allowing this to happen.

If he had cared about me, he never would have ghosted me – let’s be honest about that for a second. He left and didn’t look back, the whole story about being intimidated by me was a rouse to win me over because he could see my skepticism. He knew I had been hurt and that the only way to get me to be his cure for loneliness he had to woo me with some fake ass compliments.

God, I am so stupid. Ashamed that I didn’t have the self respect to back out of this sooner. Frustrated that it got to the point where he wasn’t opening my snapchats or responding to my texts.

I must be one fun confidence boost for him, huh? Just message me when you’re feeling down about yourself because you know I’ll give you attention and respond in two seconds.

Fuck you, Jacob. Fuck your dumb ass stories and pleasantries. I need a punching bag and some healthy food to binge eat, I mostly need the goddamn punching bag, though.

You pop into my life when it suits you, respond when it suits you, are into me when it suits you. Well you know what I think suits you? Garbage. Go live on sunset blvd where you fucking belong, you scum.

What I hate more than feeling used is the fact that you used me, and how many other girls you have done this to. I cannot have been the only person you reconnected with or got ahold of because you were lonely.

Fuck you. Get a grip and start acting mature.

I’m Fine

Creative Writing, Failure, fuck you, Her, Journal, Memories, no trust, Partner, Peace, Personal, Relationships

Tears dropped from her eyes, “I’m fine,” no one was there to hear the statement “I’m fine” desperately repeated in a hysterical plea.

How could she be fine? Her grandfather lay in the ground, deep in a concrete hole. She felt sick – Their last goodbye would always be that; Their last. 

“I’m fine,” the words stuck to her lips like fly paper “I’m fine” a lump rose in her throat, her stomach felt like it was filled with acid.  

Her mother walked through the door, “Guess who hit goal today!” Completely oblivious to the breakdown the girl was having. “The sweetest older couple came in and bought two temperpedics!”

In that moment she realized how much she meant. That her mother’s job had more significance than her tears.

Later that night her sister asked to hangout, they would go driving and get Starbucks, and talk. Really, her sister would do the talking and tune her out if she said a word. Or complain that she never listened and used her for Starbucks because the girl didn’t have a job to pay – when she had been invited, said thank you, and apologized for not having the funds – when her sister had insisted she get something and upgraded her drink from a grande to a venti without asking – but then blamed her. 

The sister would talk about cheating on her boyfriend of the time, about going out and partying, and when the girl didn’t respond with “Ooooh, take me!” She was met with a glare, and asked why she was being judge mental.

Like she was supposed to support getting wasted and cheating – but she loved her sister. She didn’t want her to feel like she was taking advantage of her.. She went out with her sister because it was the only time they spent together anymore.. Even though she felt used and unwanted, she went because it was her big sister. She loved her more than anything else in the fucking world.

“I’m fine” she laughed when she passed her ex on the freeway, making eye contact. 

“I’m fine” when she slept with someone who she barely knew

“I’m fine” when she got an average SAT score

“I’m fine” when the dude who ghosted her popped back into her life and disappeared again.

But the world was crippling her, weighing her down when she realized just how average and mediocre she would become. When she realized she would be like her parents and barely be able to afford to pay the bills. Questioning her ability to survive when she was already thinking about how to kill herself, and had been for the last six years. 

Thinking about her dead grandpa, realizing one day she would die and there nothing she could ever do about it. 

She was anything but fine, in a world that masked and beautified anything terrifying. She felt lost, but didn’t want comfort. She wanted assurance, she wanted answers that didn’t exist, but most of all she wanted to feel loved, when no one had ever taken the time to make her feel cared for.

Men Can Be Awful

Failure, fuck you, Journal, New, no trust, Partner, Personal, Questioning Sexuality, Relationships, Sexuality

There has been so much going on in my life – from guys to my sister moving back in to my grandpa passing away, and it’s all stressing me out a bunch.

My relationships with dudes have been less than great recently, first there was Charley – the dude I met online and seriously regret seeing because I had sex with him and like tbh I shouldn’t have and none of it felt right. Like, I should have known that anyone willing to drive from three states away to see me when they’d only known me for less than 100 days was gonna be sketchy. Like, I’m sorry Charley, but I’m also not because I was very uncomfortable and you did push me into things faster than I was ready and I’m sorry that you’re insecure and can’t handle me criticizing you at all.

After Charley, there was Kylan – we were just gonna be friends with benefits, but we hung out twice and I changed my mind post VCF-insertion and when my naked body was underneath his naked body and he was aggressively holding me down and forcefully giving me TOO MUCH tongue.

Then there was this weird run-in with Talon when I messaged him and was like “missing you” and he was like “Missing you too, but I have a girlfriend that I’m only dating cause I’m not over Felicia” and I was like “Talk to me when you are single” and he was like “I will” and we left it off like that and went to bed, but the next night he sent “Lol jk that’s never gonna happen” and I was like “LOL I’m happy you said that cause I was drunk last night”, but like I wasn’t drunk and totally did miss him.

Then The nEXT DAY – Mr. San Francisco JACOB fucking messaged me after ghosting me for a goddamn year. Like, this son of a bitch just hits me up outta the blue, responding to the last question I sent him this time last year, and like I was being super cautious and saying shit like “Um yeah well I’m not gonna send you nudes because self respect and also you ditched  me for an entire year and how will I know you won’t do that again?” and he was like “I’ve Changed”

news flash.
HE HADN’T CHANGED.

tHAT son of a bitch hasn’t spoken to me, responded to my last message or snapchat in two whole days.

I’m not gonna be all desperate like last time because I have far more self-respect. But, fuck him. Also, he is now Vegas Jacob, because he moved.

I am seriously considering if I’m bisexual or just lesbian – at least girls don’t fuck you over, I’ve never been fucked over by a girl, it’s why I don’t write about them on here.

And like my grandpa passed away last week. Tomorrow is his funeral. I don’t know how to respond to this yet.

I Deserve To Love Myself

beautiful, Family, feminism, fuck you, home, Humanist, Journal, Personal

When someone has a kid, it’s understandable that they would want them to hold the same beliefs and ideals as themselves.

Though, after I had spoken up for myself, my mom turned to me and said “I would never have been allowed to talk to my parents that way” when I had just expressed that I disagreed.

I have my own opinions, and I won’t apologize for thinking for myself. I might not know everything, but neither do you. There’s a good chance that we are both wrong in our own right, though I would rather die knowing I stood up for my own thoughts rather than following you blindly.

She has threatened to take away my phone because she believes I have too much contact with the world around me,
She thinks my opinions are too radicalized and extreme,
That I am simply following the mainstream.

Rather, I’m plunging into the arctic cold water that is adulthood and with that comes autonomy.

I have the right to my own opinions and thoughts, she doesn’t have to agree with them, but punishing me for them? That’s wrong.

And that idea she brought up, about not being able to speak to her parents a certain way, aka disagree with them – I just don’t even know where to begin with it.

I expressed to her that I have self respect, and in having that I am willing to voice my thoughts without hesitation. Somehow she views that as entitlement.

In some fucked up way, she thinks that my “selfish nature” of loving and taking care of myself is uncalled for and a generational thing.

That wanting to go to therapy and wanting to eat fruits and vegetables is somehow entitled. I just want to take care of myself. I don’t want to be spoken down to. I don’t want to be hit. I deserve to love myself.

I Need To Hear It

Awareness, Domestic Violence, Family, fuck you, home, Journal, no trust, Personal, Poetry

I know how I feel, but their words drown out my voice.
I know what has happened, but they say I’m making it up.
I know what I have seen, I know it and I will never shut up.

It’s just sensory overload
You’re just displacing your fear
This is a simple case of, “_____”

maybe “it’s Just” what I’m telling you it is.
perhaps I know what I’m experiencing

“The social worker thinks it’d be a good idea to get you into counseling”
Have I not been saying that for three years?

Listen to me.

Just fucking listen to me.

I know how I feel, I know what I’ve seen, stop doubting me.
I’ve come to terms that you don’t listen, my words are like wind to you,
they pass quickly and you don’t notice them.
my words are like the sound of a subway passing,
quick and you’ll soon forget them.

I swear to god, some strangers notice my suffering more than you have,
and don’t tell me that this is my fault.
I didn’t bring this on. I didn’t call CPS.

Please someone, tell me this isn’t normal.
Please tell me that being yelled at, accused,
isn’t normal.
please tell me I’m not just too sensitive.
I need reassurance that I’m not just a weak kid who
doesn’t understand the world.

I need someone to tell me I’m not crazy.
I need someone to reassure me that this is not regular.

That having Child Protection Services at your house is irregular.
That being screamed at and blamed is unusual.

I need to know I’m not just exaggerating,
I need to know that I will be okay,
I need to know that this isn’t all me..

I Don’t Want To Be a Victim

Awareness, Blame, Domestic Violence, feminism, fuck you, home, Humanist, Journal, Personal

An issue that poses itself after having been a “victim” of domestic violence is that if it happens to someone more than once, which is statistically quite likely, people can assume that you’re not very credible or don’t know what abuse is, or simply favor playing the victim.

I want to state, for the record, that I have never wanted to be a victim.

I want to be happy, healthy, and safe.

You’d think that if a kid came to you and said they were being bullied on the playground, you’d listen.

And if that same kid came back and said another kid was bullying them, you might think (unless you’re a piece of shit) that there’s an issue with bullying at this kids school.

Well my playground is home, and my bullies happen to be the men my mom bring into my life. They are people that I share a bathroom with, that sleep not even seven feet away from me, they are people who I am not related to by blood or marriage – and who do not pursue any kid of healthy relationship with me. He’s here to fuck my mom and use her for weed money.

But these same people, or Person really, feels entitled to discipline me in his own fashion.

He disciplines me in ways that the scientific method has not proven effective in any conclusive way that promotes one’s mental health.

He uses fear tactics – physical threats, screaming, breaking things to invoke fear. He has never beat me, but has grabbed me while angry. Which brings me to my next point, my mom had a rule that she taught my sister and I when we were younger – to never lay a finger on someone when you were angry.

There were no exceptions.

Laying a finger on someone when you were mad, or worse yet, physically hurting them when you were angry, never led to anything positive.

I have listened to her, I haven’t hit anyone or gotten in fights. But when it comes to this man, who I will not call her boyfriend, because at this point he is an abuser – when it comes to him, these same rules that she has set for us do not apply to him.

He can grab my wrists when angry, he can scream at the top of his lungs and point a finger in my face, he can bruise my little sister’s back for bringing milk upstairs – he can cause damage to our belongings by throwing them and damage to my mother’s daughters by physically hitting us and using what is clearly verbal abuse.

When I brought my opinions to my mom, carefully laid out, I stated that I simply couldn’t see how she can ignore the signs of abuse, to which she responded that she couldn’t possibly see how I did.

Two days ago, I posted this image on facebook:

Spanking.jpg

And I will admit, 1) it’s obviously incredibly biased, and 2) it is the kind of post that when I see someone who I disagree with posting it, I roll my eyes and internally scream something along the lines of “MY GOD YOU NEED SCIENCE” – but it said what I was thinking. So I posted it.

The topic reminded me of how my dad would whip me with a belt and leave bruises on my ass. It reminds me of when he would hit me so hard repeatedly that I would be sore for days.

I consider that abuse – even though it wasn’t the only abusive thing he did to me or my family. I feel the need to say that. I feel the need to qualify my abuse. To make it seem serious, because not nearly enough people see abuse as it is.

But even though I didn’t post this with the man my mom brought into my home in mind, he commented on it taking a defense.

He knows very well how guilty he is. He knows what he has done is wrong.

Yet he had the audacity to tell my oldest sister that she was projecting her anger on to him, being childish, and playing the victim.

My mom jumped to his aide as well, and used the same example she has every time we’ve argued about spanking – about the kid who runs into the street and puts them-self in danger.

Which apparently merits hitting your child. Because, hey! They survived! Let’s give them a beating so they wish they hadn’t!

But honestly, let’s break this down.

So it’s okay to discipline your child with a firm spanking, when they are putting them-self or others in danger. Alright, I can acknowledge that this isn’t devoid of logic. No one wants their kid to cause harm – but what about those other times this form of discipline has been exerted? And what is there to be said about using this method regularly? Because if the purpose truly is to strike fear and create a memory about what not to do, then this should not be overused. That is simply psychology – if physical discipline is used repeatedly and often, the child will grow to not fear or learn from the experience (I’ll likely write another post about whether or not it is ethical to use fear tactics while raising a person, because I don’t exactly agree with that).

The aforementioned milk incident, when my young sister brought a cup of milk upstairs? (which had a lid on it, I might mention. It was a sippy cup) Did that require a spanking? How about the time she was crying in the corner because she was exhausted, as four year old’s get, and he aggressively made his way down the stairs to spank her repeatedly (not even aiming at her hind anymore, but instead hitting any surface of her body which was available) and leaving bruises on her back, and welts where his hand had been? Sure. It shut her up. Sure, she isn’t crying and he was able to go back to his room and smoke some pot and go back to his jobless life of mooching off my mom’s income, like he has been doing for the last two and a half years.

Did the milk merit a beating of such caliber? Did the sad toddler in the corner, who felt isolated and unwanted, who expressed this through tears, did she deserve to be beat? Was that a worthy enough cause for him? Is that justifiable?

If it is, shame on him.

This child has gone through enough, she has to visit her depressed father every other weekend who doesn’t even properly bathe her. She has to watch him be an emotional mess – he cries in front of her.

There’s a fine line between discipline and abuse, but to me, violence will always be violent. Hitting will always be hitting. I don’t care if it’s on my ass or across my face, this is my body, my autonomy, my life and mental health you had in your hands and you fucking obliterated it.

To caregivers, parents, or siblings out there – it is your responsibility that these young people are okay. You are responsible for the mental health of these people. You are responsible for their well-being. Their perspective on life. You are everything they have. You are their consistency, their world. Make their world as great as you can, give them every possible opportunity you can. Their worlds depend on you.

I am not a victim of my circumstances. I am not Bryan’s victim, or my dad’s. I am no one’s victim, no one’s abuse toy, I am an independent individual who doesn’t rely on an abuser to give herself an identity. I am not your victim. My sister is not your victim. We are fucking strong, we hate you and your actions with a writhing passion, and I don’t care what delusions my mom has about you and what you have done, but I am no fool. I see your bullshit. I see your phony grandeur. You are nothing more than a sack of flesh who abuses children who are not even your own. You left your daughter in Australia and had to take a moment to remember her name, you use my mother for pot money and haven’t even applied for a job since moving here, you sit in your chair that my mom bought for you, smoke weed that she bought for you, you sit under a roof she pays for, use a computer she funded, and internet which she bought for you.

Get a life. Stop abusing those who are bridled into living in close proximity to you. You are a fucking loser.

Godless Life

Athiesm, beautiful, Creative Writing, fuck you, Her, home, Jealousy, Journal, Love, Memories, Peace, Personal, Relationships

I’ll admit it, I’m happy they broke up – because for a short while I loved him.

I mean, who likes to feel replaced?  Who desires to see someone they would confide in become attached to someone new? not me.

Never me.

I may have disagreed with him on everything, he may have been an asshole at times, but I cared deeply for his shitty ass.

I hate that I cared, but I can’t help how I felt toward him.

But there he is. Sitting in front of me again, his gross hair that flips out at the bottom, his thick red jacket (the one that’s extremely fuzzy on the inside, the one that would keep my hands warm on rainy mornings before AP Psych). He got new shoes, I still wear the watch he gave me. a few weeks after we broke up he wore the leather bracelet I gave him, I wonder if he still has it. Why do I care? If he honestly came to me to make amends and try again I wouldn’t take him up on it – he hurt me too much.

He lied.

He dated Felicia.

He let me meet his family, when he knew he didn’t love me.

I loved him.

I could tell he didn’t love me.

I ignored it.

I’ll admit  it, as shitty as it makes me, I was happy when I found out his relationship wasn’t happy – I didn’t care that much if he loved her, I just was happy she didn’t love him.

He’s christian again,

lives with his crazy dad,

probably going into the military.

I’m atheist as fuck,

want to go to university,

I want to travel and live a godless life.

A life of love, of friendship, of tidiness and sex.

I want to burn candles on rainy days,

sleep in on Sundays,

read case studies and policies while drinking black coffee,

eat pomegranate seeds and avocado toast –

White bed spread.

Black bookshelves.

Wall of windows overlooking Seattle.

Seeing a therapist every Tuesday.

A clean fridge.

A white cat, miniature dachshund.

My godless life.

Wake Up, Get Ready, Go

Family, fuck you, home, Journal, Personal, school, Small Things

As I write this, the harsh reality sets in that I have to wake up early and go to school tomorrow. The alarm will go off at 6:40, I’ll begrudgingly hit “off” as I hold back a moan of anger and depression. I’ll sit up, roll off the bed, and pull of the t-shirt I wore to bed. Standing for a second longer than considered normal, turn the lamp that sits on my dresser on –  I’ll stare at the clothes I set out and consider what it might be like to not go to college and graduate with a low GPA because I skipped too many classes. I put the clothes on anyway because my mom would never go for it. Glancing at my jewelry, I consider wearing some, but just grab the watch my ex boyfriend gave me. Every time I see it, it reminds me of him, but I don’t know what I’d do without it. I remind myself that I picked it out, put it on my amazon wish list, and that anyone could have known to buy it for me. But it still reminds me of him and I wish I had another, despite how much I love the way it looks.

Grabbing my backpack, I head to the upstairs bathroom to brush my teeth. The light annoys my eyes, everything is a little blurry, and no one else is up yet. I kind of want to cry, but I don’t want a red face for school and my nose is already stuffy, and it would just agitate my cough, so I decide against it. I head down the stairs and really hope I don’t slip because man that would hurt and I would definitely have a bad day after that. But it doesn’t really stop me from taking quick, loose steps. Because at this point, I could care less about whether or not I have a good day.

Sometimes I’ll head to the kitchen to grab a quick lunch, sometimes I’ll head to the downstairs bathroom to do my makeup – it just depends on how much I care about eating lunch that day.

I grab my box and bag of makeup. As I sit down, I adjust my makeup mirror and turn on the light, I look at my face for the real first time today. I’m never smiling. Why would I smile right now? I’m about to embark on a day at school, with people who I despise, and teachers who expect either too much or too little, and a series of expectations that I don’t care to fill – I’m about to see my ex boyfriend and guys who think too highly of themselves. I’m about to see librarians who are far too enthusiastic for their jobs so one assumes they’re compensating for having such a depressing job as a high school librarian. I’m about to see the girls for whom I wear makeup to intimidate, the same ones who snicker and gossip and annoy the living fuck out of me. Why would I smile when I know what my day holds? But I look in the mirror anyway, at my dead eyes, my unmade face, and I stare. I do my makeup, every stroke calibrated, every dab deliberate, and I make my face perfect so there is one less thing to say about me. One less flaw to poke at. One less hateful word said. I’ll check the time about every ten minutes, until it’s time to leave. I’ll realize at about this moment that my mom and sister are still getting ready, and I’ll be incredibly annoyed at how inconsiderate they are of when I need to be to school. But I’ll ask my mom for the keys so I can start the car, and I’ll head outside to wait for them, accepting that I might be late. But why would I even care if I was late at this point? Who fucking cares if I even show up because it’s just another day in the mandatory hell they pass as education.

They finally come out to the car, Kendra kicks and screams, complaining every second that she spends buckling into her carseat. My mom isn’t far behind her, complaining just as much about how she dreads the day ahead. I silently sit, staring dead in front of me, my eyes blind, head full of miserable thoughts. I just want to be in bed. I want to really learn. I want to live, not this dead, dull routine. This isn’t living.

Driving to school we pass the children walking to their middle school, the crossing guards, the parents dropping off their kids. We pass this man, who I presume is waiting for his ride. He always has his cloth lunch bag, and on rainy days he wears a clear slicker. He’s a short man. He isn’t smiling either, as he leans against the cinderblock wall. He’s staring dead in front of him, with what I assume are blind eyes. We come to a halt at the four way stop, school bus passing in front of us, we wait. Pulling up in front of the administration building, I get out of the car, closing the door as I say I love you to my mom. Hoisting my backpack on my shoulder, I climb the hill to my classes.. I stumble upon the first group of people I see, and I’m smiling now. Despite the fact that I feel the same way as I did when I first looked in the mirror.