I Dream of Saints

bisexual, feminism, Her, Humanist, Journal, Love, Personal, Relationships, Smiling

Here I am, writing again. Releasing my experiences through my fingertips and into the vast internet to be consumed. This time I express conflict. My perplexed nature as I encounter this modern sensuality. Conflict of my mind and actions – this disassociation of my heart and psyche.

I see her, and I am permeating with joy. Though I do not love her. At least not in any measure that I have ever encountered. This is a new, colorful feeling.

Last night I dreamed of her. Meeting at night, we kissed – but when my mom caught us she said she would find what I loved most and take it from me, simply to make my life miserable.

There is this fascination that follows her – it’s alluring and seductive. Nearly magnetic.

Trying to take things as slowly as possible, I’ve agreed that we shouldn’t seek any relationship. It would be a lie to say I didn’t care for her, though. She inspires me, invokes curiosity. Happiness.

Nonetheless, I want to be single. I rush into relationships far too often, and find myself regretting it 9 times out of 10. Allowing for my emotions to fog my judgement. Trying to avoid regret and heartbreak, I’m allowing for the world to let things fall into place.

Why are you a bitch?

feminism, Her, Humanist, Journal, Love, Personal

I’ve had this internal struggle recently about the kind of person I am, which is natural for  a seventeen year old.

I apologized to Megan, or better known on this blog as the “bitch-faced-cunt”, because I started feeling like I was living a very bitter life.

I don’t want to be a bitter person, and so I apologized for the way I treated her – which I had done because I was drowning in hormones, disorders, and the effect of my parent’s divorce.

So now, when I’m annoyed at Ashlyn, I start wondering if she is just the new Megan. I don’t want another person like that in my life – someone who I just hate. But I feel the same way about Cheyanne as well. They just really annoy me.

But it’s because they’re inconsiderate of other’s feelings and are fucking judgmental as hell.

Like, Ashlyn told me that she thought my sister wore too much make-up. The other day, she made a comment about the way I was signing yearbooks at school and she always comments on the clothes I wear or how much makeup I have on. She bothers me because she acts like she’s a better person than everyone else, when she really isn’t. She’s not nicer, she’s not more moral, and I don’t think she should be acting like she has something no one else has. Sure, she is intelligent, but intelligence doesn’t make her superior. Fuck, I know I’m intelligent – but in no way do I think that makes me better than anyone else.

We are all people, who have emotions and a desire to be loved. Fuck her for being a cunt about thinking she’s the best all the time.

I feel like we all know an Ashlyn – someone who acts holier than thou. Well I have a message for them, they can go fuck themselves.

But does that make her a new Megan?? Because I really do not like her – but I don’t want to be a bitter and hateful person. I don’t want to drive away my friends because I’m always complaining.

I want to be a nice person, someone that others can trust. I want to be the person that makes people feel welcome and loved, when it feels like everyone else is icing them out.  I want to be kind to even those I dislike – and in all honesty, I have been kind to Ashlyn (most of the time). I smile at her when I see her in the hall, even though she has probably only smiled back at me once and I talk with her and laugh at her jokes and never make petty remarks to her..

But then does that make me two-faced?

See, this is what I mean when I say I’m conflicted by my thoughts and actions.

I don’t like her, but I want to be kind to her because I want to be a decent person, so I end up being nice to her even though on the inside I’m making fun of her.

Also, she says she doesn’t like her vagina – who says that sort of thing?? And I feel bad that she would be so open about hating her own vagina. It makes me wonder if she is just very insecure and is begging to be approved by others. In that event, I would honestly feel bad for her. If she is so desperate to be loved by others that she would act out this way, I want to help her feel loved.

Look At Me

Blame, Failure, Family, fathers, forgotten, home, Journal, Personal, Relationships, school

There are more people who dislike me in the world than like me. I’m not even sure my own friends like me- who even are my friends? The people at the high school aren’t that close to me and the kids I did the musical with are like disinterested in me and the people at erclc don’t even care about me anymore.

Even the people who live with me don’t talk to me- it’s been two weeks since my mom’s boyfriend has even acknowledged my existence. He has been ignoring me when I’m in the same room as him and hasn’t look at me or said a single word to me since May 10th.

I feel like I have no one.

People don’t respond to my snapchats, they don’t respond to my texts, and last night Sam sent me a video of his friends saying i should fuck myself.

Perhaps I’m just a terrible person who does terrible things and it’s easy to hate me.

I came so close to killing myself last night. It feels like only three people in the world really care that I live and breath.

I’m temperamental, narcissistic, over dramatic, insecure, controlling – I’m a million terrible things combined into one shit storm of a person.

I’ve burned bridges with people because of my personality, I’ve hurt myself and others simply by being me. Why am I like this? I honestly believe that I am the worst person I know.

I’m a disappointment to my mom, I’m such a burden to her.

I was a burden to my grandparents as well.

And to my aunt and uncle.

Look at me, a fucked up human who people hate. A academically failing piece of shit who will never fulfill their dreams. Look at me. I’m awful. I’m just a plain bitch. I can’t even fucking do the dishes like my mom asks.

I haven’t changed. I’m still shitty. I hate myself.

I want loving parents who care about me. I want to be kissed on the forehead and for someone to make me tea before bed and I want someone to care that I’m suicidal. I want someone to tell me not to, to say that I have so much to live for and that they believe I can do it.

Instead, I have a mom who comes home and complains about work everyday.

I haven’t had a normal conversation with my dad since I was 13.

I’ve broken friendships and people are uncomfortable around me.

Look at me. Who have I become?

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.

Burdens You Face

Creative Writing, Family, feminism, home, Journal, no trust, Personal, Poetry, Relationships

We burden her.
She won’t admit it, but we burden her.

We talk, but she doesn’t like being reminded of her burdens.
We cry, and her burdens are overwhelming.
She can’t stand us.

Forbid her burdens have issues that need attention.
Forbid they demand health treatments that cost money.

Isn’t it feminist to be selfish?
She wants to think so, and selfishness it is.

This burden doesn’t react well when yelled at by the Abusive Coward,
But let’s slap a “sensory overload” tag on it and call it good.

That burden doesn’t like being threatened by the Abusive Coward,
It leaves and it’s a bad, bad burden.

The smallest burden, the loudest, it needs attention and her time,
but that time is called for by the Abusive Coward.

The coward, he is the victim when he strikes a Burden.
The coward, he is the victim when he threatens a Burden.
The coward, he is the victim when a Burden cries.

She sees humanity in the coward,
She sees love in the coward,
She sees hope, light, and prospect in him.

Her burdens weigh her down,
Suck her dry, they kill her spirit.
Despite being their mother, these burdens are inhuman.

She carried them around, 9 months each.
9 months to learn to despise them,
9 months to learn she would never have freedom.
9 months to realize she carried the children of a man she loathed.

I am her burden, one which has been steadily growing seventeen years.
I am her problem, which she can’t ignore.
I am the outspoken burden which plagues her,

Plaguing her existence with demands.
Fair treatment.
Therapy.
Vegetables.

Extremities which cannot be fulfilled.
Demands which are impossible.
Requests that are beyond capability.
I am your burden, mom.

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.