Lonely

I'm lonely without you. Please, please come back to me. Please?!
-Me, wishing for you on 11:11

I HATE myself.

I'm jealous. I'm a jealous person by nature and I always have been, and I always will be. I'm jealous and I'm possessive and these are extremely undesireable qualities that I acknowledge in myself and I wish I could change them but I haven't found the right away to do so at this point in my life, probably because I have a lot to learn about the ways of the world and the way people are and I want things I can't have and when other people get them, it makes me more or less depressed and behind. I'm jealous -- it's who I am and I hate it.

Jealousy is one of the things I hate the most about myself. It makes me seem so selfish. I'm jealous that my friend and this guy that I like (for stupid reasons and selfish reasons and desperate reasons and I wish I didn't care about him at all) are getting along famously because I feel like he likes her and I just want to wind the clock backwards so he likes ME again. I hate being on the rocks with someone I used to have such a special, wonderful relationship with. It's completely gut-wrenching to feel this way. I hate it. I feel pathetic and I feel alone and I feel like there's nothing I can do but watch someone so special to me slip through my fingers completely.

I'm desperate in addition to my jealousy. Tonight I was talking with my friends about incidents with bullying and it made me realize that my whole life, I've felt completely undesired. I'm shy and I don't talk to a lot of people and I feel like people exploit shyness. It's easy to pick on and easy to tease and easy to take advantage of. No wonder I'm a survivor of sexual abuse; it's clearly something I walk into, these horrible situations that I'm too afraid to control or too scared to do anything about. When I've had friends in the past, they've abandoned me, or sold me out. It's happened time and time again so why wouldn't I be desperate to be liked? I just want to be liked. That's all I want in this world, just for someone to look at me and realize something inside of me that I don't see in myself and just... like me. Like me more than other people, and put me first in their heart and make me feel special and acknowledged and appreciated.

Once someone, this guy for example, tells me they don't want me, I back off even though it hurts me, and I let them live their life. I can hardly engage him in conversation anymore when before, it used to be so easy. Now, the only time I can do this, is when I'm alone with him -- which never happens anymore whereas before, it used to be a regular occurance. I'm not worried about anything -- I'm not worried my best friend is going to pursue this person -- I'm sure she's not interested and I'm sure she knows he's off-limits. But that doesn't help me become first in the heart of the person that I adore. Yes. I adore him. A lot of people who may read this are probably thinking of what a pathetic, lonely person I am. I don't deny that I'm pathetic and lonely but the thing is, unrequited love hurts. It hurts so much. It's the worst and most agonizing, masochistic feeling on earth. I wake up everyday, thinking of how to next give my love to someone who doesn't want me and never will. I envision things, a wedding, a date, even just one more kiss, just ONE more. I'll never get that kiss. I know this in my brain, but my heart has no idea and wants to keep believing that what was special before will be special again. Why do I do this to myself? I just want to forget him, I just want to forget that, I just want someone to come and hypnotize me and erase any recollection of that ever happening, for both of us. Because he knows. And I know. WE KNOW. We both know that things happened. And although both of us pretend for different reasons that nothing happened, they did. They happened. And it wounds me that we can't ever talk about this again, because it meant a lot to me. But he's the kind of person who sweeps "feelings" under the rug. He claims not to have them, he claims not to care, he doesn't want to hear it or talk about it or acknowledge it. And there's always going to be this secret, this thing, this elephant in the room that no matter who he ends up dating or what happens to him in any aspect of his life - if I'm still there, so is the time that we kissed in front of his building and then he led me upstairs and we spent the Goddamn fucking NIGHT together. That will NEVER go away. Whether it comes back or not, it will NEVER go away and that's just that. And I can't forget it and I think about it every day and I'm sure he doesn't. I'm sure he doesn't even think of me at all. And I hate, I just HATE, that I care. I really do hate myself. More than is healthy, more than is comprehensible, more than life itself. I completely, utterly HATE myself. I want all this to go away, like a bad dream. I'm a terrible, terrible person.

Special

When I love someone, I just want to have a special relationship with them, something we have that no one else has. There's someone in my life that I used to have that special relationship with; we were close friends, we were flirting, we talked all night and it was as though no one else in the world was there at all. Except us. And I liked it that way.

As it turns out, this person and I have a bit of a history and the thing about that is, when the history became, so to speak, "history", that relationship basically dissipated. There isn't anymore flirting or talking all night just the two of us, there isn't anymore of that at all. Now we're just friends, and I have the same relationship with him as I do with any of my friends and he feels very much the same about me. And yet, I still long for what we used to have. Why? God knows. Because I think humankind by nature, is masochistic. We yearn, we pine, we ache to feel something, anything, as long as it's real -- and that goes so much further than cutting oneself or jumping off a bridge; it's a universally accepted truth; that we always want things we can't have and we wait for them, like waiting for a train that's just never going to come. That's how I feel right now; waiting, waiting,waiting, to be special again. And I won't be. And it hurts. A lot.

I miss being special.

Too Much

Sometimes I feel like a jackass when I say too much. Mostly because I hate to burden people with all this stuff that makes me upset. I know what they say about true friends being there to help and not caring but honestly, I feel like inside of them there's something that thinks ill of someone who says too much. I also feel embarassed in the aftermath for saying too much; yesterday I was talking with one of my best friends and told her all kinds of things about my history with abuse and this guy I'm in unrequited love with (it's a long story) and today I feel stupid for saying all those things, like, it's too much information and for sure she thinks I'm insane. And fair enough. I probably am insane. It's insane to want something as much as I do, it's insane to want to tell someone as much as I do, it's insane to hang onto the past so much that you honestly can't see a future without it, even though sometimes things in the past are totally and completely dead.

I've always had a hard time accepting things. I think it's an innate part of my personality to have this inability to accept truths about the way things are until I absolutely HAVE to. But the funny thing is.... I think that maybe this refusal has something to do with habit and not an actual want. Maybe I want things because I've always wanted them since day one, and for whatever reason, I get into the habit of wanting. Want, want, want. That's the word that my life consists of. And I tell people these wants and I shouldn't. I really shouldn't.

Today's going to be weird, I can sense it already. Weird and either happy or sad. It's too soon to tell. But I actually do feel stupid for saying all this personal stuff yesterday. Either because we're taught to not express our feelings that way, or else because it's just too much.

Sweet Fresh, but not exactly.

I started blogging a long time ago and I got fed up with the process for a few reasons, the most primary being that it's not public enough and not private enough at the same time. What I mean by that, is if you want people to read what you're writing you have to give them the link to your blog. The reason blogs exist is so people read them I think, and so you want people to. But then it makes you look arguably pretentious and presumptuous, to assume that everyone in your life is dying to read what you're doing. If you don't, chances are you would rather keep a journal, electronic or otherwise. So a blog is somewhere in between I guess, between a tabloid and a notebook. It can be as private or as public as you want it to be. But it's sort of trapped in a void. Another reason I don't like it is because it's so easy. I prefer words to flow from a pen like water and to coat a page in thoughts that spill from my body and my mind at the same time. I've been journaling forever and I just can't grasp the process of blogging. It's hard for me to do. But I'm starting over, simply because I love to write.

I write. That's what I do. Writing and I are synonymous. It's the one thing I DO that defines me (the other is my obsession with music, both good and bad, and its ability to heal or provoke or scare or sadden... music is my passion in life and it drives me to be the person I am). Writing defines me in that I never knew before that I was good at anything, really good at anything. And now I know that I am -- it's the only thing I can do right, apparently. I don't see anything in my own writing but other people do and in the end, although I don't write for my readers, I do indeed appreciate that they gain something from what I do. I'm not published and never really thought I would be,but that so many people I know (for the record, not just my mom and friends but teachers and people I met in my creative writing class, also writers themselves, most of them very very very good) appreciate the stories I write gives me hope that maybe I can be a published author someday.

Writing has opened up so many gates for me. It's introduced me to the kind of friendships that I thought only existed in movies and the kind of friendships that I never thought I was capable of having. The kind that is honest and unconditional no matter what. The kind where your friends tell you things to your face, they tell you what they think, they don't fear you and they trust you all the time. They're the kind of friends I think everyone should have. It's also taught me the meaning of the word "confidence". I never thought I had confidence but I've become a more confident person through my writing and through expressing myself. Once you've bared your soul to people in that way, you of course, become a more confident person. I've learned too, through my characters, who I am as a survivor of sexual abuse.

I'm someone who defines themselves by labels. First I was a baby, then I was a kid, then I was a loser, then I was a university student. But in university, probably the most in second year, I realized that in between "kid" and "loser", there's "survivor". And something about being a survivor was inside me for ten years at that point, and it just... never occured to me. I had pushed it down so far, I had almost sort of forgotten it. Well, not "forgotten" but... maybe, ignored. It's something I never knew affected me until I 'fell in love' with a boy and I realized that what keeps me away from men I fall in love with is my fear of men in general. And believe it or not, it took me a moment to think about why this is. I used to chalk my shyness up to the strong amount of teasing and harassment I got in school, but it occured to me that there are psychological effects of this thing I tried hard to ignore. And I have them. I did research and the results scared me. I learned I was a survivor. And if you've ever faced trauma, you know that eventually you need to come to terms with it. It takes time, but it can't be ignored forever. You act it out in some way -- some people choose rebellion, some people choose drugs and alcohol, some people choose professional therapy. I choose writing.

That's me in a nutshell. I'm kind of a damaged and depressive person and I have this innate need to express myself in a way that's so pointless but for me, so necessary. Welcome to my New York fruit stand.

xo