Chooo Chooo!

I love trains, something my beloved father and I have in common. I have made at least one trip on the famous Disney train on every trip I’ve ever taken to the happiest place on earth. ((Disney please do not sue me for plagiarising your phrase,, I love you more than you will ever know and I wear your coordinates around my neck every day)) I think one of the major reasons I like train rides is because of my Dad. I think about him a lot when I’m choo-chooing into the universe.

You see, my Dad is one of the best people on this blessed earth. (Tied with my fantastic Mom, of course). He and I have a lot in common, more so than I would sometimes like to admit. We both overthink practically everything and strive to love others with as much power as we can muster. If you have the honor of knowing my Dad and the even greater honor of being loved by him never take that for granted. If Richard Campbell is in your life, count yourself very lucky.

My Dad has always valued my opinion. He has never spoken down to me or assumed my thoughts are invalid because of my age. He has always encouraged my brother and me to learn everything we can and to approach life with curiosity and love. And don’t even get me started on his sense of humor! That man could make you cry, laugh, and wish you could speak like him all in one prayer delivered in front of the family. He is the most amazing man in my life and has taught me everything I know and love about this world.

College constantly reminds me of how lucky I am to have such incredible role models in my life. When I come home from college, my Dad has the goofiest grin and most comforting hug. But he doesn’t just want to hear about my fun college adventures, he genuinely wants to know my thoughts on the world. I have so so so much respect for him. He’ll ask me my thoughts on current political issues, and though we do not always agree, he always respects my opinion. ((See guys, it is possible to hold respectful political conversations with your family)). I think about him a lot – every hilarious pun, every time I hear myself saying something I know he would say, every morning breakfast he’d call a feast – I think about that wonderful music-making man all the time.

When I sit on trains, I understand why he loves them so much. The world moves past you in the most beautiful way that a car just can’t quite capture. It isn’t like flying, where you feel so small compared to the great big world around you. No, you feel like you are one with the world and everyone sitting at your side.

My senior year, I found myself on trains quite a bit. A wonderful person in my life lived a little far from me and train-rides always seemed to be the most efficient way to travel to his corner of the world. I often made small talk with those around me; college students traveling home for the weekend, high school teachers who let me help grade their quizzes, boys who edited videos for hours before falling asleep against the window. I always felt like one with the world.

Travelling is one of the most fulfilling experiences, even if you’re just traveling a couple hours to a different town. Trains make me feel like I’m going on a great big journey, where I will learn something new of myself whilst being away from the worn-out views of my city. I plug in my headphones and pretend like I’m some character in a movie, ready to take on a new conflict and face the trials of life with a dimple on her left cheek.

I wonder if my Dad ever thinks about that, about feeling refreshed in a new place. I know that he consumes himself with his work; he, quite like myself, never accepts failure. If he knows how to do something, and knows he can get it done right, why wouldn’t he just do it himself? Why bother trusting someone else with a job we could easily accomplish on our own. I think we both have some room for growth there. We trust others, trust is key in our relationships, but our expectations are so incredibly high and we’d hate for someone to feel burdened by trying to match that.

I know that both of us want to make this world better – it’s that loving heart we both have sewed into our souls. We go about it in slightly different ways, but I can guarantee if my dad is in your life he has tried to make yours a little better. Whether it’s a light-hearted joke when the world feels like it’s crumbling, a jam-sesh where you can remember the ‘good-ole-days’, or just a polite smile passing by. He would never intentionally hurt someone, and I’ve seen that troubled furrowed eyebrow when he thinks he may have harmed someone far too many times. We both do that.

All this to say, I love trains and I love my dad, and if you have either one in your life you should probably take a second to thank whoever put them there.

Advertisements

Going Up

This is Lizzy. Out.
Can you hear me? Out.
Come in commander? Out.

I have always wanted to be an astronaut. This is so not a joke I am being ridiculously real with you at this current moment. Right now at 11:28 a.m on this wonderful Tuesday morning, I want to be an astronaut.

I know that this is fairly unrealistic, seeing as I have given up on math and science, not to mention the fact that I am not currently passing my astronomy class with flying colors. Despite all those (major) set backs, I still want to be an astronaut.

So, I’m gonna see how hard it is to become one.

NASA says they’d like to see at least 1,000 hours of “pilot-in-command time in jet aircraft.” And, according to the ever-trustworthy space.com article entitled “How To Become An Astronaut” I’m gonna need to major in engineering, biological science, physical science or mathematics. For those curious, I am majoring in Dramatic Writing, so I’m pretty much nowhere near those requirements, but I’m not ready to give up yet.

Alright, now onto the physical requirements:

  • 20/20 vision (either naturally or with corrective lenses)
  • blood pressure not more than 140/90 in a sitting position
  • a height of between 62 and 75 inches

Welp, I do not have 20/20 vision naturally, but I do have corrective lenses, so CHECK
I couldn’t even tell you what my blood pressure is, but let’s just assume the best, so CHECKETY CHECK CHECK
I’m 5’7 (and surprisingly still growing???) that puts me at about 67 inches, so CHECK ONCE AGAIN

I was built to be an astronaut! I’m not making this up, the facts are listed right above.

So let’s say I pass all those silly little preliminary requirements. Then comes the fun stuff! As a candidate for space travel I’d become a qualified scuba divers, do military water survival training, undergo swimming tests, and be exposed to high and low atmospheric pressures! AND LEARN RUSSIAN! How absolutely dynamic! Talk about some cool stuff, right guys?

When my parents told me to reach for the stars and shoot for the moon, I’m sure they didn’t actually imagine I would try to. But then again, knowing me, I’m sure they figured I would at some point.

I recognize that I will never actually become an astronaut, but that doesn’t mean I’ll never see the galaxy. I could write you planets, color them with details until you can taste them. I could paint you a picture of the stars, the way they shine brighter from the right side of the spacecraft. I’ll read you journals filled with freeze-dried ice cream and rehydrated green beans. I will never be an astronaut, but I will surely go to space. What do you think writers see when we close our eyes?

Galaxies are constantly trapped behind our eyelids, ready to be broken into the world. One of these days I’ll let them see the world the way they ought to, but for now I’ll let them paint my dreams and crowd my thoughts.

Dear NASA, if you’re reading, I’d love to board your next space adventure. I’m fun I swear, and I have Nestle’s chocolate chip cookie recipe memorized (if that’s not someone you want on your crew, then I don’t know what you’re looking for!)

 

Water Crisis

Hello Hello Hello! We have reduced our campus water usage to none! We cannot drink any water on campus unless it is /boiled/ and we cannot flush our toilets. Raleigh, you may be seeing me sooner than expected.

Recent events have made me think through some things. I have concluded a lot about life, and have even found its meaning! Please read on if you wish to have all the great questions answered! No, I am not a philosophy major – my powers are too great to be tested.

This great question of love that I often discuss in my blog posts is a myth. Love is not real, haha just kidding of course it is real! It has to be real! Without love, what would this world come to? It’s already a great big mess out here, imagine it without that sparkle of hope that keeps us going. Love is in everything, it drives our actions and soaks through our thoughts. Love is boiled into our skin, woven into our diapers as infants. We are only alive because of the love somebody had for us. Perhaps it wasn’t our parents, perhaps it was just the overflowing beauty of God’s love that is trapped within our pores, but love is always present.

Last night, whilst eating a chocolate frosty and crying over a boy, I was pretty darn mad at the world. As someone who considers herself a lover, the only way I can describe this super power of mine is that I love hard. It may be the worst adjective to put there, but let me explain further.

I love like a baseball pitcher – hurling my heart at ninety-some miles per hour. Sometime’s the person up to bat hits it right in the sweet spot and achieves the great honor of running around the field in hope of advancing, sometimes he strikes out. Which sucks for him, because the field of my heart is pretty great. The great thing about this reference is that it is utterly completely not how baseball works. Pitchers don’t really want batters to score. But hey, I’m a lover. I’m hoping the best for the players.

I love like a composer – perfecting each and every note until it sounds the way it does in my head. I count rhythm and beats until it expresses exactly what I mean. I scribble on staff paper and erase until the material wears away. I keep a sheet in my back pocket at all times, just in case the moment arises.

I love like a writer. There’s not much more to say about that. I write and write and write and pray that this all makes sense. These words are my sweet little brain-children who are released from the prison of thought and allowed to dance around the playground of these pages. I love like someone whose mind will never fully understand her.

To the boy who recently broke my heart,
I wasn’t going to call you out. But this is, after all, my space to write, and I have yet to directly address you. This is the first and last time I will ever do this.

I loved you the only way I knew how to, endlessly. I gave you every last bit of who I was ((who I am)). I wrote you a thousand some poems (21 to be exact) in the time that you rented this here heart. I hope those words haunt you and remind you of what you meant to me. I genuinely hope you read them. Writing requires an audience; these words must be read, or I’ve wasted my time. My love must be felt, or I’ve wasted my love.
I wrote 26 songs about you, you ended it before I could get to a multiple of three, so I suppose I will have to write at least two more before I can stop scribbling memories of you on a page.

I regret nothing from those 14 months, and I refuse to ever let myself regret them. I hope you do the same. I hope you look back at old photos and see how happy we were – how perfectly content with the world we could be. And even when the walls crumbled and bricks fell and we’d scraped our skin past repair, we still fought back with everything our hearts could withhold. I hope you remember that. I hope you can remember every last detail of my smile, and the curls that never fell in place, the way I’d laugh and laugh until I’d forgotten what the joke was. I hope you remember all the nights spent watching horrible TV shows and making fun of poorly written dialogue. I hope you can remember the way our hands fit together, like they were meant to hold each other, even if your arm fell longer than mine. Do you remember the stars? How they were just for us, every night? Or how a walk around a mountain held memories of us in each piece of grass. Do you remember those late night drives with a whole collection of songs I can’t listen to anymore? Have I ruined Agnes for you too?

I hope you remember the love we had for one another. I really truly hope you do. I’m not sure why or how you fell out of love with me. I’m not saying I’m the easiest to love, but you never seemed to have a problem with it before.

I’m not trying to change your mind, in fact I hope you don’t. This heart has been through too much to let any of that happen again. I just hope one day when you find the person you choose to love forever that you remember how it’s supposed to feel.

Love should be difficult, the hardest thing in the world. It should be what keeps us up all night overthinking. Love should occupy every last inch of our mind and soul. It should hold you steady when you feel like every thing around you is going to hell. That’s what it was for me, my inch of hope on this yard stick of terror.

Please don’t forget me, though I’m sure you will try to. Remember the french words you never understood, remember the endless amounts of iced coffee, and every word and note I wrote just for you. Remember how full my heart was for you. Never forget how I’d stop my world just to make you happy. Just remember that. Please. It’s literally the only thing I’m asking of you at this point.

To the rest of the world,
I am not some silly teenager who fell in love and got her heart broken. I am a real being, just as real as you yourself are. I am a person who feels deeply and loves hard. I am not weak, I am not defeated, and I am certainly not just an emotional girl.

I am a profound thinker who is continuing to grow and learn the most she can about herself. I have learned that I occasionally set myself up for disappointment, but c’est la vie.

I am determined to be better each day, to love to the fullest, to be a true light of the Lord. I am endlessly here for others, and I will continue to be. I will never stop loving until I have run out of love to give.

Dear world,
Never lose sight of your strengths.

Poppin Pills!

As I leaned over a third floor toilet around the corner from my English classroom, I began to storm up this article. ((As a normal teenager does after her fifth time throwing up on the morn of Halloween)). So here is my somewhat-spooky Halloween post.

The first time I told one of my suite-mates about my anti-depressant adventures she looked a bit shocked and responded, “so, you’ve really been through this whole thing, huh?” I have, indeed, really been through the whole thing. Let me take you on the fun journey of trying to fix my chemical imbalance! Woo-Hoo, who’s excited? I’m excited!

It was a dark and stormy day in the halls of my high school – in reality, it was probably just a normal Monday. My levels of anxiety were high; I felt my soul leaving my body, unable to recognize the shrinking girl in the corner who pretended she was fine. I could no longer continue that way, I knew I wanted to try going on medicine. It took a fair amount of convincing to get my parents on board, but we agreed to try it and see what would happen. As a family, we had little experience with anti-depressants and were a bit apprehensive about the whole situation.

I started taking Zoloft, a commonly used SSRI, the spring of my freshman year. I was hit with a tornado of symptoms, but told that they would eventually go away. After all, there is a slight adjustment period with any medicine. But I felt like I was actually dying. Getting out of bed was near impossible; when I tried sitting up I would be hit with a sea-sickness so strong I hoped I would throw up to end it. If it wasn’t the extreme nausea keeping me in bed, it was the chronic fatigue. I was constantly tired; falling asleep at the lunch table or drifting off during rehearsals. Perhaps that doesn’t sound too bad, I was a high schooler of course I was tired, that may not have been the medicine. But then I started losing my appetite, the smell of meat disgusted me ((foreshadowing my vegetarian life perhaps)), anything with the slightest bit of salt overpowered my senses entirely. Safe to say, I stopped eating. I dropped some weight and was complimented by my peers for how thin I looked. I’d never been ‘thin’ and yet always had a bizarre obsession with it, so being told I looked skinny encouraged my declining appetite.
The medicine changed me physically but provided absolutely no mental change. So, my psychiatrist suggested I switch to another well known SSRI, Lexapro.

My favorite part of my Zoloft -> Lexapro switch was that it went down while I was a last-year-camper at my favorite place in the world. So tracking my symptoms and also trying to have a good time at camp was a bit difficult. I remember it starting off in a similar fashion, I would wake up on my top bunk with sweaty palms and a raging headache. The good news was that I was at summer camp, the abnormal sweating my body experienced  could easily be disguised in normal day activities. And, perhaps, I had just gotten my normal appetite back and was excited to eat real-people-food again, but I began to eat everything. My appetite went from being non-exsistant to becoming an overpowering desire I had to fulfill at all occasions. I’m sure I didn’t gain as much weight as I felt like I had, but in my own mind I was an Oompa-Loompa ((and a very pale one at that)). To feel like an Oompa-Loompa at age 15 is to know true self-loathing. Dear sophomores in high school, please do not view yourselves as Oompa-Loompas you overdramatic loves of mine. I had all these fun symptoms, but just like Zoloft, I felt no different mentally. It almost took more of a toll on my mental health. Everyone was expecting me to get better, and I questioned if maybe the medicine was doing something and I just hadn’t noticed. “I don’t feel like it’s working.” I would tell my mom. “How do you know?” She often responded. It was a good question; I had no idea how I would be able to know. No one gave me a guide book on taking anti-depressants. ((Where’s that book American Girl Doll Company, huh? You’re gonna make us a book on puberty and then just say see-ya later on our mental development?))

So, I was taken off medicine. It was no longer reasonable, or healthy, to keep me on a medicine if I felt it wasn’t fulfilling the intended purpose. I carried on as I had before, utilizing therapy as my life-line. I completed work on a timely fashion, went to bed at a reasonable hour, joined the track team, ran for leadership positions, acted in plays. I was the same-old me. I did exactly what I needed to do and avoided as many triggers as I possibly could. I knew what would set me off, and when it would set me off, so I disguised my anxiety in the only way I knew how: staying busy.

Junior year sucked. I’m fairly confident that can be universally felt. I didn’t have time to think about my anxiety, I was always doing something: studying for this test, writing that paper, pretending like I wasn’t falling apart, getting coffee with my best friends every single day without fail. I became the absolute queen of distracting myself! And my therapist, sweet sweet Megan, was in my top three go-to people. I had weekly therapy appointments, which were very much needed breaks in my day. Megan is such a queen, if you don’t go to therapy but you think you might want to, I will pay you to go see Megan. ((probably not though because I am super broke)) [[My psychiatrist is also a queen, she’s the one who recommended Megan to me so you know she’s a homie. And they’re friends which I think is just so adorable. I love both those women so much, wow. I just got so sidetracked. Yay therapy! Yay Maggie and Megan!!!]

Fast forward to senior year, where I was ridiculously over high school. I knew I wanted to be on anxiety medicine for my freshmen year of college. Shoutout to past me for thinking about her future self! In order to be rid of the crazy symptoms before heading to college, I needed to start it whilst still a senior. But my mom and I were both over the whole trial-and-error medicine route. It was not a fun option, and I very much wanted to avoid that. So, I did a fancy lil DNA test to figure out which medicines my body metabolized well. Upon viewing my results, I discovered that both Zoloft and Lexapro were on my DO NOT TAKE list. It was so validating to know that past me hadn’t been making things up, I really wasn’t getting any benefits from the medicine. My psychiatrist, being the queen that she is, put me on one of my HEY YOU SHOULD TAKE THIS medicines. It was a fairly new medicine, Prestiq. Prestiq is an SNRI, meaning it boosts serotonin levels as well as norepinephrine levels. I don’t really know what that means or how it affects people differently, all I know is that it works. 

I had the usual preliminary symptoms: nausea, headaches, agitation. But then those wore off and I was left with exuberant happiness. I mean, I was bouncing off the walls energetic and happy. It was great! I finally felt like myself again. The only problem was that I was a little too happy. I had increased levels of energy and absolutely could not sit still. It only kinda affected my school work, but I was a senior so I didn’t much care about my class work anyways. I still did my homework assignments and wrote my papers, but I could hardly pay attention in classes that didn’t peak my interest. I had no issue in the classes I loved, – literature, French, and statistics – but my history and seminar classes were not-at-all my focus. My friends began to worry about me. I remember one lunch where three of my closest friends confronted me about it. They said they were glad I was happy, but I wasn’t acting like myself. I was acting wild and uncontrollable. I would often say rude remarks without thinking or break school rules without caring. As a total goody-two-shoes I can assure you that kind of behavior was not typical of me. And I always talk a lot, but I would talk a lot, sometimes I would forget I was talking and cut myself off mid-sentence. My best friend of three years even said she was a little worried about me. The medical term for this kind of behavior is mania, but my mom would tell you she doesn’t like that word, so my psychiatrist rephrased it; I was hyperactive.

My parents didn’t notice those symptoms because they were just excited to see me so happy again. The medicine worked, perhaps a little too well, I was suddenly not anxious about anything. My parents told me they were considering moving to a different state and I didn’t shed a tear! If you know me, you know how much I hate change, so this behavior was, once again, very out of character. I only experienced highs, I wasn’t feeling real-people emotions. So, my psychiatrist decreased my dosage. As the medicine decreased so did my extreme levels of happiness. I immediately returned to the way I had been before taking medicine – anxious and exhausted all the time. After knowing the way I could feel, I wanted to go back. I loved the way the medicine made me feel; I didn’t want to be hit with the lows of life again. I liked seeing la vie en rose everywhere I went. It felt like I could have that childish naive innocence about me once again, I could be oblivious to the pains of the world. But I could recognize how unhealthy that was for me; I knew I needed to find a happy medium. So, I asked to increase my dosage again and see if things would be different.

And here we are now! 10 paragraphs later and you are still reading. WooHoo thanks. I hardly remember the fact that I take medicine because of how normal I feel. I still get anxious, like all the time, but the physical symptoms of my anxiety are mostly gone. I don’t shake as much or scratch at my skin or overthink till I feel dead. I mostly just write. But every now and then I genuinely forget I take medicine, therefore I forget to take it. It usually hits me that I’ve forgotten around noon, when I feel light headed and begin to overheat. The worst time that happened was during Hurricane Florence. My friends and I were playing volleyball outside before the storm hit; it was the second day in a row I had forgotten to take it. I remember feeling a drop of rain and then immediately passing out. I woke up as soon as my body hit the sand, but it was enough to freak me and all my friends out. I sat out for the rest of the game.
Some days, I don’t have time to eat in the morning, like today! But taking medicine on an empty stomach usually results in light nausea. It’s not too bad, I’m used to that. But for some reason, today, my body was not able to handle the medicine on an empty stomach. Hence why I spent a majority of my English class vomiting up grapefruit kombucha, the only thing I’d had this morning.

Long story short, medicine is cool and helps a lot of people, but it isn’t always fun. It’s quite the process to find the right one, but it is very very worth it. Also, if you haven’t taken your meds yet today, go do that ya silly nugget!!!

Happy Halloween!!!

 

 

Forgive, Forget, Forgettaboutit

How the h*ck do we forgive other people? How the h*ck do we forgive ourselves?

Forgiveness. It’s an absolutely magical thing that is hardly ever merited. No one is perfect, which I’m sure goes without saying, but I always find myself needing a reminder. We are flawed through and through — we mess up, continuously, and we will likely never stop doing so.

Mistakes don’t make us bad people, right? I certainly hope not. I’ve wronged a lot of people in my life, a lot of good people I care about. Maybe it’s a good sign that I’m deeply troubled by my mistakes. I think to a degree it shows the recognition of my faults, but it also creates an unhealthy sense of self loathing.

I am a tad bit too obsessive with the mistakes I have made. They linger like morning breath, constantly sitting on the tongue ruining the taste of everything else. I have always had an extremely guilty conscience; I obsess over every mistake I make and think through absolutely every potential outcome. I think of how the person I’ve wronged will treat me, if they will ever choose to forgive me, if I have caused irreversible damage on their life.

However, the hardest struggle to overcome is the battle to forgive myself. If I had just shut my mouth, if I had just not been there at that time, if only I had been there. As a perpetual over thinker, I learn to hate my actions. Sometimes, I even regret my own existence, feeling like a burden to those around me. I know that’s a harmful thought, but hiding that in the depths of a confused mind will only make matters worse.

I don’t know how to forgive myself, at all. If others don’t forgive me I struggle to find a reason why I should either.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I am so sorry. You will never understand. None of you. None of you will feel the intense copious amount of guilt I carry around everywhere I go. I still cary around the regrets of a middle-schooler, the mistakes of a young teenager, and certainly those of a confused-as-heck first year in college.

I’m not terribly convinced life gets any easier, that my bag of guilt will ever shrink, but maybe I ought to build up bigger muscles. Make the burden lighter…

Ripped Flannels and Colder Weather

10/22/18 12:03 a.m
(For a fully immersive experience listen to Passenger by Hippo Campus)

I’ve become what I swore
I wouldn’t
You
In your too big flannels
Those patches untouchable
For me
But only at your request
Your jet black falsely foreign sixes of trees
Attempt to surf
On over
To
Perhaps not

Let the numbers return
The colors fading like
Blues
In skies
When the sun decides I’m worthy that day
When she peaks her nose into the corners of the shadowed mind
Dusts catching
Will I ever

Don’t pretend you don’t
You must
I’m certain
Or perhaps
I just wish it to be true
So true it shall
Don’t bite at my skin
Creep into the pores on my nose
Don’t seep
Essential Oil burns like sun bitten patches

Did the world stop for you too
When you saw
Me, Standing
Surrounded by those we loved
That knew us as us
As the girl in the tree
Begging to be pulled down
The spider bite on her forearm
The choruses of rights and wrongs
And warm sunny days locked out of cars singing birthday songs

Pain begs for words
We beg for life to make sense
For someone to explain to us
We wish to remain children
For as long as we can
Have someone explain all the wrongs
Blend them with red crayons
Tell us the drawing was beautiful all along
Trust the child with the checkered eye lashes
The lollypop of her youth
Trust the ones who know nothing of wrong
To tell us of goodness

But she liked crouching in the hallway, hands over head
She liked it
How absurd
Perhaps we all enjoy the preparation for disaster
Before we know of the reality of what the tortures will bring
We enjoy the preparation to get hurt
It’s more fun, when you pretend it will happen
One of these days
But not now
Not ever

I’m sorry I think of you so often
Because at this point I know I ought to stop
But here we are
Me, as you, on the only bed I can claim as mine today
You, somewhere
I wouldn’t know, Pretending like one of these days you’ll read this poem, and send kisses down my spine
Every lip imprint
An apology
You’ll squeeze my hand
Say,
This time I won’t let go
Hey , you got to do it once, so I took my turn
I’ll play all these songs for you — so you can hear what I heard right at the moment of its conception
You’ll swear you won’t do it again
Kiss my neck
Just kiss my neck so I won’t think About this again

Pressure, and heat, slept through the white
Oils on the canvas, creating something worth thousands
Perhaps less, but it will return
The sigh, the small gesture of a smile,
A half-attempt at a cheek kiss,
A warm chest, a worn-out smile
But from my lips,
A surprise.
Yes, it will be. A pleasant reluctant surprise where I shall utter the word
Finally.

An Attempt To Dissect Pain

I want to write. Desperately. But have hit a severe road block in the form of a brick wall, so I’m not entirely sure what this will be quite yet.

Processed with VSCO with k3 preset

sunset outside my suite home

There are a few things I’ve been asking myself lately: Why do we hurt? Could I potentially sneak a fully grown cat into my dorm? How do you fall out of love with someone? Let’s take these bad boys one by one.

IMG_8984

Why do we Hurt?

Which great Ship on the Milky Way decided she ought to shoot a cannon ball Down
TO those tragic beings believing they are the one and only.

I’d like to think Pain helps us build armor, and one day we will be invisible to the hurt. But I am aware of the childish nature of that belief. (Not nearly as childish as my featured drawings)

That feeling of hurt and emptiness never entirely goes away. It doesn’t come in waves either; it runs through our blood, pumping at varying degrees as time goes on, but always present. It takes practically nothing to be reminded of that detestable buzz, the one we often become too used to.

Last night I sat in my car, for close to an hour, listening to a very sad playlist made by a very sad situation. It was around the half hour mark when 6 called me, look 6 you’ve made a reappearance in the blog, he told me it seemed like I needed a friend. I hated how right he was. As much as I like to appear strong and confident, I recognize that I absolutely cannot do it all. He told me to stop listening to sad music, but the music isn’t all sad. It is beautifully melancholic. It makes the sadness seem worth it, in order to feel the true depth of the song.

Public Apology To Whoever I Have Hurt In This World: Now that I know what that is truly like, I am so terribly sorry. I would never want to cause this electricity to run through someone’s veins. I hope some day you find it in you to forgive me, but I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t.

For the sake of not freaking out any of my suitemates, I will leave my question of the sneaking-cat-complications up to the readers for answering. 

img_8983.png

How Do You Fall out of Love With Someone?

This is a truly tricky one. I have not, and doubt I will, find the answer. I’m not asking for myself, every person I’ve ever loved, I continue to love. It’s exhaustingly glorious, so I’m not planning on changing my nature anytime in the near future.

I’m asking more so from an outside perspective, mostly because I don’t understand how others fall out of love. I never understood how anyone could fall in love with someone – put themselves through the absolute wreckage of loving – and somehow manage to stop. It’s odd to think about. How can one go from loving something so much to pretending as if said thing no longer has a place on one’s bookshelf. What an absolutely wild concept.

As someone quite young and unexperienced in this realm, I will continue to search for answers. Shall keep you updated on my adventure. Hoping this heart grows bigger with each one I love, instead of shrinking with each one I give pieces to.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

YOU CUT MY HEART
10/16/18 2:48 a.m

My bed smells of kissing you
One and Two
Three and Two

It dances around this messy room
One and Two
Thoughts of you

And the other ones just don’t get me
One, Two, Three
Four to Three

But they’ll still spill their hearts on the balcony
One, Two, Three
Does he think of me

Perhaps I’m in love with broken charts
Five till Start
Three till Start

Maybe one day love’ll tear my soul apart
Five till Start
Already broke my heart

An off step waltz for the offset soul
You’re all alone
Brain made of foam

Don’t dare pick the book that makes him Whole
You’re all alone
He’s on his phone

Three and Two
Thoughts of you
Four to Three
Does he think of me
Three till start
Already broke my heart
Brain made of foam
Get off your phone.

A Psychoanalysis of a Friend

My friend ((who will here on out be referred to as 6)) quite literally, asked me to write this post about him. But I promise this will be an interesting read and I hope everyone can learn a little bit about themselves while reading.

I met 6 a little bit before college started, he struck me as the kind of guy I was used to interacting with during high school (i.e I very much wanted to avoid him). He acted like a tough guy who knew he was attractive and therefore felt as if he could get any girl he so wished. I’m sure you know the type.

I didn’t really meet 6 though until a month or so later. I was laying on the cold concrete outside my dorm with my legs propped up against the brick wall, a pose I find extremely calming ((and highly recommend)). I heard his voice before I saw him turn the corner and before he even sat down he announced his state of intoxication. Though tempted as I was to roll my eyes and proceed to ignore him, he started talking to me about his day.

Due to the fact that I grew up with my mom, a psychology major, psychoanalyzing me ((and the cast of characters appearing in my life)), I often find myself doing the same to others. My therapist would likely tell you it’s because I feel responsible for fixing others, and I would likely agree. Nevertheless, that night was no different.

While I laid on the concrete listening to 6 ramble about his day, I started recognizing the fact that he was nothing like I’d perceived him to be. A reminder to myself, and hopefully others, that first impressions do a pretty sucky job of representing people as they actually are.

Now, I won’t go into too many details, but 6 is pretty broken. Us broken people are fairly drawn to other broken people, so I’d like to think that’s why our friendship developed so quickly. Sometimes it hurts listening to him talk; I see so much of myself in him. I see the absurd thoughts swirling, the constant need for reassurance, the destructive loneliness he tries to hide. I see it, and homeboy knows I see it. I think that’s why he stopped pretending around me.

I can tell he’s lonely, most of us are. Being a freshmen is full of surface-level small-talk yearning for something more, but settling for whatever small glimpses of intimacy we find. I can tell he’s attempting to fill a void, it’s not that hard to tell. He goes out most nights, gets high or drunk or some combination of the two, finds a girl to become effortlessly infatuated with, and then stumbles out to my hallway ((reeking of emptiness)). He never wants to talk about it. There have been times where I think we’ve gotten to a breaking point, but right as he’s about to open up, and simultaneously break down, he shuts it all off. He says he isn’t ready to talk about it – any of it – it is absolutely beyond infuriating, but I know I can’t make him talk about it. When he’s ready he will, but I’m not thinking he ever will be.

It makes me wonder if 6 wants to get better. Is there some sort of comfort in his restlessness? Does he like the momentary thrill of trying to fill a void? Or is the emptiness too vast to even attempt to find the exit.

He claims he doesn’t want a girlfriend. He doesn’t want anyone to have to deal with his shit because he doesn’t want to hurt anyone, just like he doesn’t want to be hurt by anyone. I hate to do this to ya 6, but I call serious BS.

Based on the facts I’ve gathered the past few weeks, I can tell you want someone desperately. In fact, I think it might be the only thing you really want, but it’s eating you alive to the point that it’s painful. I mean, if this is what wanting someone is like, how are you going to feel if you actually have someone? It’s terrifying, trust me I know! But denying it, pretending like this void is some permanent burden you must carry with you forever, is ridiculously damaging. I can already see the weight tearing your limbs apart, the way your jaw is always tense and how your hands constantly search for things to keep them occupied. You don’t trust your mind; you don’t like that it disagrees with you*.
*and by you, I mean the you you pretend to be. The nice F-boy that’ll still text you a few times after an initial meeting, but not long after.

It is incredibly painful being around you, did you know that? 6, I feel like I’m watching a ticking time-bomb. I told you that last night while you attempted to laugh it all off. Every now and then that tension is too much and you break down, but one of these days you are going to absolutely explode, and I cannot bare to see it. Have you ever watched someone you love crumble in front of you, knowing you can’t do anything about it. That’s what this feels like 6. It feels like I’m watching my heart strip away her layers until she’s nothing but raw flesh, hurt past repair.

You say you can’t talk about it, but you never know why. I think it’s because you’re scared of what you’re going to find. Digging into the hole is going to hurt like hell at first, but when it’s all dug up – when all those burdens have been uncovered, when you’re left with pure clean emptiness – you can start to heal. I swear.

But maybe I’m wrong, you’ll tell me I’m wrong even if I’m right. I know ya 6.

Why do I always love the broken ones?

Facts Don’t Care about Feels (or smthn)

Hello dear friends (and strangers). I love your top, is that new? Really compliments that shade of color in your eye.

I read a sign the other day that said something along the lines of “Facts Don’t Care About Your Feelings”. Which was a little bit funny to read, because what that dear sign-holder did not realize was that Facts don’t care about much of anything.

His sign was correct, facts don’t give a shit about feelings. They are harsh, cruel, eye-opening bullies that come to punch down every sensitive soul standing in the path of their destruction.

Said Sign-Holder seemed to think Facts were singularly on his side, but Facts are the true unbiased politician. How often do we really listen to them? How often do we let our feelings overrule the great enemy of Fact?

I’ll admit, there are lots of Facts I would not like to believe. I don’t like thinking about the thousands of tragedies my ancestors caused, because I know it wasn’t my fault; I don’t feel responsible for that. But Facts don’t care about my feelings.

I don’t like to think that humans are killing the environment. That the damage we will cause by 2040 would take 54 trillion dollars to fix! I don’t like thinking about how humans could rapidly fix this issue, but because of our state-of-denial we will choose to do nothing. You may feel like this issue does not pertain to you; you may feel like these facts are bogus and made up by some tree-hugging-agenda, but guess what? These facts don’t give a single Frick-Frack about your feels!

Did you know that if we took what we fed to animals in the meat industry and utilized it for direct consumption we could feed billion more people! Or that it takes 1,056 gallons of water to make a gallon of coffee? I hate those Facts, trust me. But that oh-so-terrible enemy of the world doesn’t mind that life-altering facts keep me up at night.

So, my dearest Sign-Holding lifelong neighbor – the Fact that you are holding such a sign does not change the Truth that you avoid Facts just as often as I. You, like me, pretend you are not responsible for the damage being caused around you. We call ourselves educated when we know a few things about a few things, but become defensive when called out on our ignorance. We pick sides and call the other one wrong. Does that not seem messed up? Do you, too, feel as if we’re back in middle school, fighting over which sport to play in P.E?

I hate when people assume I’m dumb. It is by far one of my biggest pet peeves. People are not dumb simply because they disagree with you. That’s not what makes people dumb. Ignoring facts is what makes people dumb. Ignoring feelings makes people dumb. Facts don’t care about our feelings, but in a world full of emotion, one cannot choose to ignore those little buggers either.

Emotions are often the driving force behind others actions. A not-so-wise man once said women were too “emotional” to be in office, but I believe after a recent court hearing, we can agree that being an emotional candidate does not hold one back from being elected.

Feelings are deeply human. We cannot choose to ignore the way something makes us feel. To ignore such a thing would be inhumane. Unless, of course, we wished to reside in a robotic community. Actually—I think I may be onto something with that…

The Untold Stories Around Us

Do you ever think about the stories passing by us? The millions of lives just as intricate as our own, with a cast of characters as lively, with problems as challenging, with passerby’s just like us.

How many family photo albums have I mindlessly been apart of; which family photos in Disney have I been a background character?

Today on the bus, I listened and looked around, people watching as I tend to do. The boys in front of me were giggling like children at some hilarious YouTube video that I couldn’t see. The men behind me chatted like old friends even though I was fairly certain they’d just met each other. Younger kids danced around the narrow walkway, excited to see the famous UNC basketball players.

I think a lot about these side characters who will likely only appear in a few short scenes of my life. The ‘extras’ who pick up the sheets of paper I drop walking to class, who give me change when I can’t dig through my wallet fast enough, who share their stories at marches.

Everyone around us leads their own life, but we hardly stop and think of the complexities in someone else’s mind. That could possibly be our greatest flaw.

Humans tend to be selfish, think of Adam and Eve; they had everything they could ever want or need and yet still requested more. We get way too caught up in ourselves, in our own worlds, we hardly ever think of the intricacies of another’s life.

The boy I met on the bus ride home—he laughed when I suggested he looked like Timothée Chalamet. He gets that a lot; his last girl friend forced him to watch Call Me By Your Name twice until he agreed. He fell asleep during Lady Bird, much to her dismay. She never felt like he really loved her. She always felt like she was fighting for his attention. He was far too busy smoking with his friends, he never really cared for her anyways. He’d been seeing a few girls on the side—it didn’t mean anything to him. He was just a feelings-junky, one girl after the other.

His dad had left when he was younger, he figured that had to do with the general feeling of numbness he felt on the daily basis. Maybe if his father hadn’t cheated on his mom so many times, he’d never even know what cheating was. Maybe he’d never had cheated himself.

I can’t confirm any of that. In fact, I can almost guarantee none of it is accurate. But my brain wanders and wonders about the characters around me.

Strangers are better than best friends who turn to strangers.