Monthly Archives: October 2008

These three words are not enough

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I love how I turned the laptop on with all intentions to write… and I’m blogging. :D

So, the big thing that Mike had to talk to me about — you know, the thing I was getting all anxious about? Heh. He wanted to see if he could pay me back half of what he owes me from last week. I had to giggle at him, because he was being so serious about it. I also had to laugh at myself, for being such a dork and thinking it was something scary.

Speaking of Mike, things are going so well with him. I feel like a princess in a fairytale. When I first met him and we first started hanging out — or dating, whatever you want to call it — I never pictured we would be here, talking about apartments and our future. I never thought I could have something like this. I’ve been giddy for the last few days. I’m so, so happy.

I’m also going crazy trying to figure out what my surprise xmas present is. He gave me only a few clues: his sister is going to help him out with it and he had to ask my mom a couple of questions. Hmn. It all seems so obvious, so that’s probably not what it is. Still, my parents do like him; I asked them what they would think if we ever got married (we’ve been discussing the possibility of it, and he wanted to know what I would say if he asked). I guess I’ll have to wait and see. I do know what I’m going to get him, though. I’m really excited about it, but it still doesn’t seem like enough. I have such a hard time shopping for people, because nothing ever seems good enough to say how much I care about them. There is no gift on this planet that could tell my parents how grateful I am to have them, nor is there any gift perfect enough for the love of my life.

Sigh. This is why I hate xmas shopping.

Things better not get any worse.

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Never, ever, ever tell someone “I need to talk to you about something” if it has to wait more than five minutes to be talked about. I think my head is going to fall off and my heart is going to come out of my chest. I don’t want anymore bad news. I don’t want to have a serious, dire conversation. I have had enough bad news in the last few months, thank you.

Last night, when I got home from my marathon school day (11:15 to 8:30, woo!), I found out that my grandmother’s best friend Elaine is dying. Cancer. For all I know, she could have passed in the four hours I was at work. A couple months earlier, I found out my friend Liane from high school died. Before that, during the summer, I found out that my Grandpa Wish passed. (I can’t find that post for some reason. UGH.) Plus, yesterday was the three year anniversary of my miscarriage. To top it off, I made a stupid post earlier today admitting my old battle with self-injury.

My nerves are fucked right now.

My Secret

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Three or so years ago, I would write on my LiveJournal — yes, I will be adding all of those fantastic posts eventually — on my good and bad days. Somehow, blogging made it seem a little more bearable, maybe because there were other people going through the same things leaving me comments and saying so. I would start the post with something like, “meh, my arms hurt”. I was honest at 15, 16 years old, not caring who would potentially read the post or what they might think. Now, at 20 years old and with self-injury behind me, I feel squeamish even talking about it. I don’t want people to know. I don’t want them to look at me with disbelief. “That girl looks so together, but did you know that she used to cut herself?”

I know there are people out there who still struggle with this addiction. I call it an addiction because that’s exactly what it was for me; there are still moments when I briefly consider doing it again. In the last nine months I have met countless people who used to or still do self-injure, and I can still remember exactly what it was like to feel that bad. It’s a scary subject that barely anyone will touch, and even as I say it I’m wondering whether I should just delete this post or not.

I was initially going to write about how ironic it was that I used to blog about my arms hurting because of something I did, and now I write about my arms hurting because of TOS. (I’m still kind of thinking of just deleting this.) [ED: At the time of this writing, I had been misdiagnosed with Thoracic Outlet Syndrome, but have recently received a likely diagnosis of Rheumatoid Arthritis. 12/16/2011]

I just want to establish a few things here:

  • People who cut/burn/whatever themselves are not “emo” or looking for attention. I hid what I did from my friends, then-boyfriend and family. The only safe place for me to discuss it was my blog.
  • Cutting is not an attempt at suicide. I was suicidal at times, but whenever I cut it was not to kill myself.
  • I don’t know if it’s true for others, but when I used to cut I got a lot of negative attention from people in school. They talked about me, called me a freak and “that crazy girl”. There were even guys who wanted to date me, but refused to actually go out with me because they didn’t want to be associated with me.

I have scars all up and down both of my arms. Sometimes I try to hide them, other times I just don’t care. I’ve considered covering them with tattoos or trying that cocoa butter crap to get rid of them, and some days that’s very appealing. Some days, like today, they remind me of what I’ve been through and how I became the person I am today. I think because of these experiences I have come out a much stronger person, and I think I’ve been able to help some others who are going through similar things. If that isn’t something to be proud of, I don’t know what is.

I guess I just wanted to get this out in the open, because eventually I plan to import all of my old blogs here and some of the stuff can be pretty heavy. I know that someone is going to read it, and I know that some people will stop reading my blog just because of my past. So I’ve probably saved those people some time. On the flip side, someone may read those old posts and say to themselves, “holy shit, she knows what I’m going through”. That will more than make up for any negativity I might get.

Is it a damn crime to need BBQ sauce?

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Today is a bad day, and also a good day. Three years ago something very big happened to me, something that I will always carry with me. I’m not going to be sad right now, though. Good things happened today.

I got my transcript transfer and graduation applications! I just finished filling them out and will drop them off on my way to Creative Writing later. I’m really excited about this. I need to fill out an application for SCSU now, though.

Today is also a bad pain day — partly because of the TOS, partly because of the flu shot I got last night and partly because of my lower back. I’m trying to get through the day, but all I want to do is go home and lie down with The Host. (Nope, still haven’t gotten to finish it yet. Sigh.)

On a totally random note, I went to Burger King during my break between classes. It took forever to get there because of unexplainable traffic, but when I did get there it took another year to get through the drive-thru. (That particular branch is always slow, whether you go inside or not.) When I finally got the window, paid and got my food, the girl asked me if I wanted any sauce. I said yes, she handed me my bag and just before the window closed I heard the girl next to her say, “For what? She’s only got four nuggets.” (I had fries, too, thank you!) So before I drove off I loudly said that I wouldn’t be coming back. Stupid Burger King.

Anyway.

Little one, I hope you are safe and happy wherever you are. Maybe someday we will meet again, for good this time.

Three years.

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I have a really hard time with talking about this. I never really got over the shock of it, and people usually tell me I need to move on. I know that it happens to plenty of women, and I guess most of them move on.

Three years ago I was 17, a senior in high school dating a drug-addicted and slightly alcoholic dropout. He couldn’t keep a job, he basically lived off of me and he had a relatively crappy home life. I don’t know what I saw in him. At 17, I was relatively healthy (aside from a temporary period where I starved myself out of a need for control and beauty, even though I had only weighed 115 lbs to begin with). I smoked pot and cigarettes and drank occasionally (AKA every time I was with him). I was on birth control and my period was pretty damn regular. We didn’t use any other kind of protection and weren’t careful in any sense of the word. I remember that month my birth control pills were all crushed up in the pack, and if they weren’t already destroyed they fell apart when I popped them out. I remember thinking how very reassuring that was.

When I didn’t get my period and felt like throwing up every time I entered a new room, I added everything up and hit the panic button. I told the guy and a couple of close friends, who encouraged me to go get a free pregnancy test done at Planned Parenthood. I kept yeahing them and kept putting it off. One day in shop a girl I had gone to school with for years told me she’d just found out she was pregnant. I told her I was pretty sure I was, and she gave me an extra test she hadn’t needed. I took the test and the lines, which were supposed to be negative, came out positive. Now that I knew for certain, I continued to procrastinate going to a doctor. I didn’t tell my parents. I think I told the guy, but it’s hard to remember. I agonized over it, scared and lost. The guy did not work and hadn’t been able to keep a job in forever. He lived an hour and a half away from me. I didn’t and still don’t believe in abortion unless absolutely necessary (ie, rape victim or life-threatening pregnancy) so that thought never crossed my mind.

I remember it was a Sunday morning and I had to get up for work. (Back then I still hadn’t wizened up enough yet to never work on a Sunday. Heh.) I won’t go into the details, but I’ll say that it lasted about ten to fifteen minutes and didn’t hurt — at least not physically. I knew instantly what had happened and I kind of sat there in numb shock. I called out of work, cleaned up and went back to sleep, because I didn’t want to deal with it any more than that. Later I told the guy, and he had been especially unhelpful. He wasn’t very comforting, and only said that it had probably happened for a reason, that there was probably something wrong with it. He asked if I was okay and of course I lied to him, and hung up the phone. For the next few weeks I kind of lived in a numb bubble. I blamed myself, of course. I thought there was something wrong with me. I felt guilty, for not having gone to see a doctor and for continuing to smoke cigarettes (I had dropped the pot and alcohol).

Eventually I told my mom and she took me to the doctor. The doctor ran a pregnancy test but didn’t pick up the hormone, so she told me that it had probably happened but wasn’t likely. (Mind you, this was at least a month after I’d taken the test on my own, so of course the hormone wasn’t there anymore.) My mom said that it happened to women all of the time and most of the time they don’t even know it. I remember being angry with the doctor, who had brushed me off so easily without even an attempt to offer me some kind of support or help. (To this day, I still refuse to see this particular doctor. I still go to her office but I always ask for someone else. I’m afraid that I might punch her for being so insensitive and brisk about such a sad experience. I’ve come to the conclusion, after dealing with other types of doctors in the years since, that it is very hard to find a doctor who actually wants to take the time to help you. Most of them just want their money and to call it a day.)

The icing on the cake was, about a month after, the would-be father cheated on me. He had never bothered to console me and basically ignored the subject. I had no one to talk to. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to talk about it.

If I had carried to term, he would be about two and a half now. There are some days when I mourn the loss, wondering what it would be like to have little feet running through my house. I wonder what it would be like to hold that little boy and hear him call me Momma. It’s no secret that I absolutely adore kids and always have. I know that I was 17 and it would have been tough. The guy I was dating would have cheated on me anyway, probably. One way or another, I would have ended up a single mom. I probably wouldn’t be in college, and I definitely wouldn’t be with Mike. (At the time we met, I would have been ready to pop. No one wants that kind of responsibility that early in a relationship.) There are two sides to the coin. Still, there are some days when I would give anything to have that baby in my life. I would sacrifice my education, my career and the love of my life if I could go back in time and find a way to save it.

I just hope every day that I can have another chance.