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learning2flyI'm in a funk. I give you all fair warning. The long winded post behind this cut is a stream of consiousness complete load of crap.
Sometimes I enter these moments when my sense of self and my world seem to make more and more sense. Then within the span of a few hours, it will be gone and I won’t know who I am supposed to be. This is one of those moments I suppose. I have to get this out of me or I’ll explode. So bear with me. Move on and read someone else’s journal. It will probably be more interesting. See who got drunk and fucked some random person last night. See who’s bitching about their job/school/life, etc. Whatever. I don’t know why I’m posting this. I feel obliged to give some sort of picture of where I’m at in this point of my life. So here goes. I am slowly becoming at peace with myself. I have reached many very important goals this year, which makes me feel proud of what I have accomplished. I have graduated from college. I have a job in my field of study: physical therapy. I finally moved out of my parents’ house and currently reside in a nice apartment with my big sister. I bought a brand new car all by myself. I’ve flown to New York City twice this year and paid for it myself. These things show that I can take care of myself, sort of. I don’t have buckets of money like I’d like to. I’d like to be able to not worry about my financial security. I’ll always have to pay bills and be on a budget. But really, I do have some money. I do things that I like to do and buy things that make me happy on occasion. I visit my friends all over the country as often as I can. I sleep every night. I work my ass off at becoming a better therapist and help people reclaim their lives and be more independent. I have a wonderful loving family that is within a half hour away. I have a sister that will always be there for me and understand my random movie quotes and my mood swings and my need to do absolutely nothing for a day (even though there are a million things that need to be done). I have a best friend that lives on the far east coast of the country and I only see in the flesh maybe twice a year, but will always be my ear. I have a close knit group of friends scattered across the Midwest that I care dearly for. I have a great group of coworkers that are all caring individuals working for the common goal of helping people. I have so many things that I am very lucky to have and very grateful for. I don't know what I did to deserve this. Yet I still feel this vague emptiness. I can’t understand why I can’t make it go away. Is it my constant feelings of never being good enough? My never faltering obsession with being accepted? To be loved? My hatred of my own body? It is a horrible thing, not being comfortable in your own skin. I can’t remember a day that I didn’t look in the mirror and scowl at my reflection. This unattainable goal of perfection that my mind’s eye wants to see but never will. Never being able to go into a department store and take something off the rack that will actually fit right or look flattering on my oddly proportioned body. Hell, even Victoria’s Secret, the one store that is supposed to make any woman feel sexy, doesn’t carry bras that fit me. Ever since I can remember I’ve had this guilty feeling every time I eat. I hear my mother’s voice in my head. I see the willowy women in films and hate them and love them and want to be them more than anything in the world. As if having the perfect body will make me complete and happy with myself, which my heart knows it won’t, yet I can’t let go of it. I can’t stop eating. I can’t make myself throw it up. I can’t not eat what I want. Ice cream and pancakes and popcorn and cantaloupe and pasta and garlic bread and cereal and chocolate and pizza. I’ve always been this size, and I think I always will be. And it’s really not that awful. Some days I’m ok with how I look and then I see some stupid diet pill or workout video and break down. It’s not just my appearance. I feel like I’m never good enough at anything. I mean *anything*. I’m constantly wishing to be noticed and to be respected and loved but do nothing to be noticed or respected or loved. I go to work. I go home. Repeat. I visit friends but don’t make an effort to meet new people. Christ, I even perform at the Bristol Renaissance Faire, a home for all the unique folk of the world to join together. Even in a family of outsiders I feel like and outsider. I notice people and remember their names and silly insignificant details about them. I remember them when I see them again, even though they don’t have a fucking clue who I am. And I can’t just walk up to them and introduce myself. I’m hate big parties of people I don’t know. How the hell am I supposed to meet new people living like this? No wonder I feel so helpless and alone. I never make an effort to get out there. And I spend most of my time pining over the people I’ve lost, looking at my photo albums, reading old letters. Read everyone’s livejournal. Reach out to people all over the country as I sit in my pajamas in my bedroom with no intention of meeting any of them. I want to be loved. I want to be cherished. I want to find someone to watch over me. To take care of me. To hold my hand. To make love with. I miss the closeness and intimacy more than anything. To just be with someone. Just being there with each other. That’s all I really want. The sex would be nice, but not what’s really important to me. I'm sick to death of going to bed alone every night. And lucky me, it’s the holiday season, so I’ll get lots of great reminders everywhere I look of what I’m missing. I’m sick and tired of being alone, plain and simple. Every possible aspect of being alone, I am tired of. I feel like a middle aged spinster and I’m only 21.
Since I was very young I’ve had a love of fairy tales and love stories. I’ve dreamed of my prince on a white horse for as long as I could remember. As if having a man in my life will make everything fall into place. Which is really really wrong, I know. I should be a complete person on my own. Many people have made that mistake and when things don’t work out they are never the same. I don’t want that to happen. I've never known such happiness and contentment as when I'm in someone's arms. I don’t want to be needy. I don’t want to be one of those people that can’t survive on their own without a significant other, no matter how wrong the relationship might be. ‘we’d rather go through hell than sleep alone at night’. And when I do find someone, what if I can’t let go of my fears of being abandoned and can’t trust them or love them? What if they meet me and run away screaming? I’m still very much hurting from those I’ve lost along the way. Not just the whopping TWO 'serious' (and I use the term very loosely) relationships I’ve had thus far. I’ve let many an important person slip through my fingers. I had a handful of ‘best friends’ that either moved away to another city or another school. Alisa Rennane, Rachel Krukowski, Kristen Pichelman, Andrea Stapelman, Nate Stamper. These people were and still are very important to me and I think of them often but have no way of contacting them. I wonder what they have made of their lives. What paths have they chosen? And not just them, people that I opened up to and couldn’t manage to keep a relationship going with. Most of them probably don’t even think about me. Don’t remember me. Even if they live very close by. Even though they don’t think or care about me I still let them hurt me. Sometimes I'm so afraid that this bitterness will never go away. I don't want to be bitter. I want to be happy. It is very very difficult for me to open up to people because of the tidy little wall I have built around me to protect myself. For the rare few that I let in, the few that really understand who I am and how I feel, it is so very important to me to keep these bonds strong. When there’s nothing I can do to fix things, it hurts me more than anything. I spend countless amounts of time wondering what I did wrong, what’s wrong with me, why can’t I stop pushing people away? All the while these people don’t give me a second thought. They don’t seem to care about me, why should I let them get to me? Why do I take everything so damn personal all the time? Sometimes people go separate ways. We all grow up. We become our own person and sometimes that person can’t get along with a person that used to really click.
Blah blah blah. I get like this when I am physically and emotionally exhausted. I feel very very lost and alone and confused. These things, however neurotic and borderline insane, are a part of me and make me who I am. I have to deal with them in my own way. I care. A lot. That’s what makes me special I guess. I notice things that other people don’t. I hate being such a tiny speck on the radar. Another faceless being in the crowd. There's too much to see and experience and grow and learn. Sometimes I feel like the world is going to swallow me whole and no one will even notice. Then I remember I'm here for some reason, and I have plenty of time to figure out what. I am who I am. And that’s all I can do right now. Just be.
Sometimes I enter these moments when my sense of self and my world seem to make more and more sense. Then within the span of a few hours, it will be gone and I won’t know who I am supposed to be. This is one of those moments I suppose. I have to get this out of me or I’ll explode. So bear with me. Move on and read someone else’s journal. It will probably be more interesting. See who got drunk and fucked some random person last night. See who’s bitching about their job/school/life, etc. Whatever. I don’t know why I’m posting this. I feel obliged to give some sort of picture of where I’m at in this point of my life. So here goes. I am slowly becoming at peace with myself. I have reached many very important goals this year, which makes me feel proud of what I have accomplished. I have graduated from college. I have a job in my field of study: physical therapy. I finally moved out of my parents’ house and currently reside in a nice apartment with my big sister. I bought a brand new car all by myself. I’ve flown to New York City twice this year and paid for it myself. These things show that I can take care of myself, sort of. I don’t have buckets of money like I’d like to. I’d like to be able to not worry about my financial security. I’ll always have to pay bills and be on a budget. But really, I do have some money. I do things that I like to do and buy things that make me happy on occasion. I visit my friends all over the country as often as I can. I sleep every night. I work my ass off at becoming a better therapist and help people reclaim their lives and be more independent. I have a wonderful loving family that is within a half hour away. I have a sister that will always be there for me and understand my random movie quotes and my mood swings and my need to do absolutely nothing for a day (even though there are a million things that need to be done). I have a best friend that lives on the far east coast of the country and I only see in the flesh maybe twice a year, but will always be my ear. I have a close knit group of friends scattered across the Midwest that I care dearly for. I have a great group of coworkers that are all caring individuals working for the common goal of helping people. I have so many things that I am very lucky to have and very grateful for. I don't know what I did to deserve this. Yet I still feel this vague emptiness. I can’t understand why I can’t make it go away. Is it my constant feelings of never being good enough? My never faltering obsession with being accepted? To be loved? My hatred of my own body? It is a horrible thing, not being comfortable in your own skin. I can’t remember a day that I didn’t look in the mirror and scowl at my reflection. This unattainable goal of perfection that my mind’s eye wants to see but never will. Never being able to go into a department store and take something off the rack that will actually fit right or look flattering on my oddly proportioned body. Hell, even Victoria’s Secret, the one store that is supposed to make any woman feel sexy, doesn’t carry bras that fit me. Ever since I can remember I’ve had this guilty feeling every time I eat. I hear my mother’s voice in my head. I see the willowy women in films and hate them and love them and want to be them more than anything in the world. As if having the perfect body will make me complete and happy with myself, which my heart knows it won’t, yet I can’t let go of it. I can’t stop eating. I can’t make myself throw it up. I can’t not eat what I want. Ice cream and pancakes and popcorn and cantaloupe and pasta and garlic bread and cereal and chocolate and pizza. I’ve always been this size, and I think I always will be. And it’s really not that awful. Some days I’m ok with how I look and then I see some stupid diet pill or workout video and break down. It’s not just my appearance. I feel like I’m never good enough at anything. I mean *anything*. I’m constantly wishing to be noticed and to be respected and loved but do nothing to be noticed or respected or loved. I go to work. I go home. Repeat. I visit friends but don’t make an effort to meet new people. Christ, I even perform at the Bristol Renaissance Faire, a home for all the unique folk of the world to join together. Even in a family of outsiders I feel like and outsider. I notice people and remember their names and silly insignificant details about them. I remember them when I see them again, even though they don’t have a fucking clue who I am. And I can’t just walk up to them and introduce myself. I’m hate big parties of people I don’t know. How the hell am I supposed to meet new people living like this? No wonder I feel so helpless and alone. I never make an effort to get out there. And I spend most of my time pining over the people I’ve lost, looking at my photo albums, reading old letters. Read everyone’s livejournal. Reach out to people all over the country as I sit in my pajamas in my bedroom with no intention of meeting any of them. I want to be loved. I want to be cherished. I want to find someone to watch over me. To take care of me. To hold my hand. To make love with. I miss the closeness and intimacy more than anything. To just be with someone. Just being there with each other. That’s all I really want. The sex would be nice, but not what’s really important to me. I'm sick to death of going to bed alone every night. And lucky me, it’s the holiday season, so I’ll get lots of great reminders everywhere I look of what I’m missing. I’m sick and tired of being alone, plain and simple. Every possible aspect of being alone, I am tired of. I feel like a middle aged spinster and I’m only 21.
Since I was very young I’ve had a love of fairy tales and love stories. I’ve dreamed of my prince on a white horse for as long as I could remember. As if having a man in my life will make everything fall into place. Which is really really wrong, I know. I should be a complete person on my own. Many people have made that mistake and when things don’t work out they are never the same. I don’t want that to happen. I've never known such happiness and contentment as when I'm in someone's arms. I don’t want to be needy. I don’t want to be one of those people that can’t survive on their own without a significant other, no matter how wrong the relationship might be. ‘we’d rather go through hell than sleep alone at night’. And when I do find someone, what if I can’t let go of my fears of being abandoned and can’t trust them or love them? What if they meet me and run away screaming? I’m still very much hurting from those I’ve lost along the way. Not just the whopping TWO 'serious' (and I use the term very loosely) relationships I’ve had thus far. I’ve let many an important person slip through my fingers. I had a handful of ‘best friends’ that either moved away to another city or another school. Alisa Rennane, Rachel Krukowski, Kristen Pichelman, Andrea Stapelman, Nate Stamper. These people were and still are very important to me and I think of them often but have no way of contacting them. I wonder what they have made of their lives. What paths have they chosen? And not just them, people that I opened up to and couldn’t manage to keep a relationship going with. Most of them probably don’t even think about me. Don’t remember me. Even if they live very close by. Even though they don’t think or care about me I still let them hurt me. Sometimes I'm so afraid that this bitterness will never go away. I don't want to be bitter. I want to be happy. It is very very difficult for me to open up to people because of the tidy little wall I have built around me to protect myself. For the rare few that I let in, the few that really understand who I am and how I feel, it is so very important to me to keep these bonds strong. When there’s nothing I can do to fix things, it hurts me more than anything. I spend countless amounts of time wondering what I did wrong, what’s wrong with me, why can’t I stop pushing people away? All the while these people don’t give me a second thought. They don’t seem to care about me, why should I let them get to me? Why do I take everything so damn personal all the time? Sometimes people go separate ways. We all grow up. We become our own person and sometimes that person can’t get along with a person that used to really click.
Blah blah blah. I get like this when I am physically and emotionally exhausted. I feel very very lost and alone and confused. These things, however neurotic and borderline insane, are a part of me and make me who I am. I have to deal with them in my own way. I care. A lot. That’s what makes me special I guess. I notice things that other people don’t. I hate being such a tiny speck on the radar. Another faceless being in the crowd. There's too much to see and experience and grow and learn. Sometimes I feel like the world is going to swallow me whole and no one will even notice. Then I remember I'm here for some reason, and I have plenty of time to figure out what. I am who I am. And that’s all I can do right now. Just be.
