#30DayBlogChallenge Something I Feel Strongly About

On my 23rd birthday, my friends took me out.  It was a Tuesday night, so not exactly a prime night for the partying scene…however, I was excited to go out and be social, as it was only a few months after my hospitalization.  After a few hours of complimentary shots thanks to our wonderful bartender, whom I had always adored, I was definitely feeling a solid buzz, especially since it had been MONTHS since I had drank alcohol.  At least, like I had used to.  I sat at the bar and chatted casually with my friends, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. 

When I turned around, it was my childhood neighbor…a girl a year younger than I, but I had always remained friendly with over the years.  We had never really been close, but we liked catching up from time to time as we had literally lived across the street from each other since birth.  I asked her what she was doing with her life, and she told me she was going to get her master’s for school counseling.  Instantly, I was impressed, and chose that moment to confide in her that I had spent some time in the hospital, and then through 2 day a week therapy for depression and a few other mental health issues- tentative diagnosis that I was working on with a team of health professionals.  Her reaction is one that will always remain clear as day in my mind, despite the cloudiness of whiskey and the other potency of mixed booze. 

“Oh.  Why are you depressed?” She asked me.

My confidence had taken a major blow since coming to terms with my mental health issues, because explaining them had proven to be no easy task.   A girl…excuse me, a WOMAN, going to school to counsel youth, some of whom will be bound to have mental health issues related to mine, some probably even more severe than mine, and she asked me the one question I had asked myself for years.  The one question I had pitted against myself almost minutely…the one I couldn’t give an answer to; the one which stemmed an immense amount of self loathing and ultimately led to my hospitalization.  WHY are you depressed?  I mean, isn’t this basic psychology here…one that far surpasses my knowledge and education in this field(for now, as many of you know).  Isn’t that like psychology 101 of fucking talking to people about their issues?  Don’t ask them why?  And if it’s not something you learn…isn’t that just Not Being Tacky 101?  Beats me.

I was polite, as I was not only shocked at the ignorance of an upcoming professional, but I also didn’t want to ruin my night.  Given, at this time I was also extremely insecure and concerned what people would think of me.  I was still in that “selfish” phase of thinking, where I still wasn’t quite to terms with my diagnosis and progress.  I had come far, but there were still bad days.  In fact, this was one of the first times I was showing my face out in public, in a town where I had been a regular.  My absence had been noticed, and I knew some of my former friends had not received the news well…dismissed it as something as trivial as the flu.  Regardless, I answered.

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged.  “They’re telling me I was born this way.”  And I smiled and promptly changed the subject to Beyoncé or jello shots or something much more compatible with the current scenario.  And moved on with my night…and actually had a lot of fun.  But that’s not the point.

This blog topic is all about blogging something I feel strongly about.  We throw around words so casually, ones which DO impact the way society views them as real life issues.  I have a friend, whom chooses not to read any of my blog posts or even follows my Twitter page, despite knowing all about the movement of #EndTheStigma and what I promote.  In fact, we have very different views on mental illness.  She doesn’t believe in medication for anxiety or depression.  The only difference is she has no experience with it, and I do…so naturally, I don’t take much offense to her ignorance.  It’s almost embarrassing.  She chooses not to educate herself, and it is very painful.  Very painful, because her biggest resource is so accessible.  So accessible that she wouldn’t even have to open a textbook.  Because it’s me.  She has zero interest in what I do here, and although I am not expecting everybody to be as enthusiastic or excitable when I reach major milestones in not only MY life but the overall movement, it is very hard to consider someone one of your best friends when they couldn’t care less.  I am not by any means throwing shade, but her language toward mentally ill people bothers me like no fucking other.  She will constantly complain she is “depressed” because her hair isn’t long or that her boyfriend is “bipolar” when in reality he’s just acting like a typical male douchebag with all of the knowledge of my struggles.  When I correct her language(and always very good naturedly…ALWAYS), she becomes very offended.  Whereas the majority of people apologize and move on, she will actually pick fights with me about this.  “You’re being overly sensitive about this.”  “It’s really not that big of a deal.” “You’re making this into nothing.”

Here’s the thing.  I would and do correct anyone who uses the words ‘I’m depressed” over something idiotic that you aren’t depressed about.  I would say it to anyone…I’ve come to the point where I have no filter about this, and I am not ashamed.  I’m generally friendly and silly about it…”Oh come on, it’s not that bad.  Don’t be so dramatic!”  And me and the person who said it will often be a teensy bit embarrassed and we will both laugh because SHIT HAPPENS.  But do NOT treat me like I am being overzealous for promoting my cause outside of fucking Twitter.  Depression is…it’s just, I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.  Not even my worst enemy or the biggest asshole of a guy I know.  Nobody deserves it.  CALL ME AN UPTIGHT BITCH- seriously, do it!  I don’t care!  Because depression isn’t something to be taken lightly- ever.  If that makes me uptight, then so fucking be it.  It’s important to ME because the reason I didn’t get help for YEARS and YEARS and YEARS is because of the way I viewed it, which in whole had a lot to do with the language that surrounds it.  People who were depressed had tangible reasons- tragedies, cancer, dead family members.  They weren’t people like me.  People “like me” were depressed because the boys we kissed last night didn’t call us the next day, and our favorite manicurist was on vacation when we needed a fill, and the cable went out right when American Horror Story started.  Shit like that.  See the “us” vs. “them” ideology I had in my head?  Words matter.  And if I have to be an uptight bitch about extending your vocabulary and offering your sensible and non-offensive and more APPROPRIATE words to fill in the blanks with, then hello, hi…I’m okay with that!  Because if it means helping work toward ending a stigma, and helping work toward ONE less person having to deal with I did ALONE for way too fucking long, then I will proudly take on the role of being an uptight bitch!  Please…can I just change my handle now?

 

 

Day One! #30DayBlogChallenge

creative juices

 

 

My first blog challenge post!  Five ways to (theoretically) win my heart.  I only use that phrase in respectable parantheses because if I’m being TRULY honest here, based on my track record, I have questionable attractions to certain behaviors, really.  Like ignore me for days and play serious mind games and flirt with every girl you see in front of me…you get the picture.  Luckily for me (and this heart of mine), I’ve moved on from that horrendous phase of my life, and I’m starting to really take into consideration what I NEED to be happy in a potential relationship.  So alas, my compilation of 5 Ways To Win My Heart…loosely based on a true story.  :)  This is a blog challenge, so I’m not really focused on grammar or making anything really flow.  This is mostly for myself and to get my writing back on track!  Enjoy!

1. Give Me A Run For My Money In Trivial Pursuit. 

Okay, so basically…I am really attracted to people who just KNOW things. I like being humored by a variety of topics and conversations, so naturally, I like when somebody has a knack for learning. For example, it’s important for me to be with someone who is passionate about something, but it’s super attractive when we can talk about like…ANYTHING.  I don’t care if you spend your free time reading encyclopedias or BuzzFeed…if you’re well aquainted with current events, history, and just random pointless information, then I am smitten.

2.  Simply put…WIT.

If you can counter my comebacks, then I am forever yours.  I like people who can think quickly on their feet.  Smooth talkers.  Now, this often gets me into trouble when selecting the guys I tend to let into my life…they always tend to be very suave.  However, it’s a characteristic I find really attractive.  Wit is a sign of intelligence, and I like knowing I can be challenged by words.  Such a turn-on.

3.  Compassion for all- even for people not like yourself.  

Obviously everyone wants to be with someone who is nice to them.  But it’s very important for me to be with someone who is just compassion and humble in genera-to all people, despite their lifestyle choices or race or sexual orientation or hair color or…you get the picture.  I want to be able to take you places without worrying about your language(aka, I do not date nor will ever date sexist, racist, homophobic guys.  It’s the 21st century.  Your ego is not welcome here).  A guy who is extra kind to the server(even if she’s really hot, I’ll get over it). Just an overall sense of humility, compassion, and general acknowledgment and appreciation of humankind.  It is a huge part of who I am.  If I know deep down your soul is mature and emotionally pure, then my heart is yours.

4.  Communication Makes The World Go Round

Now, this is a little different than you may expect.  Of course, I am attracted to guys who are able to express themselves openly.  Nobody likes a constant guessing game on how someone is feeling based on their misconstrued actions.  In fact, I despise it.  But this really goes both ways, since I am no communication angel either.  I’ve been pegged as an “ice princess”, which isn’t necessarily true…I’m just not really an open book, especially when I start seeing someone.  You need to take my words for what they are…pure.  I need my alone time, it is how I thrive as a functional human being.  It has nothing to do with you.  I’m not mad at you.  I just need some time alone.  Guys who can appreciate this without getting all stage 5 on me are ones I would like to get to know better.  I am a writer.  I would lock myself in my room for 24 hours if it meant completing a project.

5.  Security

We don’t need to text 24/7.  I know you have girls who are friends…that’s cool with me.  Oh, she liked your profile picture?  Nice.  And if you see a guy’s name in my text message threads, I’m fully expecting you not to freak out, because guess what?  I like YOU…and if I wasn’t interested in you, I wouldn’t be with you.  This kind of dynamic is what being secure in a relationship is all about.  It’s important for me to create vibes with someone whom I can feel secure with- someone I don’t feel like I NEED to constantly check up on or God forbid…get super creepy and try and figure out his passcode on his phone.  That just sounds miserable.  I’ve divulged myself into insecure relationships before with the hoping that the more I forced it, the more it would work out in my favor.  If you don’t trust someone fully, it’s not going to work out.  No matter how much you want it to.  Establishing trust and security from the beginning is important to me.  So important.  Guys who can understand this logic are the ones for me. 

#EndTheStigma; Saving My Own Life

 Simply put, my first #EndTheStigma guest blog post below brought me to tears.  I not only admire the writer’s ability to paint such a vivid picture of her story, but of course, her sincere strength.  You can follow her on Twitter here.  If you want to submit your own #EndTheStigma story, please see my “About Me” for contact information.

If you throw someone a life preserver, and they turn around and swim away from it, what can you do but let them drown themselves?”

To that, my answer has always been: anything. Do anything.

 

I was not supposed to die on September 24, 2010. But that was what I meant to do when I stared down at the handful of tiny white pills before me, like so many soulless eyes,

taunting me

you’ve no real problems

you’re so selfish

you’re not good enough

ugly

fat

stupid

you have no excuse for being this way

and swallowed them all without a second thought.

 

The second thoughts came later, locked in my bedroom. That was when, consumed by the shame of what I had done, I called the person I would later call my best friend and imagine building a future with: a boy I hardly knew at the time.

 

Despite how far I have come since then, I will always carry with me the guilt of what I put him through. He didn’t know where I live, or the phone number of anyone who could reach me. He was helpless. All he could do was try to keep me talking to him as my words began to slur together, and plead with me to find someone who could help me, which I refused to do.

 

This is the series of events that I have pieced together in place of the memories stolen from me by the medication I took. Eventually, I hung up the phone; irrationally, I hadn’t expected him to be so upset. When I refused to answer his insistent subsequent phone calls, he began sending me text messages instead. I responded, even as my fingers grew too clumsy to spell correctly and my mind too foggy to form proper sentences.

 

I have only one vague recollection of those moments. He had asked me, one final time, to find help for myself. Selfish and afraid, I told him I didn’t want to. His response: “I want you to, Olivia. Please.”

Still, I couldn’t bring myself to do it, and it was completely by chance that I sent a message meant for him to my older sister instead. Later, she showed me the message, which read: “iTs not likee the world [will] be any differennt, just one less problematic person.” She knew something wasn’t right; my depression was no secret in my family, but I had been in therapy and taking medication for months. Everyone, including me, assumed I was better. She found me, and my family took me to the emergency room.

 

I have no memory of what happened there, and I never asked.

These things I have been told but absolutely cannot remember: that my family kept me away from my older cousin, who stayed with us for a night while he was in town for a race, so he wouldn’t know (he still doesn’t); that I could barely feed myself; that I grew irrationally angry when my mother insisted on sleeping in my room with me.

 

These are the things I do remember:

Being asked the current date,

and slurring out the correct date of the wrong year, oh God, how embarrassing

bits and pieces from the day after, at home

“Mom, I’m so sorry.” “I have already forgiven you.” “I’m so sorry.”

sticky plastic circles on my chest, left painful red raw circles

so many bruises, what the hell happened to me

I still have the hospital bracelet

in a box, in my closet.

“[My father's name], I can’t take care of her anymore.”

the noise my mother made when, at the second hospital, I answered the question Were you trying to do yourself harm? with a yes.

Being taken upstairs in a wheelchair with police officers on either side of me. My clothes being taken from me; whose clothes I was given in replacement, I still don’t know.

 

I attempted suicide on a Friday afternoon; I blacked out for two whole days. My first real recollections are from the first night I spent in a psychiatric ward.

 

I remember it was so cold. There was only one blanket on the hard bed, and it was so cold. And my door was locked. And I couldn’t work out precisely why I was there despite knowing exactly what I had done, and I was coming down from being high out of my skull. My arms were covered in bruises, and I was alone. I spent the first night stumbling in circles around the tiny hospital room, shivering and sobbing with my arms locked tightly around myself, until they finally came in and gave me something to make me sleep.

 

I spent a week in the hospital. I met so many people there, kids really, from all walks of life. We chewed a lot of ice, played a lot of cards. I became an excellent poker player during that week. We all came from completely different worlds but connected on so many levels.

 

A boy named Andy who walked in circles with his hands clamped over his ears, fighting against demons that no one else could hear.

 

A fourteen-year-old girl who disagreed with her diagnosis of sociopath, stating: “I have a heart; she’s just at home in her crib.”

 

A soft-spoken boy named Robert who seemed completely normal.

 

A boy named Graham who took nothing seriously and once had tried to escape the ward. The first time I saw him, he was lying on his side on a mat in a tiny room. The door was open, but he was handcuffed. After the only family group therapy session I attended, he told me he’d like to fuck my sister.

 

Another fourteen-year-old girl named Riley who attended regular school outside of the ward. She was terrified of Graham, since it was common knowledge in the ward that he wanted to fuck her, too. I ran into her once outside, but after a split second of terrified eye contact, we both silently agreed that we had to be mistaken, oh, no, I’m sorry, you just look like someone I knew once.

 

I haven’t spoken to any of them since I got out; we weren’t allowed to share identifying information. I hope they’re all okay.

 

It was in the hospital that I took the first steps towards coming to terms with what I did. More importantly, I began to understand that depression was not me, but something about me. I was not selfish and stupid and ungrateful because I wanted to die. I was sick. A very sick, sad, scared seventeen-year-old girl.

 

The boy I used to credit with saving my life stayed in touch with me for the entire week, unbeknownst to me as I wasn’t allowed access to my cell phone. Every day he sent me text messages and left me voicemails, encouraging me and telling me his thoughts were with me. Later, when I read them, I cried.

 

I say “used to credit” because I have since come to realize that only I had the power to pull myself out of the hole of self-loathing I had been living in, though God knows he helped.

 

He wasn’t allowed to visit me, but in the same box in my closet as both hospital bracelets is a journal in which I wrote him a letter he never read, with a “safe” felt-tip pen that I could not harm myself with. I attempted to explain how sorry I was for what I did. I’ll never stop being sorry, but somehow he forgave me.

 

But more importantly, he taught me a powerful lesson that I will carry with me for the rest of my life: that no person should ever give up on another. He never hadto pick up the phone. He wasn’t obligated to stay on the line. He was never required to forgive me. And God knows he didn’t need to accept me back into his life, after everything.

 

Years later, still in therapy but finally medication-free, I look back on his act of kindness and realize that it was him throwing me that life preserver that got me back on my feet after that first hard fall, and back on the long path to saving myself.

 

Nearly a year later, I was asked to write an essay called This I Believe for my AP English class. With the anniversary of That Day approaching, I could think of little else and when I put my fingers to the keys of my computer, my story flowed out in words and tears and incredible raw honesty. When my essay was selected by my group to be read for the class, I stood with it clenched in nerveless fingers and in a halting, tiny voice I opened myself to my classmates in a way I never had before. By the time I was finished reading, my eyes were not the only ones in that room brimming with tears.

 

Afterward, I was shocked at how many of my peers reached out to me and admitted to their own struggle. I was overwhelmed and humbled by the experience. Part of me was afraid– I didn’t know how to help these people; I often barely knew how to help myself. But then I remembered that voice in the darkness, and realized that that was what I had to try be for them, if I could. I couldn’t save people; I could only be there to listen, and to remind them that they are capable of saving themselves.

 

I was lucky. I was thrown that life preserver. He did not give up on me, and it is because of that simple fact that I will never again give up on myself.

Part One; Confirming The Crazy

“You’ve gotta work with me here.  Are you going to hurt yourself or anybody else if you leave today?” She(who held the position of nurse, but I will refer to as the appropriate socially constructed gender pronoun or “the girl”, because she, in no wa,y was a nurse figure to me in the slightest) stared at me through her oval framed glasses, her brown eyes full of annoyance.  We’d been sitting in an ER room for over an hour as she drilled the same questions at me over and over again.  I answered them all honestly, but this one…this one question had sent me into a full fledged breakdown a few hours earlier at the clinic.  How was I possibly supposed to answer this…when I had tried, it left me collapsed on the floor in a state of hysteria?  She was briefed on my situation, but it hardly phased her.  She repeated her intake inquiries.

“Are you on drugs?”  No.

“Have you been drinking?” No.  I wish.

“Are you going to hurt yourself or anybody else if you leave today?”

I looked down toward the floor, catching a glimpse of the cream-colored scrubs the first nurse had given me when I was admitted.  The first RN who had led me back to the exam room was kind, but even so, wary of my condition.  They(the nurses and ER doctor) had all assumed I was on drugs when I came in, I’m sure.  My body heaved with sobs the entire walk into the hospital, with both parents grief-stricken at my sides.  They were unaware of my mental state until the nurse practitioner at the clinic had called my dad at work, giving him the news I would be admitted to the ER for psychiatric evaluation as soon as the phone calls were returned.  He had picked up my mom on the way, despite my resistance to her coming along, as I knew her emotional state would leave me even more humiliated as I already felt.  I had let them down; I had tried for much too long to be the perfect daughter with no real success or accomplishment to prove that in YEARS.  I was a failure.   I was better off dead.  Heaven or Hell, it didn’t matter at this point…as long as I didn’t have to endure another day living my life as an ungrateful, unsatisfied girl who hated her entire existence for no reason.  I didn’t deserve any of it.  People will KILL to have my life, and all I wanted was somebody to do just that…kill me.

The girl repeated her question again, giving me a loud sigh.  I raised my eyes to meet hers once more, and if she felt any sympathy toward me, she decided it was better to keep it inside.  “Is it okay if I get your parents?” She asked me.  I nodded.  At this point, it felt more like an interrogation than a psychiatric intake.  I just wanted to rewind the last 6 hours of my life.  I would’ve walked in the clinic, confidently answered “no” to that stupid suicide question, picked up my prescription, and went on my way.  Went on with my life.  And done what I had to do; live with no passion or satisfaction, but plaster on the smile that convinced the world I was happy.

I heard the girl laughing with the security guard a few moments later, as she recounted a story about her dog pooping all over her house while her husband and her were at a wedding the previous Saturday.  I heard him mutter something under his breath, and they both chuckled, continuing in light conversation like old friends as I listened from the examining table, shaking with anxiety.  I was not priority.  I was not important.  SEE, your problems aren’t real?  They’re all laughing at you.  The demons had followed me into the room.  I closed my eyes and counted to 150.  Sometimes it made the bad thoughts go away.  But I couldn’t shake the girl’s high pitched laugh and the security guard’s mumbled commentary.

Ten minutes later, after the story had seemingly ended, the nurse led my parents back into the room.  My mom refused to look at me, her tear-stained cheeks smudged with mascara, quiet gasps of air escaping her lips; the aftermath of crying so hard you hyperventilate.  My dad was on edge, running his hands through his rustic gray hair, crouching in the seat of the chair facing me, looking expectantly at me for something…but for what, I will never know.  Maybe an answer.  An answer I didn’t have at the time.  An answer I still don’t really have, except for some shitty brain chemistry and a stigma that silenced me for over 5 years.  They looked exhausted.  I was exhausted.  The girl was exhausted too.  She made that clear, as she began her tangent about how the in-patient unit is for people who are in danger of hurting themselves or other people.  Was I going to hurt myself?  The question of the day.

“She’s not cooperating with me, and you know her better than I do.  We can send her home with you, but I’m not able to gather if she’s telling me the truth or not. ” The girl said to my parents, gesturing toward the chart she held in her hand.

Point blank.  Did they really know me THAT much better than her?  I’d been keeping the entirety of my life…the impulsive spending, the binge drinking, the way I cried myself to sleep every night until one day, the tears just stopped coming…a complete secret.  Did they REALLY know me any better than a stranger, a Registered Nurse who was supposed to be licensed in helping people like…me?

My dad stood up.  “Maybe it’s best if she stays here for the night until she can have a REAL specialist evaluate her then.” Zing.  You go, Dad.  I look back and realize at the time my sweet father, he was standing up for me, when I was convinced he was throwing me to the wolves because he didn’t want to deal with this entire situation.  He was going to keep me there forever.  But in reality, he knew this woman was unkind and unequipped to help me, but it felt like the biggest betrayal.  I started to cry as my parents said their goodbyes.  “We love you more than anything, B.  We are going to do anything we can to make you better.” He said to me, as he walked out.  My mom still couldn’t look at me, but she whispered a meek “I love you”, and clasped my hand into hers before following my dad out of the door.

The next hour or so are very blurry for me to recount.  Internally I was in a state of complete hysteria, although outwardly, I kept my composure relatively calm…aka, I didn’t speak.  My purse, cell phone, and the clothes I wore in were all secured into a bag and sent with me on my wheelchair ride up to the psychiatric unit I’d be staying in.  The security guard pushed me as I slumped back into the chair, closing my eyes and listening to the rhythm of the wheels against the floor.  The girl passed us, plastic baggy of pretzels in hand.  “Good luck” she said, breezing past me, into the adjacent elevator, with nothing as much as a comforting smile.  Hell, I would’ve even settled for a head nod.

Even as I sat in that wheelchair, I had no idea what led me here or why.   This was the moment where anything I had worked for in the past didn’t matter…I was now seen as a crazy person.  Was I crazier because I didn’t even know why I was crazy?  Was I even more fucked up for not having a reason for being so fucked up?  Was I even fucked up…or was I just dramatic with petty problems that allotted me to overreact in times of pressure?  I spent days in bed…but maybe I really WAS just lazy.  I had no name for the demons other than ones I(as well as friends and family) had used in the past to describe my behaviors: moody, lazy, hormonal, aggravated, pessimistic, crazy.  Crazy.    All I knew is that being dead would have sure surpassed this feeling of complete hopelessness.   At the time, I was convinced this was the end.  And I was right.  It WAS the end.  The end of the silenced fight I led against a stigmatized disease which held my mind captive for more years than I can count on one hand.  The end of the self-medicated abuse I would wage against my body in an attempt to mask the hurt I felt internally, making sure everyone I knew held no serious suspicion to my self-loathing.  It was the end of knowing something was wrong, but without knowledge and connection to any healthy and available resources.  It was the end of my ignorance.  It was the end of my consistent heartbreak.  It was the end of letting my demons win.  And although I couldn’t see it at the time, the end was the beginning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Clusterfuck Of Thoughts On Moving On From Mindfuckery

I’ve been conditioned to play games and beat around the bush when it comes to my feelings since I first sat down with my sister and watched “10 Things I Hate About You.”  The girl who plays coy, so in this case, Kat(and if you’ve never seen the movie…DO SO NOW), the one who doesn’t show immediate interest in her male suitors, the one who provides the challenge…SHE is the one who gets the guy in the end.  Or so I thought.  After a multitude of situations where I shied away from any serious potential with guys over the course of my life, even when they have been straight up and forward with their intentions with me(which again, I can conclude I have always suspected weren’t pure but hey…that’s guys for ya) have left me just as alone when I throw myself out there.  Where can I find a happy medium to let my guard down but also not feel 100 percent vulnerable?  That’s what I’m trying to figure out here.

I am not someone who particularly ENJOYS meeting new guys if not in a group setting.  There is something terrifyingly awkward to me about knowing someone is interested in me, because just as much as I like to play mind games, the guys I tend to be attracted to also do.  It freaks me out when guys WANT to take me out on a date or text me…and then double text me when I don’t reply because I’m still in shock he actually responded in the first place.  I’m not used to compliments or sincere gestures with no ulterior motives.  I’m wary of all men, and I never give myself TRUE reason to believe they aren’t in it for…well, you know.  This isn’t a sob story or a chance for me to divulge into my past where I bitch about my former relationships and how I was mistreated.  Because no matter what kinds of bullshit I’ve been through with dudes, I know I’m the only one who has the power to push through my trust issues and emerge stronger, hopefully with someone I believe is for my highest good.  The amount of “things” I’ve had far surpass any official boyfriends.  As a matter of fact, I’ve only truly had a “real” relationship with one person, and even then, I was young, stupid, and didn’t even know what I was doing.  I wish I could say within the last 4 years that has changed, but to be honest…I’m still relatively young, a bit more academically educated, but I sure as hell don’t know what I’m doing.

I’m reaching the age where people ARE more blunt about their feelings, even in this hook-up culture we live in.  When I talk to a new guy, I just immediately assume he only wants to hook-up.  That notion is still ingrained in my mind from my college days.  And although it isn’t fair to the guy, it’s like because of who I am, I almost PREFER that vs. him interested in wining and dining me.  I mean, in no way, and it’s not like I NEED to share this with the world because it’s noneya biz, but just so we’re clear…my number isn’t particularly high or anything.  I’m not actively seeking a FWB or a fuck buddy.  Been there, done that, caught feelings…was the worst.  So no.  If he’s only texting me after bar close or seems to disappear out of my life for weeks at time, I usually chuck up the deuces and bounce out with the cold shoulder.

If I can’t get a good read on someone, it makes me so much more interested in playing the game.  Witty, sarcastic, and mysterious guys…that’s my real aphrodisiac.  Entice my mind and make me wonder what you’re doing and just WHY you haven’t texted me back instead of at my beck and call.  I don’t want to be this way.  Sincerely, I don’t.  Not only because my friends are SO annoying about how I handle all of these situations “wrong”(and yes, if you’re reading this…you are fucking annoying and YOU KNOW IT), but because I think I’m ready to actually date someone.  I have the capability to put myself out there and truly dive head first into something new BUT my mind bounces back and forth between being too scared to open up or to continue living my life vying for the title of game-maker in the love battlefield.  But for the mots part, I think I’m ready for this. I think.  I don’t know.  Maybe not.  UGH. YOU SEE MY PROBLEM HERE?!

I’ve been emotionally independent for the majority of my life.  It’s not like I was born this way…but yeah, for the most part, I would classify my demeanor as heartless when it comes to guys.  Do I get upset when a guy fucks me over?  YUP.  But those times are far and few in-between because I am picky as all hell.  I know myself well, and I don’t just jump on to any D.  Any time I’ve ever truly given my heart away, it’s been stomped on.  AGAIN…I am not looking for sympathy or pity because guess what?  Everyone has been there, and I know this!  This isn’t a sad story at all, in fact I can laugh at most of the my relationship flaws in the past because they’ve made me who I am…it’s actually something I can turn into positivity, because I have been doing 100 percent kick-ass by myself.  Do I dwell on the past once in awhile?  YUP.  But I stop myself from turning back the pages instead of moving on to the next chapter.  It’s just taken me awhile to like…I’m gonna text this boy back right away, and I’m going to be honest with myself form the beginning, even if that means getting hurt early on.

Just wish me luck on this transformation from mindfuckery master to something…”normal.”  I will need it.  But I know I’ll thank myself later.

 

 

 

16 Things I Learned Before Turning 24.

16 Things I Learned Before Turning 24

 

I know what you’re thinking…not ANOTHER generic list crafted for “20-somethings” full of “live in the moment” and “it’s okay not to have your shit together”(which I totally agree with by the way, but hey)  Hear me out.  I’m on a mission to make my quarter life crisis my bitch.

 

1.  Being able to own up to your mistakes is one of the most noble, yet most mature, things you can do.  If you’ve wronged someone, and even if it isn’t ENTIRELY your fault, a simple apology without the “blame game” can do wonders for any kind of relationship.  Let your ego subside.  It won’t kill you.

 

2.  Wear what you want, when you want, and how you want it.  Confidence is key to any situation- especially regarding fashion.  Don’t let anyone diss your sense of style.  Art is art, no matter which medium.

 

3.  People deserve second chances.  Just not third, fourth, or fifth ones.  Move on.

 

4.  Your grandparents are full of stories, ones that mirror a textbook enriched with history lessons, but with REAL testimonial to what life was like much before your time.  Embrace this, as inevitably one day you may not receive the privilege to hear their stories firsthand.  Use that iPhone for something other than stalking your ex’s social media pages, and record their favorite story.  I’m willing to bet you won’t regret it.

 

5.  Since we’ve now dabbled on the topic of exes and former “things”, avoid their social media pages at all costs.  Yes, we ALL do it…because it’s SO tempting to keep tabs on them but let’s be serious, it’s not healthy in any aspect.  The over-analyzation of every comment and “like” can really take up unwanted space in that noggin of yours.  Un-friend if necessary.  (And just for the record, you are SO much more fabulous than his new girlfriend.)

 

6.  Okay, and now speaking of “things”…if the person who has captivated your time, thoughts, and a place in your heart(and bed) won’t commit to you and you WANT them to…time to find someone who will.  I don’t care if he’s moving to Africa tomorrow…if someone wants to be with you, THEY WILL.  No questions asked.

 

 

7.  You are the only person who knows what’s best for you because ultimately, you are the one who deals with the consequences of your words and actions.  Choose them wisely, especially when someone’s heart is on the line.  Your intuition is 

 

8.  If you CAN change it, you have no right to bitch about it.  This goes for the job you hate, the relationship you’re unhappy in, or any sort of problem you spend the majority of your time complaining incessantly to your friends about. If it’s something within your control to change, do it.  Or shut up about it.

 

9.  Read books.  I don’t care if you’re not into them because “you’d rather be out living your life.” Learn to be into them. Do you know how many books are in this world? Google it, because I’m too lazy(and then let me know).  Point being, you’re gonna find something you can relate to, one you’ll fall in love with.  Promise.

 

10. Speaking of, always read the book before you watch the movie and be willing to accept the fact the cinematic version never compares to the original literature.  It’s a heartbreak we all must endure at sometime. 

 

11.  Learn how to meditate.  It takes time and practice, but the result of a clear, concise mind is worth the frustration that often ensues before mastering it.

 

12.  Don’t stick to your “type” when dating.  Maybe there’s a reason your love life isn’t flourishing…and it may have something to do with this apparent demographic you limit yourself to.

 

13.  Get to know an introvert before you write them off as “boring” or “snobby” or “awkward.”  Often huge misconceptions for those who are reserved upon first impression.

 

14.  It’s ok to take full advantage of the open bar at the numerous peer weddings you’re invited to, especially sans date.  Ignore the pity glances from all of your taken friends and get your cupid shuffle on.   

   

15.  Find someone who likes to Netflix binge-watch the same shows you do.  And never let them go.

 

16.  There will be a time when you’ll be convinced everyone is moving forward- while you’re moving backward.  Not true.  There’s no deadlines for life, no set requirements we must fulfill in order to be deemed successful. 

10 Things I Learned About Myself In The Past 48 Hours That You Probably Don’t Care About

Disclaimer: Nothing profoundly tragic nor incredible happened to me in the last 2 days, however, I had a lot of time to ponder about myself.  And I realized a few things.  Most of them I probably already knew but whatever.  Not important.  This blog post is not here to entice you…in fact, feel free to save yourself the clusterfuck of my emotions and run while you can.  ONWARD.

1.  I am extremely awkward around attractive people.  Like…mind-blowingly FML.com worthy sometimes, but of course, I can’t think of a decent story to impress or distress you with right now.  Point being is…I belong with only my species of plain Janes/Johns because I develop social anxiety just thinking about interacting normally with sexy guys(one in particular that I may now have my eye on).  I can’t wander out into the world of hot boys.  I’ll never make it out alive.

2.  What did Shakira even MEAN when she said “my hips don’t lie?”  Because like…I don’t get it.  I think I’m scarred for life.  Once upon a time, my boyfriend(at the time) told me that I had wide hips.  I asked him, “WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT MEAN?”  And he said(and oh my God, this sounds so 8th grade sex-ed class but c’mon now…he was probably attempting to halt WW3 which NO WORRIES, later came on in full force that night over Cheez-its…don’t ask) “it means you’re like…a woman.”  Does it really?  Because how is it that God gifted me with these apparent assets that mean I am ready to bear 14 children but decided to skip over the whole thingy-ma-bobs that you know, feed these children?  Like sure, my barely there B cupage is sufficient enough but SOMETIMES it’d be cool if I just had a really huge rack to go along with these hips that make it near to IMPOSSIBLE to find jeans that fit right.  RANT OVER BYE.

3.  I really hate the number 3 alone.  13 is grand.  But 3?  No.  It’s a stupid number.  In fact, this entire blog post was inspired by the fact I realized I HATE the number 3.  I really have no set reason.  I just do.

4.  If you think you can eat more fudge-striped cookies than me(especially during Aunt Flo’s visit into town), you’re wrong.  And YES, that’s a challenge.

5.  Orange Is The New Black is not a show I liked.  Please withhold the death threats, but I tried to give it a SECOND chance on Sunday and I simply could not.  Just not for me, I guess.

6.  My OCD is particularly selective, BUT it never skips a beat in regards to making sure I lock my car after exiting at least 3 times(with the horn that lets you know that INDEED, it has been locked).

7.  I’m not proud to admit this, but I’m mastering the skill of “listening but not really listening” during stories I couldn’t care less about, especially regarding the random girl you see once awhile and her obsession with her boyfriend.  Sorry, but let’s wrap it up here…what you got for Valentine’s Day was great and all and I’m sure that $7.99 Walmart teddy bear will look great in the trash can after you break up, but I already read your status update, your tweets about it, and saw the Instagram pictures.  BITCH WE ALL TUNE INTO THE SHOW YOU PUT ON FOR US ABOUT YOUR RELATIONSHIP AND I DON’T WANT A RE-RUN.

8.  I will never be the writer I want to be, because I think I’m losing my passion for it.  Sure, I am decent with words, and I like to dabble in social media and blogging BUT…I’ve come to the realization that I just am not as talented as I once thought I was.  I’m not trying to look for attention or compliments or even encouragement…I’m just being honest.  There are a lot of good 20-something writers who probably have the same voice I do.  I am not THAT unique.  I don’t have low self-esteem…I’m just being realistic.  I read blog posts every day, and the way these people can craft words so beautifully together makes me ooze with jealousy.

9.  When I’m drunk, I am convinced I am fucking Beyonce or some shit on the dance floor.  I’m not.  But give me 4 glasses of wine and ask me that question again…and it’s on.

10.  I will be booking my flight to NYC for this summer sometime this month.  Can I afford it?  Nope.  But it’s happening.  And I’m pretty sure I am going to go alone, because I think sometimes, it’s just best that way.