I lay on a block of concrete and close my eyes. How can the sky burn my eyes when the sun is buried beneath a veil of white clouds? I feel that piercing brightness like gravity pressing on my eyelids, and it is a pleasant feeling. I smell the railroad tracks from where they rest, collecting dust in their current slumber, which could be interrupted at any given moment by the deafening rumble of the train. They smell like the beach. I feel the cool breeze breaking the tension of humidity and pushing against my bare legs, and I imagine I'm lying in warm sand by the ocean. All that is missing is the cry of the seagulls.
I lower the volume of my music, eerie music about questioning God, and I find myself disturbed by the silence. There are no seagulls. I am completely alone. Here in the middle of nowhere, stretched on a seemingly useless concrete bed, laid at one end of the trail I cycle on every day. I turn up the music again, and listen to the way the music itself somehow sounds troubled. I turn my head to the side, and watch a silver car traveling up a hill in the distance. I think about sitting in the back of my mother's car, outside of a post office, crying quietly as she attempted to make me feel guilty for having pinkeye. (What kind of parent tries to make their child feel guilty for being sick?) The tears seemed to fall even harder than usual, probably urged forward by my bacterial conjunctivitis. I watched cars traveling then to, with my head turned the same way and lying against the window, picturing throwing myself in front of them.
I pictured myself wearing a white dress, a white dress made of lace, with a halo of daisies in my hair and heeled shoes on my feet. I held a handful of flowers like a bride. I threw them in the air as if a hopeful bridesmaid waited for that moment of perfect coordination and that collective jaw drop when it landed in her palms. And I threw envelopes with the flowers, letting them fall like confetti. Envelopes holding letters full of words I never got around to saying, or didn't say enough. And with long, slow strides, I stepped out into the street at just the perfect moment and let the rest of the world stop holding their breath and puff out that sigh of relief. Their bouquets had been caught. Reassured of good things to come, now that their one burden had slid reluctantly off of their shoulders, and tiptoed away to that makeshift aisle of sidewalk and macadam.
The bride began her walk. Her escort was Doubt, the one who had convinced her to make herself this way. And at the end, the one that Doubt had told her would be the only groom she'd ever know: Misery.
She prayed that that unlucky wedding crasher behind the wheel would take them both. Till death do us part.
I shuddered at the clarity of the thought, a clarity that came form repetition. But why? Dying couldn't be the only way to escape from Misery. Could it? And I didn't want to die. I wanted to live forever. Death scared me more than anything. What if I simply stopped existing? What if I was caught in an empty void of blackness, but I didn't even know it, because I wouldn't be capable of knowing anything? What if there is no afterlife? What if death is just death?
It's a terrifying thought to get stuck on. Sometimes, late at night, I try to keep myself awake, because I am afraid of what will happen if I fall into a dreamless slumber. I am petrified of the idea of not being aware of my own existence. I am not sure why, but I need my racing thoughts to remind me that I am alive. Because on every other level, I am left unsure.
Showing posts with label Sadness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sadness. Show all posts
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Friday, March 1, 2013
Can't Be Held Responsible
My ears are filled with the sound of his rejection, and it is sweeter than the sound of his silence.
It is strange how we associate people, events with music. This song, "The Freshmen" by The Verve Pipe, takes me back to being curled up near the pillow of my bed on the night of my confession and his rejection (will these two words always be synonymous, parallel to one another?), laptop propped against my knees, listening to the song on repeat and crying the sort of disturbing tears that never seem to stop, the ones that leave you in utter disbelief, because they won't stop falling, like a broken faucet. So you ask yourself, am I broken?
And I ask myself now, is broken better than empty?
I have to keep reminding myself to blame him for it. I can't blame myself. Who in their right mind would put themself through this?
I'll never understand how it is possible to become so attached to another human being. Lately, love has become something of a fantasy to me, something that hopeless romantics made up to define something terrible and time-consuming, trying to make it sound more appealing to the other hopeless romantics who read or listen to their words. Desperately trying to thin the line between the definition of happiness and the definition of love. But I am starting to see the line. It is outside of the world that someone has trapped me in. I want happiness. Instead, I have love. Lucky me.
Why should I have to love anyone? Why don't I have control over my emotions? If it was my choice, I would detach myself from this feeling forever. Who needs it? If my life has been so void of romance thus far, maybe that's the way it should be. Why must I still love when my obvious fate is not knowing what mutual love feels like? Isn't mutual love the point of loving? Wasn't love invented to be something that is shared?
And it's a feeling I wish that he knew as well. Not just because I want him to care about me, but because I want to see him try to squirm out of the deathly grip of this torturous feeling, the same way I do every day of my life.
Because I hate him. I hate his guts. I hate the way he thinks he's funny. I hate the way he thinks that everyone wants to know what he thinks. I hate the way he talks to everyone else in a room before considering gracing me with his presence. I hate the way I can't enjoy listening to some songs just because they remind me of him. I hate the sound of his voice, because I never hear my name there anymore. I hate the way I can hear him walking when he wears his cowboy boots, so my mind still follows him when I have trained my lingering gaze not to. I hate the way he throws his hands around like an angry Italian whenever he's talking. I hate the way he feels the need to be brutally honest with everyone in the world, but made up some pathetic excuse for not going out with me, when we both knew that he just didn't want to go out with a girl so unconventional for his stereotype that it would be embarrassing, good personality or not. I hate the way he acts so standoffish when I try to talk to him. I hate the way he makes me hate everything. I hate the way he makes me hate myself.
Why do I love him?
It is strange how we associate people, events with music. This song, "The Freshmen" by The Verve Pipe, takes me back to being curled up near the pillow of my bed on the night of my confession and his rejection (will these two words always be synonymous, parallel to one another?), laptop propped against my knees, listening to the song on repeat and crying the sort of disturbing tears that never seem to stop, the ones that leave you in utter disbelief, because they won't stop falling, like a broken faucet. So you ask yourself, am I broken?
And I ask myself now, is broken better than empty?
I have to keep reminding myself to blame him for it. I can't blame myself. Who in their right mind would put themself through this?
I'll never understand how it is possible to become so attached to another human being. Lately, love has become something of a fantasy to me, something that hopeless romantics made up to define something terrible and time-consuming, trying to make it sound more appealing to the other hopeless romantics who read or listen to their words. Desperately trying to thin the line between the definition of happiness and the definition of love. But I am starting to see the line. It is outside of the world that someone has trapped me in. I want happiness. Instead, I have love. Lucky me.
Why should I have to love anyone? Why don't I have control over my emotions? If it was my choice, I would detach myself from this feeling forever. Who needs it? If my life has been so void of romance thus far, maybe that's the way it should be. Why must I still love when my obvious fate is not knowing what mutual love feels like? Isn't mutual love the point of loving? Wasn't love invented to be something that is shared?
And it's a feeling I wish that he knew as well. Not just because I want him to care about me, but because I want to see him try to squirm out of the deathly grip of this torturous feeling, the same way I do every day of my life.
Because I hate him. I hate his guts. I hate the way he thinks he's funny. I hate the way he thinks that everyone wants to know what he thinks. I hate the way he talks to everyone else in a room before considering gracing me with his presence. I hate the way I can't enjoy listening to some songs just because they remind me of him. I hate the sound of his voice, because I never hear my name there anymore. I hate the way I can hear him walking when he wears his cowboy boots, so my mind still follows him when I have trained my lingering gaze not to. I hate the way he throws his hands around like an angry Italian whenever he's talking. I hate the way he feels the need to be brutally honest with everyone in the world, but made up some pathetic excuse for not going out with me, when we both knew that he just didn't want to go out with a girl so unconventional for his stereotype that it would be embarrassing, good personality or not. I hate the way he acts so standoffish when I try to talk to him. I hate the way he makes me hate everything. I hate the way he makes me hate myself.
Why do I love him?
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Misery
Just like the curse, just like the stray
You feed it once, and now it stays
-Metallica, "Until It Sleeps"
….
I lay in my bed, wrapped up in the dark cocoon of sheets and blankets. I let the warmth of my own breath thaw my body out, curl up like a sleepy cat. I listen to my music, changing the volume depending on the song. Angry ones louder, screaming with me in agreement. Gentle ones quiet, comforting me, sometimes coaxing tears from my eyes. And deliriously, I dissect every song. Listen to specific parts. Violins. Bass parts. Strumming patterns. The rise and fall of the singers' voices. And I wallow.
How do other people feel sadness?
Do they cry? Do they eat? Do they write? Do they scream? Do they disguise it as anger and blame the world for everything? Do they get quiet? Do they simply hide it and pretend nothing is wrong?
How often do other people feel sad?
Every day? Or just every once in a while? When bad things happen? When they hear bad news? When they see other people being happier than they are? When it rains? When their plans are ruined? When they watch a sad movie or hear a sad song? When they remember something that they wish was more than a memory?
All that I know is that there is something not quite right about my sadness.
For me, sadness is an ocean that I sail on, swim in, drink from, drown in.
It's not really an emotion. It's constant, like a heartbeat. It flows through my veins. It is the backdrop of my thoughts. It is the electricity that fuels my brainwaves. I breathe in oxygen, breathe out sorrow.
Sometimes it sleeps, curls up in the back of my mind and drifts away. It dulls in comparison to the here and now, when my thoughts are needed elsewhere. It unwraps its cold fingers from my throat, and patiently waits, all the while watching how long I can forget about it.
But then it attacks. Jumps from the shadows and strangles me from behind, pulling me to the floor. Then, it holds me like a child, comforting me as it feeds off of me, sucking the life from me like a vampire. And I succumb. Misery loves company. And I open the door and welcome it across the threshold. Why would I leave it there on my doorstep? Why would I leave it to its loneliness when I know how it feels to be lonely?
And who else could I run to?
The phone rings. January. She wants to complain. I'm not in the mood to be the open ears and the shoulder to cry on. But it seems to be my fate, doesn't it? Mom answers. I shake my head. Yuuki takes the call. Her patience astounds me. Not shortly after answering, I hear Yuuki's voice trailing down the steps as she ascends them. "What happened?"
And I'm suddenly so grateful that it isn't me this time, being the director for the production of someone else's life. Designing sets, writing scripts, fixing problems, setting the stage. It's something I can be very talented at, when I'm in the mood for playing Miss Fix-It. But I'm not. I usually don't mind helping them. How would I be able to sleep at night knowing that someone could feel the things that I feel? No one deserves to feel that way. Except maybe for me, it seems.
How was your day? How was your weekend? How is your relationship? Want to know what I think? Do you want me to tell you what to say? What to do? Want me to cheer you up?
All questions I never ask, but get answers for anyway. No one ever asked me if I cared. I don't anymore. The tables never turn.
But let's face the question: what would I do if they actually did? Someone else shedding some light on my problems for a change? I'd wither. I'd scramble to clean up the mess my mind has become, and claim that nothing was wrong. And they'd believe me.
And the Facebook messages, popping up like unwanted visitors. Alexandria's boyfriend, gushing over how happy he is that she's spending a few days at his house. Whoop-dee-do. January, with her bad grammar and predicaments that her brain can't handle, so she dumps them off on me. I give her advice that she doesn't even take. Symphony, the only friend I wholeheartedly trust, and I'm reluctant to open up to her about anything because I know that her ignoring my problems will be just another problem I have no one to bitch to about.
Maybe I'll stop using Facebook. Maybe I'll never answer the phone. (I already refuse to) Maybe I'll keep to myself in school and watch my friends drift away like dandelion seeds in the wind. And smile because every seed detached itself from the stem without that much effort. A puff of air. A simple sigh of exasperation. And there it is, my wish coming true.
I am more than just ears. Why doesn't anyone see that?
After keeping your honesty and your problems inside for so long, the place where you store them becomes congested. So they have no choice but to spill out and eat away at your brain, your feelings, your life, your soul.
And there is my sadness, holding me when no one else does.
You feed it once, and now it stays
-Metallica, "Until It Sleeps"
….
I lay in my bed, wrapped up in the dark cocoon of sheets and blankets. I let the warmth of my own breath thaw my body out, curl up like a sleepy cat. I listen to my music, changing the volume depending on the song. Angry ones louder, screaming with me in agreement. Gentle ones quiet, comforting me, sometimes coaxing tears from my eyes. And deliriously, I dissect every song. Listen to specific parts. Violins. Bass parts. Strumming patterns. The rise and fall of the singers' voices. And I wallow.
How do other people feel sadness?
Do they cry? Do they eat? Do they write? Do they scream? Do they disguise it as anger and blame the world for everything? Do they get quiet? Do they simply hide it and pretend nothing is wrong?
How often do other people feel sad?
Every day? Or just every once in a while? When bad things happen? When they hear bad news? When they see other people being happier than they are? When it rains? When their plans are ruined? When they watch a sad movie or hear a sad song? When they remember something that they wish was more than a memory?
All that I know is that there is something not quite right about my sadness.
For me, sadness is an ocean that I sail on, swim in, drink from, drown in.
It's not really an emotion. It's constant, like a heartbeat. It flows through my veins. It is the backdrop of my thoughts. It is the electricity that fuels my brainwaves. I breathe in oxygen, breathe out sorrow.
Sometimes it sleeps, curls up in the back of my mind and drifts away. It dulls in comparison to the here and now, when my thoughts are needed elsewhere. It unwraps its cold fingers from my throat, and patiently waits, all the while watching how long I can forget about it.
But then it attacks. Jumps from the shadows and strangles me from behind, pulling me to the floor. Then, it holds me like a child, comforting me as it feeds off of me, sucking the life from me like a vampire. And I succumb. Misery loves company. And I open the door and welcome it across the threshold. Why would I leave it there on my doorstep? Why would I leave it to its loneliness when I know how it feels to be lonely?
And who else could I run to?
The phone rings. January. She wants to complain. I'm not in the mood to be the open ears and the shoulder to cry on. But it seems to be my fate, doesn't it? Mom answers. I shake my head. Yuuki takes the call. Her patience astounds me. Not shortly after answering, I hear Yuuki's voice trailing down the steps as she ascends them. "What happened?"
And I'm suddenly so grateful that it isn't me this time, being the director for the production of someone else's life. Designing sets, writing scripts, fixing problems, setting the stage. It's something I can be very talented at, when I'm in the mood for playing Miss Fix-It. But I'm not. I usually don't mind helping them. How would I be able to sleep at night knowing that someone could feel the things that I feel? No one deserves to feel that way. Except maybe for me, it seems.
How was your day? How was your weekend? How is your relationship? Want to know what I think? Do you want me to tell you what to say? What to do? Want me to cheer you up?
All questions I never ask, but get answers for anyway. No one ever asked me if I cared. I don't anymore. The tables never turn.
But let's face the question: what would I do if they actually did? Someone else shedding some light on my problems for a change? I'd wither. I'd scramble to clean up the mess my mind has become, and claim that nothing was wrong. And they'd believe me.
And the Facebook messages, popping up like unwanted visitors. Alexandria's boyfriend, gushing over how happy he is that she's spending a few days at his house. Whoop-dee-do. January, with her bad grammar and predicaments that her brain can't handle, so she dumps them off on me. I give her advice that she doesn't even take. Symphony, the only friend I wholeheartedly trust, and I'm reluctant to open up to her about anything because I know that her ignoring my problems will be just another problem I have no one to bitch to about.
Maybe I'll stop using Facebook. Maybe I'll never answer the phone. (I already refuse to) Maybe I'll keep to myself in school and watch my friends drift away like dandelion seeds in the wind. And smile because every seed detached itself from the stem without that much effort. A puff of air. A simple sigh of exasperation. And there it is, my wish coming true.
I am more than just ears. Why doesn't anyone see that?
After keeping your honesty and your problems inside for so long, the place where you store them becomes congested. So they have no choice but to spill out and eat away at your brain, your feelings, your life, your soul.
And there is my sadness, holding me when no one else does.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
In Your Eyes, I Lost My Place.
"Just look at David and laugh. He'll think you're talking about him," Floyd says to me quietly, smiling mischievously. He sits in front of me, turned in his chair, his elbow resting on my desk. David sits beside me, working diligently on his French assignment.
I smile back and nod. Floyd gestures for me to lean closer, so I do, and his lips are right beside my ear. He pauses for a moment, then cracks up a little before whispering, "Just laugh." And we both burst into perfectly staged laughter, staring at David. After a few more minutes of this, David is obviously annoyed with us.
"What?" he snaps, rolling his eyes.
"Nothing," we reply in unison. I want to tell him that it's a joke, and I'm only playing along because I like when Floyd whispers in my ear. But I don't. His annoyance wears off and he simply ignores us. The moment passes, but I still feel Floyd's breath on my ear, giving me chills.
Now, I can still feel it.
I can still feel myself bringing my hands up to my face on the bus home one day and smelling his scent there, and the way I smiled and breathed it in. I can still feel his eyes burning through mine, the way it made me buzz with electricity, the sparks that I hadn't even realized were flying. I can still hear him singing "Away From The Sun" with me in Shop class, and I can still feel our hands brushing together as we built our bridge. I can still remember the way we exchanged a glance after our bridge collapsed, a small smile on both of our faces. Oh well. The teacher had asked us if we worked well together, and he had replied with, "Of course. She did everything I told her to," but flashed me a smile to let me know he was joking. I can still hear the beginning of a song by The Offspring he had played for me in French class. "My friend's got a girlfriend and he hates that bitch, he tells me every day…" I had laughed out loud, then went through more songs he had saved on his Blackberry, pleased to find that many of them matched my own taste in music. I can still hear him rapping his fingers on his laptop to the beat of whatever song he was listening to, the sound sharp and loud like a snare drum. I can still feel his body beside mine, how I would think that only one touch would break an invisible wall between us, the last wall that still stood. One touch. If only it could be intentional.
He sits beside me, talking to Elaine at lunch. Bored while I wait for our row of tables to be called up, I pull out my computer. He watches, a smirk on his face, as I open my Super Mario Bros. game to pass the time. He meets my gaze silently, and he waits. After I begin playing, he hums the Mario theme song dramatically, and presses his fingers on top of mine, making it hard to control what I'm doing in the game. I laugh until there are tears in my eyes, but then he makes me fall into a hole, and with fake anger I growl, "Floyd! I hate you!" He sits back and laughs, and I'm sad to feel the warmth of his hands leave mine.
But now, all of those moments feel far away. I feel like I'm losing them. I feel like they're slipping away from me. I feel like he's slipping away from me, one little piece at a time. His fiery eyes, his breath against my ear, his hands brushing against mine, his brutal honesty always working in my favor. It isn't disappearing. It's just as if the intensity is fading. Now, I feel like we're just friends. Weren't we just friends before I told him how I felt? Nothing had seemed to change. But did it?
Is he drifting away, or am I pushing him away myself, out of the sadness his rejection left ringing in my head? That sadness that made me shake with sobs, as I listened to the same depressing songs on repeat until I had them memorized. The sadness is like a voice in my head, whispering, "You were right. It's over now. He doesn't love you. He never will. No one will." It stings me when I see him treating other girls the way he had once treated me, and that voice whispers in my head, making it hard to smile back at him when he meets my gaze, making it hard to take his side. Making it hard to want to please him. I don't owe him anything.
I always thought that was all we were the entire time, just friends.
I never even noticed the sparks until they started to burn out.
Is this my fault?
I smile back and nod. Floyd gestures for me to lean closer, so I do, and his lips are right beside my ear. He pauses for a moment, then cracks up a little before whispering, "Just laugh." And we both burst into perfectly staged laughter, staring at David. After a few more minutes of this, David is obviously annoyed with us.
"What?" he snaps, rolling his eyes.
"Nothing," we reply in unison. I want to tell him that it's a joke, and I'm only playing along because I like when Floyd whispers in my ear. But I don't. His annoyance wears off and he simply ignores us. The moment passes, but I still feel Floyd's breath on my ear, giving me chills.
Now, I can still feel it.
I can still feel myself bringing my hands up to my face on the bus home one day and smelling his scent there, and the way I smiled and breathed it in. I can still feel his eyes burning through mine, the way it made me buzz with electricity, the sparks that I hadn't even realized were flying. I can still hear him singing "Away From The Sun" with me in Shop class, and I can still feel our hands brushing together as we built our bridge. I can still remember the way we exchanged a glance after our bridge collapsed, a small smile on both of our faces. Oh well. The teacher had asked us if we worked well together, and he had replied with, "Of course. She did everything I told her to," but flashed me a smile to let me know he was joking. I can still hear the beginning of a song by The Offspring he had played for me in French class. "My friend's got a girlfriend and he hates that bitch, he tells me every day…" I had laughed out loud, then went through more songs he had saved on his Blackberry, pleased to find that many of them matched my own taste in music. I can still hear him rapping his fingers on his laptop to the beat of whatever song he was listening to, the sound sharp and loud like a snare drum. I can still feel his body beside mine, how I would think that only one touch would break an invisible wall between us, the last wall that still stood. One touch. If only it could be intentional.
He sits beside me, talking to Elaine at lunch. Bored while I wait for our row of tables to be called up, I pull out my computer. He watches, a smirk on his face, as I open my Super Mario Bros. game to pass the time. He meets my gaze silently, and he waits. After I begin playing, he hums the Mario theme song dramatically, and presses his fingers on top of mine, making it hard to control what I'm doing in the game. I laugh until there are tears in my eyes, but then he makes me fall into a hole, and with fake anger I growl, "Floyd! I hate you!" He sits back and laughs, and I'm sad to feel the warmth of his hands leave mine.
But now, all of those moments feel far away. I feel like I'm losing them. I feel like they're slipping away from me. I feel like he's slipping away from me, one little piece at a time. His fiery eyes, his breath against my ear, his hands brushing against mine, his brutal honesty always working in my favor. It isn't disappearing. It's just as if the intensity is fading. Now, I feel like we're just friends. Weren't we just friends before I told him how I felt? Nothing had seemed to change. But did it?
Is he drifting away, or am I pushing him away myself, out of the sadness his rejection left ringing in my head? That sadness that made me shake with sobs, as I listened to the same depressing songs on repeat until I had them memorized. The sadness is like a voice in my head, whispering, "You were right. It's over now. He doesn't love you. He never will. No one will." It stings me when I see him treating other girls the way he had once treated me, and that voice whispers in my head, making it hard to smile back at him when he meets my gaze, making it hard to take his side. Making it hard to want to please him. I don't owe him anything.
I always thought that was all we were the entire time, just friends.
I never even noticed the sparks until they started to burn out.
Is this my fault?
Monday, April 30, 2012
How Would You React
I close my eyes and say to myself, "I hope that when I open my eyes, I wake up and realize this is all just a dream, and I’m not here, and you guys aren’t doing this to me." I laugh to make it seem like I’m not anxious and angry, and they laugh too.
David. Lucy. Symphony. Brooke. Elaine. I’ve never dreaded eating lunch with them this much. Floyd acts oblivious, but I don’t think he is as clueless as he seems.
"You’re really starting to annoy me," David snaps, rolling his eyes.
"Just do it!" Symphony exclaims, and Brooke nods.
"Now or never," she says, still nodding.
"You know what guys?" I say, and they all look at me intently. Floyd is talking to Elaine, and I’m glad he isn’t paying attention to me. "Fuck you," I mumble. They laugh again. How is this amusing? I close my eyes again. I open them. I’m still there, in the cafeteria. It is approximately twenty minutes after noon on the last day of April. I take a deep breath and turn to him.
"Floyd," I say, and he turns to face me. I don’t play with or mutilate my plastic silverware. I don’t look to my friends for support. I look straight into his icy green eyes. "How would you react…" I start, and pause for a moment. I feel six pairs of eyes burning through me. "…if I told you I wanted to go out with you?"
His eyes don’t leave mine, and I don’t look away. I can’t this time. I can’t.
My mind races incoherently while he says something about how it would be weird because he knows me too well, and our dads know each other, blah blah blah. And then my thoughts stop abruptly, as if someone had pushed a Pause button, and I hear him say two words.
"I’m sorry."
And it hits me. I just told Floyd how I felt about him. And he just turned me down.
"Okay. Well, then I won’t ask," I say with a small smile and a shrug, and he smiles back.
I’m sorry.
The words echo in my brain as Floyd says something to the rest of the table about how they shouldn’t have been pressuring me to do something I didn’t want to do. Since when did he care about my feelings?
Since when did he know how I felt?
His answer was so smooth, so fast. Almost painless. Almost as if he had been planning it. He had known I was planning, and he had planning also. I had been planning my fairytale, and he had been planning the sweetest way to destroy it. Trying to figure out how to break a heart as gently as possible.
Does he see the hope shining behind my eyes shatter? Does he see a part of me collapse? Does he feel the heart he had had in his hands for so long fall to pieces?
And then it is over. David grins. Brooke and Elaine smile proudly. Symphony leaves because the show is over. Why are they proud of me? Why are they so happy that I made an ass out of myself?
I look down at my hands and notice that they are shaking. I fold them and place them in my lap, hoping Floyd doesn’t see them. But he is too busy talking casually to Elaine, leaving me alone while his rejection sinks in.
I close my eyes again, hoping to see my bedroom. The giant ceiling leak above my head. The dull yellow color of my walls. But when I open them, I see five pairs of eyes, and a few sympathetic smiles, which I do not return. I pick up my tray and take it to the window at the front of the cafeteria. The entire room is out of focus, and I want to disappear. I wonder if they talk about me when I leave. I wonder if Floyd talks about how happy he is that it’s over, and it didn’t seem to bother me. But it does.
The last few minutes of lunch pass slowly, and for the rest of the day, I walk around in a daze. My angry music blasts against my eardrums, and I find myself on the brink of tears a few times, buried in the safe haven of the back stall of the first floor bathroom. I dig my fingernails into my skin, pinching myself, willing myself to wake up from the nightmare, but I never do.
Does he regret it?
I doubt it.
David. Lucy. Symphony. Brooke. Elaine. I’ve never dreaded eating lunch with them this much. Floyd acts oblivious, but I don’t think he is as clueless as he seems.
"You’re really starting to annoy me," David snaps, rolling his eyes.
"Just do it!" Symphony exclaims, and Brooke nods.
"Now or never," she says, still nodding.
"You know what guys?" I say, and they all look at me intently. Floyd is talking to Elaine, and I’m glad he isn’t paying attention to me. "Fuck you," I mumble. They laugh again. How is this amusing? I close my eyes again. I open them. I’m still there, in the cafeteria. It is approximately twenty minutes after noon on the last day of April. I take a deep breath and turn to him.
"Floyd," I say, and he turns to face me. I don’t play with or mutilate my plastic silverware. I don’t look to my friends for support. I look straight into his icy green eyes. "How would you react…" I start, and pause for a moment. I feel six pairs of eyes burning through me. "…if I told you I wanted to go out with you?"
His eyes don’t leave mine, and I don’t look away. I can’t this time. I can’t.
My mind races incoherently while he says something about how it would be weird because he knows me too well, and our dads know each other, blah blah blah. And then my thoughts stop abruptly, as if someone had pushed a Pause button, and I hear him say two words.
"I’m sorry."
And it hits me. I just told Floyd how I felt about him. And he just turned me down.
"Okay. Well, then I won’t ask," I say with a small smile and a shrug, and he smiles back.
I’m sorry.
The words echo in my brain as Floyd says something to the rest of the table about how they shouldn’t have been pressuring me to do something I didn’t want to do. Since when did he care about my feelings?
Since when did he know how I felt?
His answer was so smooth, so fast. Almost painless. Almost as if he had been planning it. He had known I was planning, and he had planning also. I had been planning my fairytale, and he had been planning the sweetest way to destroy it. Trying to figure out how to break a heart as gently as possible.
Does he see the hope shining behind my eyes shatter? Does he see a part of me collapse? Does he feel the heart he had had in his hands for so long fall to pieces?
And then it is over. David grins. Brooke and Elaine smile proudly. Symphony leaves because the show is over. Why are they proud of me? Why are they so happy that I made an ass out of myself?
I look down at my hands and notice that they are shaking. I fold them and place them in my lap, hoping Floyd doesn’t see them. But he is too busy talking casually to Elaine, leaving me alone while his rejection sinks in.
I close my eyes again, hoping to see my bedroom. The giant ceiling leak above my head. The dull yellow color of my walls. But when I open them, I see five pairs of eyes, and a few sympathetic smiles, which I do not return. I pick up my tray and take it to the window at the front of the cafeteria. The entire room is out of focus, and I want to disappear. I wonder if they talk about me when I leave. I wonder if Floyd talks about how happy he is that it’s over, and it didn’t seem to bother me. But it does.
The last few minutes of lunch pass slowly, and for the rest of the day, I walk around in a daze. My angry music blasts against my eardrums, and I find myself on the brink of tears a few times, buried in the safe haven of the back stall of the first floor bathroom. I dig my fingernails into my skin, pinching myself, willing myself to wake up from the nightmare, but I never do.
Does he regret it?
I doubt it.
Friday, March 2, 2012
To Doubt.
Just hold on loosely, but don’t let go. If you cling too tightly, you’re gonna lose control.
"Anyone know who sings that?" my Shop teacher asks. It’s Friday, when he has his guess-the-artist game at the beginning of the period. I’m staring off into space because I’m thinking about when Floyd and I were listening to that same song yesterday, both singing along.
If he were here, he would probably know who sang the song. But as for me, I’m staring off into space and thinking about yesterday.
Our bridge is weak and popsicle sticks snap off as I inspect it. I glue them back on, then put it away. Floyd could deal with it on Monday. Or maybe I could fix it myself.
I go to lunch later and Michelle tells me that she is moving away from our lunch table, because she’s sick of putting up with Floyd. I pretend to be upset, but inside I am glad to be rid of the annoying amount of tension at our table these days.
We sit down to eat. I look at my cup of peaches and say, "I wish Floyd were here so he could give me peaches."
Elaine, who is one of his many ex-girlfriends, looks up at David and I and says, "Oh! He told me he wants to go out with me again." I blink. David starts to ask what she said, but she cuts him off. "I said no. I just…I don’t like him like that."
You see, I don’t care if Elaine likes Floyd. She could be obsessed with him for all I care.
It’s just the fact that he likes her.
In the car on the way home, I blurt it out to my mom, even though I told myself I wouldn’t tell anyone I was upset. Mom ignores me and tells me that she doesn’t want to hear my "whiner stories." I bite down on my lip and hold back tears. She starts a random conversation about how a fellow lunch lady she knew was working at my school, and she asked me if I saw her. She went on to describe her and everything and I seriously don’t know anything about the high school lunch ladies, except that they don’t give us enough food.
"How do you not notice anything? Are you that shallow?" Mom snaps.
"No, it’s just…let me think of a way to put this…" I trail off. "There was a moment when everyone else in the room disappeared," I say, and my voice cracks as I say it, tears threatening to make me sound like a blubbering idiot.
She goes on talking, punctuating my statement with a "Whatever", and I realize she has no idea what I mean and I don’t tell her.
I was so stupid, actually getting my hopes up. I always knew he still liked her, and just because my predictable life likes to torment me, here she is, telling us all about it.
I think about the bridge, and the way it’s falling apart on me now. I think about how that was our bridge, the one we were building to get to the other side holding hands. And now it’s falling apart. How fitting.
I don’t want to give up on him.
My pessimist side tells me I have to. My optimist side tells me to keep holding on. What should I do?
I asked myself a few days ago, "To doubt, or not to doubt?"
I think I will hold on... loosely. But I won't let go. But I won't hold on too tightly, because I will lose control.
I will drive myself crazy. I think I'm going to believe in this, but I will not rely on this.
And...
I will doubt.
"Anyone know who sings that?" my Shop teacher asks. It’s Friday, when he has his guess-the-artist game at the beginning of the period. I’m staring off into space because I’m thinking about when Floyd and I were listening to that same song yesterday, both singing along.
If he were here, he would probably know who sang the song. But as for me, I’m staring off into space and thinking about yesterday.
Our bridge is weak and popsicle sticks snap off as I inspect it. I glue them back on, then put it away. Floyd could deal with it on Monday. Or maybe I could fix it myself.
I go to lunch later and Michelle tells me that she is moving away from our lunch table, because she’s sick of putting up with Floyd. I pretend to be upset, but inside I am glad to be rid of the annoying amount of tension at our table these days.
We sit down to eat. I look at my cup of peaches and say, "I wish Floyd were here so he could give me peaches."
Elaine, who is one of his many ex-girlfriends, looks up at David and I and says, "Oh! He told me he wants to go out with me again." I blink. David starts to ask what she said, but she cuts him off. "I said no. I just…I don’t like him like that."
You see, I don’t care if Elaine likes Floyd. She could be obsessed with him for all I care.
It’s just the fact that he likes her.
In the car on the way home, I blurt it out to my mom, even though I told myself I wouldn’t tell anyone I was upset. Mom ignores me and tells me that she doesn’t want to hear my "whiner stories." I bite down on my lip and hold back tears. She starts a random conversation about how a fellow lunch lady she knew was working at my school, and she asked me if I saw her. She went on to describe her and everything and I seriously don’t know anything about the high school lunch ladies, except that they don’t give us enough food.
"How do you not notice anything? Are you that shallow?" Mom snaps.
"No, it’s just…let me think of a way to put this…" I trail off. "There was a moment when everyone else in the room disappeared," I say, and my voice cracks as I say it, tears threatening to make me sound like a blubbering idiot.
She goes on talking, punctuating my statement with a "Whatever", and I realize she has no idea what I mean and I don’t tell her.
I was so stupid, actually getting my hopes up. I always knew he still liked her, and just because my predictable life likes to torment me, here she is, telling us all about it.
I think about the bridge, and the way it’s falling apart on me now. I think about how that was our bridge, the one we were building to get to the other side holding hands. And now it’s falling apart. How fitting.
I don’t want to give up on him.
My pessimist side tells me I have to. My optimist side tells me to keep holding on. What should I do?
I asked myself a few days ago, "To doubt, or not to doubt?"
I think I will hold on... loosely. But I won't let go. But I won't hold on too tightly, because I will lose control.
I will drive myself crazy. I think I'm going to believe in this, but I will not rely on this.
And...
I will doubt.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
One Of Those Days
"It's just one of those days."
Don't you just hate those days? Those days you refer to when you say "those days"?
Valentine’s Day is just one of those days. Certainly not a holiday.
Actually, it is one of the days with the highest suicide rates. (Gee, I wonder why)
Valentine’s Day was made for the single people to feel insanely jealous of what they’re missing out on and the couples to show off the happiness that they have found in this awful, shallow generation. But doesn't that happen every day, anyway?
But before I go on, I must clarify that there are two types of single people. The first type is the people who haven’t been in a relationship for a few weeks, maybe months, possibly a year. I guess you could call them "dormant."
Then, there are the hopeless ones. These are the people who seem to have absolutely nothing figured out when it comes to romance and happiness going hand in hand. They’re incredibly behind in a world where everyone is racing ahead, and they can’t help but feel down about it. Not very often do I come across another single person like this in a world of couples and "dormant" single people. But when I do, I can’t help but feel my heart ache for them, because I know exactly how they feel. Trust me, I’m the one bringing the balloons and goodie bags to the pity party here. I’m not just taking pity on those poor, loveless schmucks. I am one of those poor loveless schmucks. I’m crying on their shoulders and they are crying on mine. But there seems to be a bit of a problem here...
There are no shoulders to cry on. I am alone here in the land of hopeless single people. Everywhere I turn, I see hands linked, lips locked, changed relationship statuses, big smiles. And I can’t help but be insanely, incredibly, painfully, horribly, pathetically, pitifully jealous. I am a pathetic fool who complains and complains about the happiness of others. And you know why?
Because I am awkward, naïve, unattractive. I have too much personality to go around, but no one cares about what’s below the surface anymore. It’s all tiny waistlines, Barbie-doll tits, long hair, pretty faces, and in most cases, a lack of brain cells. That is the ideal girlfriend of my generation. Kind of sick, isn't it? I have none of those qualities. Why am I punished for that, again?
I can’t help that I am a fifteen-year-old girl in a world like this. I want so badly to skip this part of my life, the part when I’ll just never, ever be good enough for any guy. I want to wake up one morning and be done with this crap. I want to get to the good part of my life, if it even exists. But wait—shouldn’t this be the good part of my life? It seems to be that way for everyone else. I’ve always heard it said that your high school and college years are the best years of your life. But since I turned thirteen and started high school, I have been nothing but miserable ever since.
And the damn country I live in has a day to celebrate the reason I am miserable.
What is love, anyway? Do any of those happy couples that I envy so greatly actually share love? If not, what is it, anyway? Whatever it is, I want to get in on it. I mean, yes, there are different types of love. I love my parents a different way than I love my sister, I love my sister a different way than I love my friends, I love my friends a different way than I love my grandmothers. I love my grandmothers a different way than I love guys. (I should hope so) But from what I gather from any type of love, love is being comfortable with someone. Love is knowing that someone is there for you. Love is not looking past the bad things, just loving everything instead. Love is complex, and everyone loves differently.
I love my family in a love/hate sort of way. I love my friends in a strong, protective way. I love each guy I fall for in a different way, but usually, every time is fueled by the dreams of a dreamer, the quest for my first love.
Grey. I loved him in a he’s-so-amazing-and-talented-and-beautiful sort of way. I practically idolized him. I felt that nothing in the entire world even came close to the flawless aura of his existence. Light, I loved in a he’s-really-cute-and-he-seems-nice sort of way. But what started out as a tiny, meaningless crush exploded into a mess of Oh-my-God-I-need-you for no particular, logical, earthly reason. I loved Jordan in a way that was kind of new to me, because I actually knew him and talked to him. I fell in love with his outer appearance, and fell in love with his personality, but only the good parts. But then, I started seeing the bad things about him. Like how he is incredibly dull and I never had an intellectual conversation with him. Like how he dedicated so much time to hating everything. Like music, which was a ridiculous, waste of time sort of thing to do, plus the bands were all bands that I liked. And like how he said either "fuck" or "shit" in practically every sentence that came out of his mouth. Like how he gets drunk and smokes weed. And none of the good parts of his personality made up for any of the bad. He honestly is a bit of a loser. A cute loser, but a loser nonetheless. I loved him and thought that the love was real, when it was all just physical attraction.
And then there was Floyd.
I don’t even know if I love him, honestly. I became attracted to his personality months before I made the decision to let myself have feelings for him. I loved how we had so much in common, how he always said things to make me laugh. Somewhere deep in my mind, like 20,000 leagues under the sea, far away from the ears and minds of anyone else, I confirmed it. I was indeed falling for him. After I was completely hooked on that loud, fearless, quirky personality, he became undoubtedly handsome. He did not magically become the most gorgeous guy in the world, but he may as well have. He’s attractive in his own way. He slowly became the only person I see in a crowded room. He became the latest victim of my wishful thinking and hopeless heart.
I’m not moonstruck. I'm not crazy. I'm not obsessed. (Yet) No, this feeling is something I feel almost sure of. But that alone scares the shit out of me. I want him to reciprocate my feelings. I want that a lot. I stopped denying my attraction and simply let myself dream. I’m starting to wonder if that was a mistake. Love leads to ruin.
Oops. I kind of ran away with my words a little there. (I do that) What was I talking about?
Oh, yeah. Valentine’s Day.
Eh. Never mind. Screw Valentine’s Day. I think I’m too content right now to let the happiness of others ruin my day. I’m not ignoring the fact that it’s Valentine’s Day. (How could I?) I’m just treating it like another day, another day to love, another day to laugh, another day to be frustrated, and another day that I will never get to live again. Might as well not spend it sulking.
Every time someone tells me to let love find me, the first word to pass my lips is usually "That," shortly followed by "is total bullshit." But maybe those words actually do mean something. I refuse to be the one chasing this time. I will patiently wait for him to notice that what he’s looking for is right in front of him. I will patiently wait for Superman to save the day.
Once upon a time, I asked David what he thought I was doing wrong, why I’ve never had a boyfriend. I’ll never forget what he said.
"Show off your boobs more."
What boobs?
I was thoroughly disgusted by his answer, but laughed anyway, even though he wasn’t joking.
If being a slut is what it takes to be happy, I would rather be miserable.
I think I’d rather take the advice that Floyd gave Michelle, on that day when she had been interrogating him in the same way. It was the most civil thing he had said to her that day, and it really stuck with me.
"Watch as many sappy chick flicks as possible. Then, do the exact opposite of what they do."
I’m not going to watch any movies, because I hate sappy romance movies. I’m just not going to come on strongly. I’m not going to try persistently to win his heart. I’m not going to hope for something cliché, because Floyd just isn’t a cliché type of guy.
Hopefully, he’ll realize who is perfect for him in time.
Until then, be happy on Valentine’s Day. If I can do it, you can too.
Don't you just hate those days? Those days you refer to when you say "those days"?
Valentine’s Day is just one of those days. Certainly not a holiday.
Actually, it is one of the days with the highest suicide rates. (Gee, I wonder why)
Valentine’s Day was made for the single people to feel insanely jealous of what they’re missing out on and the couples to show off the happiness that they have found in this awful, shallow generation. But doesn't that happen every day, anyway?
But before I go on, I must clarify that there are two types of single people. The first type is the people who haven’t been in a relationship for a few weeks, maybe months, possibly a year. I guess you could call them "dormant."
Then, there are the hopeless ones. These are the people who seem to have absolutely nothing figured out when it comes to romance and happiness going hand in hand. They’re incredibly behind in a world where everyone is racing ahead, and they can’t help but feel down about it. Not very often do I come across another single person like this in a world of couples and "dormant" single people. But when I do, I can’t help but feel my heart ache for them, because I know exactly how they feel. Trust me, I’m the one bringing the balloons and goodie bags to the pity party here. I’m not just taking pity on those poor, loveless schmucks. I am one of those poor loveless schmucks. I’m crying on their shoulders and they are crying on mine. But there seems to be a bit of a problem here...
There are no shoulders to cry on. I am alone here in the land of hopeless single people. Everywhere I turn, I see hands linked, lips locked, changed relationship statuses, big smiles. And I can’t help but be insanely, incredibly, painfully, horribly, pathetically, pitifully jealous. I am a pathetic fool who complains and complains about the happiness of others. And you know why?
Because I am awkward, naïve, unattractive. I have too much personality to go around, but no one cares about what’s below the surface anymore. It’s all tiny waistlines, Barbie-doll tits, long hair, pretty faces, and in most cases, a lack of brain cells. That is the ideal girlfriend of my generation. Kind of sick, isn't it? I have none of those qualities. Why am I punished for that, again?
I can’t help that I am a fifteen-year-old girl in a world like this. I want so badly to skip this part of my life, the part when I’ll just never, ever be good enough for any guy. I want to wake up one morning and be done with this crap. I want to get to the good part of my life, if it even exists. But wait—shouldn’t this be the good part of my life? It seems to be that way for everyone else. I’ve always heard it said that your high school and college years are the best years of your life. But since I turned thirteen and started high school, I have been nothing but miserable ever since.
And the damn country I live in has a day to celebrate the reason I am miserable.
What is love, anyway? Do any of those happy couples that I envy so greatly actually share love? If not, what is it, anyway? Whatever it is, I want to get in on it. I mean, yes, there are different types of love. I love my parents a different way than I love my sister, I love my sister a different way than I love my friends, I love my friends a different way than I love my grandmothers. I love my grandmothers a different way than I love guys. (I should hope so) But from what I gather from any type of love, love is being comfortable with someone. Love is knowing that someone is there for you. Love is not looking past the bad things, just loving everything instead. Love is complex, and everyone loves differently.
I love my family in a love/hate sort of way. I love my friends in a strong, protective way. I love each guy I fall for in a different way, but usually, every time is fueled by the dreams of a dreamer, the quest for my first love.
Grey. I loved him in a he’s-so-amazing-and-talented-and-beautiful sort of way. I practically idolized him. I felt that nothing in the entire world even came close to the flawless aura of his existence. Light, I loved in a he’s-really-cute-and-he-seems-nice sort of way. But what started out as a tiny, meaningless crush exploded into a mess of Oh-my-God-I-need-you for no particular, logical, earthly reason. I loved Jordan in a way that was kind of new to me, because I actually knew him and talked to him. I fell in love with his outer appearance, and fell in love with his personality, but only the good parts. But then, I started seeing the bad things about him. Like how he is incredibly dull and I never had an intellectual conversation with him. Like how he dedicated so much time to hating everything. Like music, which was a ridiculous, waste of time sort of thing to do, plus the bands were all bands that I liked. And like how he said either "fuck" or "shit" in practically every sentence that came out of his mouth. Like how he gets drunk and smokes weed. And none of the good parts of his personality made up for any of the bad. He honestly is a bit of a loser. A cute loser, but a loser nonetheless. I loved him and thought that the love was real, when it was all just physical attraction.
And then there was Floyd.
I don’t even know if I love him, honestly. I became attracted to his personality months before I made the decision to let myself have feelings for him. I loved how we had so much in common, how he always said things to make me laugh. Somewhere deep in my mind, like 20,000 leagues under the sea, far away from the ears and minds of anyone else, I confirmed it. I was indeed falling for him. After I was completely hooked on that loud, fearless, quirky personality, he became undoubtedly handsome. He did not magically become the most gorgeous guy in the world, but he may as well have. He’s attractive in his own way. He slowly became the only person I see in a crowded room. He became the latest victim of my wishful thinking and hopeless heart.
I’m not moonstruck. I'm not crazy. I'm not obsessed. (Yet) No, this feeling is something I feel almost sure of. But that alone scares the shit out of me. I want him to reciprocate my feelings. I want that a lot. I stopped denying my attraction and simply let myself dream. I’m starting to wonder if that was a mistake. Love leads to ruin.
Oops. I kind of ran away with my words a little there. (I do that) What was I talking about?
Oh, yeah. Valentine’s Day.
Eh. Never mind. Screw Valentine’s Day. I think I’m too content right now to let the happiness of others ruin my day. I’m not ignoring the fact that it’s Valentine’s Day. (How could I?) I’m just treating it like another day, another day to love, another day to laugh, another day to be frustrated, and another day that I will never get to live again. Might as well not spend it sulking.
Every time someone tells me to let love find me, the first word to pass my lips is usually "That," shortly followed by "is total bullshit." But maybe those words actually do mean something. I refuse to be the one chasing this time. I will patiently wait for him to notice that what he’s looking for is right in front of him. I will patiently wait for Superman to save the day.
Once upon a time, I asked David what he thought I was doing wrong, why I’ve never had a boyfriend. I’ll never forget what he said.
"Show off your boobs more."
What boobs?
I was thoroughly disgusted by his answer, but laughed anyway, even though he wasn’t joking.
If being a slut is what it takes to be happy, I would rather be miserable.
I think I’d rather take the advice that Floyd gave Michelle, on that day when she had been interrogating him in the same way. It was the most civil thing he had said to her that day, and it really stuck with me.
"Watch as many sappy chick flicks as possible. Then, do the exact opposite of what they do."
I’m not going to watch any movies, because I hate sappy romance movies. I’m just not going to come on strongly. I’m not going to try persistently to win his heart. I’m not going to hope for something cliché, because Floyd just isn’t a cliché type of guy.
Hopefully, he’ll realize who is perfect for him in time.
Until then, be happy on Valentine’s Day. If I can do it, you can too.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
With Every Move I Die
The gymnasium is dark, save for the flashing green and white lights that leave the walls decorated with stars, hearts, and disco-esque spots. The room is emptier than I expected, but still peppered with small clumps of people, some dancing and some standing still.
Alexandria decides not to attend the evening's festivities. I could really use her warm heart, upbeat aura, and sound, to-the-point advice on a night like tonight. But instead, I’m surrounded by people who could care less about what I am feeling.
I am still in my awkward stage of not dancing when I see them. She looks pretty, polished, in a gray and black dress, her golden blonde hair straight and perfect. And there is Floyd holding her. I avert my eyes quickly, like I just saw a glimpse of a person covered in blood, or I just saw someone I barely know bawling their eyes out, or I just saw two girls making out, or I just saw someone get hit by a car or have their head chopped off. But all of those things would be undoubtedly better than seeing this. I dared to look again and saw their heads very close. They were seconds away from a kiss. Just in time, I turned my head quickly once more and didn’t make the mistake of looking again. Yuuki tells me that he looks my way a few times, but I don't dare to look at him, not even for a friendly wave or a small smile.
I hope that when he's holding her and seeing me, he takes a moment to think about me. About singing "Away From The Sun" with me or standing so close to me in shop class. About playing cards with David and I at lunch, about talking and talking about all of those little things we have in common, about throwing a frisbee around with me in my backyard when we were young, about how he chose me to work with him on our bridge, Giles Corey: The Bridge Of The Rising Sun, in shop class, about the cookies I buy him and the peaches he gives me at lunch, about the exchanged glances and times we laughed, about our friends that say we'd be cute together. But I know he doesn't. I am the last thing on his mind tonight.
For the rest of the evening, I kept catching glimpses of them. Him holding her while they danced to "Here (In Your Arms)" by Hellogoodbye, a song I’ve always loved. (Not anymore) Her walking as he trailed behind, their hands linked. Him whispering something in her ear and her laughing in response. Slow songs play and I refuse to look at them. I watch Cassidy and her gorgeous boyfriend dance instead, and feel a pang of envy. He's a pretty cool guy. I wish I could find a nice guy that I could show off at school dances like this, a guy that would hold me and push my hair back and kiss me the way he does to her. They make it look so easy. All of those sweet moments. I’ve never even kissed anyone. I'm so fucking lame. Why do I even breathe? I look up at the red numbers on the clock and find myself wishing I were at home watching Juno.
The evening creeps by slowly, and Floyd and his girlfriend eventually leave. I find myself wondering where they went. Maybe to his house. I'd bet they had a jolly-good time, too. Minutes pass slowly, and I become more relaxed about my dancing and simply move. My mind is a million miles away. I stare off into space, eyes and brain unfocused, and move to the beat of the music. Cassidy’s boyfriend reaches out his hand and messes up my hair a little, and the playful gesture yanks me out of my thoughts and I reach up and do the same to him. I can’t help but want to be the girl kissing him instead of Cassidy. Am I thinking like this out of loneliness? Because I'm not even attracted to the guy. But there he was, like some emo Prince Charming, and I’m suddenly, stupidly wishing he came to this dance with me, so I could hold him close and hope that Floyd would see me with this gorgeous guy when he’s not gorgeous and his date isn’t really that pretty either.
And yet I feel something for Floyd that’s beyond thinking he’s gorgeous. We’re like the missing pieces of each other’s jigsaw puzzles. I’m the sweet, quiet part that he lacks, and he is the impulsive, honest, loud, badass part that I lack. We’d be the perfect counterparts for each other.
But he’ll never know that, and I’ll never tell him.
I left the dance a little happier than I had been earlier. Or maybe I was just numb. As I danced, the loud music filling the silence I was locking myself inside of, everything slowly started to fade away. The people around me became just faces, the music became just noise, and my body rocked to the sound, like I was a child being lulled to sleep, or I was rocking back and forth while I cried, because for some reason, that’s usually strangely comforting. Everything was a blur. My eyes that had been wet with tears were dry once more and a little out of focus. At one point, I remember pondering if I was going to pass out, because I felt so detached from the moment. I slowly woke up from my strange slumber, induced by the lullaby of thumping pop music and bumping, spinning, and swaying bodies that crashed like waves. Being at that dance was like sleeping on the beach. After Floyd was gone, the one person that existed in a crowded room had disappeared, leaving everyone else still invisible to me.
On the way out, Cassidy’s boyfriend told me it was nice meeting me and pulled me into a hug. I wrapped my arms around him tightly because I really needed a hug and it felt nice to hold a boy for a change, even if it was my friend’s crazy cross-dresser boyfriend. I told him it was nice meeting him too, even though we had already met twice. But I’d bet he didn’t even remember. I’m not exactly an unforgettable kind of girl. Then, everyone leaves and I'm in my mom's car on my way home to pretending I'm not miserable.
Right now, it’s very, very early Sunday morning, and I’m a little tired. When I got home, I talked to Jordan on Facebook out of boredom and remembered why I didn't like him anymore. A little birdie told me he was single again, and a little part of me cared. But a bigger part of me didn’t. I could say that I hope the girl broke his heart, but I honestly don’t even care. He’s a dolt. I’m glad I forgot about him, but I’ve hit rock bottom once more. And it hurts.
I sit at the kitchen table with my dad. He eats ice cream and Puffin' Corn and works on a crossword puzzle in the newspaper. I’m clicking away at my laptop keys when he says, "I don’t know this one, but I should. ‘A heavy metal band.’ And it has ‘A’, blank, ‘D’, blank." I let a piece of cheesy Puffin Corn melt in my mouth and stop typing. "AC/DC," I say in response. I don’t even like AC/DC too much, but it was the first thing that came to mind. Something hurts inside because it reminds me of Floyd. (What doesn't anymore?) AC/DC is his favorite band.
I start listening to "Away From The Sun" and suddenly I am in the wood shop, touching his hands and singing the song with him. I close my eyes and let myself live in that moment, because I’d rather not be in this one.
I spent the rest of my Sunday sleeping, eating sugary cinnamon pretzels, listening to sad music and writing. I wrote a poem, but it's not any good. But something stood out to me about the poem. Four years ago, on the same night as the dance, February 11, 2008, my heart was broken for the very first time. I was at a middle school Valentine's Day dance, and I had asked the boy I liked to dance with me. He hated me because I chased him like my life depended on it. Even at eleven years old, I was on the never-ending quest for the sweet happiness that usually comes with romance. He had said no to me, and had danced with another girl instead. As soon as I got in the car and we were a block or two from the school, I was bawling like a baby. It continued for hours after. I remember looking down at my Tin Roof Sundae ice cream at home and still crying. It just never stopped.
And it still hasn't. The heartache changes, the reasons for the pain change, but it's always that same pain. I always find myself in the same rut that I was in that night in middle school, when the feeling was still new to me. Now, I'm so used to it, it's scary. It's the one feeling I can never detach from. It's the one that hits me so hard that I just fall down, helpless, and I'm back to being that naïve little girl at the kitchen table with her ice cream. The same one who picked up a pencil and paper and wrote her first poem and hasn't stopped writing since.
I'll always be that girl.
No if only I can be proven wrong.
Alexandria decides not to attend the evening's festivities. I could really use her warm heart, upbeat aura, and sound, to-the-point advice on a night like tonight. But instead, I’m surrounded by people who could care less about what I am feeling.
I am still in my awkward stage of not dancing when I see them. She looks pretty, polished, in a gray and black dress, her golden blonde hair straight and perfect. And there is Floyd holding her. I avert my eyes quickly, like I just saw a glimpse of a person covered in blood, or I just saw someone I barely know bawling their eyes out, or I just saw two girls making out, or I just saw someone get hit by a car or have their head chopped off. But all of those things would be undoubtedly better than seeing this. I dared to look again and saw their heads very close. They were seconds away from a kiss. Just in time, I turned my head quickly once more and didn’t make the mistake of looking again. Yuuki tells me that he looks my way a few times, but I don't dare to look at him, not even for a friendly wave or a small smile.
I hope that when he's holding her and seeing me, he takes a moment to think about me. About singing "Away From The Sun" with me or standing so close to me in shop class. About playing cards with David and I at lunch, about talking and talking about all of those little things we have in common, about throwing a frisbee around with me in my backyard when we were young, about how he chose me to work with him on our bridge, Giles Corey: The Bridge Of The Rising Sun, in shop class, about the cookies I buy him and the peaches he gives me at lunch, about the exchanged glances and times we laughed, about our friends that say we'd be cute together. But I know he doesn't. I am the last thing on his mind tonight.
For the rest of the evening, I kept catching glimpses of them. Him holding her while they danced to "Here (In Your Arms)" by Hellogoodbye, a song I’ve always loved. (Not anymore) Her walking as he trailed behind, their hands linked. Him whispering something in her ear and her laughing in response. Slow songs play and I refuse to look at them. I watch Cassidy and her gorgeous boyfriend dance instead, and feel a pang of envy. He's a pretty cool guy. I wish I could find a nice guy that I could show off at school dances like this, a guy that would hold me and push my hair back and kiss me the way he does to her. They make it look so easy. All of those sweet moments. I’ve never even kissed anyone. I'm so fucking lame. Why do I even breathe? I look up at the red numbers on the clock and find myself wishing I were at home watching Juno.
The evening creeps by slowly, and Floyd and his girlfriend eventually leave. I find myself wondering where they went. Maybe to his house. I'd bet they had a jolly-good time, too. Minutes pass slowly, and I become more relaxed about my dancing and simply move. My mind is a million miles away. I stare off into space, eyes and brain unfocused, and move to the beat of the music. Cassidy’s boyfriend reaches out his hand and messes up my hair a little, and the playful gesture yanks me out of my thoughts and I reach up and do the same to him. I can’t help but want to be the girl kissing him instead of Cassidy. Am I thinking like this out of loneliness? Because I'm not even attracted to the guy. But there he was, like some emo Prince Charming, and I’m suddenly, stupidly wishing he came to this dance with me, so I could hold him close and hope that Floyd would see me with this gorgeous guy when he’s not gorgeous and his date isn’t really that pretty either.
And yet I feel something for Floyd that’s beyond thinking he’s gorgeous. We’re like the missing pieces of each other’s jigsaw puzzles. I’m the sweet, quiet part that he lacks, and he is the impulsive, honest, loud, badass part that I lack. We’d be the perfect counterparts for each other.
But he’ll never know that, and I’ll never tell him.
I left the dance a little happier than I had been earlier. Or maybe I was just numb. As I danced, the loud music filling the silence I was locking myself inside of, everything slowly started to fade away. The people around me became just faces, the music became just noise, and my body rocked to the sound, like I was a child being lulled to sleep, or I was rocking back and forth while I cried, because for some reason, that’s usually strangely comforting. Everything was a blur. My eyes that had been wet with tears were dry once more and a little out of focus. At one point, I remember pondering if I was going to pass out, because I felt so detached from the moment. I slowly woke up from my strange slumber, induced by the lullaby of thumping pop music and bumping, spinning, and swaying bodies that crashed like waves. Being at that dance was like sleeping on the beach. After Floyd was gone, the one person that existed in a crowded room had disappeared, leaving everyone else still invisible to me.
On the way out, Cassidy’s boyfriend told me it was nice meeting me and pulled me into a hug. I wrapped my arms around him tightly because I really needed a hug and it felt nice to hold a boy for a change, even if it was my friend’s crazy cross-dresser boyfriend. I told him it was nice meeting him too, even though we had already met twice. But I’d bet he didn’t even remember. I’m not exactly an unforgettable kind of girl. Then, everyone leaves and I'm in my mom's car on my way home to pretending I'm not miserable.
Right now, it’s very, very early Sunday morning, and I’m a little tired. When I got home, I talked to Jordan on Facebook out of boredom and remembered why I didn't like him anymore. A little birdie told me he was single again, and a little part of me cared. But a bigger part of me didn’t. I could say that I hope the girl broke his heart, but I honestly don’t even care. He’s a dolt. I’m glad I forgot about him, but I’ve hit rock bottom once more. And it hurts.
I sit at the kitchen table with my dad. He eats ice cream and Puffin' Corn and works on a crossword puzzle in the newspaper. I’m clicking away at my laptop keys when he says, "I don’t know this one, but I should. ‘A heavy metal band.’ And it has ‘A’, blank, ‘D’, blank." I let a piece of cheesy Puffin Corn melt in my mouth and stop typing. "AC/DC," I say in response. I don’t even like AC/DC too much, but it was the first thing that came to mind. Something hurts inside because it reminds me of Floyd. (What doesn't anymore?) AC/DC is his favorite band.
I start listening to "Away From The Sun" and suddenly I am in the wood shop, touching his hands and singing the song with him. I close my eyes and let myself live in that moment, because I’d rather not be in this one.
I spent the rest of my Sunday sleeping, eating sugary cinnamon pretzels, listening to sad music and writing. I wrote a poem, but it's not any good. But something stood out to me about the poem. Four years ago, on the same night as the dance, February 11, 2008, my heart was broken for the very first time. I was at a middle school Valentine's Day dance, and I had asked the boy I liked to dance with me. He hated me because I chased him like my life depended on it. Even at eleven years old, I was on the never-ending quest for the sweet happiness that usually comes with romance. He had said no to me, and had danced with another girl instead. As soon as I got in the car and we were a block or two from the school, I was bawling like a baby. It continued for hours after. I remember looking down at my Tin Roof Sundae ice cream at home and still crying. It just never stopped.
And it still hasn't. The heartache changes, the reasons for the pain change, but it's always that same pain. I always find myself in the same rut that I was in that night in middle school, when the feeling was still new to me. Now, I'm so used to it, it's scary. It's the one feeling I can never detach from. It's the one that hits me so hard that I just fall down, helpless, and I'm back to being that naïve little girl at the kitchen table with her ice cream. The same one who picked up a pencil and paper and wrote her first poem and hasn't stopped writing since.
I'll always be that girl.
No if only I can be proven wrong.
Friday, February 10, 2012
What Am I Doing Wrong?
"What does a guy look for in a girl, anyway?" Michelle asks out of curiosity. What a question. We all wonder. We barely ask.
"Boobs," David says with a laugh.
"Smart man," Floyd says matter-of-factly, with one of those mischievous grins on his face. He had found his opportunity to irritate Michelle or the day.
Floyd and Michelle argue for a while about it. God, everything is an argument with them. Michelle just wanted advice of some sort and it turned into another frustrating forty-five minutes of not enjoying my food and blasting my music.
"I think you’re desperate," Floyd says to her. Looks to me for my reassurance, my egging on, my taking his side, my agreement. I avert my eyes and hope he gets the message.
"Someone please tell me you don’t agree with him," Michelle groans. No one speaks up, for fear of falling into this dispute as well. "I’m not desperate. I just wanted to know, what am I doing wrong?"
"Everything." He’s smirking and I want to slap him now. Why must he be like this?
Yes, Michelle should know that’s not a question you ask a straight guy (or even a gay one) below the age of eighteen. You just don’t, because you are not going to hear what you want to hear. Yet she ventures into that territory, fearless and determined, the same way she is about anything and everything. Does it hurt her when he says that? Probably not, but
I know it hurts me.
It hurts me that this guy who is supposed to be my Superman is being the villain.
Michelle and I both don’t have much luck with guys. Actually, I may even have less. (I can clearly remember when she was dating a fellow saxophone player in middle school) And here she is, being told she’s doing everything wrong by the guy I try to do everything right for. Does he think the same about me? I mean, he doesn’t despise me the way he despises her, but maybe I’ll never be good enough for him because I’m not pretty enough. I spent the rest of the day in frustration, for more reasons than one.
I felt almost like a gay person who’s pondering coming out of the closet. But I'm perfectly hetero, since I am a female, and the problem is a male. But the thing is, I’m revealing my secret, but not to the people around me. No, not them. Not yet. I’m letting it escape from my brain and fill me completely. I’m getting used to the fact that I’m letting myself be attracted to this guy. This guy, who isn’t nice to anyone but has never said anything rude to me. This guy, who everyone looks down on but I look up to, in the sky as I see him shed his Floyd Disguise and become Superman, flying away and saving the world. Why can't anyone else see that? Why is it so hard to see that today?
In French class, when he brought up how "hilarious" lunch had been, I told him that what he said to Michelle was very offensive, and I know that if it were being said to me, it would really hurt my feelings. He responded with silence. The next day, only a few mildly sarcastic comments slipped past his lips, nothing harsh enough to make us all cringe. I was pleased, and I pondered if that had been his intention.
I don’t know what I was doing wrong before with Jordan (everything?), but right now, I’m trying to do everything right, anything possible to make this work out. I don't want to get my hopes up. I don't want to overanalyze. I just want to let it all happen. And hopefully, it will happen with the intention of turning into what I’ve been waiting for for way too long.
"Boobs," David says with a laugh.
"Smart man," Floyd says matter-of-factly, with one of those mischievous grins on his face. He had found his opportunity to irritate Michelle or the day.
Floyd and Michelle argue for a while about it. God, everything is an argument with them. Michelle just wanted advice of some sort and it turned into another frustrating forty-five minutes of not enjoying my food and blasting my music.
"I think you’re desperate," Floyd says to her. Looks to me for my reassurance, my egging on, my taking his side, my agreement. I avert my eyes and hope he gets the message.
"Someone please tell me you don’t agree with him," Michelle groans. No one speaks up, for fear of falling into this dispute as well. "I’m not desperate. I just wanted to know, what am I doing wrong?"
"Everything." He’s smirking and I want to slap him now. Why must he be like this?
Yes, Michelle should know that’s not a question you ask a straight guy (or even a gay one) below the age of eighteen. You just don’t, because you are not going to hear what you want to hear. Yet she ventures into that territory, fearless and determined, the same way she is about anything and everything. Does it hurt her when he says that? Probably not, but
I know it hurts me.
It hurts me that this guy who is supposed to be my Superman is being the villain.
Michelle and I both don’t have much luck with guys. Actually, I may even have less. (I can clearly remember when she was dating a fellow saxophone player in middle school) And here she is, being told she’s doing everything wrong by the guy I try to do everything right for. Does he think the same about me? I mean, he doesn’t despise me the way he despises her, but maybe I’ll never be good enough for him because I’m not pretty enough. I spent the rest of the day in frustration, for more reasons than one.
I felt almost like a gay person who’s pondering coming out of the closet. But I'm perfectly hetero, since I am a female, and the problem is a male. But the thing is, I’m revealing my secret, but not to the people around me. No, not them. Not yet. I’m letting it escape from my brain and fill me completely. I’m getting used to the fact that I’m letting myself be attracted to this guy. This guy, who isn’t nice to anyone but has never said anything rude to me. This guy, who everyone looks down on but I look up to, in the sky as I see him shed his Floyd Disguise and become Superman, flying away and saving the world. Why can't anyone else see that? Why is it so hard to see that today?
In French class, when he brought up how "hilarious" lunch had been, I told him that what he said to Michelle was very offensive, and I know that if it were being said to me, it would really hurt my feelings. He responded with silence. The next day, only a few mildly sarcastic comments slipped past his lips, nothing harsh enough to make us all cringe. I was pleased, and I pondered if that had been his intention.
I don’t know what I was doing wrong before with Jordan (everything?), but right now, I’m trying to do everything right, anything possible to make this work out. I don't want to get my hopes up. I don't want to overanalyze. I just want to let it all happen. And hopefully, it will happen with the intention of turning into what I’ve been waiting for for way too long.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Detachment
Last week, I started reading a book called Tuesdays With Morrie. My English class was assigned to read the first 25 pages over the weekend. I read five times that amount and I haven’t stopped since.
The book is phenomenal, a true story of the eye-opening lessons the author, Mitch Albom, learns from his former college professor, Morrie Schwartz, who is slowly deteriorating on account of having ALS.
Morrie’s words can change your whole perspective on life. They make you stop and wonder if you’re living your life the right way. A few things he said really resonated with me.
In the book, he says that he detaches himself from certain emotions such as envy or self-pity, despite his condition. His theory is that you have to let yourself feel that emotion without hesitation or fear. You have to cry and pity yourself, burn with that jealousy, scream with that anger. You have to get to know the feeling, not be afraid of feeling it. Then, next time you feel that emotion, simply say to yourself, "This is envy. This is self-pity. This is regret. I know this feeling. I already made time for this feeling." Then step back from it. Let yourself feel something better. Don’t waste precious time on something that only brings you down. Detach yourself.
It’s a new theory I’ve decided to put to use: "Morrie’s Detachment Theory." Miraculously enough, the theory seemed to work. I felt the usual emotions creeping up on me. Helpless sadness, burning anger, sinking in a bottomless lake of regret, a sting of envy here and there. But I simply thought one word to myself: detach. And that’s what I did.
But Morrie makes it sound easier than it really is.
I let things get to me eventually. I just wallow. I wallow in everything from anger to self-pity.
And what makes me feel even more pathetic is that Morrie, a man on his deathbed, managed to stay optimistic, when I turn into a crybaby mess over my fucking love life.
But why does being second best feel like a fate worse than death? Am I really that shallow?
On the way home from a miserable day at school, a tear falls from my eye and rests on my cheek. I let it stay. It was raining that day. The windows leak. That’s all it would be to all of the oblivious people around me. A raindrop. A tear from the sky. Just one that I let slip past the shiny blue covering, from what’s actually underneath. The rest would come later.
I got home, barely made it through the door before I burst into tears. I was surprised when the tears kept coming. I thought I had run out by now. I cried for what felt like forever, ignoring my dad as he told me that I was being foolsih and that the right guy would come along blah blah blah. Things dads are supposed to say to their loser daughters in situations like this.
But for me, the right guy will never come along. I just don't see it happening. They’ll always be running in the other direction before they can even get to know me, scared off by my fat ass, my boring features, my awkwardness, my lack of being able to say the right thing. They’ll never know that they’re missing out on someone who is willing to give up on the games of teenage romance and just love, not just some pretty face who will toy with and break their heart without flinching.
And I was stupid enough to think that Jordan would be the boy to change everything.
I’m such a dreamer. And that sounds like a good thing, but it's not. I mean, I'm a writer. Believing in love kind of comes with that talent, because love is something that was made up in the minds of fiction writers to entertain their readers. Of course, there's married couples, fleeting romances, teenage couples holding hands and kissing in the hallways; everyone putting their love on display. But I don’t mean them.
I mean love for the ones who don’t even get a second look. Romance for the ones who wish and dream and hope but look in the mirror and realize that it’s not going to get them anywhere. The ones like me.
The movies try to convince us we have hope, but that is complete and utter bullshit.
I was playing "Teardrops On My Guitar" and singing gently, lazily sprawled across my bed sheets, my guitar lying in my lap. As I played, images played through my mind. Tiny little memories, scenes from a music video made for a song that it seems like Taylor Swift wrote about my life. I thought of how I walked down the hallway quicker than usual this morning, not bothering to slow down and talk to Jordan like I usually do. I thought about how he had tugged on my backpack and pulled me beside him and we laughed and talked like he wasn't breaking my heart. I thought about how he plays me songs on my guitar, turning the tuning knobs until my guitar sounds like it’s been through a tornado when I try to tune it later on. But somehow he always makes it sound beautiful. I thought about all of those moments when out eyes met, when my fingers had brushed against his when I handed him a guitar pick, when he made me laugh despite every reason I had not to.
There are good things, and there are bad. But the truth is, it’s just unrequited love again, back for another try at tearing my heart to shreds. Unrequited love is so greedy. It already has torn me apart on a few occasions, but it just keeps coming back for more. Why can't it do this to someone else?
I feel like I'm going to lose it one of these days. I feel like I am going to grab Jordan’s shoulders and scream in his face, WHY ARE YOU SO STUPID? What if I break down? What if I ruin everything in a fit of violent sadness? That’s the only way I can describe this, a violent sadness. It tears at the inside of me, takes a knife to my painted skies and chips at the blue until it peels off to reveal the gray. One of these days, I will explode. It will be disastrous. And no one will be there to pick up the pieces.
You think karma’s a bitch? Yeah, try unrequited love.
If only I could detach from that.
The book is phenomenal, a true story of the eye-opening lessons the author, Mitch Albom, learns from his former college professor, Morrie Schwartz, who is slowly deteriorating on account of having ALS.
Morrie’s words can change your whole perspective on life. They make you stop and wonder if you’re living your life the right way. A few things he said really resonated with me.
In the book, he says that he detaches himself from certain emotions such as envy or self-pity, despite his condition. His theory is that you have to let yourself feel that emotion without hesitation or fear. You have to cry and pity yourself, burn with that jealousy, scream with that anger. You have to get to know the feeling, not be afraid of feeling it. Then, next time you feel that emotion, simply say to yourself, "This is envy. This is self-pity. This is regret. I know this feeling. I already made time for this feeling." Then step back from it. Let yourself feel something better. Don’t waste precious time on something that only brings you down. Detach yourself.
It’s a new theory I’ve decided to put to use: "Morrie’s Detachment Theory." Miraculously enough, the theory seemed to work. I felt the usual emotions creeping up on me. Helpless sadness, burning anger, sinking in a bottomless lake of regret, a sting of envy here and there. But I simply thought one word to myself: detach. And that’s what I did.
But Morrie makes it sound easier than it really is.
I let things get to me eventually. I just wallow. I wallow in everything from anger to self-pity.
And what makes me feel even more pathetic is that Morrie, a man on his deathbed, managed to stay optimistic, when I turn into a crybaby mess over my fucking love life.
But why does being second best feel like a fate worse than death? Am I really that shallow?
On the way home from a miserable day at school, a tear falls from my eye and rests on my cheek. I let it stay. It was raining that day. The windows leak. That’s all it would be to all of the oblivious people around me. A raindrop. A tear from the sky. Just one that I let slip past the shiny blue covering, from what’s actually underneath. The rest would come later.
I got home, barely made it through the door before I burst into tears. I was surprised when the tears kept coming. I thought I had run out by now. I cried for what felt like forever, ignoring my dad as he told me that I was being foolsih and that the right guy would come along blah blah blah. Things dads are supposed to say to their loser daughters in situations like this.
But for me, the right guy will never come along. I just don't see it happening. They’ll always be running in the other direction before they can even get to know me, scared off by my fat ass, my boring features, my awkwardness, my lack of being able to say the right thing. They’ll never know that they’re missing out on someone who is willing to give up on the games of teenage romance and just love, not just some pretty face who will toy with and break their heart without flinching.
And I was stupid enough to think that Jordan would be the boy to change everything.
I’m such a dreamer. And that sounds like a good thing, but it's not. I mean, I'm a writer. Believing in love kind of comes with that talent, because love is something that was made up in the minds of fiction writers to entertain their readers. Of course, there's married couples, fleeting romances, teenage couples holding hands and kissing in the hallways; everyone putting their love on display. But I don’t mean them.
I mean love for the ones who don’t even get a second look. Romance for the ones who wish and dream and hope but look in the mirror and realize that it’s not going to get them anywhere. The ones like me.
The movies try to convince us we have hope, but that is complete and utter bullshit.
I was playing "Teardrops On My Guitar" and singing gently, lazily sprawled across my bed sheets, my guitar lying in my lap. As I played, images played through my mind. Tiny little memories, scenes from a music video made for a song that it seems like Taylor Swift wrote about my life. I thought of how I walked down the hallway quicker than usual this morning, not bothering to slow down and talk to Jordan like I usually do. I thought about how he had tugged on my backpack and pulled me beside him and we laughed and talked like he wasn't breaking my heart. I thought about how he plays me songs on my guitar, turning the tuning knobs until my guitar sounds like it’s been through a tornado when I try to tune it later on. But somehow he always makes it sound beautiful. I thought about all of those moments when out eyes met, when my fingers had brushed against his when I handed him a guitar pick, when he made me laugh despite every reason I had not to.
There are good things, and there are bad. But the truth is, it’s just unrequited love again, back for another try at tearing my heart to shreds. Unrequited love is so greedy. It already has torn me apart on a few occasions, but it just keeps coming back for more. Why can't it do this to someone else?
I feel like I'm going to lose it one of these days. I feel like I am going to grab Jordan’s shoulders and scream in his face, WHY ARE YOU SO STUPID? What if I break down? What if I ruin everything in a fit of violent sadness? That’s the only way I can describe this, a violent sadness. It tears at the inside of me, takes a knife to my painted skies and chips at the blue until it peels off to reveal the gray. One of these days, I will explode. It will be disastrous. And no one will be there to pick up the pieces.
You think karma’s a bitch? Yeah, try unrequited love.
If only I could detach from that.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Tears
These days, it seems that all I ever do is cry. If I leave my mind unattended, tears fall. Why is that?
The tears are almost on a schedule, like my day goes something like:
- Wake up
- Go to school
- Ride the bus home
- Go to my bedroom/the couch/the bathroom and cry over something stupid
- Pull myself together
- Act like nothing is wrong
My parents don’t like when I cry over Jordan. And I don't want them to know I cry over Jordan. I sometimes wonder what would happen if he had a change of heart or a loss of eyesight and was to actually ask me out. What would my parents say? Did I ruin their opinion of him the first time I came home and cried? How many times had I cried since then? When was the first time, anyway? I can't even remember.
So, when I got home on Friday, I disregarded my homework and ran up to my bedroom. There, I picked up my guitar and strummed a few chords, hoping I'd find solace there. I tried singing a few songs, but broke down sobbing instead. (That went well) I tried my hardest to keep the tears out of my voice and sang a few sad songs, like "Blame It On The Rain" by He Is We and "Teardrops On My Guitar" by Taylor Swift. While singing the songs, I heard my voice wavering at the lines that reminded me of him, but I didn’t stop to let out the sobs building in my throat as I felt the tears stinging my eyes, rolling down my cheeks and off of my chin, right onto my guitar. I stopped playing, horrified.
Jordan was literally the reason for the teardrops on my guitar.
I gently put my guitar on Yuuki’s bed beside mine and curled up on my own unmade bed and let out the sobs, the pathetic blubbery crying of a little girl who didn’t get her way, because that’s all I was.
Maybe Symphony has been right from the start. I am pathetic.
I overreact and make too many assumptions. I mean, the littlest, dumbest things set me off. Jordan hugs Ginny and suddenly I’m bawling in my bedroom, blubbering along to Taylor Swift songs. I take note of Jordan "liking" a photo of Leslie on Facebook, and suddenly I’m upstairs with a handful of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups because food is my only comfort.
No wonder I’m so fucking fat... What if I stopped eating altogether? Maybe then he’d like me, because I wouldn’t be such a whale anymore. But we all know I'd never do that. I mean, all I ever do is eat. Popcorn, chips, Cool Whip, ice cream, Special K bars, candy, cookies, cinnamon rolls, every damn thing I can get my hands on. I really am pathetic!
Food this, Jordan that. Sad songs, crushed dreams, rivers of tears, lashing out at people who don’t deserve it, always writing and writing and writing because I have nothing better to do.
I just want to be happy.
I guess it’s too much to ask.
The tears are almost on a schedule, like my day goes something like:
- Wake up
- Go to school
- Ride the bus home
- Go to my bedroom/the couch/the bathroom and cry over something stupid
- Pull myself together
- Act like nothing is wrong
My parents don’t like when I cry over Jordan. And I don't want them to know I cry over Jordan. I sometimes wonder what would happen if he had a change of heart or a loss of eyesight and was to actually ask me out. What would my parents say? Did I ruin their opinion of him the first time I came home and cried? How many times had I cried since then? When was the first time, anyway? I can't even remember.
So, when I got home on Friday, I disregarded my homework and ran up to my bedroom. There, I picked up my guitar and strummed a few chords, hoping I'd find solace there. I tried singing a few songs, but broke down sobbing instead. (That went well) I tried my hardest to keep the tears out of my voice and sang a few sad songs, like "Blame It On The Rain" by He Is We and "Teardrops On My Guitar" by Taylor Swift. While singing the songs, I heard my voice wavering at the lines that reminded me of him, but I didn’t stop to let out the sobs building in my throat as I felt the tears stinging my eyes, rolling down my cheeks and off of my chin, right onto my guitar. I stopped playing, horrified.
Jordan was literally the reason for the teardrops on my guitar.
I gently put my guitar on Yuuki’s bed beside mine and curled up on my own unmade bed and let out the sobs, the pathetic blubbery crying of a little girl who didn’t get her way, because that’s all I was.
Maybe Symphony has been right from the start. I am pathetic.
I overreact and make too many assumptions. I mean, the littlest, dumbest things set me off. Jordan hugs Ginny and suddenly I’m bawling in my bedroom, blubbering along to Taylor Swift songs. I take note of Jordan "liking" a photo of Leslie on Facebook, and suddenly I’m upstairs with a handful of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups because food is my only comfort.
No wonder I’m so fucking fat... What if I stopped eating altogether? Maybe then he’d like me, because I wouldn’t be such a whale anymore. But we all know I'd never do that. I mean, all I ever do is eat. Popcorn, chips, Cool Whip, ice cream, Special K bars, candy, cookies, cinnamon rolls, every damn thing I can get my hands on. I really am pathetic!
Food this, Jordan that. Sad songs, crushed dreams, rivers of tears, lashing out at people who don’t deserve it, always writing and writing and writing because I have nothing better to do.
I just want to be happy.
I guess it’s too much to ask.
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