This is the opportunity I had always thought I had been waiting for, until it is here. I’ve spent the entire month wondering what to do with myself, what to write about, what exactly it is I need to say. I love to write, but hate teenage cliche angst. I’ve decided that I won’t delete, won’t go back and edit myself until it’s perfect, because what’s perfect? Nothing I put is going to make me happy unless I just move forward through the whole damn thing and go on.
I’m drawn to this project because I wish the real world were similar. Well, yes and no. I like to know what problems people I know are working through, but I hate to find out this way. I love and hate, I’m slowing learning that this may be my biggest flaw. Thinking I love more than I do, saying things I can never take back, like when I told the one person I held on to when I slowly made myself alone and distant that I loved him. Love him. It was approximately 3am on September 25th, a day and a few hours past my 18th birthday. I can’t even claim that there was a corresponding mistake made that night. Or early morning. I have never even kissed him, I’ve been too damn scared. I’ve noticed I use the word damn when I start to feel my own weakness, or what I judge to be weakness. Anyways, it was something I had decided I wanted to say, regardless of what he reciprocated (which wasn’t a whole lot, to be honest). And that doesn’t bother me. It never did, and I don’t believe it ever will. What I couldn’t explain was that I don’t have any idea of whether or not I am in love. Actually, I do, and I’m not. I believe he may have pitied me at the time, but I didn’t pity myself until I brought it up again, making sure he was okay with what I had said, that it wasn’t going to be an issue that bothered him. He may have thought I was giving him a second chance, but I wasn’t. I just wanted to be sure.
The people I say I hate upon meeting them are the people I am most likely to change my mind about later, deciding that they weren’t so bad after all. I have pretty serious girl crushes on two of the people I have claimed to hate. One for 6 years, one for only 1. This is the part where I wish I could have a blog that used names. That is my real dream for writing, a blog where it is out in the open without being too open to offend others. I don’t want to keep a shitastic secret journal that I hide in my bedside table (plus, where would I keep the secret notebook that is in there already?) I am already followed by people I know, and I’m too scared to write there because they like to psychoanalyze everything I put there. Sometimes throwing them a bone is for my own fun, but this doesn’t always make me happy. They look at me differently, which I just can’t handle. But this project makes me want to handle it. Rather than be afraid of them, just say what I want to say. Maybe someday I will even use names.
When I went to Brazil, they all thought I was 12. I felt 12. I was, and still am 12. I like to twirl and do silly things. I regret not drinking in Brazil, some girls did. I almost threw up at the thought of it. I cannot make a decision to save my life. Big decisions make me sick. After deciding not once, not twice, but three times at least not to go for it and take a chance with him, I drove home, in hysterics. Not crying hysterics, hyperventilating, breathing so deeply and quickly that the breaths become strained, your vision starts to go in and out, hysterics. While driving. I never said I hoped to be a rocket scientist. But he only lives 6 minutes away, and I’m always late. Nobody is on the road, which is safer for me and for them. I kept it together for him. The worst thing was, the next day, I almost regretted not going for it. And I wanted to be right back in the situation I had been in prior to leaving. I thought about it all week. He felt bad, he thought he did something wrong to scare me so bad. I think he is just barely starting to grasp how unnecessarily broken I am. Nothing happened to break me. My family of just me, my mom, and my dad, doesn’t share a lot of physical contact and I sometimes wonder if that has messed me up. My parents aren’t lovey dovey. Most people envy it, they think my parents are the most practical cute couple they know. They are the only real couple I know. My picture of my parents in high school has my dad as a jerk and my mom as trashy, but they matured into successful enough adults. I think they both feel like screw ups sometimes.
My weakness is gross, over the top, in your face, (but not cliche) love. I believe that every story has to have a death in it for people to want to believe it, just like I believe that the radio is always better on Sundays. Moulin Rouge is one of my favorite movies, and I am listening to the closing number as a I type. I have to keep starting it over. I sometimes wish I could quote myself, because I appreciate my own words too much. Value them too much. I’m disappointed when others don’t feel the same. But how could they, they don’t belong to them and never will. They will always belong to me. My words have a tendency to be viscous, like I never learned to tell the truth in a way that doesn’t scare people. Nobody ever wants to hear my version of the truth. I can’t sugarcoat the truth to save my life. Apparently one of many things I can’t do to save my life. I might start a list of those, it seems like a valuable thing to have. Just like a list of ultimate pet peeves. Which I already have. Along with a foam sword, a blanket, and a Ouija board.
This made the least sense possible, but I feel ridiculously muchly better. The House at Pooh Corner is going to need a makeover.
Just add this to the list of many learning experiences.
(thehouseatpoohcorner)
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