It really is a very unpleasant feeling to discover someone automatically thinks the worst of you--no questions asked.  It's particularly unpleasant when it's someone you have spent a long time giving the benefit of the doubt to.

I did everything I could to show this person that she had misjudged me.  If you know me at all, you will know that I only go out of my way to be nice to people I care about.  I went out of my way for this girl.  I did everything imaginable to show her how wrong she was about me.  Even though she behaved as if she liked me, I will admit I still questioned her sincerity as my friend.  But being who I am, I chose to give her the benefit of the doubt.  I chose to believe she wasn't being dishonest and mean when I wasn't around.  That was up until she gave me concrete evidence (by directly telling me, no less) that she did not deserve that benefit.  Unfortunately, she is just one of many.

It is absolutely infuriating to be so misunderstood time-and-time again.  Especially when I have not given a reason to be thought of so horribly.  I can't even correct these misunderstandings because the people I'm surrounded by are too juvenile to keep it private and calm.  If I make one critical comment or correct one mistake, I get insulted and shunned. 

So I tell the truth.  I call people out on their bullshit.  I stand up for myself and others (even if they don't deserve it).  But apparently that's wrong.  It is also wrong to try and calmly explain myself.  Apparently. 

I really don't think seeking out an apology for a wrong-doing is a bad thing.  But I have learned that some people have a major character flaw in which they are incapable of accepting responsibility for their wrong-doings.  They don't know how to admit they're wrong and apologize.  Somehow that makes me the bad guy.  I'm still figuring out how that conclusion is reached myself...

But one thing this experience has made me realize is how utterly lucky I am.  I was lucky in school with my liberal education.  I had teachers who encouraged me to think for myself, to stand up for what's right, to question the world around me, and to seek out an understanding of the various perceptions around me.  They taught me how to find answers, and would not accept anything less than an assertion of my own individuality.  They gave me the confidence to go against the grain, and to know that I do not deserve to be walked over or disrespected because I choose my own path.

It really saddens me to have to admit that not everyone is lucky.  Not everyone is taught to see the world with their own unique and individual flavor.  Some people will accept any meaning of a poem, even if it doesn't connect with them personally.  Some people will hear others say a phrase like "I could care less," and repeat it for a lifetime without bothering to question what they are actually saying.  Because if they did question, they would discover the phrase is wrong and makes little sense. 

I have no problem admitting to my faults and apologizing when I am wrong.  As much as I would like to deny it, I know I'm not always right.  I will make mistakes.  But just because someone doesn't like what I've said, doesn't necessarily mean that I'm automatically wrong.  The way I see it, you have two options when faced with a critical comment: a) call the person a bitch/asshole, or b) consider why you're so offended by the statement and do something about it.  Either way, the commenter is not necessarily the one with the problem.

Honestly, I can't imagine how awful it would be to go through life always assuming the worst in people, always seeking the approval of others, making snap judgments, forgetting that there are multiple points of view to be had, and never truly questioning anything.

So despite all the nasty things people have been saying and thinking of me lately, I know that I am truly a lucky person.  And even though they think I'm the one being shunned, it's actually me choosing not to associate with that much negativity.  I refuse to be sucked into the high school drama.  I seek my own path. 

(The correct term is "I couldN'T care less," in case you didn't know.)

I miss writing.  I really do.  And I fully intend to get back to it once I get back home. 

The problem though is that I've taken up running.  (Well, I've been running since I joined the Air Force, but I've decided to actually take it seriously now.)  As it turns out, running is actually very therapeutic.  Let me give you an example:  I come home from work brimming with awesome blog ideas and/or story ideas usually based on some of the problems or emotional experiences I've had during the day.  But I can't sit down to write yet because I need to go for a 6 mile run first. 

Through the first couple of miles all I can think about is what I want to write about and how excited I am to do so.  But once I hit somewhere around mile 3 or 4, my problems and ideas begin to seem silly.  All I can think about is running: "Don't slow down you fat wuss.  Can't you feel the cellulite burning off your ass?  If you slow down or stop, it's only going to grow.  It'll laugh at you!  This is your punishment for being 10 pounds overweight.  I need to teach my body a lesson.  So if it doesn't like running, and it wants to slow down and be a total wimp, I won't let it because it doesn't deserve a break.  Keep running.  Only 800 more meters until you can slow down the pace a little.  Just imagine how awesome your legs will look in a mini skirt if you just keep running..."

As I continue the tirade of insults, bikini fantasies, and number crunching (counting meters for splits and such) my body hurts more and more.  By mile 5, all those problems I obsessed about all day long are simply gone.  In fact, they feel absolutely silly and ridiculous.  My breathing, the length of my strides, the sweat dripping down my face, and the pain I'm beginning to feel on the inside of my arm where the skin is being rubbed raw are all I can think about.  It's so much to think about that everything else just disappears.  All I need to do is get through my run and then I can be proud of myself for what I accomplished.  I can forget about that asshole that forced me to pour a drink in his lap because he was so insulting.  I can forget about my combative boss who only seems capable of arguing about senseless politics.   I can forget about that old boyfriend who still makes sure to get in a good painful jab now and then.  I forget about it all because in the face of a good run, none of it feels important anymore.

And so I have nothing left to write about.  At all.  I left it all on the road or on the treadmill.  I can't go back for it because I accomplished so much since then.  I finished my run, and to go back would only be admitting that my run totally just kicked my ass.  I can't admit that. 

So I don't write.  But I'll come up with something.  I have to come up with something.  Writing is what I live for, even if it can no longer help me work through my problems.  I need to find something else to write about.

“I still hang on every word in the world of faded memories where you’re still in love with me.” – Cold

It was awkward at first.  The hospital bed was not made for two, and the plastic side bars got in the way.  Sounds of people and wheels rushing down the hallway just behind the curtain were not muffled and gave too many excuses for distraction.  We felt exposed.  Unsure.  The previous months that had separated us felt too long to jump over so quickly.  But we were together again, the way sickness and hospitals always manage to arrange.  When death is imminent there are reconsiderations to make and not much time to make them.  

“I missed you,” you said, finally breaking the silence.

Hesitantly, I brought my hand to your face, and ran my fingers across your brow, around your eye, and down to your lips.  I was always so afraid to touch you.  Touch was not something I knew how to do properly.  I was never taught to hug, or kiss, or even to hold hands.  I craved your touch, but I didn’t know how to ask for it, and I didn’t know how to initiate it either.  But no matter what I said to the contrary, I always craved the feel of your hands on my skin.  You never knew that though.  You thought I hated to be touched, and I let you think that.  Now that we were together again, I had to tell you.

So I leaned in and kissed you.  There was no warning, no slow connection.  I simply kissed you.  It was my answer.  It said how much I missed you.  It made you feel how much I wanted you.  It was the best way I knew how to touch you. 

My kiss broke the awkwardness too.  Your arms reached around me and pulled me into you.  I think you wanted to say something else but at the risk of crying, you choked whatever growing words you had back down.  You said nothing.  You just held me, and I ran my fingers across the backs of your arms.  I was touching you the way I always wanted to, and even though you weren’t saying all the words I wanted to hear, you still granted a final dying wish. 

…then I woke up.  I was not dying in the hospital, and you were nowhere near.  But somehow I still awoke with your kiss on my lips and your touch on my skin.  Your voice was even ringing in my head.  But you weren’t there.  You hadn’t been there in quite some time, and you probably never would be again.

Sometimes I don’t even remember anymore why I’m sad—why I need to heal.  I don’t always know why my life needs rebuilding.  It’s been so long, and I can’t remember all the details.  Occasionally the ache throbs, but I rarely remember its origin.  I feel sad without a cause.  I remind myself that someday everything will be fine.  It has to be.  But then I have a dream like this, and I remember again.

So I’ll just say it: I miss you.  I wish you’d write me, even though I’m not always sure why.  We’ve been apart longer than we were together, and I still feel like I’m missing something important—something I need to feel whole again.  I don’t know what it is, and I definitely don’t know if you’re the one that can give it.  It’s just that my dreams tell me you can.

I wish you had chosen me.

Even if you did change your mind and decide to choose me, I can’t say I’d choose you anymore.  But I still wish you’d change your mind anyway.  Give me the chance—the choice.

I know you won’t though.  And so I still miss you.  

But…no matter how much I miss you, no matter how many dreams I have of you, you don’t get to tell me when you’re thinking of me.  You don’t get to tell me what reminds you of me.  And you definitely don’t get to ask me for anything.  You left me.  You can’t expect me to fix the mess you left when you tell me you still think of me.  No matter how much I love to hear it, you don’t get to do that to me.

You don’t.

I have issues.  (Don't we all...)  I have a problem with intimacy.  This is actually a new revelation for me.  While I'm always upfront about telling people how I feel and where my opinion stands, I've only recently come to realize how superficial all that is.  The things that really matter, like how I feel about someone never gets said.  My emotions do not get expressed.  And yet I feel so much. 

When did this happen?

I have a lot of time to think while sitting in a car watching planes take off and land.  (I've also mastered sleeping in a car, by the way.  Just in case you're interested).  In this time, I've recounted all my past relationships.  All of them, no matter how insignificant or important, had expiration dates.  Before I even entered the relationship, I knew it wouldn't last.  And even if it didn't have a known expiration date, I am not able to express emotions, which inevitably leads to a distastrous break anyway.

I didn't used to be like this.  I think back to the days when I was known as a happy girl.  I was a little bit crazy, a little too outspoken, and I did everything a little too big and loud.  In high school, I was the crazy girl jumping through the hallways shouting to friends.  I was also liked.  No one thought I was a bitch.  No one called me unfriendly.  People didn't make allowances for my personality.  But they do now.

Now I'm quiet.  I have to repeat myself because others can't hear me.  People are surprised when they see a picture of me smiling.  I can't remember the last time I had a really good laugh.  My own family tells me I always look bored.  When people first meet me, they don't like me.  Even after they acquire a taste for my personality, we're still not close.  I really have trouble thinking of anyone I'm actually close to.  This isn't anything about my friends; they're all amazing.  This is me.  I don't let anyone in.  It's not fear of rejection though.  Maybe abandonment?  I don't know.  But it's there.

I don't want to be like this, but I don't know how not to.  Somewhere along the dark roads of my life, I made a wrong turn and ended up somewhere I don't want to be.  But I'm lost, and I don't know how to get out.  I'm not sad so much as just confused.  I have no idea how I got here. 

I don't know who I am anymore.  I don't even recognize myself in the mirror.  My eyes are still big and round, but they're lifeless.  There is no color in my eyes.  Where did that go?

Who have I become?  And how the hell do I get myself back?

/emo moment

I am obviously short on blog ideas.  That, and I'm preparing to leave next week, so I don't have a lot of free time anyway.   But I've been meaning to put a few of my drawings up here.  I have to take pictures of them, and so the quality isn't great, and it upsets me a little.  That's why I'm only putting a few of my drawings up here. 




This was a fairly quick sketch, so it's lacking a lot of detail. 


This is white pencil on black paper.  Unfortunately, the paper got a little bent, so it has a couple of weird lines going through it.  Oops.  Apparently I need to take better care of my drawings.


 

Again, sorry the quality isn't great on these pictures!