I haven’t written here in a while. Mostly because I don’t have anything to say that I haven’t already said or written about. But now I have something to say that I need to get out in long form.
In mid-December, I ran into The Ex. I was in a bar with my parents and we were having a good time (gin & tonic is my new go to drink, btw) and talking randomly. We were sitting near the entrance and in mid-sentence I noticed the door swing open and instantly I recognized the person, despite the fact he’s lost several pounds. I OMG’d out loud (probably loud enough for him to hear). My back was to the bar, but my dad said he had looked back and saw us and I panicked. “We need to go RIGHT NOW.” I couldn’t handle physically being under the same roof as him. I started to have a panic attack, a pretty mild one, but enough to wear when I got home, I bawled.
It’s the first time we’ve been in the same place since we broke up in late August of ‘11. I didn’t know how I’d react; I expected some sort of panicky feeling in the beginning, when the breakup was fresh. But so much time had passed that I was sure I was beyond feeling panicky or choked up over him. But obviously I wasn’t past that and it took me a few days to come to terms with the reasons why I reacted that way. And when I did, when I came to terms with it and admitted it to a few people (my terrific ladies forum and a wonderful dude) it felt like a giant weight lifted off of me. And I thought, like I had so many times prior, “Alright, I can get over this. I can move on.” Only this time I feel like I really meant it.
I don’t feel the burden of that relationship anymore. Neither of us were perfect, we had our problems and difficulties. And though I still may feel the sting when I hear his name, come across a song he liked, or run into old [mutual] friends, I know and believe that the part of my life where he existed is over. I can finally lay it to rest. I forgave him for the things he did to me, and I forgave myself for the things I did to him. I’ve closed that chapter of my life now, for good.
The reason I’m writing about all this, aside from being for my own peace of mind, is because it’s a new year. A real brand new year. I feel like 2011 and 2012 blended together. I’ve had more personal struggle than I’ve written about on this blog. And although 2012 was a year of personal growth for me (I grew in ways I couldn’t have imagined) I still feel like I was mostly weighed down by things in my past.
But 2013 already feels different; just four days into the new year and I feel different. And it feels so good and new. I mean, I’m still struggling with things like my weight and depression (and my quarter life crisis), but those are things I know I will get through. I’ve got a renewed outlook on life and I’ve regained interest in things I’d previously lost interest in. I feel like this year is going to be a major turning point for me.
So here’s to a new, better year full of more love, warmth, good times, better health (physical and mental), and, no doubt, more personal growth. Cheers.
I don’t know how long this has been going on, but when it gets to be this time of year—cold, rainy, with the holidays quickly approaching—I start feeling a little low. I can’t remember the last time I truly looked forward to the holidays. I can attribute some things to why I feel like this, mostly it’s just because the holidays generally suck. There’s too much food, too much family, too much stress, too much wrapping paper. I’ve often left the gift wrapping until the night before Christmas Eve, which has lead to some pretty horrendous gift presentations.
But, I digress.
There’s one thing in particular that’s been on my mind lately. If you’ve read past posts, or you know me in person, then you know that in December of 2010, I had a friend commit suicide. I wasn’t particularly close to this person. I won’t write fictional comments about how I adored him or how he was one of my favorite people or how we were super close and had awesome conversations. Doing so would be doing both him and myself a great deal of injustice.
But I also won’t put up a front and say it didn’t affect me. It did. I’ve been thinking about it a lot in the recent weeks. How I felt when I got the text message from my then-boyfriend. What it felt like at the funeral. How watching his mother sob broke my fucking heart. There’s all these little things I remember. How it affected me then and it affects me now. It’s a very strange feeling when you find out that someone you know, someone you have spent time with, no matter how close you were (or weren’t), suddenly isn’t there.
I also honestly believe it affected my relationship. Looking back, that was a real turning point for us. Things began to change, and while part of it was just a natural progression, I think part of it had to do with how this death affected the both of us. Specifically how it affected him. But the specifics of it are neither here nor there. It happened. We dealt the best we could, through this and other things, and there was nothing that could have prevented the downfall of that relationship.
I think this, coupled with my accident that followed four months later, has contributed to my winter time blues, but they are not in any way directly correlated. If that makes sense. It’s not an all encompassing reason—there is more to my blues than just these things I mention here. But they are definitely a contributing factor.
I guess you can say I’ve been a bit reflective lately. I’m trying to analyze all these little pieces of me… all these little things that have happened along the way. Trying to figure out how each piece of the puzzle fits and what I’m going to do with it once I figure out what each piece means.
The fall and winter do crazy things to my mind.
I used this recipe found on AllRecipes.com. I just followed the instructions accordingly, made no substitutions—except I skipped the cinnamon sugar. The recipe says it makes 3 dozen, but since I made my cookies a little big, I only came up with 30 cookies—which is about 2.5 dozen. Your dough will come out thick (kind of like peanut butter).
Start baking your cookies. Wait until they still look gooey (but almost completely cooked) and then add your candy corn pieces. I used 2 - 3 pieces for each cookie, but you can use more if you so desire. Replace them in the oven for 2 - 3 more minutes, or until a fork/toothpick comes out clean when you poke them.
I had to trial & error the candy corn pieces. At first, I stuck them in the uncooked dough and cooked them thoroughly on the cookies. That proved to be a fail since the candy corn melted and didn’t stick inside the cookies. (Picture below, left). The second batch (right) is when I did the aforementioned step and they came out better and unmelted.
I was beginning to think fall would never come. The temperature was still in the triple digits in September and I was beginning to think my sweaters would stay packed up in their storage container until winter. And then all at once it was fall.
Specifically, it was October.
This month started out in a rip-roaring wave of plans and adventures. It started out on the 1st with Thai food and getting high. The weed smoking was impromptu; I wasn’t sure I’d do it, but there, in the moment, I decided to take an opportunity to step away from myself and be a delinquent. And I’ve gotta say, experiencing a city you’ve lived in for two decades while high is a very unique adventure. Thai food tasted twice as good. Pool was twice as fun. The bar was relaxing. Everything was funny and nice. Everyone was calm. And at the end of the night, I went to be feeling satisfied with my life decisions that night.
The 2nd was step dad’s softball game. He hurt himself and is now out for the rest of the season. The 3rd was karaoke night with one of my favorite ladies. We drank and smoked cigarettes and talked and overall it was a fun evening. Again, I came home feeling satisfied.
Thursday, the 4th, was another unique adventure of getting high, mixed with randomness. I helped setup for a party held the next night. Friday was the night of the party… I wasn’t surprised to see how few people had dressed for the theme. At midnight, everyone was cleared out because the cops came. Overall, though, it was a pleasant evening. I was altered the entire time and kind of quiet, so I just soaked up everything that was happening around me. I felt awkward because of how I was dressed, but I realized I will probably never run into these people again so I allowed myself the comfort of not giving any fucks.
Saturday was a sort of date night for me and the girl I’ve been seeing. Coffee was followed by an inappropriate (and hilarious) cabaret show, which was followed by wine, spilling said wine, falling off a swing, and getting home at the wee hours of the morning.
And then Sunday I woke up sick. A cold. I spent the next week doped up on DayQuil, NyQuil, Benadryl, Advil, Mucinex, and a plethora of other medicines. Saturday was Little Brother’s birthday celebration. It was very awkward getting drunk with a kid I’ve known for the better part of the last 12 years, but it was fun.
Sunday, the 14th, I didn’t wake up with a hangover. I came home and crashed back out and after my nap, I found myself in an incredible amount of pain that has only subsided in the past 24 hours. I have no idea what caused the pain, only that it was there and taking painkillers/muscle relaxers did nothing to stop said pain.
So, to sum it up, the first two weeks of October have been spent altered either by weed, alcohol, or various painkillers/cold medicine/other medication.
The month is only half over and I foresee more adventures in the coming weeks.
I can’t think about 9/11 without thinking about school that day. I showed up a bit early, as usual. I was in 8th grade. A group of 7th graders I knew were standing out the front entrance. They had been teasing another boy in their grade because he was crying.
He shamelessly turned around and screamed at the girls, “My mom is in New York on business. I have no idea if she’s okay. So just stop, alright?!”
In my head, I gave him a high five for standing up for himself. Looking back, I wish I would have given him a hug. Or a handshake. Or something. Something just to reassure him that things would be okay.
When you’re 13 years old, hugging someone you don’t know can be a scary thing. But not knowing if a loved one is safe or even alive is far scarier.
I feel so much more now than I did back then. I was still just a kid. I was just trying to make it through middle school without a too badly bruised ego and depleted self esteem.
I don’t think the scale of the tragedy even hit me until I was in high school. We did a brief section on it in my senior year government class. Watched news coverage. Talked it out. I cried a little, as did a few others. It affected me. It affected everyone. It affected how this country is now, how it could have been, but instead what it grew into. Now we’re at a point where the fate of our country is resting in the hands of the voters.
And I’m scared. I’m scared for our country. I’m scared for my future. For my children and their children. What are we going to become?
What if 9/11 had never happened?
I don’t get it. I really don’t.
I don’t get how I get trapped in these conversation where nobody is saying anything. I make the effort. How was your day? What are you majoring in? Do you have any siblings?
I get responses like “fine,” “political science,” “no.” But nothing more. Not, “Oh, I don’t have any siblings, what about you?” Nothing that progresses the conversation forward.
I end up feeling like I’m having a one-sided conversation. I’ve offered up information without even being asked. “You’re an English major? That’s cool, that was my favorite class in college.” And the response, “Cool.”
NO. NO. NO. Ask me why it was my favorite. Ask me anything. Tell me why you chose that major.
Obviously if we are texting, I’ve found our previous interaction(s) interesting and want to get to know you better. But then once we make that jump and it fails? I question my judgement. Why did I want to get to know you? What qualities about you caught my interest? I don’t know! Because somewhere between transferring from online to real world you lost all your fascination and mystery. You became a boring person.
Recently, I’ve delved into the world of online dating. The site I’ve chosen has a big social networking aspect to it so it’s kind of taken some of the pressure off. I’ve filled in plenty of information. I have a few pictures up. I don’t give out my number. If someone, after chatting a bit says, “hey, let’s text” I always say no. But if they say, “So do you want to text or do you have [insert texting app here]?” Sure. And this is where it starts to go downhill.
Somewhere between asking to communicate off the website and sending a message to my phone, they get boring. Or all they want is to see a picture of what I’m wearing. Or they turn into a goddamn pervert.
The most recent one happened this morning. We messaged on the website a few times and I thought, “I’ll give this guy a shot.” So then he messages me. We chat a moment and I already want to shoot myself in the foot for giving him my contact information. He says something that’s mediocre and boring. I don’t respond. “See, I scared you off.” No, I just didn’t have a response. “Oh, was that the case?” Uh, yeah, that’s what I just said. BECAUSE IF I DON’T HAVE A RESPONSE, I DON’T RESPOND.
I don’t try and keep the conversation going if you’re not going to make the effort. Because why should I? Why should I want to keep talking to someone who so obviously does not have any interest in talking to me or getting to know me?
And then there’s the issue about grammar and punctuation. There are times I don’t know how to respond to text messages because either the person didn’t spell something correctly or they forgot to put a question mark. I don’t know how to respond. I get confused. You said, “have siblings”…are you telling me you have siblings or are you asking?!
Basically the point of this post is a very long-winded and ill-structured way of saying OH MY GOD I HATE TEXTING.
I’ve begun the countdown to my next surgery. Well, really I started a month ago, but now it’s nearing the final hours. Tuesday morning at 10:30, I will be prepping for surgery.
I’m nervous and excited. I’m glad the next step is finally here, but at the same time I’m not 100% certain what’s in store for me. I know what the procedure is… I’ve been through it before. I’m having a flap surgery done for the second time. The first time the flap was taken from my thigh, but this time it will be taken from my latissimus dorsi (the muscle beneath the shoulder blade). So not only will I wake from my anesthetic coma with hand soreness/pain, but also back pain. [For those who aren’t familiar, a flap surgery is basically a tissue/fat replacement. They take it from one area, and put it where it’s needed.]
I’m going to be limited both in my diet and in my mobility. I won’t be able to have chocolate or caffeine or alcohol for at least a month, maybe longer depending on how long I need the pain medication. I don’t know how mobile I’ll be. The only thing I know for certain is I’m going to be in a lot of pain… That’s the one thing I’m not looking forward to in all this.
I’d appreciate some good vibes from anyone who reads this. I don’t particularly believe in prayer, but if that’s your thing, I’d appreciate that, too. I have a lot of support already, but there’s no such thing as “too much.” I’ve already received a lot of positive messages from friends and family and it feels good knowing that a lot of people are supporting me in this next step.
36 hours to go!
Thank you so much!
I’m going to make this quick and to the point. I’m not going to fuck around and sugar coat this shit.
I’ve seen a lot of images on Tumblr and all across the Internet basically shaming girls into hiding their bodies. One in particular that made me angry was this one:
Which… cool, whatever. You don’t wanna show your tits? THEN DON’T. But who the fuck are you to say what other girls should do?
However, I have been gladly met with images like these:
Ok, so maybe our boobs can’t really fire rainbows. (But how much fun would that be?!)
So I’m absolutely appalled by these people who have these opinions about how women should treat their bodies and how we should present ourselves.
If I want to post fucking topless on MY blog, I will do it. What does that say about my morals? ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. Do I sleep around? No. Am I a virgin? No, and I haven’t been for a long time. And that doesn’t say a damn thing about my morals.
I’m tired of slut-shaming in general. I’m tired of seeing other people shame young women into thinking they’re not a good/worthy/amazing person just because their tits are exposed in some photo.
Male and female bodies are made of all the same things: muscle, tissue, fat, blood, bones. But because we have estrogen and our chests grow bigger than a male’s chest, we have to cover up? You know what breasts are?! Fat, tissue, areolae, and nipples. And it’s the same for male and females! It’s even the same for transgendered folk! WHAT AN AMAZING CONCEPT I JUST SHARED WITH YOU.
So, ladies, if you’re comfortable with your body and you want to take topless photos and post them on your blog or email them to your boyfriend/girlfriend, or display them in frames around your house, or print it on a t-shirt… DO IT.
Say it with me, now: “IT’S MY BODY, IT’S MY CHOICE!”
And for those people who think that nudity makes a woman immoral, maybe YOU need to check your own morals and stop projecting your fucking ideals onto others.
And if you don’t wanna show off your body? That’s okay, too! Do whatever the fuck you want.
I’m going to go take my top off now and be amazed at the wonders that are my breasts.