Little Bit Less of that Loneliness

When I got the text from him, which basically said "me and your best friend have been really digging eachother for awhile and think we have something. We've been together for awhile and now we'd like to make it official. Thanks."
This coming from a guy who I'd slept in his arms and talked into the night less than a month before.
I don't know what I felt first. Anger sure as fuck. But something I can't quite identify. Dissapointment?
I like to believe that people are generally good, that they are all looking for love and acceptance just as I do, so how bad can they be?
Me and this guy both came from same backgrounds too. With serious troubled health, mental ups and downs, and well this "persona" we both talked about. They one we tried on and suited up each time we got in a crowd or even just with others. A clown costume. The loud, funny, jokester, the very brash and outgoing prankster that no one could imagine could actually be very shy. Very lonely.
We talked about this at 4am after a dance party where the rest of the group were sprawled in drunken disarray around his apartment from the corner of curtains in the living room, the bathtub (yes I'm serious) and in the hallway to the kitchen. Everyone there. But we were alone. The door closed. A world within a world. We shut off the world and let our own take over. Curled into his shoulder with his arms around me I felt safe. Trusting, and trusted. He was opening up to me like a dying man. Telling me how hard it was to be crippled literally at such a young age from his broken knees and how it kept him from a lot of things he loved. He was being so blatantly honest and true, speaking from a place of innocence and fragility. Things that men aren't allowed to show with their "bros" round. And I sympathized. Or more empathized. I may have not had broken bones, but if you've read me blog you know I've collected enough health issues to be just as crippled.
Either way I guess what I'm saying is I felt like we had both seen each other. Both acknowledged each other in a way no one else could. It felt sacred.

Days later in another 2 hours funny banter over facebook chat where we send eachother funny youtube clips, traded all our best song numbers (which was hard since we overlapped alot) and made plans for the next weekend, it came up. I knew it was kind inevitable. He asked me out.

And I don't know why but I knew I had to say no. But I was straight up about it. I told him, not because I didn't think he was awesome, or cute as hell, but I had to decline. I wasn't nor am I healthy enough to handle my own life, let alone take on someone else's needs. I didn't want to try because if I fucked it up I'd fuck up one of the best things in my life (or so I thought). And because I was so rawly honest about it, so vulnerable about my shortcomings, he understood. He said he understood and that it was okay. And so I believed him.

A weekend or so later, somehow the sleeping arrangements after another group dance night, I was again in his arms. And I had to ask, whether from a place of pride, or just need to know since I still adored him, I asked whether he was really "okay" that I said no. That I had to say no.
"I get it. I do. I was bummed for a few days. But I'm fine now."
And I snuggled deeper into his neck and squeezed him, showing him that if I could love him I would.
I don't know now. I might have been falling in love. Or maybe I just adored another sensitive soul. Or maybe I just really longed for the recognition we both found in each other. Who knows at this point.

Anyways, from that point on, things just well...deteriorated. We went from talking everyday to me trying to make conversation via text. He'd text back at his leisure of course. Usually a one liner which would frustrate the fuck out of me. On movie nights I noticed he's sit away from me, or find someone else to lounge on. One particular night it was particularly obvious things were not good. I was a bit high and on edge and he was horizontal across my good friend Patricia. And I hadn't seen patty for awhile, and I wanted to cuddle with her. Or maybe him. I dunno even. But I tried to get in the middle and he just played zombie. Heavy limbed and playing dead I tried to pry him off to Patty's amusement, giggling while I tried to squeeze me teensy self in between this lug. I did manage, but his entire weight, back and all was pressing into my midriff as I cuddled with Patty. Eventually I gave in, "All right, all right you win," I said jokingly and roughly pulled myself out of the mess of limbs.

I went across to the other couch where the guys were sitting, and although it was only about a foot away from him, it may as well have been a 1000 yards. I felt myself being sucked by a tide, and a black hole was forming in between us now.

Even with friends over, we'd bicker. And it wasn't unnoticed. It was embarrassing hearing him tell me off.
"God I don't want to talk about it!"
 he said when I kept pestering him about what was happening with this dream job that he was forming with his friends. I heard through the vine that it had gotten pulled and that there were "issues" within the group. This info gathered all from everyone but him. I wanted to know so badly after I heard. Felt like something this important, then as a friend I should know. I had to. If I didn't then the void really was real and I was really only becoming an acquaintance.  I was losing him and I clung like hell. I did the hellish mistake of being a woman and I pestered him about it. And off course he told me off.
Even in front of his friends and roommate. Like I was some fucking animal, something he could tell to go piss outside cause he wasn't in the mood to "walk me through the details".
So I got back the only way I knew how. I straight up said I wouldn't be crashing with him that night. S'not like we were a couple, but saying I was going to be crashing with Patrick was odd enough to make a statement. Over months of sleepovers I had never crossed that 2 food gap of carpet to sleep in that other room.

Me and Patrick were on good terms. Friends, playful. But strictly platonic. So it wasn't weird when I stayed with him that night. We settled down, having a smoke, a tickle war, maybe a few extra lion cub wrestle matches because I loved hearing him giggle like a school boy. I've always been pleased when I can make a big guy curl and titter like a litte lamb. Mostly it was just a nice burn off steam and it was hella fun, but it didn't mean I didn't hoot and jaunt extra loud or make Pat laugh extra hard, making sure the fun was heard through the walls. Yes bitch move. I know.

Anyways the move was pointless, the slice had no sting, because in reality, he was already making moves with Patricia weeks before. Of course I knew nothing. So the next morning I apologized. Like a fucking chump. A ignorant, albeit partly guilty, but still yearning for the good old days chump. I was genuinely trying to get my friend back and I had no idea how.

"I think I really have something with Patty. I know you told her you have fears about changing the group dynamics, but I think the group's going to change no matter what."

That was the first time he'd texted me longer than a one liner, and it was to tell me he fell for someone else.

I think I cried for about four days, had kind of vicious emailing between him, and exhausting confusing and heart slamming like a piece of meat phone calls with Patricia for 3 straight days. Owing to her kind nature, she did say she cared for me, didn't realize how much I liked him, said she'd back out if it meant losing me. But it was all half hearted and empty promises. They were already and had already been together. Maybe not sex (as far as I know), but together enough to know they spent some nights together. Her in his arms. In my crook. She would have already learned the smell of his skin, the stubble on his cheek, the heat in the wind of his breath.
Knowing that I was just a replaceable piece in a world I felt I constructed with him, felt like the worst feeling I could ever feel. I felt like nothing, absolute nothing.
But the part that devastates me the most, is I felt like I knew these people. Especially him. Felt like I was understood and we understood each other. Like we had something between all of us. A invisible rubber band that held us together and kept anyone who wished to harm us away. Like we could never be the ones on the other side.
I guess I wanted so much to trust.

Anyways. Now I'm blabbering. I guess my point is, I feel like a recovering shotgun patient every time I reach out to trust, and it turns out sour. I spend the first while is shock, absolute mind numbing can't even feel anything or feel like eating shock. Then the pain, the overwhelming pain of the anesthia wears off and it floods my heart like an fucking heart attack. Months of this, crying, listening to sad music, eating again (at least) but this time in ferocious scary way. Binge eating like maybe enough of this will fill the fucking gaping ass hole which is now me. Then I slowly recover. But I don't. It's one of those soft to touch wounds. And its so damn visible every time I walk outside I purposely walk farther away from people so they wont brush up against the swollen parts. And even if they do come close enough, I pull down the sleeve. I'm fine. I'm fine. My answer for everything.

I never really recover from those hurts. And the worst part is I blame only myself.  Because even after this and all the others, with each bullet to the chest, I still unfalteringly, stupidly, but with a loving innocence miss and love them. The ones who the riffles. Because even for one night, in the quiet of the stars and the hum of mingled breaths, two people can feel a bit less of that loneliness.

Pull me in

It has become unbearably hard to even pretend to be happy for others. I haven't spoken to my sister Melody in over 6 months, just because even the thought of talking her makes me feel like crying. I can't help it. With a beautiful baby boy, a good partner, a home in the country, and a fulfilling job, its like she won the lottery and I'm out on the streets and I have to pretend like congratulating her is the "right" thing. I know its petty and useless to compare or even to covet what is not yours, and I know she must have her struggles (beyond cellulite and not having enough cash which is universal I can't think of much else), but that is what I do. I struggle on a daily basis to even shut up the thoughts in my mind which tell me it would be better if I killed myself. I feel like a plague. a sickness to everyone around me. I'm always sick and they cant help me. I cant help me. So I just continue feeling sad, feeling jealous, feeling like I'm wasting space for someone who really deserves and wants to be here. Dear god, this depression is full blown now. It was a small manageable thing  before, but now its like a rapid dog, attacking anyone and anything. Even myself. Or whats left of it at this point. I am scared. For the future. For my life. For my decisions which don't seem to really be mine. I have been watching my life like a doomed drowning person at sea. Being pulled strongly farther out into the current, farther from the shore where I see myself walking along the sand. It's me, but it's not me. I scream for help and the girl on the shore looks in my direction, squinting like she heard something, and I scream louder. But she just shrugs like nothings there, and keeps walking. I have to watch my life being literally sucked away from me. I'm lost. And I don't know how to make it back to shore. Please if you hear me, up there, out there, pull me in. Pull me back in.

2015.
This is it tina. This is you life. No more put downs or unbelievable expectations. But you do have to pull yourself together. No harshness my love. I want this for you. Only goodness and strength. That is what you deserve, but remember nothing good ever is easy, you have to work at it. Small steps my love, small steps in this life.
Start reading more delightful things
Practice some yoga
Learn a few songs on the guitar (or at least play around on it)
Write. Write. Write. Even if it sucks like Arjuna told me, its not the idea, it's the commitment. Thats what drives you. And the hardest part is having the inspiration when you have none. But if you push past that, when you do get inspiration you can go back and change it. She was talking about writing novels, but I was also thinking she was more talking about life.
And for got sakes tina, pray. Connect to God. To your core. Whatever what you want to call it. Find the rootness in who you are. Nothing else matters. I want to be able to say with confidence in this year, "At the center of life's storms I stand serene." my emotions are in conflict with my identity Apparently. That pretty much sums me up. But that is an outline of what I can work on. Be less hard on yourself, but learn to distance yourself from emotions. Let them go. Don't hold onto sadness like it's the only consistent friend. You deserve better than wallowing. You are better than wallowing. You have greatness within you. And its worth staying alive to burn that fire up, to burn that blaze until the wee hours of the morning, that nothing can put it out.
And it's okay to speak to yourself as a self help person. If thats what it takes to get out of this rut, then you fucking speak to yourself in self help talk :) And its okay to feel love again. Feel safe to love. But be smart about it. Attract and adore the right people tina. Learnt to do that.
Love you love you Love you

O's

The is something spiritual about hugs. I don't think I can even encompass how much I love hugs. I love how they are so unique and specific, and yet universal in the way they convey feeling. Like the other night I met up with a close girlfriend of mine who I hadn't seen in awhile. And the easy flow of talk and company was like waking up. When we hugged tight and leaned into eachother, not needing a time limit.  Throughout the night we had our arms loosely linked around eachothers hips as we walked through the city I felt bathed in content sweetness. I realized how far I was making myself into this scary reclusive hermit and that I wanted, no needed this kind of beautiful caring affection of a good friend. One that reminds you how food and late night conversation in an empty restaurant can be the best time in weeks, or even months. How friendship hugs are like coming home, like being welcomed back into a safe place. One where you are you, and you are welcomed. Loved.

My father and I are at this weird precipice in our relationship. I'm still young enough to be still under his care (a little financially and sometimes breakdown emotionally) so yes I am still his little girl. But also I am old enough to speak to him like a friend, asking how he is and really caring. Inquiring about his life before me, and being thrilled and ravenous for all the details that made this person. This amazing, dedicated, and goddamn sacrificing father who I think is just the fucking cats pyjamas and the sweetest heart on the planet. And I think he's recognizing in me my need to become someone, and he sees himself in me. When I'm lost, he remembers, and when I recount how much I'm scared of the future, he agrees. It's like we're both speaking the same language now. He is seeing my life from someone who had already seen the movie. And he wants point out all the good parts. So when he hugs me goodbye now, it's not stilted or a brief pat, it's a squeeze. I curl myself into his big bear arms, the bowl of chest the perfect cave for me to burrow in and my head stands as a perfect rest for his chin. In those moments I feel this thick peace, this safeness. But not the same safeness, this one is primitive, it feels..fierce. And right. Like I am protected. Like I have a grizzly guard over me.

Boys. Ahh boys. What can you do with them? Can't live with them, can't live without them. But I will say this. My first love, and so far my only true love was Johnny. And we had hugs that lasted days. Literally. There was a point where we only left the bed to pee and to grab something to eat. We intertwined ourselves so deeply as we lay in bed, limbs were just obstacles that got in the way of us pressing each other tighter. It was like we were trying to melt into each other. Like I was trying to burn off the skin, oh the beautiful skin, but to burn away our bodies so I could press my heart closer to the burning heat emitting from his chest . Our hugs were not soft. They were grips. Like they were vital. Keeping me alive. I would feel achingly beautiful, exquisite pain of those hugs. For I knew I was in the presence of the fleeting joy of love. But that did not mean I ran from it. I did only what anyone else would. I held on for dear life, for as long as I could, and with as much strength I had in me, even knowing it was doomed. Those hugs were as close to reaffirming life as I can describe. They made me believe I was Eve. And I was placed on the earth to adore and live in this new world with the first man. That we had the whole world as our oyster and that we were going to move forward into that space. Together. That there was nothing to fear or nothing that mattered but us. I felt safe. Again a different kind of safe. A kind of loving net in which we both held each other up without having to actually look back to see if it was there. It was the most comforting feeling in the world.

And then today, working with my workmate. Kylie. This cute fluttery korean girl with soft eyes and cherry cheeks. A perfect little dumpling of a girl. I was feeling sick today. But because its a relatively my first week back I knew I couldn't bail or call in. Everything became laborious. Taking orders. Talking to people. Even bloody standing seemed difficult. And I think she could tell. She did little things, like taking on the bigger tasks like taking out the trash. Or she'd give me a gentle shove away from the front desk if another customer came in, taking over and giving me room to just chill in the back. I think I feel in love with her a bit. Or at least my sick as fuck and dying self did. And even though we've only known each other for a few days, it felt so natural that we were already doing playing bum shoves when we'd pass each other, or give eachother goofy eye brow raises from across the floor. Or, like tonight where every once and awhile she would put her arm around my shoulder and pull me into her side and I'd loop my arms around midriff and we'd just lean back against the table. Those gentle concerned little hugs from her got me through the night like nothing else could or would have.  I felt like I had met another beautiful little soul who I could sit on a rainy night with. Like this tiny butterfly was keeping the demons of my self loathing and pity away, just with the light touch of her arm around me. I felt safe from the harshness of the world.

Again they are all specific feelings, specific relationships, specific ways these hugs were talking to me. But they all were about feelings of comfort, love, and protection. Like shields. So funny to think of it but hugs are like bullet proof vests lined with down feathers. Immensely protective, but incredibly soft things. I've always kinda hated and loved when people signed off a letter with XOXO. But the thing is, I kinda think I love it in the incredibly dorky sense but don't want to admit it. I especially love those O's. And I love that I don't need to explain, because I already have.

The Sensitives

God I wish I knew what or where I wanted to direct my energy. I want to be a dj. I want to be a writer. I want to be a teacher. I want to learn languages. I want to learn how to be a gardner, a farmer, a chef, maybe just a fucking stable person. But I get stuck. In my fears that are like tormentors. Who surround me and circle me and throw me around, pushing me in every direction until I end up falling over and huddling on the floor. Sometimes literally. All I know is I'm never happier than when I falling into the space of a good song, or breathing in the balmy cool air in the space of untouched land. I feel peace in burning coals, the trickle of running water, the feel of falling into your pillow after a long day. How can I make a living from that? Why is life just paying bills until you die? Can there be no time or opportunities for more of the luxeries of experience?

I never needed nor really wanted luxeries that could be bought. Only the ones that can be felt.
Joy, peace, affection, love, excitement, confidence. All of these I have craved since I can remember. As a child when others worried about whether they would get a cookie that night, I worried about who I was going to be. Or if I would ever be the me I wanted to be. At seven years old I was having midlife crisises before I was even midlife. But that is me. When I talked to my step mom about how hard it is for me in this world, how it pains me to feel not only my own self torture, but hating and hurting from the injustices of the world that happen to those I love, she replied in her very no nonsense way, "Well then you've got to grow a thicker skin."

But though that advice contains truth, it doesn't mean it feels good. In fact I kind of hate what it means. It basically means the world will not make room for the sensitives, for the artists, for the philosophers, for those who actually have compassion for others and this planet. Nope. No room. Instead the sensitives must rearrange themselves to fit the twisted dark space that has become society. Am I the only one who finds that wrong? Who wishes the world were more compassionate, honest, and maybe a little more kind for all of us? I don't know. But I do know that although I might have to grow a thicker skin to just at least be able to handle the outside world, I must take this lesson in coping. Thats what my step mom said when I asked how she turned out so normal when she had just as fucked up childhood as mine. "Guess I'm just better at coping. You just do the best with what you've got. That's all anyone can do." Yeah. Guess so. I guess I gotta just do that.

You are your only self

I struggle with life on a daily basis. I switch from intensely loving life to thinking about dying, and even wondering if it will matter if I'm gone, or make myself gone. I'm not stupid. I know my family will mourn, at least for a little while. But I also find that I think it bothers me most because it hurts to think that my life is so insignificant, that I did nothing of importance, that I didn't fulfil any of my dreams, or that I didn't impact anyone's life enough for them to truly miss me. I think those last two especially hold me back from the line of thoughtfully planning and actually committing suicide.

Where do I go from here? I see a counselor who only asks if I'm taking my medication, I see naturopaths who only push the most expensive product at me, I try to connect to my family only to hear back from them months later. I guess what I'm trying to say is I have realized no one can help me. I have to help me. But I don't know how or where or when or if I can start. After what it seems like lifetimes of hating who I am and being ashamed of every mistake, I wonder if I can redeem who I was. Or who I could be. Because I don't know if I can continue with Tina as she is now.

Don't forget. Please don't. You are creative, and passionate. You are driven and strong, and a survivor. You are smart, and intelligent and no test can prove that wrong. You are funny and kind and good to others, you are worth knowing. You have genius and soul in you worth staying alive for. Worth bringing out, worth coaxing back from in you, worth sharing, and worth feeling proud of. You have a voice that no one else has no is replaceable. You can see into the universe and bring back the light of its heart. You have long enough arms to reach into center, and pull it back out. But more importantly you have gentle enough hands to cradle it and to contain it, like a small firefly, who glows within you palms, fanning out a glow between the cracks of this fucked up world. You have to stay alive. Even if its just to deliver that piece unto the world. You already died before you could write your story. Don't make the same mistake again.

You have potential. And there is nothing more worse than wasted potential. Become the stuff your dreams are made of.

And for god sakes start loving yourself. You are your only self. And that matters.

A chance to have Pride

When does perservering become stupid? What is the difference between knowing when to push farther for that last lap, or when it might mean a heart attack. When does a choice to quit become a smart choice instead a cowardly fold?

I recently have joined a publishing program that is all about deadlines. Projects piles ontop of each other in a ridiculous way like a slanted pile of flapjacks, only these fuckers aren't sweet at all. Its all about stress. And looking at others. And looking over your shoulder. Or at least it is for me now

I started out as one of the pack in the beginning, as a potential friend and ally. But as the weeks progressed and my skills diminished as well as my dignity, I began to see myself like the fat kid at gym as everyone watches with quiet disgust and yet determined ignorance as he stares helplessly up at that rope. Like a pack, they noticed the weakest link, and like what is natural they left me behind. They stopped trying to include, and treated my feeble attempts to keep the pace as pathetic and often with a formal and cold formality like doctor who knows his patient is going to die but doesn't want to get emotionally involved. Maybe I'm being dramatic, maybe I'm not. All I know is being the one left behind is never fun. And it also always shows you how really devastatingly cruel the human kind can be to anyone who does not "fit".

Whether its physical appearance and attire, learning capabilities, a lacking aptitude for money, anything, it's all the same. You keep up, or you get left behind. What is it about that fact that hurts so fucking much to a sensitive kid like me? Is it the fact that I usually had most of those?

In high school, I had a wealth of friends. I wasn't "popular" in the Mean Girls sense, but I was in the sense that I was friends with basically everyone and anyone. I could hang out with the jocks, the nerds, the stoners, the preps, and it was never weird for me or never felt like I was pegged nor was odd for eating with a very obvious different group each week.  I also took ridiculous amounts of time on appearance, like 2 hours worth of straightening my hair,  and spending time fretting over clothes when I usually ended up wearing pretty much the same thing anyways.

I'm going off topic- Basically what I'm trying to say is I was at my prettiest, and smartest. But I didn't get it served to me either. I worked my ass off but I was also a keener. I studied and agonized over even 1 page quizes. I was known as maybe not THE smartest kid, but definitely in the top five.

Fast forward 5 years, and I am asking yet another question in Digital design that is 5 steps behind what everyone else has already moved onto. I am wearing glasses with thick rims. I wear no makeup, and my skin is both raw in and out. I have so much worry in my gut it actually is physically coming up as ulcers.

But I keep going to class...why? Because I keep hearing my father's voice, "West's aren't quiters." and my dying persevering need not to be the one who breaks that standard that has lasted until now. But when does this vigor actually start to kill me? Because when I'm sipping mint tea to try and cool my aching gut while my eyes are hurting to even have these last 10 minutes of the day for myself outside of school to write down my true feelings...does going on really seem like courage or just stupidity?

And when can I stop feeling so bad about the fact that no one cares. I care about the careless. The ones who close doors in faces, or cut ropes, or turn away when someone screams. What is it about that that hurts so goddamn much? I don't know. I guess because I care, and because I know what it feels like to the runt, and that everyone deserves a chance to have pride...