catswimsalot-blog

[catswimsalot-blog]

PP, abortion & stuff.

With the ongoing controversy about Planned Parenthood, I think it’s about time for our generation to speak up. What does this issue mean to us? Has it helped, hurt or done nothing for girls today? If you ask me, personally, I’d say that Planned Parenthood gave me my life back – no fear of the future or dredging up of the past. Some states teach about safe sex, some tell us not to have sex, and some like my high school basically avoided the topic as much as they legally could. However, I knew better then to have unprotected sex, unlike some of my friends (how did they get so lucky?) so I never had sex without a condom because that’s the smart thing to do. So after realizing I couldn’t deal with my bitchy self any longer (and my boyfriend dumped me) - I got off the pill. Two years later, I was 21 at the time; I started talking to a guy. We took it so slow and it was perfect and then finally the night came where we decided to sleep together. It seemed perfect and everything was falling into place. Until… Two months later I kept getting sick, only to realize I didn’t remember if I had my period and the classic load of anxiety that comes with it. So while on my Thanksgiving break, pretending to be sick to my family, I went to a Planned Parenthood in town. They did another test and confirmed that I was about six weeks pregnant. As the nurses coaxed me through the different options I already knew what I had to do. I couldn’t have a baby, I was a swimmer for UA and had no plans to spend the rest of my life caring for a kid at that point. Many people think this is a selfish decision, and you’re right, it is. Yes, it was my selfish decision, but with all the pressure as a college student and people saying we aren’t just stay at home moms, we work and we’re as successful as men. Well that makes it hard to know what to do, but I already knew. I knew he wasn’t the one for me, neither of us wanted a kid, and honestly he was so relieved to hear that, it only confirmed my decision. I didn’t make this decision for just me though, I made it for the kid who was going to grow up with an unhappy, stressed out mother and I didn’t want that. Misconceptions about Planned Parenthood: 1. It is NOT always free. I paid the $500 for a procedure that would make my life normal again. Therefore not your tax money that was used because I could afford it. (I know this isn’t always the case, but its not always “bad” people that get help here.) 2. Most often abortion procedures are done in the luxury of your own home. You can take a pill at the office, then 24-48hrs later you take another. This breaks down the tissues etc. and you pass it AT HOME 3. They are not malicious people. I was cared for and felt more comfortable there than in any doctors, dentists or any other offices ever. They make sure this is what you want, they provide support ask if you need any type of therapy sessions With all the controversy going on about Planned Parenthood, I don’t have proof that they didn’t do these things, but I do know that’s not what happened with me. This may just be one story, but it’s a story that hasn’t been told, until now. Abortion is a sticky issue and normally I don’t enter the conversation for fear my blood will boil and I’ll start yelling at the people who don’t see the good in this place. Just think – If I had kept the child, I would have refused to give it up for adoption, because well it was mine. This means a 21 year old student athlete would’ve had a child and probably would’ve gone on welfare. Basically taxes suck and no one likes paying for other peoples shit, but hey were going to do it regardless of if Planned Parenthood ever gets shutdown or not, so may as well deal with it now and let people make this choice for themselves. It is their life to live, not anyone else’s.

[catswimsalot-blog]

Alas

Look, I try very hard to not write about politics. It's not healthy for me. I get highly offended and upset about this topic. But, as a liberal who disagrees with those on the right but I don’t want them dead or suffering. I actually want the best for them. We as a whole want them to live happy, fulfilled lives with wonderful jobs and opportunity for them and their families. We want them to be able to freely express their opinions, even when we disagree with those opinions vehemently. I think I speak as a majority of my party on this. But on the other hand, comments on Breitbart posts are filled with the joy in “delicious liberal tears” and having our “noses rubbed in it” and that it’s our time to “suffer now.” It’s gotten to the point that I always look at any new person I meet with suspicion. Are they one of “them” that despises me and everything I believe in? How did we ever get to this place? The talking point among members of Trump’s rabid cult is that it began with Obama. President Obama, the story goes, used race at every opportunity to beat good, working class Americans over the head and divide us into camps. He and the elite left used “political correctness” as a cudgel to silence those with traditional values and tried to shove the homosexual agenda down the throats of those whose religion told them that homosexuality was a sin. The problem, of course, with this theory is that racism and homophobia in this country predate the Obama administration by at least a couple of hundred years. No, the conning of America began with right-wing radio. Rush Limbaugh and Michael Savage and Sean Hannity became rich selling the uneducated white working and middle classes on the idea that their very real economic and loss of identity and power troubles were due to uncontrolled immigration, increasing women’s rights and the rampant immorality of the LGBTQ community. They created the “straw-man” argument that political correctness was the true enemy of freedom, rather than the racism, homophobia, and civil rights abuses that PC culture was attempting, imperfectly and overzealously at times, to correct. They then declared that the near-traitorous left had created the myth of “climate change” as a plot to eliminate jobs and destroy economic growth. The corporate propaganda inherent in these lies was obvious to anyone who could follow the money of these snake-oil salesman and charlatans, but to many white Americans, who were suddenly not living nearly as well as their parents or grandparents had, it was all too easy and convenient to believe. Fox News then took this model and turned it into the multi-billion dollar monolith it is today. In recent years, Breitbart News has come along and nearly perfected the art, posting nothing but stories of violent crime committed by immigrants, political correctness run amok and the “out of touch” political views of Hollywood’s crazy lefties. All these forces have been fueling the anger of white Americans for going on twenty-five years now, to the point that anyone who disagrees with them is a traitor or a commie or in league with terrorists and, increasingly, less than human beings. Trump’s son, Eric, even remarked this week that critics of his father were “not even human beings.” So where do we go from here? This is a question I very much wish I knew the answer to. I hate to say it but it appears that a certain segment of the population may be lost to us forever. Much to my surprise, Trump’s most aggressive followers, and there are millions of them, seem prepared to follow their hero and leader right off a cliff, if necessary. There is nothing that he can do, no act so disreputable or heinous, that they will not jump to his defense. No amount of logic or factual evidence will ever deter them from their mission. My feeling is that people have seen themselves as losers for a very long time. Because of Trump they are winners now and are not going to let that go very easily or get tired of winning any time soon. Even when Trump is inevitably impeached, I fear they will follow him blindly into the abyss. My only hope is, when this happens, we can avoid a full-blown civil war.

[catswimsalot-blog]

A Reminder About Gender Roles

Don’t fear for me. Don’t tell me that you hope that I find good man. One that will cope with my ideals, my goals, my beliefs, one that will cope with my feminism. Me being a feminist is not about making anyone feel any less valuable. It’s not about hating men. It’s about equality. Feminism, as defined by the Merriam Webster Dictionary, is the theory of the political, economic, and social equality of the sexes. Nowhere in that definition does the phrase “supremacy of women” stand. People have questioned me about this when I talk about the gender gap. Specifically men have said to me that there must be a reason for the lack of women at certain job positions. They argue that there might not be women qualified for them. Time and again I tell them that I do believe that there are women out there prepared for executive positions in a company but they’re not given the chance to compete for them. Those same men immediately come up with the same questions: “So …you want to give a certain number of those jobs to women? Isn’t that unfair for the men that are more qualified for them?” This has not happened to me once or twice, but dozens of times. And no, I’m not asking for unqualified women to take over those jobs, but to have parity in opportunities when considering candidates for them. There’s a very interesting thing that happens when a woman goes to a job interview. She’s usually questioned on whether she’s planning to get married (even though this clearly has nothing to do with the actual job) and if she is, HR recruiters ask her about her plans regarding children. If she says that she wants kids she’s seen as a liability, if she says she’s not planning on having any, she’s seen as a soulless woman. This happened to me during my very first job interview. I was 23. Let me assure you that this is not meant to be a tale of all the times women have suffered from abuse, or about how unfair life has been for us. Rather, it’s a way of acknowledging that year after year not only women but also men have suffered from oppression in their lives. They have both been victims of gender roles. At the end of the day, what defines what a man or woman should be like? Where’s the book that explains why some activities seem to make someone lesser of a man or a woman? I remember when my high-school was thinking about opening a wooden sculpting class because there were not any other “artistic” classes for men. It’s important to mention that the artistic curriculum already included painting, dance (hip hop, jazz, salsa,…), music, theatre, and singing. Now let me ask you, which of those activities are exclusive to women? According to society most of them, according to biology none of them. Strength is not exclusive to men. Sensitiveness is not exclusive to women. Dear women in my life… I fear for those of you that still believe that a woman’s purpose is to serve the men in her life. I fear for those of you who put their dreams and feelings aside and instead put those of their partners as the most important ones. I fear for those of you who don’t recognize how valuable and strong they are. I fear for those of you who still see themselves as inferiors. I fear for those of you who are teaching these to their daughters and sons. I fear for them because they might not be able to follow their passions because of the fear of appearing less of a man or woman. I fear that they won’t be able to recognize oppression. I fear that they will someday become the oppressor, or the one suffering from it.

[catswimsalot-blog]

6/22/17

“For those suffering from depression, the world has fallen apart every day and is put back together the next day.” – Emily Casalena How is a depressed person supposed to act? Who is a depressed person? If you ask the movies, most of them might say a person with depression is an introverted, shy, bullied, suicidal underdog who could’ve been saved to neurotypical-ness if the person they loved just loved them back. If you ask the poems, most of them might say a person with depression is a narcissistic, eccentric, one-of-a-kind tortured artist longing for acceptance, for purpose, for something other than the empty every day. But what if you’re depressed yet still able to post dumb, hilarious, self-deprecating jokes? What if you’re depressed yet still go about your daily routine? What if you’re depressed yet still attend parties? Although the stigma of mental health has decreased, the romanticization and stereotypes of mentally ill people, especially those with depression, seem to remain the same. Depression manifests itself in many forms. Rarely do we talk about the extroverted depressed people or the high-functioning depressed people. Of course, there are people who experience depression in a catatonic state as is often portrayed by Hollywood. Some days I feel like that, too. There are times where I want nothing but to stay in bed for an entire month because I do not have the energy to shower, eat, think, feel, or do anything at all. But more often than not, my depressive episodes coincide with my normal habits. I go to work, I clean, I play with my roommates pets, I laugh with my friends, I show up to therapy, I show up publicly, I shower, I dress nice, I gossip, I have sex, I masturbate, I joke, I take selfies, I party, I eat, I read, I exercise, I compete, I chase success – I do everything that typically indicates a well-balanced woman, however, I still grapple with myself internally. There are many people like me. There are clinically depressed people who crack jokes, crave attention, have fun, and talk loud. There are people who cope with their depression in unconventional ways. Unfortunately, many individuals can’t grasp the complexities of a depressed person. Some people, despite their left-leaning stance on mental illness, will become surprised or upset if you’re anything but strong or inspirational (especially if you’re like a lawyer, activist, manager, etc.). A person may advocate for self-care, self-love, and the normalization of mental health, yet alienate a depressed person who isn’t exhibiting the stereotypical signs and symptoms of depression. A person shouldn’t claim to advocate for the mentally ill if their support is limited to sharing on Facebook news articles on depression. Our reality isn’t just a cause you can add to your social justice resumé, especially when you ostracize us when shit hits the fan. Depressed people aren’t all Hannah Bakers or Sylvia Plaths who cultivate their depression into a thought-provoking, stirring life lesson for future generations, and depression isn’t a fever or a cold wherein you can tick off a check-box to make sure all the symptoms are there. Depression isn’t always sad, dramatic, and heart-breaking. Sometimes, depression is bitter, cynical, and angry, yet still humorous. Sometimes, depression is empty, dark, and hopeless, but still coping. Our depression may not look like how you expected it to look, but it’s still valid.

[catswimsalot-blog]

6/23/17

If I learned one thing CrossFit, it’s that sometimes you just have to gut it out. When you’re tired… When it hurts too bad… When you’re way behind… You just have to gut through it. And what you learn when you do this is that often, not always but often, the best experiences are right on the other side of this decision. Yesterday, I was working out and was miserable. I hadn’t eaten that well during the day. I was tired. I felt low energy. Immediately after I started, I was looking for an excuse to stop. A voice in my brain started going through things I was upset about from earlier in the day. I was looking for any kind of interruption that would let me quit. Nothing came, so I kept going. I’ve been in that spot before. In life and in the gym. I know that you just have to keep going. 12 minutes in the payoff arrived. Not suddenly, but it sneaks up on you, it ensues. I was mid row, the sweat was finally pouring, and those feelings of resentment and aggravation were a million miles away. As if they were never there. I smiled and kept going still. It was easy now. "By good rights I ought not to have so much Put on me, but there seems no other way. Len says one steady pull more ought to do it." -Robert Frost He says the best way out is always through. And I agree to that, or in so far As that I can see no way out but through. No way out but through. Not just the only way, it’s the best way. Because of what is on the other side. At our absolute depths of despair or at the peak of frustration all we see is that negativity extrapolated forward. The mind is really good at telling you what would happen if you don’t stop, if you don’t do something about this: You’ll die. You’ll be miserable. It’s going to keep sucking like this. It tells you to worry about what it will be like if it starts to suck even more. The worst thing you can do is listen to that voice. Not just on a workout that you don’t think you can complete, not in the middle of a fight in a relationship you’re starting to think it’d be easier to just walk away from, not in that moment when you think you’ve taken on more projects than could possibly be handled, not during the game that doesn’t look like you could win. Because it doesn’t always get worse. What the mind can’t see is that this is leading somewhere good. That those frustrating half-productive days are adding up to something, that the project is valuable because it is hard, that nobody knows how a game will end. It doesn’t always get worse. Not everything that’s hard is good of course, but almost everything good is very hard. I know that if it was easy it’d mean I wasn’t pushing myself. What I need then, is to keep pushing myself through the troughs and valleys, to gut it through from one glimpse of goodness to the next. Which if you’re the type of person who does endurance sports, you know that’s all there is to it. I’m going to finish. That’s what I do. I’m going to find out what’s on the other side. What’s on the other side? I’ll tell you. You. You are on the other side of those struggles. A you you realize you only knew a little bit about. You learn you’re capable of more than you know. That’s why you gut it out. That’s why you don’t quit. Because it never always gets worse. Because sometimes it gets unimaginably, suddenly, awesomely better. It sneaks up on you sure, but only if you let it.

[catswimsalot-blog]

9/20/16

It’s amazing how in a short period of time, two people can go from being strangers, to lovers, to best friends, to partners—only to be broken down to strangers once again. Not everyone in your life chooses to stay, but the memories do. When I think of the memories, it hurts and I hope it does for you, too. I realize that I did not appreciate anything enough. I didn’t appreciate the good mornings, the good nights; I didn’t cherish the fact that even if I didn’t call you, I knew your simple routine. But then for three months, you no longer had this routine. Or if you do, I'm no longer sure. I love you like I love night drives, like I love the first song that made me cry. I love you like I love the fall air, and so much more. I am so afraid of the future that I cling to the past. I cling to these memories from the past because I know that you and I will forever exist in these places. You exist forever in the all the things we have ever done, in all the places we have ever been. Nothing I have said in these last few months is enough to give you when you have given me everything in the entire world that I could ever want. I don’t know what I want to tell you. I don’t know if this piece of writing accomplishes anything at all. We were such good friends, and now you don’t share your secrets with me anymore. We were so in love for so long, but then one day you just… weren’t. It hurt because I have too much pride. I wore my heart on my sleeve for you, and even wagged it in front of your face once or twice. It hurt because it made me feel as though I should have known better, that I shouldn’t have been so rash in my actions. This all hurt so much because it highlighted all the terrible things I always think about myself. I make a decision every day not to let my insecurities rule me. Everyone has irrational fears about themselves, and I’m determined not to let mine define who I am. But when you left me, it was really hard to suppress these feelings. It hurt because you don't really seem to care. You moved on so easily. Almost instantly, you found someone else. I hate that the rotation was so easy for you; that you so effortlessly flicked me off your life. It hurt because while I was crying you were laughing; because I meant as much to you as a story you could tell your friends later on down the road. It hurt because I really loved you. It hurt because I wanted to be good to you, and I wanted you to be good to me too. It hurt because one day you were there and the next you weren't.

[catswimsalot-blog]

1/6/15

Depression makes me feel like such a selfish cunt. Depression makes me look like I don’t give a shit about anyone or anything. It makes me look unappreciative, ungrateful. It makes me look less and less like myself. Depression makes me feel like a horrible daughter, sister, girlfriend, best friend. It’s because the people that matter the most in my life are always there for me. They try to make me feel better when depression shows its face again. They’ll call me up on the phone, just to try to make me laugh. They’ll take me out for ice cream and a movie to take my mind off of things. They’ll walk with me through the city, drag me to the lake, swap stories with me until the sun rises. They’ll do whatever they can to help me feel better, to make me smile again. But at the end of the day, I’m still upset. Something is still off. And it fucking sucks. Not because I’m upset. You see, I don’t care about myself anymore. All I care about is disappointing them. Because whenever my depression hits, I feel like I’ve let my loved ones down. I feel like I’m making them feel bad. They don’t understand why I’m still upset after having such a fun day. After everything went right and nothing went wrong. Sometimes, they get angry and defensive. They feel like I’m silently saying they’re not good enough, that they should have done more. What do you mean you’re still depressed? I did everything I could for you today. Don’t you appreciate it?  And sometimes, they’ll just get sad that I’m sad. Upset that they don’t have the power to erase my mental illness. Their reaction doesn’t matter, because my feelings are always the same. I end up feeling like a complete asshole. I just wish they knew how much I appreciated everything they did for me and honestly, not just the big things. Something as simple as a text message, asking how my day was, or a three-second hug means the world to me. I wish they understood how much I appreciated their effort, even if I was faking smiles all day, trying to give them the reaction that they wanted, that I was supposed to feel. And I wish they realized that I’m not always faking it. Sometimes, I’m being authentic. Sometimes, I experience genuine happiness. That happiness just doesn’t seem to last. It always fades away. It becomes a memory the second the moment ends. And I hate that, because it impacts my friends and family as much as it impacts me. My depression makes me feel like a selfish bitch, like I’m bringing everyone I care about down with me, like I’m only a burden to them. But I know that isn’t true. That they love me. That they want me stick around. I just wish I could bring them as much happiness as they keep trying to bring me.

[catswimsalot-blog]

7/7/16

Do you know Zooey Deschanel of New Girl? How about Lindsey Lohan in Mean Girls? Jennifer Lawrence in Silver Linings? Logan Lerman in the Perks of Being a Wallflower? Nat Wolf of Paper Towns? Or do you know someone who would dance out of the blue and say something you don’t expect? If you do, then you will know what I’m talking about why awkward is sexy. People often think that being socially awkward is a bad thing and disastrous but in reality it’s adorable. Awkward people tend to be more approachable. For example, what would you do if you bumped into Julie Andrew’s beauty and angelic voice? I think it’s a little bit intimidating to you and be terrified but if you bumped into Lady Gaga, yeah, I just know you both could kick it on your couch and do weird impressions together with her dogs, horse, and probably with her chickens in her mansion in California. Awkward people have better dance moves. And by better, I mean objectively way worse. But when you are breaking it down on the dance floor with some weird version of the robot or like dancing with dislocated joints, at least you’re bringing some serious pleasure for everyone. Awkward people are sexy because they make the sameness of this world vanished. They create a magical and cooler atmosphere where they belong in and they attract people easily and make friends. Awkward people break tension. When people who have been in the middle of some seriously uncomfortable fights or moments between people and this certain awkward person says something that in his/her head isn’t awkward and everyone is like ‘huh?’ Unusual chuckling follows and then everyone forgets about the argument. A further extra point for awkward people is that they have infinite resources for something humorous.They can get through an embarrassing moment and make fun of it. They love to make fun of themselves and doesn’t care what people think. Awkward people are real and what we see is what we get. They don’t hide behind the closet of someone they are not. More importantly, these awkward individuals have the awkwardness that is natural to them and doesn’t make it something a big deal. They don’t try hard to be like because the crowd like the charm radiating from them. They’re just awkward and sexy as fuck.

[catswimsalot-blog]

12/23/16

I spent time with Nick last night. I already regret that so here I am. Someone once told me "It’s hard for you to find love because you’re honest. You wear your heart on your sleeve and you don’t know how to hide your feelings, play hard to get or play games, which makes people think you’re either too needy or something must be terribly wrong with you." It’s hard for me to find love because I am craving the old, sweet and pure romance. The one I've heard my grandparents talk about, the one I read in novels, the one I saw in movies. I have been looking for romance in a generation that ruined it. It’s hard for me to find love because deep down I still hope and believe that my ex will come back. I believe in second chances and comebacks and resolutions. I believe that people can’t just fall out of love with each other forever, that eventually they’ll come around, that eventually they’ll reunite and sometimes this keeps me holding on to a past that’s no longer good for me. It’s hard for me to find love because I have been so beyond heartbroken more than I have been loved. I don’t trust easily anymore, I'm too guarded, I'm afraid of opening up again to someone and they leave. I don’t know how to believe people anymore when they tell me they like me or that they care about me, I think they’re just pretending, I think they’re not being genuine and I subconsciously compare anyone to the ones who broke my heart. It’s hard for me to find love when I have secretly given up on it. I can’t be positive when everyone around is suffering because of a girl or a boy. I'm not fearless anymore because every time I put myself out there and chased love, it disappointed me and left me broken. I can’t believe that I am the exception to the rule anymore because this mentality brought more heartbreak than love. It’s hard for me to find love because I have found more safety in my loneliness. I like knowing that I don’t have to deal with anyone who could be lying to me or cheating on me or about to break my heart. I like having the upper hand. I like knowing that I'm not in a position where someone else is in control of my happiness or your emotions. I like staying away from it all so no one calls me crazy, needy, insecure, desperate or whatever label people give you when you’re in love. I like knowing that no on else will make me feel like I'm not good enough or someone else is more worthy of their time and affection. It’s hard for me to find love when I don’t know what I'm looking for. I have an idea of it in my head but I've never lived it. A friend once told me that she imagined me ending up with a "bro/frat" guy - which is hilarious. Everything has always been temporary. I don’t know forever. I mean I thought I did, but now I don't. I don’t know unconditional love. Again, I thought I did, but now I definitely don't. I don’t know what love is and sometimes it feels like I'm searching for something that might not even exist anymore.

[catswimsalot-blog]

6/3/17

When you enter your late 20s, a few very fun things start happening.

Your metabolism slows down in a way you didn’t even have to think about when you were a teenager. Yeah, that pizza you ate earlier? It’s going to show up within two hours, max. All of a sudden, you’ve gained three pounds.

Friendships become harder to navigate. Sure, you’ve got those few that are going to be around forever, but college friends start dropping like flies as soon as you aren’t in the same vicinity. Your social life starts becoming very selective. Because, like, uhhhhh, you just don’t have as many options – er, I mean friends as you once did.

But above all else, the number one thing you’ll notice when you start teetering into your late 20s, the people you grew up with are all getting engaged, married, or reproducing.

Except for you. Ha. Ha. Ha.

Despite knowing technology is on our side and if we want to have a baby when we are 107, we probably can, there’s STILL a weird societal pressure when everyone around you starts moving onward with their “adult” lives.

You feel like you’re lagging in the race. Even if you know you’re not in competition with randos on Facebook you haven’t spoken to in years. Oh, so Gina, who I used to watch throw up just so she could drink more, is now expecting her first kid? Great. WELL, this block of cheddar cheese and I are expecting our first baby too. A food baby that I will have to pass in the next 4-6 hours. I just don’t make a big deal out of it. GEEZ, GINA.

For every engagement ring I see, I pick a new kind of cheese from the grocery store to try. Also, I’m low-key lactose intolerant so I feel like more people should applaud my gallant effort.

If you’re me, a terrible thing you can do to temporarily feel better is recite divorce statistics in your head. If you’re even worse, you can pick out the specific couples from your timeline that you think won’t make it. Laugh as you do so and when all else fails, clutch your mozzarella sticks tighter.

Happiness is beautiful and exciting and YADDA YADDA YADDA. It’s not that you aren’t thrilled people you know are finding love and fulfillment. It’s that you have found that with cheese products and no one seems to congratulate you.

I love this piece of manchego and I’d love just ONE person to say, “We’re happy for you.” Because manchego and I are very happy together. It might even be true love.

[catswimsalot-blog]

6/16/17

The other night I was exhausted. I literally dragged myself across my apartment to my bathroom, frowned at my tear-stained, bags-under-my-eyes face in the mirror, slowly shrugged off my clothes with my eyes half-closed, and sat like a mope on the edge of the shower as I waited for the water to warm.

I was mentally, physically, and emotionally drained.

And it’s funny, because I don’t really show that part of myself to the world. If I’m feeling down, I try to write about empowerment. If I’m tired, I try to write about motivation. If I’m sad, I try to write about feeling carefree. Maybe it’s my little way of inspiring myself. Maybe it’s slightly hypocritical (but with good intent). Or maybe, some days, it’s almost as if I’m living a lie. I’m one person on the internet and when I’m around other people, and a completely different one when I’m behind closed doors of my two-bedroom apartment, locked away in my room - staring at the walls and wondering what the hell is wrong with me.

But is it bad to want to present a certain persona to the rest of the world? Is it wrong to want to put on a good face, or fake a smile until one naturally creeps across my cheeks?

As I sat there on the edge of the tub, I thought about all that was going on in my life. The entire day I had been pushing all the shit to the far sides of my brain. I was ignoring the anxiety creeping up. I was busying myself with obligations and patients and other random, useless thoughts. I was doing that thing I do when I’m totally overwhelmed: telling myself maybe if I ignore this long enough, it’ll just go away.

But that’s not how life works, is it?

Sitting there, I started to acknowledge why I felt like absolute hell. I was pushing myself too hard. I was taking on problems that weren’t mine to carry. I was spreading myself too thin. I was letting what I couldn’t control stress me out. I was focusing on the negative more than the positive. I was letting fear take over. Yikes.

But guess what? WE ALL HAVE PROBLEMS.

Everyone has things they’re going through. Everyone has days where they’re just completely, utterly, totally exhausted by the world. And as awful as that is, isn’t it weirdly comforting, too?

Isn’t it crazy that in this world of millions and millions of people, we’re all fighting invisible battles in our heads?

We’re all going through shit. We’re all struggling. We’re all trying to keep our heads afloat and make sense of the world around us. We’re all coming home after a long day of work and wondering if we’re on the right path. We’re all staring at our tired faces in the mirror, looking for a reminder of who we are and who we have the potential to become. We’re all running from the demons in our head, facing them, pushing against them, wrestling with them, breaking and healing and slowly finding our way.

But mine and your struggle IS valid. Exhaustion is warranted. Cries are heard.

And I want you to acknowledge the fact to that it’s okay to show people you’re hurting, it’s okay to ask for help, it’s okay to withdraw and take time for yourself, and it’s okay to put on a face for the world and take off that mask when you’re alone. It’s okay to be wherever you are, and feel whatever you feel.

[catswimsalot-blog]

"Don't write about me"

My mom asks why most things I write are sad. I tell her, “I’ve got clinical depression. Thanks for the GENETIC MAKE UP, MOTHER.” I kid, I kid. I mean, not about the depression part. That’s not a joke. I usually tell her something about people enjoying other people’s misery. We’re all very into rubbernecking heartbreak and tragedy, going all Rear Window and watching people from a comfortable distance.

I get it. I’m similar. Watching sad movies and listening to sad songs and crying with fictional TV characters. Maybe we’re a little hardwired to enjoy it. Or find comfort in it. It is, after all, something universal. The feeling of loneliness, of fear, of melancholy.

I also tell her when I write happy things, no one cares. Which is okay because I’ve always been just self-obsessed enough to get enjoyment out of what I choose to write about, regardless of if others seem into it. My mom says, “I’m sure that’s not true!” and I laugh like, oh bless you - you sweet, middle-aged woman.

Everyone wants to feel understood. They want to feel better about their own pain, so they go searching for those who share. Or those who have it worse. I write something weepy about my ex? OMG I CAN RELATE YASSSS. The crowd fucking roars. But it’s unifying. It’s validation that no one is alone.

Happiness doesn’t need that kind of validation. Happy people are just..happy. There’s no need for someone to package it back to you.

He tells me, “Don’t write about me.” Automatically, I say, “Okay.“

Only later do I think about what this means. Only later do I realize how stifling this is. Never do I set out to hurt anyone. Never do I write to be vindictive. Still, I have a story. Am I not allowed to share that? Am I not allowed to speak it out loud?

I catch myself pausing before letting my fingers hit the keyboard. I know he’s still reading. I know he’s still checking in. I know he’s looking.

Don’t write about me.

This is the writer’s dilemma.

Should you sanitize? Is this kind of honesty only reserved for fictional Carrie Bradshaw? Where is the line? How much should you say? What should you keep locked inside?

I don’t have the answers. I am constantly second guessing myself. I’m still not sure how much of that is left-over from him. How much of that is me wanting him to regret our last convo.

We don’t always write about the people who flatter themselves thinking we do. We don’t always shine a spotlight on every story.

First and foremost, we are creatives. Internet be dammed. I mean, not really. I fucking love you, Internet. But we existed before you. We wrote poems on napkins. We constructed songs in backseats. We took photos via disposable cameras. I’m an over sharer. I always have been. I extrapolate my feelings.

Sharing is just part of me.

Millennials are ridiculed for this need to overshare. This need to document every moment.

Who fucking cares?

As children, we’re taught to share. We’re told it’s an incredible gift.

And I still choose to think like that.

I’m an over sharer. Wannabe blog writer. A poet. A bleeding heart.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

[catswimsalot-blog]

6/20/17

Recently, I fell into a pothole. While I wish that was a metaphor, it’s not, because my life is actually a dumpster fire that refuses to burn out. Either way, I like to think that God personally chose me to fall into the shit ass hole in Tuscaloosa, Alabama in front of a group of innocent bystanders and a homeless man.

Before I made my way into what appeared to be a tunnel leading to the center of the Earth’s core, I saw my life flash before my eyes.

I was trying to be very sexy and confident that night, but that all turned into a shit show, per usual, due to my inability to just, you know, not make an idiot out of myself. As I tripped over a plate, my ankle and dignity snapped off of my body and fell into a gutter somewhere.

Unfortunately, for me, I was wearing a very short dress that exposed a lot of side boob. Something about a little side boob really does it for the boys, but it’s a lot less hot when your utters just completely fall out into the street.

I’m talking about the kind of scene that parents shield their children’s eyes from. This was full-blown XXX-rated, NSFW. I honestly should’ve been compensated for my work, but not even a single person threw a dirty dollar bill at me.

As I fell, which felt like a solid 27 minutes, each of my boobs plopped out, one by one. Total exposure via clumsy hoof feet leaves a lot less to the imagination. Thankfully, I have great boobs, so I was less embarrassed about flashing a group of people, but that didn’t stop my entire ass from showing.

There I was, humiliated, exposed, vulnerable, hurting, and horrifically embarrassed, but I chose to laugh it off, rather than Scarlett O’Hara the hell out this scene in front of a group of strangers, because frankly my dear, my entire areola was gleaming under the moonlight, which was dramatic enough for me.

I wanted everyone to know that I was not intoxicated, so I yelled very loudly, “I wish I was drunk!” which didn’t exactly seem believable, considering I just face-planted into a giant crevice the size of a full-length Shaquille O’Neal.

My rebel yell was proceeded by quickly stuffing my boobs back into where they belonged and picking up my scraped-up, bleeding knees off the gritty, sage-burning streets of Tuscaloosa. Alabama.

This whole night was a total blow to my already, apparently fragile, ego. I say that in good stride, because about 4 months ago, I was told that I had “ego issues,” after I told a fuckboy that I wasn’t really into what he was all about.

Bye, Felicia.

Nevertheless, my already frail, womanly ego, was about to suffer another devastating blow.

I had dressed up to meet up with this guy who had worked all day and passed out before I even got into town. There weren’t concrete plans, but I was kind of bummed when he hit snooze on me.

But you know what? It was actually really funny, because the whole pothole incident could actually be turned into a metaphor.

Sometimes, life really does throw you a few potholes. You’re just driving along and all of the sudden you hit a bump in the road. Or if you’re anything like me, it’s a bump in the road, followed by an enormous car accident, casually followed by a train ramming into your car at 150 miles per hour.

Some of my greatest lessons have been enormous potholes in the road. It always feels like when I’m traveling down the wrong path, I seem to blow out a tire and be led in a different direction.

Although I’m a huge believer in things happening for a reason, I think I probably just fell into a literal pothole because I’m clumsy, but it did make me think about the concept of picking yourself up and dusting off when life throws shade at you. While, I was on the ground for a few moments, I was able to recover pretty quickly.

Sometimes laughing at yourself is necessary. Learn your lessons, take them in stride, and when you fall into a pothole, pick yourself up and keep moving on. Laying there in agony and acting dramatic only adds insult to injury, which is something that I’ve also learned from.

Sometimes bad things happen to good people for no apparent reason. We’re not meant to understand everything that occurs in our lives, but I like to think that we’re all led on a path. I know I’ve been guilty of thinking that I have it all figured out and then I bust my ass wide-open in the middle of the street. Sometimes it’s meant to work out that way for a reason that we don’t quite understand in the moment.

So basically, what I’m saying is that when you fall on your ass, because you will, stuff your boobs back into your shirt, and keep moving on. Laugh it off, cry it off, bleed it off, whatever you have to do, but don’t take too long getting back up, even if it hurts. You never know what opportunities are waiting for you, even after an epic failure or enormous life change.

Most importantly, be proud of yourself for standing back up. A lot of people don’t have the courage to even try to move forward after they have these experiences. Getting knocked down blows, but it’s really cool to say that you lived and learned from tough times.

[catswimsalot-blog]

6/10/17

“You’re handling it so well.” “You look great.” "I’m sure everything will be fine.”

These are often the trite responses I hear after delivering a story containing words and phrases such as “near death experience due to a tornado” and “PTSD, depression and anxiety.” Before telling my story, I would have already selected which words to use, at what points to pause, where to lock my gaze, and how to transition to the next conversation. It’s part-art, part-science, and a whole lot of experience. I know how to have these conversations, and I can usually predict how people will respond. See, I used to think that people didn’t want to hear about my illness prior to this event because we were just starting college, and it was probably uncommon and we should be working towards a degree or doing well in swimming, not medical tests and hospitals visits. Then, I assumed people didn’t want to hear about because these were best four years of our lives! Who could be bothered with questions why am I here? Now as young adults, we’re faced with the struggles of paying rent and still boozing it up on Sunday’s brunches. Most twenty-seven years olds don’t worry about affording monthly doctor’s visits. Over the years I’ve tried different ways of bringing up and talking about my chronic illness, but I’m realizing that chronic illness is never something people want to talk about, no matter at what age or phase in life. I’ve learned that if I talk honestly about it and reveal my problems, most people’s immediate reaction is to tell me everything will be okay. It makes sense. They want to make me feel better by complimenting my appearance. They dare to assume that the confident tall brunette exterior isn’t just a facade I’ve created over the years, and that I just have to continue to be my strong self. Nobody ever has a satisfying response, and how could they? What could anyone say to truly make me feel better? So, I’ve learned to not be honest. I’ve become calculated in not just how I talk about my chronic disorders, but in how I interact with everyone all the time. I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable by forcing them to think about my situation. I don’t want to sound unnecessarily dramatic. I don’t want friends to feel sorry for me, or people to think that I can’t handle the same workload as them. So what do I do? I put on a show. Everyone buys it, and occasionally I even fool myself. But I never really forget who I am. As I grow up and try to make my mark in this world, I don’t want my diseases to define me. But how can it not when it exists in the most fundamental part of who I am? Obviously I look great, people tell me all the time (they buy the show). But hearing this only reminds me that no one wants to see the real me, the vulnerable me, paralyzed by anxiety and fear. The me that could fall apart and burst into tears at any moment. Like most people who live with a chronic problems, I have to compartmentalize my health problems and go about my life as normally as I can. I only engage with that compartment when the time is right and when the person I’m with can handle it. Those times and people are few and far between, and even then, I keep the discourse high-level and casual compared to what I’m really feeling inside. I have learned how to talk (and not talk) about these things. But it’s been 6 years and I haven’t learned how to actually live with PTSD. I don’t know how to be the real me in my life anymore. I’m not sure it’s something I will ever figure out, and until then, I’ll keep up with the show. I’ll stay strong, I’ll look great, and I’ll tell myself that everything will be fine. 

[catswimsalot-blog]

Life, love and bullshit.

I don’t typically like to write about love and relationships, because…let’s be honest, I’m not good at them. Nothing I’m about to say is revolutionary anyways. It’s all very basic, actually, common sense for the heart. But it’s important nonetheless.

I am a twentysomething female in the South that is constantly bombarded with questions from everybody. “When exactly are you getting married?” and my personal favorite - “Girl, you need to tie someone down!”

Translation: “We already wrote you off as one of those Rose for Emily types, bless your heart.”

I’ve realized that this is how you get them to stop - when they ask you about the dream wedding that you don’t dream about because you’re somewhat of a tomboy, just tell them the truth. The Ying Yang Twins are now affordable to be booked for BBQ joints and small county fairs, so it’s actually quite possible that your family could book them for a wedding. I mean, who doesn’t want to break in matrimony with “The Whisper Song”? They left me be after that.

There’s no shame in waiting.

There is nothing wrong with me staying single until I find a relationship worth fighting for. This relationship DOES exist. It might find me when I am 27, 34, or 57. It might have knocked on my door at 22, and then it disappeared awhile before it reemerges when I am 29. It might arrive dressed in uncertainty or shrouded in logistical difficulties. It might look nothing like what I expected it to. But something in my gut will tell me to give it a chance, to pursue it in spite of whatever doubts I might have.

Until then, I won’t bother trying my hardest to make anything less resemble long-term happiness. I won’t bother smiling my way through yet another dreary, miserable, or psychotic dinner date because I am aching to be in a relationship. I won’t pretend that I find someone’s flaws totally endearing when in fact they make me cringe with discomfort. I won’t compromise over and over again just to keep some fuzzy version of lasting love alive.

One night after one too many glasses of wine and a heavy heart, I wrote myself a letter.

*grunt followed by a massive eye roll*

Cat, Stay single until you find someone who automatically energizes you. Someone who, just by being him or herself, motivates you to be a better you. Even when they’re far away.

Stay single until you experience the special brand of comfort that accompanies reassurance from someone who genuinely cares. Someone who, with a few simple words of encouragement, can turn your day around instantly. Stay single until you meet your match. Someone who’s unwilling to let you get away with being anything other than your best self. Someone who pushes you to do better, think harder, and reach farther. Stay single until you’re in a relationship with someone you can fight with without that signifying the end of your world. Someone who drives you insane, but never to the point that you can imagine life without them. Someone you can rely on to stick around, even when shit gets tough and you kind of want to stab each other’s eyeballs out. Someone who gets that perfection is a myth and real life involves mishaps, misunderstandings, and miscommunications.

Stay single until you find the kind of balance with another human being that’s impossible to manufacture. One hundred percent authentic admiration and mutual respect.

Stay single until you find this or you’ll miss out on the type of relationship you deserve by settling for anything less.

….While, it seems appropriate to end it on that note, I can’t.

CUE THE YING YANG TWINS.

“Hey how you doin lil mama? lemme whisper in your ear Tell you sunthing that you might like to hear…”

[catswimsalot-blog]

Worst date of my fucking life. Thanks New York.

About 3 weeks after moving to New York for my internship, I went on, hands down, the worst date of my life. My boyfriend (at the time) and I decided to take a break since it was summer and we wouldn’t see each other until August. Anyways, this date…it wasn’t even a bad date. Instead, it was basically like someone transported me into my own personal vision of hell for an hour.

A little background information about the situation: I’d been seeing this guy for maybe two weeks and was totally turned off by the fact that he had a small child that looked exactly like him. My friends were saying things like, “WHAT? You can’t date someone with a kid. That’s not you at all.“ - I’m a great listener, therefore I decided to keep seeing him.

While some women do like the whole daddy thing, I would rather stick my hand into my food processor than date someone with a kid. It’s an established fact about myself. It’s not fair on me or the kid because I currently feel like children are a burden to society.

Honestly there was nothing wrong with this guy. Okay, that’s a lie, but on the surface, he was your standard nice guy. He was good looking, seemingly sweet, and did cute things like send flowers to my work. But there was one thing I couldn’t get over. His teeth.

Scratch that. There were two things I couldn’t get over. His teeth and his voice. His teeth were the nail in the coffin for me. It’s not like they were fucked up or anything. They were incredibly nice, but why did every single one of his shiny teeth show when he smiled? Why did he clench his mouth together and talk through a smile? Smiling with your teeth clenched together, while speaking is like one of the creepiest things a person can do. Eyes wide, teeth bared. It’s a fucking aggressive look.

And don’t get me started on his voice. His voice was like a thousand pencils being electrically sharpened inside my ear drum. He spoke like an announcer at a high school baseball game. That’s honestly the best way I can describe it. I don’t know. It was weird. Pretty normal flaws to pick out about a person, right?

Even though his teeth legitimately gave me true fear, I was bored and lonely. So, one night I set up a date to go meet him in Brooklyn. I got to the restaurant a little early and waited for him to show up. I wasn’t about to sit alone for 10 minutes, so I walked into an Urban Outfitters across from where we were eating. As I browsed through some records, I noticed someone jump out from behind a clothes rack. Oh boy. This was gonna be fun. Immediate regret washed over my soul. Oh yes, I felt completely dead inside. He gave me a HUUUUUGE hug and I felt one of my ovaries just entirely remove itself from my body. We walked into the restaurant and sat down at the bar. He smiled, talking through his teeth. Oh boy.

I was peer-pressured into ordering a whiskey on the rocks, my least favorite liquor of all time. Many people love it, but due to the amount of times that I’ve thrown up onto the floors of Egan’s Bar because of it, I would rather not. In a power move, he told me that he’d be choosing the whiskey for me. He was choosing. After I just said I didn’t care for whiskey. Okay. I like a man who is a bit aggressive, but this felt like your high school prom date trying to show off by ordering you the house special. I laughed and said, “Okay, whatever. I was kind of thinking about a dirty martini, actually.” “Well, I guess you’ll just have to see what I order for you,” he said, still talking through his Mister Ed (yes, the horse) teeth. Naturally, he ordered what I wanted and then misprounced his own drink (margarita). I barely even speak Spanish and he spoke it fluently, so how did that happen? Not sure.

Conversation was sparse to say the least. This is where it gets good. First, we talked about boring things like the weather, but then it took an unexpected turn when he leaned over into my ear and sexily said: “So, your friend I met, she’s kind of fucked up, huh?”

Smooth.

How did we go about talking about the breeze in Brooklyn to my “fucked up” friend and why are you trying to make this an intimate moment? I had so many questions.

“Dude, you’ve met her once and she was extremely nice to you, what are you even talking about?” I said, attempting to avoid a sunburn on my retinas from his bleached teeth. Seriously, was he using 100 Crest white strips per day?

“No, she’s fucked up!” he aggressively countered me.

“Okay, in what way, because I definitely don’t think that? I mean, everyone has their own issues, but I legitimately have no clue what you’re talking about.” I said.

He sighed dramatically to the point where people from, oh…I don’t know, every other table could hear. “Look, you know what I’m talking about,” he said as he gripped my hand and clenched his teeth all in the same motion. He honestly looked like he just sharted.

This was just beginning to get weird. I still had about 30 more minutes of this to work through.

“What’s up with our waiter, he’s such a douche!” he began to complain within earshot of the guy serving our table. “I don’t know, I guess maybe he had a bad day. I can’t imagine that he grew up wanting to be a waiter at 30,” I responded. “Yeah, well fuck that! If I’m paying someone a tip, they’re going to work for it. He’s acting like a little bitch.” K, let’s keep in mind that the waiter is hearing this entire conversation and my face has officially turned into something that looked close to a melting clock from a Dali painting. I was in sheer horror.

I’m one of those people that let’s that shit go. Because, being a waiter sucks and I suppose I have a limited amount of empathy for others? It’s not a big deal. I’m on a date to have fun, not make other people feel uncomfortable.

Our food came out and he aggressively took our plates from the guy like a teenage girl who just got her period for the first time. I took about two bites out of my food and decided I had lost my appetite. The waiter came back by and asked how everything was, in which I took the opportunity to go ahead and grab the bill. I knew otherwise I’d be there all night dealing with this shit. When the bill came out, I cannot make this up: he threw his credit card at the bill and then picked up a knife and stared at it for about 10 solid seconds.

Interesting/terrifying.

My eyes turned towards the empty barstool beside me as I glanced at an imaginary person like, “Are you seeing this shit?”

We left the restaurant and he didn’t speak a word to me. Finally, I decided to say something. "So, what’s up with all your negative vibes tonight? You’re acting really fucking weird.”

Probably not the best thing to say to someone who’s about to kidnap you, but you know.

“I have no clue what you’re talking about. That was an amazing date! I wanted to keep hanging out! I was having a great time and you just had to end it,” he said sullenly as we approached my cab.

“Yeah…no. Things were definitely weird,” I said. He then awkwardly embraced me. I stood there with my arms pressed against my side, while he began to boa constrict around my body. I was finally released from the prison of his arms and he then began walking away in the most dramatic way that I’ve ever seen in my entire life. It was like bad child acting. He quite literally stomped off, dragging his feet with each step.

I got in the cab, took a second to collect my thoughts, and we drove past him. As the car got closer to whatever weird Frankenstein walk that he was doing, he quickly turned around in a flash, popped his head up, produced one of those psycho clenched teeth smiles, and began frantically waving to me.

What the fuck…I had to get out of here, like yesterday.

We drove up to the voucher guy and he said, "I’m sorry ma’am, we need a bill from the restaurant to let you out,” he rehearsed. "Look, dude. I just went on the worst date of my life and there’s no fucking way that I’m going back to get the bill from the guy. He’s crazy and I need to get out of here now.” He let us through. It was a good thing, because I was prepared to tell the driver to ram through the barrier at any given second. As the guy drove me home, my phone kept flashing with messages.

While this isn’t the end of this story, I feel like this is a good place to cut it.

[catswimsalot-blog]

Religion. Say What?

As a kid, something just didn’t click with me and religion. I grew up in the Catholic Church. I went to my Cadicism classes, mass and a family lunch afterwards, but to be perfectly honest, I hated church. I still do. At first I was humiliated by this. But, I just honestly didn’t really want to go to church. It was boring and I didn’t like it. My parents, my brother and I would attend almost every Sunday, but all I ever wanted was for them to wake up one day and tell me that church in itself wasn’t important to them. Spirituality and having a relationship with God, yes. But church, no. And even if things would’ve been different, I think I still would’ve turned out the same. I think if they would’ve pushed it any harder, I would’ve rejected spirituality all together. I don’t like labels, I don’t like being told what to believe by someone “above” me, I don’t like guilt, and I don’t like conforming. You know what’s even worse? “Cool” churches, which are the latest, hottest trend in churches. “Oh, you don’t like church? Come to my church. It’s so cool!” Cool churches appeal to millennials and the one dad who won’t stop wearing Affliction t-shirts. And let me straight up tell you, they’ve got their marketing down to a T. Literally, I was handed a pamphlet for an Easter Sunday gathering a month or so ago, while I was at lunch one day. I was like, “Wow, this marketing is really cool!” as I threw it straight into the closest trash can on my way out. Religion isn’t for everyone. While I’m a spiritual person, I don’t want to wake up at 9:00 a.m. to go to church. Maybe this comes from going to old-school Catholic mass growing up, but I’m living my life how I want to and I’m not going to feel a constant burden for doing so. Some people enjoy church, they enjoy being a part of a community, and they honestly need to be spiritually guided by someone. I am not one of those people, but I would never diss someone for needing or wanting those things. I respect people of all faiths (granted that you’re not in a cult or a terrorist) and I think that sometimes religion can be a phenomenal, life-changing experience. And sometimes it can be wicked, destructive, guilt-ridden, and controlling. But I get it. I see it within my own friends. I’ve recently watched one of my friends undergo an enormous change within herself and I think a huge part of it has to do with religion. It’s beautiful and I’m extremely happy for her. With that being said, my inner peace is already here. Yeah, I’m a f*ckup about 80% of the time, but I’m fine. I don’t need a live Christian rock band to help me find my way back on the right spiritual path. I’d rather go on a hike and find peace there. I believe in God, but maybe not in the same way that other people do. And that’s okay. Over the years, I’ve grown able to stop rationalizing my reasons for not going to church. It’s been very liberating. I just get to be me and believe in what I believe in.