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I haven’t seen you smile Part 3 of 3

“You aren’t as happy as you used to be”

No, I’m not

I’ve started burying myself in reality

I smile, and then think of the depression

I think of the anxiety

I think of the fear

To sum it up

I’ve lost the ability to remain happy for longer than a second

I don’t know if it’s because I feel guilty

Or because I’m scared to feel happy

Or just because of this chemical imbalance in my brain

I’ll never know

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I haven't seen you smile Part 2 of 3

“You laugh too hard”

Have you ever gone on a bender? 

Ever felt yourself completely give way to an emotion, or a feeling

Ever let the alcohol take you too far

Because the responsibilities are weighing on you like a ton of bricks

And all you want to do is not feel that thing anymore

Even for an hour

No matter how hollow you know you’ll feel after

Due to feeling all that responsibly piling up and crush your soul

Laughing is a bender. It’s out of control

Because I never laugh anymore

I chuckle and then am reminded by depression

Or anxiety, like a teacher shushing a student in school

Because I am not focusing on what I should be focusing on

Which is inconsolable misery

And unexplainable sadness

For. No. Reason.

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Day 3, post 1

Today was hard!! V long, about 10 hour shift and i didn't get to eat. I had 2 large groups, one of which showed up 30 minutes into an hour long appointment (Yay inconsiderate people!) and another had a bunch of two year olds who should NOT have been getting the service they did because they were teeny and unable to sit that long. BUT right after that, I had a client come in with hair well past her butt (!!!!!!) who sat down and said “I want to donate my hair to the kids with cancer!” Kids donating their hair makes my heart so happy. I love how giving kids are, they truly love making people happy. She cut off a foot and a half of hair, and totally turned my day around. She was so sweet and happy, and truly reminded me of how much i love my job! Here’s to another busy day tomorrow and then a day off (YAY) on Monday with my sister! Day 3 was a 7/10!

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Day 2, post 1 (technically)

While not technically *posted* on day 2, I thoroughly enjoyed spending the evening with a few friends (new & old), and getting to know them better! Also exploring my hometown a little bit and what it had to offer made me a little more relaxed about this summer. It’s not quite as suffocating as I felt it was– funny, it’s definitely bigger than my college town and yet feels so much smaller. But good friends and martinis definitely made my day yesterday. And it has some kickass bars who have really good lady’s night deals and karaoke (even if slightly creepy middle aged men hover around you for an hour or so)! My friend won $50 on accident because he has the voice of an angel. Also, because I don’t have a picture of her, i’m just going to mention a repeat client I had (who’s a 5 year old girl and SO cute) and she makes my day every time I get to cut her hair- she also specifically requests me (In hairstyling, that’s a big deal- especially when it comes to kids), which made me feel appreciated and valued by customers in my job cause sometimes I feel like people ignore the fact that I’m an actual person. So Day 2 was a solid 9/10!

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I haven’t seen you smile  Part 1 of 3

“I haven’t seen your face light up”

I haven’t seen my insides light up

Haven’t felt my brain give a spark

Haven’t felt my heart smile

Haven’t felt my stomach turn into thousands of butterflies

Since I don’t know when

It’s hard to force an expression you don’t feel

But I’m getting pretty good

Sometimes, I worry I don’t even have a face anymore

The masks have been taking it’s place for so long

What If It got tired of waiting around to truly be seen and left

I don’t know if I would mind that,

At least then it wouldn’t be constantly fighting to be seen

At least then I wouldn’t have my family constantly telling me

That I’m not the same person I was when I was 4

Happy and giggly and joyful

Or that I’ve changed since I was 15

Witty, full of banter, and always smiling

Or that, at 18, I didn’t act this way

I was funny, loving, and comforting to those around me

Now I’m 21

And I’m abrasive, harsh, and blunt

Sometimes, I like who I am

Other times, I don’t

But all they know is the mask that I show them

And most of the time, they don’t even like that

because I’ll only let the charade go so far for them

But, at least that aspect of me, I like

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Day 1, post 1 of ...?

I don't know how long this will go on for, but i’m hopeful that I can keep this up and make it a habit! In short, I want to try focusing more on what makes me happy. It varies day to day, as I’m sure everyone knows. And somedays it might be hard. But today, I’m starting small. I watched a yoga video today (Yoga with Adrien. Check her out, 10/10 would recommend to a friend) and the video was titled “I create...” and I filled it in with “I create my own happiness!” Happiness is a hard thing to come by for me sometimes, but i’m optimistic that this will make it easier. Also, I washed out a coffee cup that used to hold dried up pens in my basement because I think it’s cute and coffee cups with sayings on them give me a large amount of joy. I also gave myself the ability to put multiple posts in one day because I don't want to limit the amount of happy things I can acknowledge in a  day. Some days there will be more than others, but everyday I’m determined to post at least 1! 

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A diagnosis

I haven’t been writing for a while, due to a need to process things. It’s been strange, the aversion to writing my need to process has caused, due to this being how I (primarily) figure things out. Maybe I’m trying to create an area in my brain that can process things on my own. Maybe I’m growing as a person. Who knows?

Anyways, a few weeks ago, 3 days before I left college to head back to my hometown, I got a diagnosis. I requested learning disability testing (something that should have been done much earlier, I’m sure, but better late than never!), and the results that came back shocked me. I’ve gotten vague suggestions on what I might be dealing with based on what people saw when I interacted with the world, and for the most part what I heard was anxiety stemming from ADHD. However, the diagnosis that came back was… Well, it was scary to me. Officially, I’ve been diagnosed with ADHD, as well as severe anxiety and depression. The last one hit me hardest of all. I have a generally happy disposition (or at least I try to), and depression was always something I’d heard... But never acknowledged feeling. Or maybe never tried hard enough to understand. I’m really not sure anymore. 

My psychiatrist, the one who spent 8 hours straight getting to know me, pointed out that just because I played off my thoughts with things like “I don’t want to die, I just. Think it would be easier to be in a coma for a while,” or “I would just rather stop existing. I don’t want to go through the actual act of dying.” But those thoughts are still suicidal. Somedays, I don’t want to get out of bed. I say it’s because I’m tired, but normal people don’t sleep 9+ hours a night and then take three or more one hour naps a day. My diagnosis made me face facts with reality. I, like many others, have had depression rear it’s ugly head.          

Telling my family was a trip. My mom, bless her, didn’t want to believe it. I gave her my papers with my official diagnosis on it and she cried. I hate seeing my mom cry. She told me she felt like she’d failed me, but in reality she gave me the best she physicaly could. I love and admire her always for that. She has been supportive ever since, offering to take me to counseling, to pray with me (she’s still in denial about my religion but I know she’s trying).

My dad, much like every other major life event, downplayed it. He nodded, listened, and then the topic changed. What else is new? Later, when he finally decided to acknowledge it, he told me he knew I’d get better when I “got right with God.” If I had a dollar for every time my dad has told me that a god that I do not support or believe in would cure my ailments, I’d be a very rich girl and wouldn’t have to have him paying for my college. Ah, c’est la vie.

For now, I’m still processing. I’m scared, worried, anxious (at least I know how to handle that one) and trying my best to figure out counseling. If my previous experiences with professional help are any indication, it’ll be one hell of a summer.

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I’ve Been Suffering for Two Years Now

Sometimes, we just need someone to come along and say “you don’t deserve to be feeling this way, and to prove that to you, I’m going to help. Because I care about you and because you matter and because I want you to be happy.” Not paid professionals. Not someone who’s job it is to help. But someone you love, who loves you back, and the idea of the world without you scares them so much they’d do anything to make sure you stay in it for as long as possible. But to do that, people have to be let in. Not everyone’s good at being intuitive, or decoding your cries for help. But it’s also really hard to open yourself up to people, and tell people that you’re broken. Because they’ll either love you more for it, try to fix you, or treat you like a fragile doll who’ll break at any moment. Sometimes, it’s nice to have people in your life who think you’re normal. But that’s a wall you have to keep building up, because the crazy wants out and it’ll do whatever it takes to show itself. And eventually, you start to feel even crazier for it, so the wall probably just isn't worth it in the first place. Cause eventually, it gets really damn annoying learning that there’s more things wrong with you. 

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Princess vs. Princess

Let me preface this by saying that, I love Emma Watson, I truly do. She’s a beautiful actress, who’s very inspirational with the work she’s done for the rights of (most. She can be somewhat exclusionary) women across the world. I also loved the recent live action Beauty and the Beast movie she did. I thought it was beautiful and wonderful and magic. I also truly admired the way they had Belle portrayed in the movie as being smart, creative, kind, caring, and pretty badass. I did, however, read an article with a quote (down below), where Watson says that Cinderella is not a strong female role model, or at least not the right kind. Now, Watson can think the character resonates better with her all she wants, and from what I’ve learned about her, that’s true. However, do not belittle another princess, another role model, that could very well be the reason that some people, me included, made it through their childhood. Cinderella, also, is just as curious, compassionate, and open minded as Belle. Just not in the traditional sense that everyone understands. People should dig a little deeper.

 “I didn’t know they were going to make Beauty and the Beast at the time I turned down Cinderella, but when they offered me Belle, I just felt the character resonated with me so much more than Cinderella did. She remains curious, compassionate and open-minded. And that’s the kind of woman I would want to embody as a role model, given the choice.” – Emma Watson for Total Film Magazine.

 Watson’s first claim here, is that Belle is the kind of role model she would want to embody because she is curious. Well, Emma, I realize that you may not have watched Cinderella 500 times in your life like I have, but let me (respectfully) correct you. Cinderella, in many ways, is just as curious as Belle. No, she doesn’t spend her days inventing and day dreaming about adventure. But that’s because she can’t. She’s constantly being emotionally and verbally abused by her stepmother and stepsisters being treated essentially like a slave, in the house she grew up in. She doesn’t have time for daydreaming and drawing inventions, because if that’s how she’s treated while she’s working, can you imagine how they would treat her if she were to take a second for herself and think, relax, or even daydream?  She does, in fact, long for a life outside her house, also “more than she can tell.” She dreams of it constantly, (hell, that’s where her main song comes from) and she’s willing to pursue those dreams and fight for them to become a reality in every way possible. The possibilities, for her, just aren’t as vast as they are for a girl living in a small village in France, with a loving, caring father. That is not to belittle Belle in any way, but her struggles were just vastly different, and those who have never suffered parental abuse would never be able to know that, obviously. But don’t speak in absolutes for the whole world if you can’t see it from every angle first.

 Don’t even get me started on her not being as compassionate as Belle. Do we not remember the fact that she allows animals to live in her bedroom so they’ll be safe from the cat? And they she helps them get food clothes (ok, animals might not need clothes) to help them feel loved? Not only that, she cares for animals, like Lucifer, who are just as awful to her as her “family,” because he’s essentially a helpless animal as well? She’s as compassionate as Belle, she just doesn’t have as much chance to show it, as with most other aspects of her life.

  Open-mindedness, by the way, Is the premise of Cinderella’s whole movie. She’s all about dreaming, and dreaming is just allowing the idea that something better might come along to take root in your mind. Those who have suffered emotional, physical, and verbal abuse know best, that gathering the energy and motivation to keep going feels, most days, impossible. Cinderella not only does that, but she does it with hope in her mind at all times. Can you imagine being a slave in your own home, a home you were once so loved in, and still thinking, “someday, the dream that I wish will come true.” I don’t know a lot of people that could have done that. It takes courage, resilience, and perseverance. Qualities that Cinderella, and Belle, both have.

  So, while Emma Watson, I kknow, meant well, the sentiment she’s putting out is not only wrong, it’s belittling for people, like me, who watched Cinderella growing up and were able to say, “if she can survive it, I can too.” None of this makes Cinderella a better role model than Belle, or vice versa. It just means Belle might be more inspirational for some, and Cinderella might as well. Role models don’t have to be a “one size fits all” situation.

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An Ordinary Day

These are sometimes the hardest

The ordinary should be the easiest to deal with

Funny, isn’t it?

  I don’t want to get out of bed most mornings

Not for the underwhelming day looming ahead of me

These are sometimes the hardest

  What’s the point when I could just do the same thing tomorrow?

I’m already going to anyways, might as well work up energy for the repetition

Funny, isn’t it?

  I want adventure and change and excitement

I don’t want to feel trapped by my own amotivation

These are sometimes the hardest

  Another day is gone from the future and present

April 24th 2017 will never happen again, and what did you do?

Funny, isn’t it?

  I want to make adventure myself

The world has so much to offer, and yet another day has passed, unseized

These are sometimes the hardest

Funny, isn’t it?

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You Took More Than You Thought

I always remember your voice on the sidelines

“Keep going! Further left! You got this!”

I always knew what to do when you were around

Because you were always right

Your decisions, your morals, your character traits

I couldn’t doubt you for one second

What would make you think I didn’t need you anymore?

 I had a pale blue t-shirt that said “daddy’s girl” in purple sparkly letters

I wore it as often as mother would allow

A banner, a testament to the fact

That you were my best friend

My rock, my fortress

A presence that made me feel safe, confident, and secure

What could make you think you were indispensable?

 You couldn’t have held on a little bit longer? 

You couldn’t have tried harder? 

You couldn’t have pretended you were stronger?

Not even for me?

The girl with the pale blue t-shirt with purple sparkly letters?

I looked up to you more than anyone in this world

Whatever your thoughts are now, they’re always wrong

 You threw that away for some cheap vodka

That you “secretly” stashed in your desk drawer

You threw that away for the $50 bourbon

That your brother gave you last Christmas

Little did he know you weren’t picky

About what allowed you to forget about the world for a few hours.

It’s scary that I understand your thoughts

I sometimes wish I could feel numb now too

 Your actions took more than your license that one night

I don’t understand why you had to drive

I don’t understand you at all anymore

Your thoughts are unreliable and shaky

I’m sure they’re directed at the drink you wish you could have

They took my stability. My assuredness in this world

They took away a daddy’s girl.

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Pure, Raw, Sleep Deprived Emotions.

“I just wish you could trust me.” Good god, what a statement. First, so do I. I wish I could trust you to make the right decision, I wish I didn’t feel like I must tell everyone how to fix their lives, only to have to go back and apologize for not trusting them. I wish I didn’t constantly feel like I need to fix people, and I wish I didn’t gravitate to the broken. If I don’t, who will? At least those people understand me a little better. At least I can be myself around them, not a constantly toned down version of my own crazy. Truth be told, I’m not strong. Not this time. I’m scared what I’m going to do without you because I can’t see someone else being fucked up enough to deal with how fucked up I am. It doesn’t help that the only time I tell people about my own goddamn bullshit is when they’re telling me about their own, or when we’re making inappropriate jokes and I find a way to slip in that my dad’s a cheating alcoholic who makes me feel like I don’t matter enough in this world. I’m scared that you left, and I’m scared cause you could tell me 10000 times that it’s not because of me, and that you still really like me and care about me and the only way I’ll believe you is if you stayed, and that’s just the truth. But I can’t ask you to stay just for me, and I never would, if only cause on the opposite end of the spectrum from crippling anxiety and self-esteem issues is a different demon: pride.

 I’d never ask anyone to stay just for me, then the constant knowledge that I’m the only reason they’re staying would eat me alive and eventually I’d end up pushing them away anyways. I felt like you were looking for a reason to stay, and I wanted to drive to your house and shout at you “STAY FOR ME. I’M THE REASON. WHY CAN’T THAT BE ENOUGH?” in all honesty, for you, it probably would be. But that’s not enough for ~me~. You know your brain is a fucked-up place when you don’t even consider yourself enough for someone else, let alone yourself. God that’s pathetic. Does It boil down to “daddy issues?” Hell yeah, in all honesty. If I’d been 13 years older when my dad left, maybe I’d have the confidence to ask him to stay for me, but I don’t understand how people do that. How do people stand in front of the person they love (yeah, it’s a strong word and I don’t give a fucking rat’s ass) and say “pick me. Choose me. Love me,” or “stay with me. Just stay with me”? I’ll never be able to ask anyone to stay with me. Shouldn’t people stay because they want to? Why doesn’t anyone want to? My dad didn’t, Justin didn’t, Isaac didn’t, and now Spencer. God, I wanted you so badly to be different. That’s the word, isn’t it? Want. Don’t ask me to need you, because I never will. Ask me to want you, I’ll do that every day of the week, 24 hours, with absolutely no shame because I’d rather people think I have them around because they make me light up. They set off a fire in my chest and give me goosebumps and their kiss is intoxicating and I just cannot get enough of them. Who wouldn’t want that? (hint: the answer is you, you idiot), I’m a little all over the place. I’m flaky and inconsistent and I’ll talk to you about 4 things at once. But when I love you, you know it. I’m not ashamed to hide that. You’ll never have to wonder if I love you. I had this feeling, like you were going to mean something. I know that part wasn’t in my head, because you made me feel it. I didn’t make the situation too big or the words too grand, because you said “I like you, I could see this going somewhere.” What the fuck changed? What did I do? That’s on you, you made me feel things for you when I was fully prepared to not get attached. People wonder why I don’t trust them? Because when they ask you to, and you do, they make it feel good. Starting to trust people is like acid. Instant euphoria, followed by worry and panic and anxiety of whether you did too much, whether you’re going to regret it. I always do.

 The trust thing isn’t your fault, it’s mine. I trust the right people with the wrong things. Or maybe I just trust too fast. I’ve known Callie for 17 years and I still am hesitant to share with her because I don’t know if she’ll pass my anxiety off as nothing again. I know it sounds crazy, and I know I am crazy, but what else am I supposed to do? If I keep it inside it feels like it’s gnawing away at everything I’m made up of. Not emotionally, but physically. I can feel it filling up my bladder so I have to pee constantly, or squeezing my heart and lungs so it feels like my blood is pulsing in my throat, pushing against my chest, and I’m hyperventilating. But Callie’s happy, and what kind of person ruins that just because they’re scared and jealous? That’s where you came in. I thought you were my equal. I thought you balanced me out, and you made me feel less crazy and less depressing because, why on earth wouldn’t you? You had the issues too. You laid them out in front of me and said “here’s how crazy I am. Think of this as me saying I trust you and care about you. Now watch as I put it under one of these three cups and jumble them up, and if you can’t guess what cup my issues are under, you don’t get me. Even if I didn’t give you a chance to adjust to the situation. Oh, you wanted me to let you in? Sure, I’ll do that. After I dump your ass so you can’t even try to help me. Then I’ll make it seem like I’m shocked that you wanted to help in the first place, and I’ll make you feel like you didn’t try hard enough when I’m clearly the one shuffling everything up just to confuse you. Here you are, now follow the cup.”

 I had someone normal at one point. Yeah, I know that’s hard to believe. But he was such a happy guy. He made me laugh and smile and good god did he make me feel like I was a gift straight from heaven, wrapped in gold with the sun shining down on me like an angel. That’s all a lie. It wasn’t his issues, it was mine. Mine are more intense and hurt more and while his can break a window, mine can demolish a house. I couldn’t drag him down with me, he’s just a kid. But good god, did I love him. I could see the sun and the moon in his eyes from how joyful he was, and that made it feel like I could see them in person. But I can’t, and you’ll never truly see the light through someone else. You have to see it for yourself, otherwise when you’re not with that person, the whole world seems dark and meaningless.

 So I’ll never know what it’s like for someone’s issues to match mine. And the only thing getting me through writing this is the idea of you reading it, which I know you never will, cause the only way you could would be for me to show you. I could never do that. To show you would be begging, and I might be a poor, miserable, unhappy, discontent, fragile, bitter, resentful, self-loathing bitch. But I’d like to believe I’d never, ever beg for you. Mama said I’m too prideful. She was right.

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Those Little White Lies

"White lie: a minor, polite, or harmless lie; fib." We've all told them, we've all been caught in them, and we've all said those same words to ourselves: "in the long run, telling the truth would do more harm than good" or "It's just a small lie, it won't make a difference in the grand scheme of things." While either of those might be true in reference to other people, I wonder, in the long term, how much good those little white lies that we tell ourselves do. The lie can be as small as "I'll go to the gym tomorrow" to as big as "Cheating was just a one time thing," but they all ultimately mean the same thing: The truth is too scary to admit, even to ourselves.

"Stop lying to yourself. When we deny our own truth, we deny our own potential.” -Steve Maraboli

"I'll be fine later." A lie that I, and I'm sure many other people, have told themselves. An affirmation that everything will clear itself up, eventually, so why should we bother to dwell on it now? There's no sense in addressing the emotions, clearing the feelings we have, because we always tell ourselves that it will get better later, which, you know, it very well might. But getting better entirely on it's own? That's unlikely. When it comes to emotions, the pain we feel can cross into physical pain very quickly, which is terrifying, but what's more terrifying is that you never know when that pain can surface. For year's I've prided myself in being able to extinguish my emotions, channel them into something else, focus on something else. And, for more years than I can count, that's been effective, and it made me feel happy. But recently, I broke. The pain I had been hiding for two years started with a loud bang and ended with me, "fizzling out" on my parents' kitchen floor, sobbing and admitting to them that I didn't think I'd been happy for two years at the job I'd chosen that I thought would be a better option than going away to college. Instead of the lecture I was expecting, my dad looked hurt. "Why didn't you tell me, Cait? I could've helped you." I sat quietly for a moment, and then looked my dad in the eyes, "Because I didn't know until recently. I think I was hiding the truth from myself as much as everyone else." After admitting this to someone for the first time, ever, I began to reflect.

All those moments, all those instances where the sadness overwhelmed me for a moment, they came flooding back, and the thought that I used to push them away came back too: "I'll be fine later." or "I'll deal with it later." The promise of "later" is a pretty amazing excuse when you're lying to yourself. The hint at honesty. The vague concept of an unspecified time. But the thing is, it is honest. Cause, eventually, you will be fine, and that unspecified time will eventually become specific. Eventually, even someone with my years of practice at concealing emotions just kind of.... Breaks. It can be slowly, or it can be all at once, but it will happen. And, if I'm being honest, the relief wasn't instantaneous, which was a letdown. I wanted the truth to "set me free" as I'd been been told by numerous songs and Bible verses that used to be crammed down my throat in Sunday school. But that didn't happen as immediately as I'd have liked, and it still hasn't happened. I haven't been "set free," but I have been relieved. The relief of keeping what was, essentially, a secret for so long, that burden wasn't mine to bear alone any longer. I had people I could tell, people I could vent to (which, I'll admit, is my least favorite activity of all time. I don't appreciate sympathy) who genuinely cared.

You can't fix your problems all at once just with a breakdown on your parents' kitchen floor and an admittance that you're sad. That would, unfortunately, be too easy. However, you can give yourself a fraction of relief, and you can lessen the time that you're hurting a bit less. I can't promise all your problems will be relieved, but I can tell you what I've learned: Though lying to yourself with the promise of "later" is alluring, and the idea of "right now" can be intense and terrifying, it might be just the thing you need to help yourself. It might be just the thing you need to, eventually, set yourself free.

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I Didn't Know You Deserved Better, and Didn't Realize I Was Worse.

I miss you. I miss the sound of your voice, the way you laughed, the way my name sounded coming out of your mouth. I miss being the one you came to with your problems, and being able to tell you how amazing I thought you were, and still think you are, and really meaning it (I always will). I miss getting little thoughts of how perfect our future would be together.... I only wish i hadn't immediately squashed those thoughts as soon as I'd had them. I miss the way you made me feel, like everything in my life would somehow be ok. I miss the way i could be crazy and chaotic or cranky and upset, and you still looked at me with love in your eyes.  I miss you making me feel like I couldn't do anything wrong. I miss the way you made me feel perfect.

Except that I'm anything but perfect, and everything I did was wrong. It just took me until now to realize it. I left you, 4 different times, all for completely selfish reasons. And I begged you to come back 3 of those times, for what I thought were the rights reasons, but the fourth time i didn't ask you to come back, and that was for the right reasons. You deserve so much better than me. You deserve someone who is whole, unbroken, and can look at a future with you without fear of what she'll become to you. I wish I wasn't so afraid of the way I was raised, of who I was raised by. I wish I wasn't so completely terrified of becoming my father or stepmother, that it keeps me from living a happy, optimistic life. How is it possibly fair that the person who is completely right for me, I'm completely wrong for? Maybe I'm not right for anyone. Maybe I'm not meant to have what everyone else eventually will: a happy, loving, committed relationship. I think that'd be fine with me. Then I could never have the opportunity to hurt anyone like I hurt you so many times.

"I had so much guilt over the years because of my relationships, because I knew I wasn't giving myself fully. It sucks to know that you've put another person through that. To know that you've dragged them through the mud with you.... In a real relationship, it's a two way deal. It's not one sided. One person shouldn't just be spewing love onto the other one while the other one is scared or running away.  Both people should be in the relationship. Both people should be present in the relationship, because both people are worthy of love."  -Ingrid Nilsen

I wish I had watched Ingrid Nilsen's beautiful video about her coming out earlier because, even though, when I saw it, I considered myself straight, this quote still reminded me everyday of why you're so much better off if I stay away from you. I dragged you through the mud, through all the shit I was, and still am, dealing with, and while you were always genuinely happy to help me, to talk to me, I just can't keep dragging you down like that. I wasn't as present as I should have been. I didn't make it a two way deal. I tried, so hard, to be as loving and affectionate as you were, but my way of communicating love just wasn't fair to you. I was scared of how much you loved me, and how much it was making me love you in return, so I put up a wall, and hid behind it.

I'm sorry that our timing was wrong. I'm sorry that I could never get my feelings straight. I'm sorry about constantly struggling to make it work.... The one thing I can positively say about myself is I was constantly struggling to make it work. I wanted everything to work out with you so badly. I wanted you to be the one.... I suppose I still do, and now you're probably "the one that I let get away" (God, how I hate when my life becomes a cliche). I wish I could tell you that. I have to constantly fight the urge to run to your house and bang on the door, begging you to come back to me. Saying how sorry I am, and that I'll never leave you again.... But I can't do that to you, because I can't guarantee that I'll never leave you again (if that wasn't already painfully clear). I'm a flight risk to everyone, but I'm the only one who truly sees it.

I'm so sorry for not being everything you deserved. I truly hope that you find someone, someday, who is everything you want and more.

"I've been sitting here thinking about all the things I wanted to apologize to you for. All the pain we caused each other. Everything I put on you. Everything I needed you to be or needed you to say. I'm sorry for that. I'll always love you 'cause we grew up together and you helped make me who I am. I just wanted you to know there will be a piece of you in me always, and I'm grateful for that. Whatever someone you become, and wherever you are in the world, I'm sending you love. You're my friend to the end." -Her, 2013

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I Woke Up at 10:30 today.

Then, I stayed in bed for a half hour. During that half hour, I spent sometime scrolling through instagram, which I would never recommend doing, as it's a horrible decision that will make you contemplate exactly what you're doing with your life... And contemplate I did. ((It’s all fun and games until Cait discovers a hipster instagram feed and sees a Yogi touring the world and doing yoga on beaches and in front of the Eiffel tower and then Cait starts to think “I’m a 21 year old, I've been out of the country one time and I'm as far from hipster as a person can get)) You see, folks the ubiquitous travel bug that is constantly around me, bit me extra hard lately, which is wonderful. I have always dreamed of travelling the world, going on adventures, meeting exciting people, and drinking cups of coffee from all over. However, right after the travel bug seems to bite me, the Other Me, the more negative one, taps me on the shoulder. “You know we’ll never travel,” She whispers in my ear. “We’re a workaholic who can barely justify taking enough time off for our little sisters 7th birthday.” Ugh, shut the hell up, Other Me.

After Other Me responds by telling me I have an attitude problem ((no surprise there, really)), I genuinely do begin to contemplate how exactly I will be able to scratch that travel itch. I mean, I’m a product of NoVA whose idea of “travel” is going to the Inner Harbor, and while the aquarium is nice and I enjoy the gigantic Barnes and Noble, that gigantic Barnes and Noble is filled with books… On travel. It seems, wherever I go, I see the proverbial travel bug beckoning me. I have this great inner need for travel. I need to get out of my hometown. I need to get out of my comfort zone. I need to get out of my own life and see what the other cultures of the world have to offer me.

So, with that, I suppose waking up at 10:30 meant more to me than waking up and contemplating how long until I absolutely had to move. Apparently, my wake up this morning was more of a full-life wake up call. Soon, I only hope I can get out of my own state, at the very least. The world is calling.

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“The Words That Gave Me a Voice.” 

In my experience, writing is a kind of expression that can take you anywhere. You don’t even have to be writing specifically about your emotions at the time, they will end up coming out in your writing anyways. My father, an English major from William and Mary, was the one who taught me this. “Don’t be afraid to let the readers know how you’re feeling. They wouldn’t be reading your paper for this long if they didn’t want to know,” was one of the first pieces of advice my father gave to me in reference to writing. Overall, I would say he has influenced my writing the most, if only because when I first started writing, it was a way to help us bond and connect. I wanted him to be proud of me, so when I was younger I spent all my time writing, to see if I could come up with a story that was good enough for my father to read, which is how I came to realize that I loved writing fictional narrative

My love for writing fictional narratives came to light even more when I was in sixth grade. My English teacher at the time, Mrs. Demorest, had told us to write about a pivotal moment in our lives, “I will give you an hour,” she said, “to get at least three paragraphs done.” I, being only twelve at the time, was stuck from the beginning. I could not think of one single moment that I was even remotely interested in writing; or, quite frankly, in having other people read. My pivotal moments in life, up to that point, seemed incredibly personal, to my pre-teen self, and I had no intention of letting other people read them. But still, my stubbornness did not make time stand still, and at this point I only had half an hour to get three paragraphs down, which seemed like a much larger task to a sixth grader. So, stuck on things to do, I decided to make something up. I wrote what, at the time, seemed like a heart-wrenching story about a girl who got to go to the pound with her step-mother, against her father’s wishes, and, when she got there, found a puppy that she loved from the minute she saw it. This story was so enjoyable for me to write, at the time, that I didn’t even realize that I’d finished the entire narrative in 30 minutes.

A few days later, my teacher said she wanted to read parts of the better submissions out loud to the class. Now, having made up my entire story, when my teacher started reading a conclusion paragraph about a girl who finally had the dog and friend she’d always wanted, I didn’t even realize that it was my made up dog; my made up friend; my made up story. I found this instance extremely uplifting because I knew then, that other people were enjoying what I’d written as much as I’d enjoyed writing it.

In my life, I’ve read more novels than I can count, and one of the things that have always amazed me was the ability to tell a story so well that people feel like they’re in the story. The most memorable of these, for me, was when I first read the Harry Potter series. I put off reading these books until my junior year of high school, long after all my other classmates had finished them and moved on. I began the first book, skeptical of them being as good as everyone had raved about when we were eleven, but that quickly changed. From the beginning “Mr. and Mrs. Dursely, of number 4 Privet Drive, were very proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much,” to the last, final statement of “All is well,” I was completely in love with these books. The stories, the characters, and the magic, quickly became like a home to me, and gave me a sense of comfort. Ever since then, I’ve always wanted to be able to write like JK Rowling did. To be able to capture an entire world with just seven stories, and be capable of making our entire world hang on her every word, anxiously awaiting the fate of her characters.

Since reading those books, my love for writing fiction only grew. My most recent positive writing experience that I hold dear was during my senior year of high school. My English teacher, Mr. Bills, told us to write a journal about a disability, or disease. Other’s in class, I later realized, had taken this opportunity to write an amusing short story about silly, made up diseases; this was not the case for me. I wrote a dramatic story about a nineteen year-old girl who had lost the lower half of her leg in a car accident months before, and was now having to learn how to live with her prosthetic. In the journal she felt the pinching feeling of the prosthetic, experienced phantom limb pain, and had to learn to balance and cooperate with a foreign object that wasn’t part of her body. When I received the paper back, Mr. Bills had written nothing but positive feedback on the paper, including asking me if I knew someone with this disability, and commenting on how much it showed that I enjoyed writing this piece. With the great amount of respect I had for Mr. Bills, I was elated at his response, and this only made my love for writing fictional narratives increase.

As a writer, I have my strong points, such as fictional narrative, and my weak points, such as nonfiction writing. However, I will always appreciate the positive influences I’ve had on my writing, whether it’s teachers or parents, the ways that it has effected me are still with me to this day, and have made me into the writer, and person, I am today.

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It’s Not That I Don’t Love You

It’s not that I don’t love you, it’s that my mother had to listen to my father tell her he didn’t love her anymore because his best friend had convinced him that there was no such thing as a sanctity of marriage anymore. Apparently divorce was no big deal, and everyone would be fine. It’s that my mother has been portraying my father as a kind man who left because they fought, when in reality he cheated on her. It’s that my mother felt that giving me a good relationship with my father was more important than her own happiness. It’s that she had to close her bedroom door at night, and wait until almost 3 am most nights to fall asleep because the only thing that would put her to sleep were tears. It’s that my parents have been divorced since I was 3, and they still haven’t recovered. It’s that… neither have I.

It’s not that I don’t love you; it’s that relationships only end in marriage or breaking up. And I’ve really only ever seen marriages end in failure. It’s that I’m scared to give someone that kind of power over me. It’s that I’m terrified to enable someone to hurt me that deeply. It’s that I’m both pushy and nonchalant at the same time. It’s that I’m annoying and loud. It’s that I’m obsessive and protective. It’s that I’m needy but I don’t tell anyone that. It’s that I’m guarded and emotionally distant. It’s that I was raised in a house with yelling at children, making them feel worthless, and I’m afraid that I might do that to my kids. It’s that I can’t see someone being able to look at me for the next 60 years happily, not wanting something more.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s that I do.