thestorytimegirl - Tumblr blog

[thestorytimegirl]

My life has, in some ways, become a cycle of either distracting my mind with books, and work, and television, or spending a significant amount of time googling, “Do I have an eating disorder,” or, “Eating disorders besides anorexia” or, “Disordered eating as a means of control.” Because I definitely participate in my fair share of disordered eating. And I do think, primarily, it’s because not eating sometimes makes me feel in control when I feel like other things are really not my choice. 

I have never told this to anyone. Or, at least, I have never told this to anyone and been heard. A few months ago, in a moment of extreme duress and weakness, I texted my friend a message akin to, “Sometimes I don’t eat, and I don’t really know why.” After I sent it I kind of thought like, “This is it! The moment I tell someone else and have to confront this ugly thing inside me that drains me of energy and power!” But my friend ignored it. Genuinely just said nothing in response. I felt so shitty, and at the same time couldn’t really blame her! I’m not sure how serious it sounded, or if she even registered that it was a big thing to me. But it made me feel really bad, when she didn’t respond; pretended like I had not said anything weird at all. And it kind of made me question: Is this even a problem?

It’s not like I think I’m fat. It’s not like I never eat anything. I don’t think I’m in danger of dying. I just think I’m kind of unhealthy, physically and mentally, because of this thing. And I personally? Would call it an eating disorder. But it is also weirdly important to me that someone else would call it that, too. That it isn’t crazy, or weird, or just me overreacting. 

That it’s fixable.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

[thestorytimegirl]

I am torturing myself a tiny bit but I can't stop thinking any of these things.

[thestorytimegirl]

Today hurts. 

The problem with depression is it is dull like a tooth ache, and it really hurts when you press on it, but it is also so fucking boring. I can’t pick up the phone, I can’t get out of bed, I can’t take a proper shower, I can’t make myself dinner. I can recognize the things I love, the things that would generally make me feel good, but I can’t enjoy them. Even this, what I’m writing now, is boring. It’s all so boring. Pulling these words out of my skull is painstaking and frustrating. I feel like fast-forwarding. 

The sky is blue but dark in Cincinnati today, and I shot out of bed to try to find my old notebook from eighth grade in which I recorded a poem that I can’t remember all the way through and can’t find on the internet. But all that ended up happening is I tore up my living room closet, and the apartment is a mess, and I didn’t find the poem. My throat is tight and sad. I don’t even know what I want, but it isn’t the poem anymore. 

I am feeling way too much. I cannot even fall asleep. I cannot even handle myself.

I am sick. It isn’t glamorous. I thought I was recovering, but maybe I recovered too far. 

[thestorytimegirl]

Things that are hard now:

–talking to you

–not talking to you

–pretending to be fine

–feeling like things could still be okay

–thinking about you

–not thinking about you

–reading about love and having to realize that you will never be in love with me

–figuring out what to hope for

[thestorytimegirl]

At seventeen I used to tell everyone I wanted to be a musician. I can remember being in eleventh grade English, my intense teacher staring at me over the tops of his glasses. He and I liked the same music. I desperately wanted him to like me. He said something about believing that if I tried to be a musician, I would be. At the time I think I believed I would try. I felt certain that I wouldn’t end up the mother of prep-school children, driving the soccer team carpool. Now, though? I’m not sure what I want to be. And I would never scoff at a mom. 

I thrashed around my bed last night, having all sorts of dreams that someone was dead. First my brother, then my dad. I was crying in my sleep--something that I used to do a lot as an anxious middle schooler, and that I have reverted back to doing now, in my early twenties. It was horrible. And if I have felt uneasy the rest of the morning and into the afternoon (and I have), maybe that can be why. Maybe it is not that I am a bad person--at first intoxicating, then just plain toxic. Maybe it’s just that my brain chemicals are off-balance, like Matt and I used to talk about. 

I wish everything about me would balance out. My star sign, ironically, is Libra--the scales. And here I am, a complete teeter-totter. Same as always. One thing or the other. And because I can be both, I am both. I can’t turn it off. It’s a balancing act, but I am at the house of my childhood friend Claire, going lower as she gets higher. I am at the park in Valle Arriba, sitting on one end, Aninha on the other, Jennifer in the middle. I am at the church picnic with Mercedes, asking people what they think the balancing thing on the playground is called: a teeter-totter or a see-saw?

I’m a loose cannon, is my point. But in a contained way--it’s all inside. That’s the problem.

[thestorytimegirl]

Today was long, and emotionally draining, and there were stupid things that hurt my feelings. When I got home I ate dinner, and I took a bath, and I made a Happiness Chart to put on my wall with five things I want to do more of. And I want to do at least three a day.

My aunt sent our whole extended family a genealogy chart she made. It’s really impressive, and there is a small biography of each one of us. Mine made me laugh, though. It talks about how I am “Currently taking a break from college” and am working at [insert bookstore here] where I “put on programs for the children.” This description of my life made me feel a tiny bit ashamed. To me it feels like so much more than that--like so much more than all of that--and yet I do still feel a prickle of shame when I see an old classmate see me shelving on the platform, wearing my apron. I love what I do. And I shouldn’t mind what people think. But sometimes? I do.

And truly, life right now is so nice. I know that it is. I just need to give myself the space to enjoy it. Even if it means doing things I don’t always feel like I’m good at. Even if my family thinks I put on programs for the children. Even if it means making embarrassing things like Happiness Charts.

[thestorytimegirl]

[thestorytimegirl]

I am reading Ann Brashares in the park. This morning I woke up to an extremely straightforward text message. I had to be extremely straightforward back. (He said, “I am romantically interested in you.” I had to say, in so many words, “I can’t deal with that right now.” He said, “I understand.” It sucked.) On my way to the park I thought of so many things I wanted to say about all of this. One of them is: Some people can’t stand the noise of their own heads. I think I’m the opposite. Another person comes along and I can feel my own noise being drowned out and it is stifling, and scary, and I don’t like it. I want to hear myself at all times. I’m terrified of that voice leaving, or warping, or becoming someone I can’t stand. I want her just the way she is. Another thing is: I don’t want to share the blame. I want to be able to look at myself in the morning and think, “It wasn’t my fault. I tried to warn them.” To do anything other than what I did would have been making it my fault. I am unwilling to take that risk. Not this time. Not when I don’t think it would have been worth it. The last thing: I am probably, at least a little, messed up. Possibly something happened when I was little–probably a bunch of small things–that made me this way. But I can live with that. I have to, anyway.

[thestorytimegirl]

After the movie we shuffled across the street in the rain, and into his favorite bar. And we asked each other lots of questions. A mutual acquaintance saw us there together and came over to say hello. Instead of getting a drink I got a Diet Coke, because I didn’t want to stay very long, and I didn’t want to drive after a drink. And he said, “You don’t drink much, do you?” But it sounded like, “You are very young, aren’t you?”

Anyway, around 11:30 I made an excuse to leave, because I had been awake since 7am. He said, “I’ll walk you out.” And I said, “Sounds good.” And together we went up the stairs, and through a wooden room, and then out, onto the damp street. And it was dark. And I said, “My car is this way.” And he said, “Okay, well. Bye.”

And then he hugged me. He fucking hugged me.

And I came home, and told my roommate what happened, and told her how I was feeling, and I said, “Honestly, I’m just wired wrong. There’s something wrong with me. It is so easy for everyone else to like people, and for me? It’s so fucking hard. I haven’t liked anyone since I was seventeen.” (A lie. I just like the wrong people. Hi, D.) And she said, “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

There is, though. I don’t like him. He’s a nice guy, but he exhausts me.

It would have been nice if he would have kissed me, anyway.

[thestorytimegirl]

I'm sitting here, in the parking lot of my childhood grocery store, trying to figure myself out. I went on a date last night--a date that I truly tried to avoid. But the guy was persistent, and nice enough, and so I went. And I was pleasant, and funny, but also my exact self. He seemed to like parts of me, and not like other parts. He is one of those guys who makes everything into a joke. Or at least, most things. And I am a serious girl. It would not occur to me to assume that some things are a joke. And occasionally he would say something, and I would take it at face value, and then he would be like, "I'm...joking." As though it were obvious. As though I were dumb, or dense, for taking the things he said as they were. When he said them with a straight face. And so every time this happened I would be like, "Oh." And then not laugh, or pretend to be charmed. Because I'm not going to lie, and because, honestly, I'm not fucking stupid. I'm just serious. There were other things like this, where possibly I was not the girl he was expecting, or the girl he wanted me to be. But I mean. We'd met before. His friend apparently told him that I don't like pranks. Why would any of this be shocking? And also, I refuse to take any blame for something I resisted in the first place. If I'm not who he expected, if he didn't have a good time, if he asked me to smoke with him and I did, and he didn't like who that made me...that's all on him. None of that is my fault. And that is what I want to remember. Even though we are going out again. (I am whining, but he's a nice guy.) None of this is on me, and so, if I let him kiss me, and then later I decide I don't want any of it? That is just fine.

[thestorytimegirl]

This morning, leaving the house:

I muttered, “phone, keys, wallet, lunch,” an important chant I found out about from my roommate, who I now realize must’ve gotten it from Broad City. Except the “lunch” part. I added that one after forgetting my lunch the other day. As I said the chant I patted each of those things on my person, and then rushed out the door to my car. I was not running late–only rushing because of the rain. And I drove slowly, and carefully, to my job at the bookstore, listening to For The Roses. I am never not in the mood to listen to For The Roses, but I like to start with, “Let The Wind Carry Me.”

It’s a rough road to travel/ Mama let go now/ It’s always come from me

The kids store, approx. 10 a.m. :

S surprised me while I was collecting my papers from where I had strewn them haphazardly in front of the new independent reader endcap. S was not scheduled to work today, which was heartbreaking to both of us. I was not expecting to see her until Friday. An eternity. 

But there she was! And we walked around, and I showed her the books that came in that I thought she would like, and we shot the shit. And she borrowed my pen and remembered to give it back, which was very mindful. And it was such a nice reprieve from what had been an ultimately hectic and overwhelming morning.

Later, at the kids store register:

A customer engaged me in conversation as I was ringing up his copy of Green Glass House. “So, how did you become a children’s bookseller?” I gaped at him, stunned. How do you become anything you are at twenty-one? It seemed to me, when I thought about it, that nothing I am is intentional. And yet I am also introspective to a fault, so I’m not actually sure that’s true. After a beat of silence, “I don’t…know. But I’m glad I did.” I handed him his books and he smiled, and thanked me for helping him. I relayed this anecdote to my boss–the one I like–a few minutes later on the YA platform, and she chuckled and walked away. After a few seconds she came on the headset and said, “Carolyn, you should have told that customer it’s because you’re awesome, and only awesome people can be children’s booksellers.” And then I smiled the rest of the day. 

Tonight, in my bedroom:

I woke up from an hour long nap, groggy and feeling gross. Tomorrow my mother and I are going to look for an apartment for me to live in next year. I’m excited, and nervous, and am just really looking forward to having my living situation crossed off my list of worries. 

A year off has turned into a year and a half off. It could possibly turn into two years off, although not finishing my undergrad until I’m twenty-five is not ideal. But right now? I just don’t care. Someone asked me how I became something. 

I quit school, and I became something. 

[thestorytimegirl]

I am reading a to-be-released YA novel, and it is so, so shocking to see myself on the page. I’m not sure why. I have spent so much of the last five or six years reading young adult novels, and I am always seeing aspects of myself in the characters. 

For instance, in the summer of 2013 a girl who is now one of my great friends was writing a YA novel, and she sent it to me to read. And back then we were not yet great friends, we were just regular friends on our way to becoming great friends, and still I said of her main character, shamelessly, “Rebecca reminds me of me.” But she wasn’t weird about it, even though that is kind of a weird thing to say to your friend about her novel. Instead, she said, “Actually, Rebecca kind of reminds me of you, too.” And even now, whenever I pull E’s now-published book from my shelf and read parts of it, I still relate to Rebecca. That’s what I love about books, and about YA books in particular. I see myself there.

And it's a similar thing with this book. The sentiments expressed inside are sentiments that are so close to my heart that they SEEM cliché without actually BEING cliché. Because I have never seen them in a book before. I have only ever seen them every single day in my own head.

And the book isn’t the best YA novel I’ve ever read. There are things about it that are kind of over-the-top, kind of unreal. But I really love it. I really love it for saying these things. I love this author for knowing this stuff.

It is such a great feeling.

[thestorytimegirl]

Last week I went on a bad date. Presumably it was bad in the usual ways in which dates are bad, but I had nothing to compare it to. Instead I spent the whole date thinking, “Do I like him? Am I having fun?” And I couldn’t figure it out, because the answer was no. It’s not that he was mean, or stupid, or a murderer. It’s just that he seemed utterly uninterested in me. Which was infuriating, because I’m kind of interesting. 

Anyway, midway through the date, this boy decided he had a bomb to drop.  “So, we know someone in common.”  My heart sped up. Knowing someone in common sucked. I had really hoped this was fairly anonymous and low-pressure.  “Really? Who?”

He beat around the bush for a long time, but it eventually turned out that the person we know in common is a guy I met on New Year’s Eve, when I braved a party at the house of my friend L’s boyfriend. (At the time he was I guess not her boyfriend, because L kept saying that she “didn’t like labels.” Some facet of this personality she is trying on.) The guy’s name is Adam, and he is the roommate of this boy with whom I went on a date. I don’t remember much about Adam, to the point where if my roommate had been going on a date with him and had showed me his picture I would not have been able to say, “Oh yes, I know that fellow. I met him on New Year’s Eve!” Which is apparently what Adam was able to do with me. I did, however, know enough about Adam to confirm to my date that I had, indeed, met a person named Adam on New Year’s Eve, when I was drunk on a sofa wearing a black velvet skirt. And I was able to deduce that I knew Adam because he was a friend of T’s. And Because T is dating L. 

Once this was established my date moved on to another topic, while I continued my routine of being aggressively pleasant.

And then, a few days later, L was over at my apartment. We were sitting on my couch, and the subject of the date came up. L said, “T said he’s met your date a couple of times. He said he’s lame, and that we should set you up with Adam instead.” I laughed politely, offering no encouragement at all. 

Because I do not actually want to be set up. I went on the date with M because he asked, and because I am tired of saying no and then hating myself later. But the date was bad, and exhausting, and lightly humiliating. And it made me realize that I fucking like being alone. I like not having to sit across from scientific young men in the fluorescent lighting of The French Fry Heaven and pretend to give a shit about what they’re saying. I am an intense, serious girl, and I do not have to pretend otherwise. I do not have to suffer fools.

But I’m writing about this, because this morning I woke up and had a Facebook friend request from Adam. We do not have any mutual friends–he has not even added L. And I considered texting L to say, “Maybe you talked to him about me? I’m not interested.” I won’t, though. I’m just going to ignore it. It’s not something I want, or need.