PSA

To the asshole stalking me,

For fuck’s sake, there are much better things to do with your time. While I know my life is interesting, you should probably get a socially acceptable hobby that doesn’t include me. 

P.S. My life has never been better. 

Fuck you,

Becca

Dinner and a Show

We begin to leave the drive way, but before we enter the road, a car passes by. Then, he tries for the second time to enter the road, but a car passes by again. I should have known the dinner was going to go poorly. At the restaurant, the talk is small and nothing more significant than the filler events of the day. The bill is given to him and I don’t notice at first. The food is so good. Soon enough, the bill is taken away and when it is too late, there is no need to say that I will pay for my meal. It is already done. He looks at me with a smug smile as if he has accomplished something grandiose and I wanted to congratulate him for being a socially acceptable male. Since we almost died on our way to the restaurant, I offered to drive back. Even though it wasn’t my car, he surprisingly agreed. I drove his car, with him in the passenger seat, back to my apartment.
My gut was telling me something was off. It wasn’t a terrible feeling, just an odd one.
Regardless, I decided I was going to fuck him. So he stays over and the foreplay begins but there was something that was truly off. Just as he put the condom on, he went soft. I couldn’t help but laugh.
He looked mortified and hid a little behind a pillow, which added on to the humorous scene.
He said to me You know what’s happening, right?
Yet again, another curve ball. He was a closet gay man trying his hardest to hide it in vaginas. I hid my chuckles and told him that it was okay.

Change’s Relation

I guess I should call it what it is: abuse. Words are boxes and black holes at the same time. The word abuse is putting all criminals in the same jail cell–each with varying degrees of severity. It is a continual and long-lasting history of pain. I learned long ago that rationalizing problems helps no one, including myself. Yet, I still find it hard to say my past relationship was abusive. He wasn’t completely bad and I enjoyed being with him most of the time. I suppose that is the most confusing part of it all. People aren’t one singular label and they are ever-changing. What I have to remember is that I am not the adhesive to the change. I am not responsible for other’s well-being. Being codependent is what I have become and what I am now. How much can I learn? How much can I change?

A Picture of Breakfast

I do this awful thing when I’m depressed, where I don’t eat and I don’t shower. I know! Who doesn’t eat?! So, I don’t shower and I get really gross. My best friend witnessed this during the summer on one of my worst times of my life. She would nudge me with words and say something like, “Hey, your hair looks really gross. You should probably shower.” And then I would, because she always has my best interests at heart, even when I doubt her. Today I’ve had a sufficiently terrible time and so I took a picture of my breakfast and sent it to her to prove that I am, indeed, eating and showering. She messaged back, “Good love you” and that was the one thing she shouldn’t have said. Because love is so confusing. It’s watching my mom die and my sister get a divorce to protect herself and breaking up with my boyfriend and the sadness in someone’s face when I tell them this all. Love is painful.

Plot Twist #98459234123123098347426

After telling my professor why I missed class, she proceeded to tell me that she understood because she was molested by her grandpa when she was eleven.  Then, she said that she used coffee shop goers as therapy because she couldn’t get herself to talk to an actual therapist.  This is how I know my life is spinning out of control.  I’m so desperate, I will talk to anyone I come into contact with.

Every time I go home, it’s like reading a book and someone yelling PLOT TWIST in the background.  My latest plot twist was not my dad dying, because I’ve known that since 2009.  He died on a Tuesday and the funeral was on a Friday.  The service was held by a rather unfortunate amount of religious folk who insisted on saving everyone–from their sins if willing–in the room.  One of the officiators, my once Grandpa, did a great deal of talking that included: himself, more of himself, Jesus, and my dad.

This said Grandpa made sure everyone adhered to what he said.  Although I do not know what would happen if anyone disregarded his “suggestions,” everyone followed suite.  The service, created by him, said that the family had to be at the church from 10-11 AM to stare at a corpse and properly mourn, while wearing black attire as required.  It was said that all the children were going to be in attendance at the funeral, but the eldest was a no show.  The pain-inducing service crawled to an end and the feasting began.  The food was sub-par, but free and everyone seemed to swallow it down without trouble.

Saturday marked the reading of the will.  But there was no will to read.  Instead, the three daughters, four sons, one step-daughter, and the widow second wife met up to speak on the dissipating affairs of the dead father.  What was left to talk about?  Everyone saw the corpse.

So the second oldest son opened the meeting up with the fact that the man was dead.  Considering the circumstances, it was as good of an opening as any.  But to receive the words were not the people, but what the people had been carrying with them for years.  Within the circle of people were anger, depression, shame, confusion, hatred, and grief.  In a little corner was relief that he had died.  No one would recognize this mysterious newcomer just yet, though.

The second oldest continued with saying that there were things that needed to be said.  At this, the fourth oldest broke in saying that it was unnecessary to talk about the details because, “I have already gone to the source and dealt with it.”  Yet, the second eldest beckoned on and said it had to be said.  Guardianship was in question and we needed to protect our little (the littlest of them all) brother.  The second oldest said that Grandpa isn’t who he says he is.  He did things with our old brother (the oldest of them all) and with the fourth oldest.  And everyone turned to the fourth for confirmation, because the mentally insane is not the best place to get validations.

The fourth had a salad of feelings that defended both him and the Grandpa.  He declared that he was not there to condemn the perpetrator, but to state as fact that it had happened.    And then added that he did not like what happened and had told the Grandpa that he didn’t.  And that was all.

Relief and understanding replaced anger and confusion.  The anger and mania.  They were both raped.

Best Friend vs. Boyfriend

Many times, I hear people complaining about the friend zone. Boys or girls will have said that they were friend zoned because they were the nice one. It’s a really funny argument where people think that access to a vagina is an addition process: Actually being nice + boy/girl = sex/relationship. As if a person doesn’t have the right to say no to friendly people.
Anyway, today I friend zoned someone who I really care about. I understand the difference between loving someone and being in love with someone. He was in love with me and I could never feel the same way, no matter how much I tried. He is my best friend and to tell him I didn’t love him risked never being friends again. But it had to be done. And now all I have is time to heal the honest truth possibly without my best friend. A sad day, indeed.