Up until recently, I've always wanted to get married. I would imagine my dad walking me down the aisle, flowers everywhere, and pretty colors surrounded by a bunch of friends and family. As I've grown older, I slowly have wanted less to do with a wedding. I want it in a backyard, with just close family and friends. And today, right now, I can't imagine spending the money on something so...not useful. Thousands and thousands of dollars go towards one day, but for what? Pictures to look back on? It isn't usually an easy day for either parties, and takes months of stress to plan everything out to a specific detail.
Maybe it's about the type of relationship that you share with that person, that sacred, honorable promise that you're giving yourself to a single person forever.
But why?
We should celebrate the beginning of a relationship when you ask your significant other to be yours and no one else's.
But then, why do we want to cut people offf from having sex with other people? Or other intimate relationships with others? It is in human nature to reproduce, and we naturally seek companionship.
There's just something about relationships that I don't understand, more of the idea of getting married than anything else. A celebration of people coming together and not having sex with anyone else and having a close relationship isn't all that special, considering we have a very similar relationship with our best friends. You have sex with a boyfriend and you don't have sex with a girl friend. Unless you're gay, a cheater, or a male (switch roles, I am female.).
A couple shouldn't need to have an official ceremony commemorating their fidelity to each other. Or a day for the wife to look beautiful. Why wear a white dress when the majority of couples have had sex, and the majority of those getting married have not been pure for the duration of their life?
Tuesday, April 28, 2015
Saturday, April 25, 2015
Bonfires
I very much like the feeling of creating something so delicate looking but fierce. Knowing that nature can murder itself from a fire is one of the greatest flaws, but the greatest accomplisments.
Humans are similar.
Humans are similar.
Will
If you are not willing to feel it, you will. If you are not willing to do it, you will not.
We can not control our feelings. If we want love, we won't find it. If you don't want to feel sad, odds are that you will. We are not as in control of things as we may like to be. And there's nothing that we can do.
We can not control our feelings. If we want love, we won't find it. If you don't want to feel sad, odds are that you will. We are not as in control of things as we may like to be. And there's nothing that we can do.
Monday, April 20, 2015
Anonymity
The idea of being anonymous (of unknown name, lacking identity) gives regular people like you and me power to do things they wouldn't necessarily do. With that mask, we feel unstoppable.
But why?
To avoid judgement or discrimination? To become untrackable and unreachable?
Every scenario has drawbacks benefits when remaining anonymous.
Anonymity can also be used to tell a story you wouldn't otherwise tell. Identifying personal traits that would cause you to stand out. But what if this mask was lifted, and the people you told knew who you were. But then when they lift their own mask, they lose their anonymity. And guess what, they're all like you. All with secrets they they only tell when have their mask on.
Anonymity is different than being pseudonymous. You are trackable. While you may be able to hide behind a different identity, all of these thoughts can be linked back to that username. Then the fear of everything being linked together and tracing it's way back to you is established. Then, possibly, whatever cause you are fighting for can be fixed, you can get that help. Maybe call it an accident. There's an alternative and a devil's advocate for each situation.
A dear friend of mine gave me the anonymous mask tonight. We have shared but two deep, intelligent conversations together, both which have brought us incredibly close and understanding of each other. I shared with him the post about my nightmares, and he described the mask as a way to be anonymous. It's weir the way that things work. I have known him for a week and am able to tell him my deepest, darkest secrets, and vice versa, but am unable to talk about these with people whom I've known for years.
Mutual understanding.
He and I understand that we have both had terrible things happen to us.
The ability to listen and not comment.
A lot of times, people just want you to listen to them and have a shoulder to cry on. Be there, and be silent.
Don't interrupt. Hear people out. Let them speak and communicate.
Actually give a fuck. We all say 'no fucks given' to every problem that occurs. THAT IS OUR PROBLEM. The ability to care about how someone's day actually went. Not the generic "hey what's up? You're good? I'm good too, thanks." How fucking boring is that. When I ask someone how their day is, actually look them in the eye and ask them. And care. Ask back up questions.
Being anonymous is a shield from reality. People would feel less inclined to hide if they knew that someone would care and take action to help them. Obviously this depends on the situation at hand.
Not a single one of us should feel the need to hide behind a mask and guard ourselves, but we do, and that's going to be the ultimate downfall, the reason we all end up disappointed with our lives, because we weren't straightforward enough to do what we wanted for fear of judgement.
I get about 4 readers per post. I don't know who you are. I don't know if you know who I am. But since you're taking the time to read this, start caring about people. Start by being genuine when you ask how someone's day is going or how they are doing. Those who don't care won't show you the same attention back. Get rid of them. If they can't take the time for you with a quick hello, what makes you think they will take the time for you when you're being anonymous and want to lift the mask?
But why?
To avoid judgement or discrimination? To become untrackable and unreachable?
Every scenario has drawbacks benefits when remaining anonymous.
Anonymity can also be used to tell a story you wouldn't otherwise tell. Identifying personal traits that would cause you to stand out. But what if this mask was lifted, and the people you told knew who you were. But then when they lift their own mask, they lose their anonymity. And guess what, they're all like you. All with secrets they they only tell when have their mask on.
Anonymity is different than being pseudonymous. You are trackable. While you may be able to hide behind a different identity, all of these thoughts can be linked back to that username. Then the fear of everything being linked together and tracing it's way back to you is established. Then, possibly, whatever cause you are fighting for can be fixed, you can get that help. Maybe call it an accident. There's an alternative and a devil's advocate for each situation.
A dear friend of mine gave me the anonymous mask tonight. We have shared but two deep, intelligent conversations together, both which have brought us incredibly close and understanding of each other. I shared with him the post about my nightmares, and he described the mask as a way to be anonymous. It's weir the way that things work. I have known him for a week and am able to tell him my deepest, darkest secrets, and vice versa, but am unable to talk about these with people whom I've known for years.
Mutual understanding.
He and I understand that we have both had terrible things happen to us.
The ability to listen and not comment.
A lot of times, people just want you to listen to them and have a shoulder to cry on. Be there, and be silent.
Don't interrupt. Hear people out. Let them speak and communicate.
Actually give a fuck. We all say 'no fucks given' to every problem that occurs. THAT IS OUR PROBLEM. The ability to care about how someone's day actually went. Not the generic "hey what's up? You're good? I'm good too, thanks." How fucking boring is that. When I ask someone how their day is, actually look them in the eye and ask them. And care. Ask back up questions.
Being anonymous is a shield from reality. People would feel less inclined to hide if they knew that someone would care and take action to help them. Obviously this depends on the situation at hand.
Not a single one of us should feel the need to hide behind a mask and guard ourselves, but we do, and that's going to be the ultimate downfall, the reason we all end up disappointed with our lives, because we weren't straightforward enough to do what we wanted for fear of judgement.
I get about 4 readers per post. I don't know who you are. I don't know if you know who I am. But since you're taking the time to read this, start caring about people. Start by being genuine when you ask how someone's day is going or how they are doing. Those who don't care won't show you the same attention back. Get rid of them. If they can't take the time for you with a quick hello, what makes you think they will take the time for you when you're being anonymous and want to lift the mask?
About the last post
Just want to put out a post note about the last blog post. I am fine. This has been a story that I've been working on for a long time. I have no suicidal intentions or desires to hurt myself.
If I do need to talk to someone, however, I know where to contact.
For an anonymous website, check out www.blahtherapy.com
www.7cupsoftea.com
There is also a 24/7 Crisis Hotline (212) 673-3000 that helps people in distress and contemplating suicide. It's free, confidential, and available to anybody. I have used all of these resources, along with family and friends. Building up a strong support network is important for each and every one of us, we all go through hard times.
If I do need to talk to someone, however, I know where to contact.
For an anonymous website, check out www.blahtherapy.com
www.7cupsoftea.com
There is also a 24/7 Crisis Hotline (212) 673-3000 that helps people in distress and contemplating suicide. It's free, confidential, and available to anybody. I have used all of these resources, along with family and friends. Building up a strong support network is important for each and every one of us, we all go through hard times.
Nightmares. My Story. Adult Content.
The lights are off in the room, and the rough, prickly feeling of the carpet tickles the back of my neck as I lay on the floor. I listen to the soothing tone of his voice as he talks in endless passion, slowly lulling me asleep, until he sits down an arm's length away, gazing at me in the darkness.
"What do you fear, Laura? How come you aren't afraid of anything?" It is as though he can read right through me, as though I was a sandcastle built on the water line, and a huge wave came crashing down and destroyed me. Becoming aware of every square inch my body took up in that room, I start to go through my head, untangling my thoughts and attempting to figure out any answer. Something that would protect him from the truth, shielding him from what's really inside my head. I tentatively begin to talk, my words shaking slightly, unsure if I would be able to finish.
"Wyatt, I was adopted when I was 9. My parents, not the ones who gave birth to me, but the ones who raised me, are my everything." Word vomit. I know that once I start this, it's not going to end. I've always wanted to just let it out to someone, every detail, and put it on them, thinking it could make me feel better. I can't stop. Pausing for a moment, I lift my chin up and look up at him, and he reaches for my hands and holds them, signaling through touch that I was safe. My voice begins to shake as I continue. "It took time for us to really love each other. It's a relationship that needed to be worked on-you love the idea of a child, but you don't actually 'love' a child, or anyone for that matter, until you learn all about them. It went the same way with my parents. We didn't know anything about each other, except that we both needed each other. It took a long time, 9 years to be exact, for me to realize exactly what a a real family was. I had it for 9 years, but didn't realize it, didn't appreciate my parents the way that I should have. My parents were there for the 6 years that I actively battled with depression. Six years of severe ups and downs that I didn't think I would make it through."
I pause for a few moments, and I can feel that he's still watching me, still waiting. Unsure of how to continue, I lock eyes with him, and we hold ourselves there for a few moments. He's trying to ask me something, I can tell, from the tightening of his hands around mine and the tilt of his head, eyebrows raised. The thoughts are coming so quickly into my head, crippling any capability of understanding him. I finally tell him that I don't understand, and holding my hands a little closer together, he asks a question I've been waiting to hear for a very long time.
"Do you feel safe here?"
I squeeze his hands tighter, out of instinct, knowing that the tears were about to come out. I don't cry in front of people, what is wrong with me? Do I feel safe enough in this room to continue? I could give him just a generalization of what happened in my nightmares, he wants to know, he should know. Wyatt should know. I do feel safe here, I know he won't think of me differently. But do I truly feel safe here, in the relationship that the two of us have? Will I be okay?
This is the first time that he has asked me how I feel and truly wanted to know how I felt. The first thing that I am about to openly admit to him is my plague, the thoughts that kill me late at night.
"Yes."
I try to gather my thoughts, try to think of where to start and what to possibly leave out. He reads my face, contemplating possibilities, and tells me to start from the beginning, and tell me exactly how they are. This is when I know he is patient, able read right through me, knowing if what's coming out is a lie. I take a deep breath in and begin.
"My father, he was an abuser of all kinds. I didn't realize that it was abuse until years later when we learned at school that people weren't supposed to touch you in your private areas. Just because he was my dad didn't mean it was okay for it to happen. When I've had a bad day, or I smell something that reminds me of my father, I'll have the night terrors. The memories that I try to keep buried deep inside, the raw thoughts that cut me, on the inside and the outside."
Time passes in silence. It could be an minute or an hour passing and I wouldn't know. The words keep coming, thoughts slowly escaping my lips.
"I remember hearing the slow rattle of the door handle and the squeak of the door as it opened, and immediately my body becomes glued to the bed. I didn't know that it wasn't right at the time, but I didn't like it, not one bit. It hurt me, and daddies don't hurt their little girls, they protect her. I remember at first it was just touching. He just touched and looked at me naked, saying he was "searching for ticks" in the middle of a Connecticut winter or when I wasn't outside that day. Then he took his hands to my skin."
The words come out garbled through tears and heaving sobs.
"The first time that my own father raped me is a pain that can not be replicated. I've went through a spinal fusion and that didn't hurt half as bad as this. While you can't remember pain, I just remember that it hurt and I couldn't move. And my body became paralyzed when it happened, unable to fight him off or tell him to stop. He was my daddy, and daddies don't hurt little girls. What hurts more than that physical pain are the emotions that flood and drown my memories, my dreams, making me forget the line between reality and the past."
Time stops. The only sounds heard are the hum of the refrigerator and me, crying, happy this was out, but too stuck in my head to recognize that I am no longer in that room with my father, but sitting on the floor rocking back and forth. The flashbacks come easy and won't leave without a fight, and some days it's easier to fight the battle. When I couldn't emotionally fight the battle, I would lay myself in the bathtub naked and take the razor blade in my hand. Often times, I was too mentally exhausted to realize what I was actually doing, too numb to realize that I was inflicting more pain upon myself. I took the razor and would quickly glide it back and forth against the skin on my inner calf, thigh, tummy, and wrist. I only cut the wrist when everywhere else was butchered, I sure as hell didn't want people to know I was sad. When I couldn't fight my demons, I had the craving to feel the tug of the razor at my skin, to get the feeling running through my veins to help me feel human again. Some days, the razor was pressed harder against my skin, other days they barely bled. The days that I made myself bleed more, I would let the blood drip down my legs or arms and form puddles, then fill up the bathtub and watch in a paralyzed awe as the water turned a light red color. After I let myself feel the pull of the razor and the burn of the water as it saturated my wounds, I would drag myself to bed and wake up the next morning as though nothing ha ever happened. Different triggers cause me to relive certain memories that I've kept bottled up. Looking at Hawaiin Punch reminds me of the bath water. Tweety Bird reminds me of my father. I try and force myself to stop thinking. Speaking of birds, the ones outside are chirping, and it brings me slowly out of the haze. Time passes and reality comes to life as I open my eyes and look up at Wyatt. He tells me I am doing great.
Great according to who, him? He doesn't know me. Oh wait, yes he actually DOES know. Why did we even begin this conversation, why am crying?
I realize that none of this matters. It happened, he knows. He knows the one thing that I've never told a single soul, not my parents, not my best friends, and not my parents. And then, I know that his question can finally be answered. I knew the answer all along, just needed to talk myself through it, to give someone else the context for the biggest reason I'm truly not afraid.
"The reason for this is why I'm not afraid to fall, because the only battle that is harder than the one of my father that I'll have to fight is the one that leads me to my death. Six years of nightmares almost every night paralyzed my happiness and left me hopeless and bleeding on the bathroom floor. I was once so sad, unsure of where I was going to go, and the only thing that I could be afraid of is something killing me. But then, I would have another adventure - to explore what happens after death. We are all okay, and the things that make us afraid are what cause us to miss out on our lives."
"What do you fear, Laura? How come you aren't afraid of anything?" It is as though he can read right through me, as though I was a sandcastle built on the water line, and a huge wave came crashing down and destroyed me. Becoming aware of every square inch my body took up in that room, I start to go through my head, untangling my thoughts and attempting to figure out any answer. Something that would protect him from the truth, shielding him from what's really inside my head. I tentatively begin to talk, my words shaking slightly, unsure if I would be able to finish.
"Wyatt, I was adopted when I was 9. My parents, not the ones who gave birth to me, but the ones who raised me, are my everything." Word vomit. I know that once I start this, it's not going to end. I've always wanted to just let it out to someone, every detail, and put it on them, thinking it could make me feel better. I can't stop. Pausing for a moment, I lift my chin up and look up at him, and he reaches for my hands and holds them, signaling through touch that I was safe. My voice begins to shake as I continue. "It took time for us to really love each other. It's a relationship that needed to be worked on-you love the idea of a child, but you don't actually 'love' a child, or anyone for that matter, until you learn all about them. It went the same way with my parents. We didn't know anything about each other, except that we both needed each other. It took a long time, 9 years to be exact, for me to realize exactly what a a real family was. I had it for 9 years, but didn't realize it, didn't appreciate my parents the way that I should have. My parents were there for the 6 years that I actively battled with depression. Six years of severe ups and downs that I didn't think I would make it through."
I pause for a few moments, and I can feel that he's still watching me, still waiting. Unsure of how to continue, I lock eyes with him, and we hold ourselves there for a few moments. He's trying to ask me something, I can tell, from the tightening of his hands around mine and the tilt of his head, eyebrows raised. The thoughts are coming so quickly into my head, crippling any capability of understanding him. I finally tell him that I don't understand, and holding my hands a little closer together, he asks a question I've been waiting to hear for a very long time.
"Do you feel safe here?"
I squeeze his hands tighter, out of instinct, knowing that the tears were about to come out. I don't cry in front of people, what is wrong with me? Do I feel safe enough in this room to continue? I could give him just a generalization of what happened in my nightmares, he wants to know, he should know. Wyatt should know. I do feel safe here, I know he won't think of me differently. But do I truly feel safe here, in the relationship that the two of us have? Will I be okay?
This is the first time that he has asked me how I feel and truly wanted to know how I felt. The first thing that I am about to openly admit to him is my plague, the thoughts that kill me late at night.
"Yes."
I try to gather my thoughts, try to think of where to start and what to possibly leave out. He reads my face, contemplating possibilities, and tells me to start from the beginning, and tell me exactly how they are. This is when I know he is patient, able read right through me, knowing if what's coming out is a lie. I take a deep breath in and begin.
"My father, he was an abuser of all kinds. I didn't realize that it was abuse until years later when we learned at school that people weren't supposed to touch you in your private areas. Just because he was my dad didn't mean it was okay for it to happen. When I've had a bad day, or I smell something that reminds me of my father, I'll have the night terrors. The memories that I try to keep buried deep inside, the raw thoughts that cut me, on the inside and the outside."
Time passes in silence. It could be an minute or an hour passing and I wouldn't know. The words keep coming, thoughts slowly escaping my lips.
"I remember hearing the slow rattle of the door handle and the squeak of the door as it opened, and immediately my body becomes glued to the bed. I didn't know that it wasn't right at the time, but I didn't like it, not one bit. It hurt me, and daddies don't hurt their little girls, they protect her. I remember at first it was just touching. He just touched and looked at me naked, saying he was "searching for ticks" in the middle of a Connecticut winter or when I wasn't outside that day. Then he took his hands to my skin."
The words come out garbled through tears and heaving sobs.
"The first time that my own father raped me is a pain that can not be replicated. I've went through a spinal fusion and that didn't hurt half as bad as this. While you can't remember pain, I just remember that it hurt and I couldn't move. And my body became paralyzed when it happened, unable to fight him off or tell him to stop. He was my daddy, and daddies don't hurt little girls. What hurts more than that physical pain are the emotions that flood and drown my memories, my dreams, making me forget the line between reality and the past."
Time stops. The only sounds heard are the hum of the refrigerator and me, crying, happy this was out, but too stuck in my head to recognize that I am no longer in that room with my father, but sitting on the floor rocking back and forth. The flashbacks come easy and won't leave without a fight, and some days it's easier to fight the battle. When I couldn't emotionally fight the battle, I would lay myself in the bathtub naked and take the razor blade in my hand. Often times, I was too mentally exhausted to realize what I was actually doing, too numb to realize that I was inflicting more pain upon myself. I took the razor and would quickly glide it back and forth against the skin on my inner calf, thigh, tummy, and wrist. I only cut the wrist when everywhere else was butchered, I sure as hell didn't want people to know I was sad. When I couldn't fight my demons, I had the craving to feel the tug of the razor at my skin, to get the feeling running through my veins to help me feel human again. Some days, the razor was pressed harder against my skin, other days they barely bled. The days that I made myself bleed more, I would let the blood drip down my legs or arms and form puddles, then fill up the bathtub and watch in a paralyzed awe as the water turned a light red color. After I let myself feel the pull of the razor and the burn of the water as it saturated my wounds, I would drag myself to bed and wake up the next morning as though nothing ha ever happened. Different triggers cause me to relive certain memories that I've kept bottled up. Looking at Hawaiin Punch reminds me of the bath water. Tweety Bird reminds me of my father. I try and force myself to stop thinking. Speaking of birds, the ones outside are chirping, and it brings me slowly out of the haze. Time passes and reality comes to life as I open my eyes and look up at Wyatt. He tells me I am doing great.
Great according to who, him? He doesn't know me. Oh wait, yes he actually DOES know. Why did we even begin this conversation, why am crying?
I realize that none of this matters. It happened, he knows. He knows the one thing that I've never told a single soul, not my parents, not my best friends, and not my parents. And then, I know that his question can finally be answered. I knew the answer all along, just needed to talk myself through it, to give someone else the context for the biggest reason I'm truly not afraid.
"The reason for this is why I'm not afraid to fall, because the only battle that is harder than the one of my father that I'll have to fight is the one that leads me to my death. Six years of nightmares almost every night paralyzed my happiness and left me hopeless and bleeding on the bathroom floor. I was once so sad, unsure of where I was going to go, and the only thing that I could be afraid of is something killing me. But then, I would have another adventure - to explore what happens after death. We are all okay, and the things that make us afraid are what cause us to miss out on our lives."
Tuesday, April 14, 2015
Mid Day Thoughts
I think something long before someone else says it, especially when it comes to human behavior. If someone is deceitful or greedy, I can figure it out rather quickly. It just makes it ten times easier to play with their heads and make them come out of their comfort zone even more. A lot of people don't know the type of person they characterize them self with. For example, I know a girl who is ridiculously greedy, and she takes and takes without giving anything back. Since day one, I have watched her take money, time, effort, and love, with nothing in return. And I guess i could choose to call her out on that, but I usually let it slide. she recently 'lost' ten dollars that I had put in her purse when we went out. I know she didn't drop it, it was at the bottom of her bag wrapped around my ID card, and she managed to find the ID card and not the money. Greedy and sneaky. Those are the only ways to say it, because that's what she is.
Another example is when people try to fit in. The words that they choose are to try and gain attention from the person they deem as better or want to fit in with, and they can not yet open up to themselves.
People are shady. But just remember, I can read your social cues before you even know you're doing them. Watch out.
Another example is when people try to fit in. The words that they choose are to try and gain attention from the person they deem as better or want to fit in with, and they can not yet open up to themselves.
People are shady. But just remember, I can read your social cues before you even know you're doing them. Watch out.
Saturday, April 11, 2015
If You Decide To Stay
If you ever find me on a night where I've stopped breathing because it hurts too much, or I"m laying on the floor attempting to feel something, anything, even if it's just the cold touch of the tiles on the bathroom floor, just know that I don't mind if you walk away. I give you permission to leave me there, without a single word for explanation. But if you see me sitting in the corner, salty tear trails tracing my cheeks, fingers entangled in my hair in a sorry attempt to hold my head up, and you decide to stay, just know that I will never let you go. I'll keep you in my chest, so maybe you'll force me to breathe. Or maybe, I'll a mount a picture of your smiling face on the bathroom wall, so I can see your loving face before I go to tuck myself in the corner again. I'll keep you around so maybe, just maybe, there won't be a next time.
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