Things are slowly getting better. I go through cycles every day of feeling bad about myself for having such a mediocre job, not knowing how in the world I will ever get out of this monetary rut I’ve been in for so long. Then I feel like I should be grateful for having ~any~ job, no matter how overqualified I am for the position. Also, working at a sub shop takes me back to the days only a year ago when my father owned a Quiznos and it took so much out of me to help him. I clean tables and I wash dishes in the exact way I would at Quiznos but back then I was so angry. Working with my dad was never easy which is why he only employed a few people at a time which, obviously, had to do with why the business failed, because nothing anyone ever did was good enough or up to his standards (flashback: his reaction to everything I’ve ever done in my entire life) so of course it was rough for me. But now, I work for another company doing the same thing except less managing and less free food whenever I want it. And I get sad because the work is so easy and I resent myself for being such a fucking princess bitch and not giving 100% when my dad so badly needed me. I should have tried harder. I should have been there when he was desperate for help. Going back and forth between such extreme feelings has me so mentally and emotionally tired.
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I'm twenty five.
Peruvian/Kurdish.
Currently in Florida.
Fashion/Style blog
Photography blog
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Seeing someone, especially a member of your immediate family, wasting their life and literally fading away from reality more and more every day rips your insides apart like nothing else you could ever imagine. A feeling no romantic heartache could beat, a feeling no other kind of sadness could ever replace.
I remember being an angsty middle and highschooler and all I could do to avoid my parents constant yelling was to hide in my room listening to Kittie or Blink 182 or System of a Down and eventually Dashboard Confessional really loud, memorizing and analyzing every line to drown everything else out. The yelling outside of my room and the reeling inside of my head haunted me and all I could do was hide.
Now, there is less noise but more reminders. I walk in and within seconds, no matter how happy I am, everything turns to shit but this time I have no room of my own to hide in. Just thoughts that slowly lead me to think maybe I’d be better off sleeping on the floor of my moms walk in closet.
I remember the feeling quite vividly. Or, more appropriately, the lack of feeling in my toes. Grishko’s. Size 8. Fitting my feet inside the narrowest space possible. And the first time I got up on pointe, rising up on my toes with the hard block under them, holding them in place. Bruises and blisters. I don’t remember bandaids though. They would just slide off while I was dancing. I remember not feeling my feet but still having to get on pointe to do relevés and plies. The first time I got my pirouette down. Then I could do two in a row. And three. Until I finally accomplished fouettes on pointe. I think I cried. After every class we’d all go up one by one and see how many we could do. The most I did was ten and it was probably the proudest moment of my life. Not graduating College but doing ten fouettes on pointe. It was the most beautiful thing my body has ever done. I’d trade in the daintiness of my feet any day to be able to do ten fouettes every day. I know I still could if I practiced…a lot. So maybe I’ll be proud again someday.
My brother has been away for almost three weeks and it’s been killing me. He’s been barely eating and as a result has lost ten pounds. My brother is already unhealthily skinny. I myself have been having trouble eating just knowing that he’s starving. But it’s his own choice, I suppose.
Up until yesterday I was unsure whether or not everything that’s been happening is for the best. I hoped it would be. I wished it would change him. And today, I was sent a sign. A sign that assured me he’s going to be okay.
Tonight, during a phone call, I told him I loved him as I do every time we say goodbye. But tonight was different. Tonight he said I love you too.
Sitting here trying to figure out how a human being could be as good as my boyfriend is to me and how it is possible for my heart to be this happy and full of love and I just want to make him breakfast every morning and make sure his cup of coffee is always full.
It was dark and I hid quietly inside the bathroom that marked the territory between what was happening across the street and the inside of my house where I was standing. Leaning my head on the gray window sill tile and my arms on the wall tiles I waited.
The lights came eventually. Red. Blue. White. Then the loud sounds started and I remember finding them familiar but could only remember hearing that sound on the television or while dosing off in the backseat of my parents ‘88 Honda Accord.
Louder than what I had no idea were sirens were the voices. I could hear them from across the street even when I plugged my ears and I could see the lights even when I squeezed my eyes shut so hard I felt them pop.
I started sobbing and heard a door slam. For the first time in my life I felt terrified and not of my immediate safety but of what would come next. For the first time my future didn’t seem bright and full of rainbows and sunshine. I was four years old but my mind felt around eighty.
I didn’t see it happen but I knew. I knew because I had gotten the same feeling before. I knew because he didn’t come home for a few days. I knew because that’s when he started to become more angry and that’s when he started blaming everyone else. And that’s when I started blaming myself.
I just wrote a poem. I just wrote a poem and quickly erased it because as soon as I read it the tenth time it began to sound ugly to me. This is the feeling I am at war with every time I write anything lately. Nothing is ever good enough after a few times reading it. Like when you repeat a word too much or write it out a hundred times it starts to look unfamiliar and more foreign every second.
I want a place to live but I don’t have one. I want a home. I imagine home isn’t a place with wooden floors, marble countertops and an island in the middle of the kitchen. No, not yet. Home smells like fresh flowers and a hint of pine. Home is where I can set my record player on the floor, not too far from the mattress that also lies on the floor, so I can play songs that’ll wake us in the morning right before I pour a glass of orange juice. Home is simple and warm — comfortable. A place where you can close your eyes and smile because it’s what you’ve always wanted. How you’ve always wanted to feel. Where you’ve always wanted to be.
Every time I see a photo of the man that committed those murders in the Colorado movie theatre I get so angry because we shouldn’t be glorifying his face or name or calling him the Joker and morphing his face into the Joker’s face on national television BECAUSE THAT’S CLEARLY WHAT HE WANTS. He is now famous and even if he does feel any remorse — he won. He accomplished what he wanted to some degree and whyyyyy do people even want his face on their blog I DO NOT UNDERSTAND THESE THINGS.
The trouble with caring so much about someone and fully enjoying their company is that when they leave you feel sort of empty. You look for them and suddenly they’re not there and you pout for a minute and then feel a bit pathetic but then realize that it’s okay. It’s okay to fall for someone so hard that your heart feels heavy when they’re not around. And it’s totally irrational to expect them to be around all of the time or even a lot of the time because we all have things to do and lives and blah blah blah. But the thing is- right now, other than applying for every job on the fucking planet that I’m qualified for and not getting any calls or e-mails back and crying about it every day I don’t have much else to do. And that’s what’s pathetic. Not that I wish I could be around him all of the time, but that when I’m not around him all I want to do is watch The Office and binge eat until my stomach hurts.
Being sick for the past few weeks has made me see why I am so sad all of the time. Being well aware of the things you do to harm yourself or make yourself unhappy (indirectly) and not having the willpower or strength to fix it is something I will not put upon myself any longer. The second I feel better things will be different. This isn’t a “new years resolution” type deal where I will forget about it the next day. No. I will not go another moment feeling like this. I refuse. I know how to be happy and it’s time I chase it instead of run away. I know why I’m depressed and I know that I can fix myself. I don’t need anyone or anything. I’ve become a miserable soul, full of disgust towards myself and most people around me and I’m done.
I’m done moping and dragging my body slowly through each day. It’s been years since I felt like myself and I’m going to find myself again. Because I am a fucking beautiful person and I refuse to hide it any longer.
My father is moving back to Kurdistan in 4 days. SO MANY FUCKING FEELINGS.
