History [aka the life of disasters.bitch] (written early 2010/late 2009)

This is my history, for any of you who are wondering. It might not get posted right away- hell, it might not get posted at all- but its something that's been sitting on my chest for awhile, and it will be good for me to write it all out, and I'm starting at the very beginning. No secrets. No lies. Okay?
I don't really remember anything from birth to about six years old. Yeah, I have random nonsensical snippets, like watching my father china paint or coloring in the church's basement, but nothing substantial happened then. At six, I started to go to camp. That first summer, I attended three weeks. Two were things I was actually eligible for, being six, and one was a puppeteering camp that my father was directing, and I came with him and slept at home, since we lived close. That's when I fell in love with theatre, at six years old. I loved watching the grown-up kids putting on their makeup, singing on the somewhat makeshift stage and dancing with each other. That was also the year that Dad directed some choir, and we travelled around watching them perform for couple weeks. I love choirs.
When I was eight, we moved for the third time in my life. I don't really remember any of the other moves- I wasn't ever upset that I remember, because, to my memory, I had very few friends as a child. When we moved from the third house, I remember being a little sad- I loved my house, and I had a small group of friends, who I realize now probably weren't the best ones- but kind of excited to make new friends and be popular. After all, everyone said that when you moved you got to reinvent yourself.
This might be the time to mention that I was a really, really dorky child. At JC Penneys, they used to sell these shirts in the kids section, and the girls plus section (which was basically womens clothing for large children like me) that were short sleeved, incredibly soft, and had little embroidered emblems in the center of the chest. Palm trees, butterflies, flowers, dragonflies, things like that. Over time, I collected an insane number of these shirts. Enough that I wore a different one every day. Obsessively. I wouldn't wear other shirts, until winter, when I wore sweaters. Hair was usually in a headband, long, honestly because I didn't know how to make a ponytail, and at the time, Mom was preoccupied with three little kids and I didn't want to bother her to learn. When it wasn't, it was french braided down my back, like it was on 9-11, when I found out about the World Trade Centers on our living room floor, and understood that it was bad because Mom pulled too hard and she almost never did.
But back to the move. I thought, being my eleven year old self, that this would be the year where everything changed for me. I'd get my period, lose what I thought was baby fat, and become stunningly popular and beautiful, and I'd finish all my work and start medical school next year. Needless to say, the exact opposite happened. I remember having very few friends the first year there. Mainly, it was one named Michelle, who, if lesbianism turns out to be conditioning rather than  genetics, was the one who "turned me into a lesbian". Got that, critics? It wasn't my mom. It was the bullying, obsessive, moody best friend I had when I was eleven, who threw fits when I didn't give her her way, and thought she would become famous singing off-key country music. I remember her talking about my body all the time- asking what diet I was on, how much I'd lost, and feeling my chest, because I, at eleven, had relatively large curves and she wanted to know what it felt like. I don't know if she really was a lesbian, but she talked more about bodies than anyone I knew.
The next year, I started public school. I was so excited. I thought it would be like the movies- all bright coloring and shiny soundtracks. I'd just finished watching Mean Girls, and I thought that all homeschooled kids really got accepted like that- liked immediately. The first month was a blur. The second month was a painful blur. Of the three months I was there, I came away with five things: I had been to my first dance. I couldn't dance, and I didn't know the music, but I'd been, and I knew what it was now. I had had my first boyfriend- though we'd both agreed that dating in middle school was stupid, and that we were just kind of... betrothed to date, in the future. He did, however, bring me flowers and candy on my last day at school, which was nice of him, and I went on my first date- We saw "A Series of Unfortunate Events" at the two-dollar theatre down by Kmart, and he laughed at all the right places with me. I met my friend Liz, who I doubt remembers me now, but we sat together in chorus and she threatened to tape me to my chair my last day. I met my friend Chris, who I later attended prom with (2009).

Monday Morning Exhaust

So I'm sitting here in class, and wondering if I'll ever really feel better again. I'm hearing people talk about things that they've learned this semester, and wondering what I've missed. I thought that these things were just common knowledge. I don't feel like I've learned anything the entire class.
I'm panicking a little, because I have about a million things to do, and I can't even imagine how to get it all done. I'm completely wiped out, and I haven't even done anything. I've wasted so much time in the past semester- I have like... fifteen papers to write, and I can't even fathom how to get it all done. Although, you know, I have time to blog... But I guess I'm justifying it as sanity-time, plus, you know, I'm in class. >.> Maybe there is no justification, outside of "I don't want to be dependent or attention seeking anymore." That's pretty much what the jump in blogging again has meant. I felt like I was wringing the life out of everyone around me, even though I wasn't. So, dear readers, if you're out there, if you care or notice that I'm writing again, that's why. Yes, I miss you, and yes, I want to keep writing, but the posts, for now, will be intense and lingering, thought based, feelings, stream-of-consciousness right now.

Beloved,

I know you're probably not even there, and you don't have to read this- I just need to get this out, and on some sort of paper, and journaling to myself has never worked for me, just like walking with no purpose. If there isn't an intent, if there isn't a subject, a person or a place, if there isn't something to direct towards, the effort is worthless, which ends in endlessness... God, those words sound empty, like something that an attention seeking novellist would write at the beginning of her memoirs. This isn't a memoir.
This is a story, a story about how I feel at these moments, not my last, mostly because I feel that would be melodramatic and none too tasteful, to die in April- too rainy for funerals. No, kill me in August, when the sun is still blazingly hot and difficult to deal with, when I'm exhausted from work and my family, when I've been away for far too long and can't even look to despise anymore, because I'm so disgustingly worn out. Yes, kill me in August.
Right now, I'm obsessed with you. That sick obsession that draws me in, wraps it's long, scarf-like hands around my throat and squeezes, until I can't write, can't breathe, can't even sleep without thinking of you. Only this time, it's different.
In times past, I messed around. I flirted with the internet countlessly and without shame. Now I feel the shame, dark, looming as I realize that I am ugly, I am worthless and I truly am a worm.
Only a worm could cheat so blatantly, could wrap it's slimy hands around you and then use them to type the disgusting words I have.
I want to be raped.
Isn't that sick? Isn't it especially sick after I have been?
You want to believe she's wrong- that I'm not ill, that I don't want attention. I do. I crave your attention. I want you to hold me and kiss me and be happy with me. But you're not. You're sad and stressed and busy- too busy for me right now. So I'll pack it all away, closet my pretenses and envelope myself into this sick mold I am becoming. I'll lock away my selfish desires, box it all, and start writing down my thoughts here- where nobody but the anonymous masses, those who breathe, and sleep, and eat the thoughts of others, those who cannot possibly dream any longer, and have thrust themselves at the mercy of strangers. People like me.
I shall not be the dastardly vilaine in your plot any longer.
Never doubt I love- even though it's early, even though you don't-
-Me