growing up

I have always been rebellious. It's in my nature. Growing up, I did not have a bad childhood. I didn't have parents that divorced or hated me. I had a big brother that was mean to me sometimes, but usually we played outside together. I read a lot. But I wanted everything.

I have an insatiable thirst for this vague notion of 'everything'. I don't know what it is half the time, but I want it. I hate being held under restrictions, being told what to do. The past five years I've had a terrible relationship with my parents, and looking back it's probably entirely my fault. I was always wanting, always searching, and I didn't give a fuck about rules. My entire life, even just the knowledge of there being a rule or restriction directing me in one way made me automatically go the other. Its just how I am.

I was the kid who was waiting til her parents fell asleep and launching myself over the back fence. I was always testing and stretching the limits, putting strain on my relationship with my parents but simultaneously building my own confidence, independence, and self reliance.

I cant say that I got tamer as I got older, but I was older so my parents were unable to restrict me much even if they had wanted to, though by this point I'm sure they're just exhausted of me. My senior year of high school was wrought with horrible situations between me and my mother, including getting locked out of my house, getting kicked out, or just kicking myself out for days at a time. All of these were induced by my own selfish behaviors, and I like to think one day we'll all look back and laugh...maybe. “Hey mom, remember when I sneaked out the night before Easter and didn't come back for four days and wouldn't tell you where I was no matter how many times you called me? LOL.”

Anyway, growing up I also commonly associated with friends who were older than I by several years. By the time I was sixteen or seventeen, it seemed like everyone was getting tattoos. My best friend Amanda now has about 7 or 8. I was very envious of this.

My brother got a tattoo for his 17^th birthday gift, and my parents wouldn't even let me get my nose pierced! So, naturally, I did it behind their back.

I went to Myrtle Beach the summer before my senior year with a good friend of mine and her family. Every night we would walk the 'strip', which had a ton of tourist-y stores and food and all of that. I went out one night with the firm intent that I was getting my nose pierced, No Matter What, even if I was only seventeen and lacked parental consent. And there they were, the 'BODY PIERCINGS' signs hanging in almost every shop window. I stopped at one, when a foreign man screamed shrilly at me “YOU WANT BODY PIERCING?!”

My friend stopped too, looking at me. I pointed at my nose. Thrilled, the man clapped his hands and dragged me into the store. Five minutes later, I had a cheap earring stuck through my nose, and the fact that Borat had just pierced my nose elated me. That was the beginning of the physical manifestation of my rebellion.

The next summer, came the belly button. While I was eighteen, it was less of a rebellion and more of a “I dare you to pierce your belly-button” “OKAY!” situation, but still. Then, later that summer, my first tattoo. My parents still haven't seen it, so until they do, I like to think of this as my last stand, the final fuck you to the constrictions of my childhood, and my first step into adulthood.

And here I am now, in college. I'm on my own, doing everything for myself, and my parents and I get along better now (figures there had to be an hour between us for that to happen). A lot has changed in a short period of time, things I thought would always exist. I wonder now if a lot of my problems really even existed, or if I, like most, was just another teenager who resented her parents for doing nothing but be parents. Two days ago, I was back in a familiar place. The chair of a piercer. As the needle slid through my lip, and Amanda with all of her tattoos grinned at me encouragingly, I reflected. Two years ago, this would have been more than just a facial decoration. While I imagine my parents' reaction when I go home won't be that of ultimate joy (“Another hole in your body?!”), it's true that now I am calling the shots and at the end of every day I am responsible for the consequences of each and every action. There is no more rebellion or working to impress someone.

There is only me, and that is so satisfying.

The Cycle.

“This isn't going to be easy.”

“I don't know what you want me to say.”

“You know, it seems like you never know what to say. I...look, I really don't want this to go in this direction. But don't start off like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like that! Exactly that. You're so tense, and already defensive. Just relax. Maybe we should sit down.”

“Jesus, Tyler, is this really going to be one of those conversations? I like to think I'm not so fragile that I'll faint at the mere mention of something I don't want to hear. My legs work fine, last I checked. I'll stand.”

“You're just being stubborn. Here. Sit with me. Please? Thank you. Now...this really isn't going to be easy.”

“You've already said that.”

“I know. I know...I just, I don't know. You are so important to me. The past few weeks, it's like you're a part of me. You've been there for everything, you're forever etched into my life....I, what? Why are you shaking your head?”

“I'm shaking my head because this is bullshit. I don't want the poetic bullshit. I've heard this all before. I'd rather leave, if this is what's going to happen.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about what you're saying! It always happens this way. You find someone, you find someone and you give a shit. You give a shit about them, you try, you work to make things different with them. But no matter what happens, it always leads to this fucking conversation.”

“Please...please calm down. Sit down again, please.”

“Stop saying please! Stop telling me to sit. Talking quietly, sitting down, that doesn't change things. Putting a different, nicer title on some shit doesn't make it stink less.”

“Claire, I'm not breaking up with you.”

“I know. I know you're not. We're not even together, how could you? To get rid of commitment, there has to be some in the first place.”

“You don't think I've committed anything to you?”

“No, not really. There's a lot of beautiful words in the English language, words you can say and perfectly craft to create an image. But you don't have to mean them to say it.”

“Claire, I've never lied to you.”

“But have you ever told the truth? Look, you're not breaking my heart. You're not. You can leave, you can go, you can get up right now and leave without saying anything more. That might even be better, honestly. You're not the first and you wont be the last. It's the same with everyone.”

“I'm not trying to hurt you.”

“Hurt me? You're not hurting me, Tyler. You're boring me. You're fucking putting me to sleep, really.”

“Claire,”

“No, stop. I'm doing the thing you're not supposed to do in these situations. I know what you expected. I know you wanted me to sit down beside you, bow my head, listen to your bullshit about being too busy or being too sad or being too narcissistic or sick or stupid to be with me, listen to you feed me compliments you don't mean so you can feel like you're a real nice guy. Maybe you expected a few tears, nothing too serious. You'd tell me now's just not the right time, I deserve more, all of that. Maybe you thought you could kiss me goodbye, and leave, shutting the door on this and walking right on down the hallway and out of my life. You expected me to feel pretty damn bad, and yourself to feel really fucking powerful. Well, it's not going to happen that way.”

“I really think you've got the wrong idea, I don't know what,”

“No, I think I've actually got the right idea here.”

“Claire, I was just trying to be honest with you. You mean a lot to me, you do. I know you think I'm a dick right now.”

“I'm being honest with you too. Look at me. No matter what nice things you say, this conversation is going to end with you leaving. You're walking out that door, and I'm sitting on this couch. I'm not going to beg you to stay, or yell at you to go. I just want you to know, that I know.”

“You know what?”

“I know this story. I don't know, I don't know how to say everything I'm feeling.”

“I don't know what to say either. Look, I have somewhere to be at 6. I just wanted...”

“It's okay. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to...no, I don't know.” tears

“Oh, Claire. Come on. I'm sorry. You're beautiful, you're so great. I'm just not good enough for you, I cant...I can't give you what you need. Not now...I'll see you soon though, I will. This isn't, this isn't the end. You know?” kiss “I...I gotta head out, Claire.”

“It's okay. I know. It's okay. Wait, let me get the door for you.”

“I'm...I...”

“No, it's okay. Really. I'm okay.”

“Bye, Claire.”

click

footsteps

“Fuck.”

the day an ass made an ass of me

This is how it happened, really. A few simple actions led to a terrible result which shall haunt me for the rest of my days. The catalyst, if you will, was my mother. I was in a very impressionable time of my life, being seven years old, and thus the activities of my day greatly relied on this woman.

On this day in particular, she had something up her sleeve. “Petting zoo!” Her lips formed the words, and my eyes registered them before the sound even had time to reach my ears.

Petting zoo?! What was this, this magical place? Something I'd only vaguely heard of in passing, something that could not possibly exist in real life...could it? The magnificence of it began to swell my veins and make my heart pump furiously in order to maintain my consciousness.

The getting dressed, the car ride, the entrance to the palace of animals – it's all an unimportant, trivial blur. I remember wearing the ridiculous overalls my mother always forced me to wear, and I remember it not even mattering – I could sacrifice my stylistic superiority to my mom for one day, because after all she WAS bestowing on me this most precious gift. The overalls were worn into a pale denim, so long that they were cuffed at my bony ankles. My mother even provided me with the delicious treat of orange soda, although in my state of extreme fulfilling pleasure I could not be bothered to be careful, and was subsequently poured more so over my face, clothes, and hands than it was into my digestive system, a detail that will later prove to be crucial.

I could no longer contain my excitement, I ran into the place my feet pounding the dusty dirt ground, causing great clouds to enfulge whoever dared follow my footsteps. I forced my hand over the backs of countless animals, my heart almost bursting with joy. Animals! Animals! Domesticated animals, here for my pleasure and entertainment! There, there was a fucking goat. A goat, right in front of me. I petted the shit out of that goat (figuratively, I hoped).

And then...there it was. The donkey. Such a majestic steed I had never set eyes upon before, not in all of my seven years. In awe, my footsteps slowed. It was like we were alone – just me, and the donkey, eyes locked with one another. We had met our match. I walked towards it, my hand stretched out, shaking slightly from the pure unadulterated bliss of the moment. And then – there it was, the moment of connection. My hand must have touched its smooth snout for some moment, but quickly the tables were turned. My hand was in my furry lover's hand. At first, I barely noticed. I felt that this must be normal. We were now friends, after all. Perhaps this was his way of showing affection. As time slowly trickled on, my adrenaline paused to reveal to me the excruciating pain this ass's teeth were making on my tiny little hand. I felt our friendship was quite literally ending at that moment. I tried to remove my hand from his mouth, but he held on fast, playing a sort of tug-of-war with my limb.

“I beg your PARDON, but this is mine!” I would have said, had I had better grip on my mind at the moment, but instead the words that left my lips were more along the lines of:

“MOM! MOMMMMMM! MOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!”

Frantically, I looked over both shoulders, my mobility greatly limited by my hand being stuck in a live trap. Finally, my mother rushed over, and after a struggle I was released from the beast's clutches, bearing the mark of his great teeth on my small hand for the ensuing weeks.

I suppose the moral of the story is, really, be careful about orange soda.

i have a dream....

That speeches do not exist.
Nah, but really.
I'm not a speech person. It's about as simple as that.

In my mind, 'speeches' and 'boring' are interchangeable words.

I can think of only political speeches, which to me are essentially pointless, or rallying speeches by the likes of Martin Luther King JR. I wouldn't go so far as to say that his 'I have a dream' speech is particularly boring, but at the same time, I don't go out of my way to car about it. I wasn't there. It doesn't bother me. Even just thinking about this topic irritates me. I am bored typing this very sentence.

I considered writing about Tiger Woods's speech after all his controversy came to the public eye, and poking fun at him. But even such a sexually charged story bores me, which clearly indicates that this topic is not made for me.

My apologies.

brother, where art thou?

June. There he stands,

his bare feet slightly emerged in the gravel driveway,

platinum blonde hair messy and pouring over his forehead.

His eyes straight at the camera, his smile crooked.

Freckles scattered over his cheeks,

an over-sized tshirt hanging nearly to his knees,

which are covered with scabs.

His skin is covered in the dirt of the earth.

He seems to exude happiness,

even in the form of a picture. His hands,

they are empty, but look like hands

meant to be full. I stare at this picture now,

and I wonder, where did this boy go?

technology slavery

I like to think of myself as someone who is not necessarily attached to technology, but there are studies that prove that I am not alone in thinking this. But the facts prove it: we're all online. When it comes to all forms of addictive behavior, no one individual thinks of themselves as being personally addicted. We find it very easy to see that others are, and can easily recognize the signs of it. But not in ourselves. I suppose I am one of those people. I enjoy my cell phone. Not the device itself, because it's a basically prehistoric hunk of brick that is the bain of my existence. But I like texting. I like being connected, wherever I am. I enjoy the ability to converse at all times. I have found myself wondering, what would life be like without this? While it is a tool of epic convenience, it is also something of a figurative ball and chain. What about the times you don't want to be found? Or the times when you're reading, or having a deep conversation with a friend? Buzz, buzz, buzz. Your phone vibrates, your concentration is lost. You can't even concentrate on things the same as you used to. Our brains are on a constant multitask, because even if we are just sitting and reading, our phone is also on our lap active in multiple conversations at a time. We're sharing our brain too much, when sometimes it just needs to be focused on a single, individual task. It's not fair, really, to any of the things we're doing – our conversation gets only a part of us, our book only gets partially ingested, our television shows only half way seen. It's something that has come a part of our culture so fast, and already seems nearly impossible to imagine without. The idea of not having texting when I want to meet up with someone, of having to actually call them, it seems so very tedious. Why would I want that when it's so much easier to....buzz, buzz, buzz. What was I saying?

I've had assignments like this in classes in highschool and I've always enjoyed them. Looking around the room, I always feel almost peevishly superior to everyone who looks a little white-knuckled at the idea of shutting off their phone for – gasp – an entire day. Then again, I chose an alternate piece of technological equipment, so I am no better. Since I don't watch television anyway, I gave up facebook for the project. Oh, facebook. The cultural phenomenon. How did you even make friends without it? It seems, now, the natural way to break through being acquaintances with someone to actually being their friend. See that cute guy in class, want to know more about him? It's as easy as figuring out his last name and internet stalking him. Even the word 'stalking' has lost its most negative connotations, and now merely means a friendly page viewing. This fills me with dread at the future of human communications, because it's already gotten this terrible this quickly. What can this mean for our children and grandchildren? What can this mean for US in a decade? Even our language has begun to degenerate to forms of abbreviations and non-words.

My day without facebook goes as follows.

Morning: Wake up, eat. Begin laundry. Sit down and read four chapters of current book (City of Thieves, Benioff). Attend to laundry. Shower.

Afternoon: Eat more cereal. 2^nd load of laundry. Two more chapters of current book. Talk to mom about tattoos. Walk away feeling cantankerous after unsuccessful conversation with mother about tattoos. Go online and check VCU e-mail. Have no email. Hang up laundry. Watch 'The Road'. Buzz buzz buzz. Hide phone under pillow, give undivided attention to movie. Feel disappointed that the movie was not as good as the book. Eat popcorn. Text.

Evening: Six chapters of book. Write soundtrack for FI class. Feel angry that soundtrack is piece of garbage. Re-write soundtrack. Feel equally disgusted. Unable to rewrite. Mind doesn't work. Read two chapters. Look at soundtrack. Buzz buzz buzz. Stare at soundtrack. Accept defeat. Check agenda, do some readings for class. Brush hair. Stare at wall. Listen to song obsessively 12 times in a row. Become bored with song. Eat chicken. Ignore phone call from someone I don't like very much but like too much to tell them I don't like them. Pass out during texting.

As you can easily tell from reading above, my day without facebook clearly lacked nothing. So, I guess the question is: why? Why do I still use it? Why do I care?

As a wise man once said, the things we own end up owning us. I believe this is true for technological services and devices. As someone who carries this knowledge, I am still not free – because I still use the services. The only way to be truly free is to be truly unattached, and yet we are all too scared/lazy/lethargic/bored to care enough. This is the sadness that is our humanity.

my purpose

Why are you here?

I stared at this question, pondering. I wondered if any of my peers had trouble answering this, or if it was as obvious to them as it is to me. Why am I here? I'm here because I want to know. I want knowledge, and I want a massive amount of it. I want knowledge of fine literature running through my veins, I want to be able to talk to strangers in the super market about Freudian theories, I want to be able to sit in a park and read books most people have never heard of.
I suppose, to some extent, the idea of having money and a career have effected my decision to attend college. But mostly, when I think of money in my future, I think of spending it paying off this very education I am receiving, to pay my bills, to pay for a house in which I may sleep, and that's about as far as it goes.
I see life defined more by the things you do in it as opposed to the things you own in it. I have little patience for those who are living their life as a means of getting to a lucrative job that they will most likely despise. It's a cycle many of us can see exemplified by our parents - they spent important years of their lives toiling away in college towards a very boring degree in very boring classes, to spend their lives working at very boring jobs for a very exciting paycheck that they don't have the time or energy to spend in ways that aren't, yes, boring.
What I want to gain from attending college and attaining my degree and (hopefully) my doctorate, is a tangible love and passion for what I'm doing. Material possesions pale in comparison to the richness of knowledge and wisdom I hope to have at the end of my life.

fear

I've come to believe that the one thing you fear the most, is inevitable. Innately, you know it, which is why you fear it so deeply and consumingly. I feared losing the one I loved, despite my pure and deep faith in that love and in our care for one another, and I lost him. It's debatable whether I feared losing him because I knew I would, or if I lost him BECAUSE of that very fear. Then again, it's all the same. Every beginning leads you to the same end one way or another. 


Despite unhappy endings, there is a way of finding joy, always. It just may not be the joy you initially wished for. I'm happy with myself, because I love myself. I have always, and will always, love myself first and foremost. Maybe my arrogance itself is detrimental to my relationships with other people, but when I'm left alone, mourning my losses, it's myself I go to sleep with and myself I wake up to every morning. And how could I NOT make sure to make that relationship the most healthy, the one thriving the most?

Every day I feel myself grow and change. A few months ago, I was not doing that. Sometimes you get so caught up in the present, or the future, or just this meaningless bullshit, that the things that truly do matter get thrown to the side. In my relationship, I was so worked up every day about trivial matters. I ruined the future because I worried so much about it. That's an every day story, isn't it. People don't know how to live. The thing you cherish the most will always be destroyed, and it will always be your fault.

Do I miss you? God, I miss you. And speaking of God, He of anyone knows how much I loved you. Loved? Love. Love is eternal, I agree with you. It's just all in how you live after that love is gone, or how you change your love to go along with the weeks and weeks and months and years alone. There are other fish in the sea. I will go fishing. But I've never really felt much for the fish, a big blue whale ruined it all for me.\
I'm scared. I'm scared that I wont achieve the things I want so terribly. I'm scared I'll never love someone and have them love me back, perfect love and imperfect love all wrapped up together in the greatest little image. It sounds typical, a scorned 18 year old claiming they'll never love again. I just feel like so many things regarding that part of me are up in the air right now. I dont know who I am, 100% yet, do I? I could very well, deep down, be just like my mother. And if I am, I really will never love. I'm scared that my cold-heartedness is something I truly never will get away from. It's deep in me and hidden, but I push people away ridiculously. I seal myself away. And when I didn't, when I truly had faith and gave myself to someone, I was left. Everything, sometimes, is just simply not enough. What a bizzarely mind blowing notion.
The idea of him, you, with someone else, was totally horrible. But at the same time, I didn't mind so much. I feel like somehow, you'll always be a part of me. That means I'll be a part of you, too, somehow. I wish I could have the faith I once had, but I'm afraid that will never happen. Realistically, that's probably for the better.

Why, when you pull away, do they come back? But when you give your all, there's no one to receive it. Fucking humanity

writing with intention

I've struggled to find an adequate way to begin this. These are words I've always wanted to share, and yet, I never have. Not for shame or uncertainty or any such reason. I listen to those around me regularly get into what could be called 'heated' debates regarding their religious belief (or lack thereof). I, however, have never joined in, always just mutely smiling at both sides of the argument. I imagine many people wonder why this is, why is it that though I am always comfortable in asserting my belief, why does my talk end there?

Over time, as anyone could tell you, there are huge shifts in society and culture. Though the core aspects may remain vaguely intact, it's an obvious truth that time changes everything. Religion in the world went from Catholics charging believers a fee to get into heaven, to molesting their altar boys. Religion in our country went from itchy wool clothes early every Sunday morning to contemporary Wednesday night services with electric guitars and coffee cake. Corruption of our culture has removed what could be referred to as the fine layer of decency and unveiled a sort of chaotic, in your face, deviant kind of people. Many would say this is a loss of morality – I see it as more of a loss of concealment. It's not like sin is something new – remember Eve? There's always been sex, and there's always been, as much as your parents like to disagree, drugs (hello, Woodstock?).

How about religions changes, in me? It went from socialization as a child (Sunday school, bible camp) to socialization as a preteen (confirmation classes, youth group, 'mission' trips), to now.

The problem with religion, or I guess more specifically Christianity, is that the message is confusing. We are fed this image of a god that juxtaposes eternal damnation and unconditional love. We are supposed to simultaneously and at all times fear him, thank him, and love him. If I were god, I like to think the people I went through all this trouble to create would totally be stoked on me, not afraid. That's the corporal punishment bullshit into which some parents delve – parents who raise serial killers, or children who become adults that live very far away.

I guess now I should specifiy that I am in fact a believer. I fully, completely, and totally believe. I am a person of faith.

But the question I toy with the most is religion vs spirituality – what is the difference? I consider myself very spiritual, but religion itself baffles me. This is where I believe human/societal corruption has fucked up a good thing. The bible, I think, is great. A great book of stories. But I just can't bring myself to accept that a book written and rewritten by humans could be the “word of god”. Because, after all, humans are the whole problem. We're the ones fucking everything up here.

That is precisely why I dislike discussing my faith. My faith, like any relationship, is personal. It's between me, and God. No one else will “get” it, and they don't need to. Religion isn't a book or a set of fucking guidelines. Religion is looking at your life, the world, and praying to God that there's something out there better than this.

And that somehow, just somehow, there is purpose and meaning in this. In you.

things to do before i die

Bucket List:

1. Get doctorate in psychology.
2. Get into honors college
3. have brown hair, at some point
4. live in an apartment, complete with a kitten
5. have at least 4 tattoos
6. play on another basketball team
7. go to england, stay in england, become english
8. read everything. EVERYthing
9. Learn everything I can about psychology and be knowledgeable about it to the extent I would be able to talk on nearly any related topic for extended periods of time
10. be on jeopardy and win
11. own a car, bought with my own money
12. get muscles, nice small muscles
13. live in a big city that's not in Virginia
14. own my own bookstore in said city and live above it
15. have a very loving and successful marriage
16. go camping and actually like it
17. go vegetarian, if not forever, for a long period of time
18. love
19. visit Tolkien's house and tour it
20. learn to speak another language essentially fluently, a language that is NOT Spanish
21. be friends with my mom
22. write a book
23. learn to do something artistic and be good at it
24. see famous paintings/museums in Europe
25. buy my brother a really nice car
26. go on a “real date”
27. try sushi
28. win in a fight
29. help people who need it
30. be financially stable (but not rich