Let Bygones...

Dear American Populace,

As a 21-year-old female living in the Midwest, slightly overweight but making up for it in creativity, intelligence and humor, I am entirely sick of reading posts online that "Real men love women with curves" or "real women have curves" or "real men eat meat"--you get the drift. Society's concept of "Real people" is so far off the mark that it's frankly disturbing.
Women and men come in all shapes and sizes. Genetics plus lifestyle equal an incredibly vast collection of body types, and there is beauty in the body of every person. Whether or not we see it individually is entirely arbitrary. We are conditioned to look toward persons in the media like Taylor Swift or Hayley Williams, Paris Hilton or Emma Watson--Tom Hiddleston or Justin Timberlake, Josh Hutcherson or David Tennant--and define our concept of beauty in the exact terms of what these men and women look like. In the end, regardless of whom a person happens to find attachment, the ideals are the same: thin, thick voluminous hair, muscular, tall, elegant, poised, etc. The problem is that, in this era, at least 50-60% of the American population doesn't even come close to looking this way. Most of us consume a bit too much candy, junk food, soda, etc. and we end up with a bit of extra padding around the softer places of our bodies. Lord knows I have some.
But you know what? You don't have to be built to be attractive. You don't have to be tall, or thin, or blond, or brunette, or elegant. (Elegance helps, but that can be learned to a certain degree.) You just have to be you. My boyfriend has an oval face with "chinstrap" facial hair (I believe that's the correct term for it, anyway) and is approximately 5 inches taller than me. He used to be quite built/rugged, but in the past couple of years he's put on a bit of extra weight and although he's ashamed of it because he remembers how he used to look, I love it because it's part of what makes him who he is. At 5'7" and 183 lbs (when I checked the scale last; and let's not talk about Thanksgiving, okay?), I've obviously got a bit of extra cushion around the middle; my thighs are a bit rounder than they need to be. I have a heart shaped face, and hooded eyelids. My hair is very fine and unruly, and a couple years ago I chopped it all off. I've fought with my self-image my entire life because growing up, I was always the fat kid while my brothers were both super skinny. When I look in the mirror, I don't see my features so much as I see an entire lifetime of struggles with depression, anxiety and anger issues; I see years of social torment and oppression; I see every mistake I've ever made.

But when people look at me? That isn't what they see. They see my outside, unmarred by my tumultuous psyche. They see my face, not my past. This is what people see when they look at you. Your face, not your breakfast. Your body, not your exhaustive workout regiment. You. And yeah, once you start getting to know people, your brain starts re-interpreting those features, but only insofar as you see them. Nice people grow more attractive; you begin to find physical faults in assholes. It's human nature.

But what I want you to take out of this is that you are beautiful for existing, for being you, for being alive. You are beautiful for the decisions you make and the lives you change. You don't have to diet to be beautiful. You don't have to work out to be beautiful. You don't have to be tall or short or eat bacon or not eat bacon or like women with curves or headboop cats (although I'll admit the latter probably helps, haha). You just are what you are, and that should be enough.

Never stop striving to be better than the person you were yesterday. Everybody else can fall away, but at the end of the day you're the one you have to sleep with at night. And that's a really strong incentive to find the motivation to do whatever it is that you need to do to be happy. Go to college, read a book, see a therapist, hug a friend, call your mom, pet your dog, go for a run, eat some fucking chocolate! That's all it takes.

Because there isn't a single individual on this planet who doesn't deserve to be loved and treated like they're extraordinary. You are extraordinary, even if you don't know how to see it yet. I believe in you. Now you go out into this world and you believe in you. Because once you do, you'll make others.

Rant Alert

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Car Trouble

Okay. Check this shit out:
Car died in the middle of a U-turn over a week ago. I mean it wouldn't even turn over or anything. So I had it towed to Rydell. I had it scheduled for an oil change and a couple of things on Monday morning anyway. I called on Friday and nobody answered. They finally called me on Monday and were like, "So we got your car towed here?" blah blah blah. So I called back and talked to him. "Yes, do the oil change. Yes, do an analysis to figure out what the hell is wrong."
>>Tuesday: "So you need a new alternator." "Okay, put it in." "Cool; we'll call you tomorrow."
>>Wednesday: Nothing.
>>Thursday: Nothing.
>>Friday: I called them to find out what the hell they're doing with my car. And the chick at the service desk is all like, "So we're waiting on a new radiator, right?"
And I kinda freak out. "Uhm, nobody said anything about a radiator. What the hell?" (Okay, so I didn't actually say "what the hell" but that was the sentiment. You know what I mean.)
"Uhm. Let me put you on with one of the guys in the service department."
"Okay, thanks."
Answering machine. Go freakin' figure. So I left a message on the machine to please call me back--and I remembered to leave a number and everything.
Nothing.
>>Saturday: Nothing.
>>Sunday: Nothing.
>>Monday: Presidents Day; shop is closed. i.e. Nothing.
>>Tuesday: Get a call during my Comm course. So I didn't answer. The guy leaves a message on my phone and--for real--he goes, "So uh... we put in your new alternator last week, and uhh... our technician broke your radiator, so we had to order you a new one. And uh, we put that in this weekend, and we took it for a test drive, but the check engine light was still flashing, so we brought it back in and looked at it again. So if you want to call us at (number)--" and then the message cuts out because APPARENTLY my phone only lets you leave a 1 minute message or some shit. Go figure.
So I called back. Aaaaand everyone's freakin busy. GO FIGURE.
So FINALLY they call me back and he says, "Yeah, so we had another car come in this morning similar to yours and we put the parts for it into your car, and now your check engine light isn't coming back on. But your oxygen censor still needs replacing, so do you want us to do that or do you just want to take it and see what happens?"
"Well how much is it going to cost to replace it?"
"About $200-250."
"What am I sitting at right now?"
"With the alternator and the oil change, about $1100 or so."
Sigh. "Can you put that in today? When can I get my car back?"
"I think we can get that done tonight. You could pick up your car tomorrow."
"Then yeah, just put in the new censor. I'll pick up my car tomorrow."
"Alright. We'll do that and I'll call you later this afternoon, okay?"
"Okay, thanks."

It's officially 7:20 p.m. and I haven't heard back from them. Like, seriously? What the fuck, you guys? This is stupid. I mean, that conversation was at 1:30 p.m.
I've had band class and test driven a new vehicle and worked on my English paper so far in this time period.

These people suck.

Suffice it to say, I'm a touch on the crabby side. Imagine, eh?

Sigh. Whatever. Whatever. It is what it is. I'll survive. And I'll get my car back. And all will be well.

Ugh.

Not the Best Week of My Life

I may or may not have ever covered this, but I suffer from major depression. It's undiagnosed because I've never been to see a doctor for a handful of reasons:

1. I hate talking about my issues.
2. I tend to figure I'm good enough at uncovering my psychoses that I don't need someone else to tell me what they are.
3. I am terrified of being medicated, which I am strangely convinced that I will be should I decide to go see a psychiatrist.
4. I have this strange (not terribly uncommon) concept that if I go see a psychiatrist people will come to conclusions about me, most of which would probably be true, and it would break my "I've totally got all my shit together" image that I've worked so hard for so long to maintain.
5. I dislike admitting that I have issues I can't work out on my own, even though it's been obnoxiously apparent for a very, very long time.

So, regardless of how many times I have announced that I'm going to go make myself see a psychiatrist/counselor, regardless of how many times I've decided that I'm going to go get help, I haven't because I know that I simply won't ever actually  make myself do it. Because I can't. I can't make myself do it when it comes down to it. I probably need somebody to go with me to force me to actually commit. Because if I start I'll go through it. But starting is the problem.
But I don't want to ask anybody to go with me, either.  I did anyway--just now. One of the girls that lives on my floor (in the other wing) also has clinical depression and actually is medicated for it. We talked about it yesterday so I just asked her if she would go over with me tomorrow after film class. Just... because I know I won't actually do it on my own.
This is so much harder than you can imagine. Like, seriously, it's so hard. I just... I hate it. All of it. I want to cry. I very well might cry. I did repeatedly yesterday. Just a little bit every time, but nonetheless.

It sucks being broken. It sucks being depressed. It sucks sitting in the middle of class or work thinking to yourself that there's just no freaking point to any of it anymore. My mom broke the last string on Monday when I called her. She didn't do it on purpose and I don't know that I really blame her. But she snapped the string that dropped me back into this sea of shit. And I can't do it anymore. I just can't.  I don't have it in me.

I'm not "suicidal" in the manner that I would never actually legitimately consider doing it--especially not after losing my brother two years ago.  I couldn't possibly do that to my family and friends. Not again. Not to mention the fact that I have absolutely no interest in dying; I have too much shit to do, thank you. But I won't deny that the thought ran through my mind. And that's not okay. That's one of the indicators that I finally have no choice but to get help.
If you're suddenly worried about me, you really don't need to be. I am stronger than the demons in my head. I always have been. I went through this at least once in high school, too, and guess who's still here. Just because there's a voice in my head that tells me something doesn't mean that I actually listen to it. I am just plagued by it. And the time has come to cope with some of my shit.

I would like to know who decided I should have to cope with this shit. I would like to know who got to make the executive decision that my head should be a complete fucking wreck. Because I would love to punch them in the fucking neck. Seriously. Maybe share some of this shit.

Do you guys have any idea what it's like to hate having grown numb to things that you can't handle feeling for extended periods of time? The pain I know I feel from the loss of my brother has become a massive scar, protecting me from the great pit of suffering that I had been suspended in two years ago because no body can maintain that kind of sorrow that long. It's just not possible. I think we would grow quite mad with it. At least I feel I probably would have. So I have grown numb to it. But you have no idea how frustrating that is when I finally want to just sit down and let that pain wash over me and I can't. I can't feel it. I know it's there, and I know that I feel that pain, but I can't... Access it. And that's when I want my body to hurt so that I can find somewhere to focus that pain, somewhere to focus that sorrow. Somewhere to feel hurt. I have never hurt myself, but I want to so much. Like you just don't even know.

I HATE this life sometimes, more than most of you could ever understand. There are those among you who have definitely suffered as much as, if not worse than, I have, and I get that. It's not like I think I've got the worst life ever. But my life has heretofore been immensely unfortunate and it's so hard to accept or work around sometimes. How do you look on your childhood favorably when all you remember is being oppressed by your peers? When all you remember is secluding yourself as much as possible just to avoid your classmates? When all that you remember is being made fun of for wanting to learn, for wanting to read, for wanting to progress? It wasn't all bad, obviously; they didn't all suck, and not all the time. But... Nonetheless.

So there it is. I'm psychologically damaged and can no longer do it alone. My boyfriend is supportive, which helps. My best friends are all behind me getting help, which is also helpful. I didn't really realize just how important that kind of visible support could be. My heart may hurt, but I do have the support necessary to get through it.  My parents... I dunno. My parents are supportive, but they just aren't here. You know? They're too far away to really... be as much help as I really want/need them to be, and that's not their fault, it's mine. Because I'm the one that chose to move here. And I'm not moving back. But I definitely welcome winter break with open arms. I am going to play with a baby and read as much as possible. I need it.

I need a vacation--from myself as much as from everything else.

My tattoos tell a story. They tell my story, but almost more than that. My existing tattoo is for my brother, but it's symbolic of more than just my loss; it also represents the love that I have for family, etc. and tells a handful of other stories that are difficult to articulate. It says that I won't let go, that I won't forget, that I'll hold on. It says that I'll love him through memory because he's no longer here to love. Not to mention all of the stories that I'll never tell, refuse to share, can't share, for whatever reason. I can't share my entire life with you, nor would I ever want to.

But Matthew and I were practically twins, and being without him for the past two years has been nothing short of excruciating.  I play cavalier, big tough girl who just copes because there is no other choice; but I hurt. I hurt indelibly and I doubt there will ever be a time when that part of my heart doesn't hurt.

Sometimes I want to go in and have the tattoo gone back over to make physical that pain, to give it somewhere to manifest so that I can actually feel it.
Because I hate growing numb. I hate knowing that I feel things that I can no longer truly FEEL. I know I'm sad, and that it hurts, but I can't feel it anymore, and you can't understand how much that bothers me. It's a blessing, of course, but it's also a curse.

How would it make you feel, to know that you've grown incapable of feeling things? To know that you've grown numb in self-defense? Would that bother you? I don't LIKE being hard; I don't LIKE being callous. I don't like being broken. I want all of this to end, but it won't. It can't. It can never end because Matthew can never, ever come back into my life. And that makes me so sad that I can barely live with myself.

But yet, if I still did feel all of that pain, if I did still have to live with all of that every single day of my life, I would go insane, or I would wither away and die. Because my body simply couldn't take it. There comes a point in sorrow where it turns to physical pain, where emotional trauma begins to have side effects. It is good that my body has boxed it away and forgotten, but I still long for that pain because I need it to validate my continuation through life. I need it. I... I can't... be okay with not... feeling it.

I am so broken.

But I refuse to let this be the end of me. I will carry on and I will be all that I was meant to be, regardless of what I’ve lost, regardless of what I will inevitably lose. I am who I am because of tragedy and because of untouchable fate. It may shape me, but it will not define me, and it will not stop me.

Life may owe us nothing, and we may owe life everything we’ve got and more, but there is truth in this: It cannot screw me forever; at some point or another, there has to be a break in the storm, a clearing in the woods, a day without homework. I pray for monotony on the basis that it may allow me a moment long enough to recollect my courage, recollect my faith and my patience to continue the fight through turmoil.

My tattoos will tell that story, but inarticulately. Passersby will not look at the ink on my body and know that my life is pain. Passersby will see something else, because I allow them to. Because I force them to. Because I allow art to be arbitrary until you're in the know.

I am currently planning 2 more for the near future. One is small and simple, cute: an outline of a baby elephant holding its mother's tail; and might go on the inside of my wrist or heel--haven't decided. The other is an anchor with a rope that forms a loosely-adapted infinity sign with "Hebrews 6:19" etched into the length of the anchor. "We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure."

Life is full of hurdles, hoops and obstacles, but our path is forever calling us, forever begging us to carry forward. My stumbles and my detours will not forever deter me from the ultimate goal ahead. I will have my life, and I will live it well.

Nonfiction Prompted Writing

So I've been taking a class called The Art of Writing Nonfiction and we have to write all of these essays and shit and like. I dunno. I keep writing these little. autobiographical pieces.
Like this:

"Looking back on the course of my life, it strikes me how very little I genuinely remember. I view much of my past as though looking through a wax-paper window. Details are hazy; speech is garbled into foreign languages that I couldn't possibly understand but a few words of. And so the search for clear memories begins and suddenly I can't remember whether my memory of falling into the campfire in South Dakota is entirely mine or pieced together from the stories my parents told. Do I actually remember tripping and falling in? Do I ACTUALLY remember being snatched out and having a five-gallon jug of water poured unceremoniously over my head and then drug over to the nearest yard light to be inspected for burns? Or have I just heard the story recounted enough times to allow my imagination to fill in the rest?

"And while I think about all of these things, it occurs to me just how goddamn vacant I have allowed myself to be my whole life. I am never fully present. I am never fully invested in what I'm doing RIGHT NOW. And does that bother me? The answer to that question could never be anything but yes. Of course it bothers me. I have spent my life insisting to people that I am mature and involved, observant and immensely analytic. To an extent, none of these are lies... at least until I try to remember what my life has been like. We have pictures of single moments in time, but I look at these pictures of my life, of events that should stand out to me, and I remember nothing but flashes of faces, flashes of scenes that mean nothing in larger context and nothing to me. Why do they stand out over the things that actually meant anything? Why do I remember how the audience was arranged at my second-grade spring concert but not where my family was? Why do I remember the things that I remember versus the things that I WANT to remember?
"In part, I blame my classmates in my early years of school for making life so miserable that I didn't pay attention to anything they did or anything that was going on around me. It didn't matter what was going on--I wasn't likely to be included anyway.

"So here's what I do remember: I remember playing in the mud with my little brother, playing out some nonsensical fantasy story about bubblegum, and I remember my mom hosing us off in the backyard. I remember how piercingly cold that water was and the way that it felt like razors sluicing through my skin.
"I remember coming home from Kindergarten one day to find Matthew sitting on the couch with his hand wrapped in a really bulky hand towel, suggesting something between the towel and my four-year-old brother's hand. My mother whisked me out to the wheat field to ride around in a combine with my dad so that she could take my brother to the hospital for stitches. Perhaps he'd already gotten them; I guess I don't remember that anymore. I remember seeing a long, dark pink line curved along the length of his finger and tied together with black cord in seven hard little knots. I no longer remember that scar, and this saddens me greatly.
"I remember sitting in a salmon-pink--"two-toned brown!" Matthew always insisted exasperatedly, never willing to give in to my assertion that he drove a pink truck--Ford pickup outside of the grocery store while my brother cried about cringing because kids from school raised their hands to wave at him while I was buying fruit snacks. I remember being confused and concerned and sad for my baby brother, who had been treated even worse by his peers than I had been by mine. But I don't remember what he was wearing that day or what his hair looked like or what he said when I told him that he needed to eat my Veggie Tales fruit snacks because it was purely impossible to be sad while eating Veggie Tales fruit snacks; it's just a fact.
"I remember that Matthew came into my bedroom at midnight on October 9 of 2010. I remember that he tried to talk to me about something, probably the Resident Evil movie he'd seen with a friend that night. I don't remember what he said to me. I do remember brushing him off and trying to get rid of him. I can't remember if he tried to hug me goodnight before he left, try as I might. And I can't remember if I hugged him. I imagine that, if I did, it was dismissively, in order to get rid of him so that I could return to whatever inconsequential nonsense I was entertaining online at the time."


I will continue writing this later. I can't take the next step tonight.

--Emily

Ugh.

It has come to my attention the last few days that I'm beginning another depression cycle. I'm pretty sure I've explained the way that my depression functions before. I cycle through it. Sometimes I'm really good and then I go back on a downswing and I'm screwed for however long it takes. The last couple cycles haven't even been overwhelming sadness/sorrow either. The last few have been mostly apathy, and they've been brutal.
Spring semester, I didn't go to my comp 2 class for like, a month and a half. Okay, so I went like, 3 times. But still. That doesn't count. The WORST part about that is that I was writing a huge paper on the misdiagnoses of psychological disorders in adolescents in America. Ironic, no? I was unappreciative.

Anyway.

So I'm pretty sure I'm cycling again. And it makes me REALLY cranky. I was hoping to pull off a few more months before that kicked back in.  And I think that this time I actually have to take the advice of my peers and compatriots--can I say that? Is that a word? Whatever--and go talk to a counselor. I don't know if the university even HAS that type of counselor. =/
And for real, as embarrassing as it is for me to admit this, especially NOW, I still cringe at the thought of seeing a therapist/counselor. I cringe. Every time. I don't want to. I really don't want to. I don't want to have to explain the shit I've got flying through my head because so much of it I can't explain. Some of this shit is strung together with my literature and my reading material and then it doesn't make any sense at all. I just. ugh.

This is what I wrote in my notebook the other day during American Government because I completely drifted off and away from the topic at hand (because he was kinda babbling): "Some days I wake up to the futility of life and I briefly lose my purpose. [...] Some days my brain latches onto the idea that everything--especially the religion to which I am so attached--could be an intimate, convoluted lie designed by those cunning minds that see power and seize it in order that they may guide and control our lives for their pleasure."

Uhhhhh... yeah. I think I should go talk to somebody. Maybe. Just a thought.



Anyway. That's all.

--Emily Mell