A flood of somethings.

Sometimes I am selfish. I don't always want to share this journey with others, particularly of late. Part selfishness - mostly reservedness - and maybe not only this, but also: if I fail to filter feelings into words, I can pretend that tribulations aren't.

When I do begin to scrape words together, I feel petty in my insecurities. I received a 4.0 for my first semester in college, and my English professor means to use my final project as a resource in her classes, and I have been accepted into the Honors program at Universityland, and... I am still a mess. My feelings may misconstrue the never-ending quandary, but I have always been good at school. As such, these good things surprise no one but yours truly - so I don't perpetuate this work ethic for perpetual pats on the back. Or maybe I do. Maybe this is the issue, for as lovely as accolades are, they do not fulfill me as I wish they would. It would be easier if it were enough, wouldn't it?

The shining academic record and glittering tales of success are an easy way to disguise my worries. Look, I can say, I have saved myself. I am fine; I don't need help. Pretend perfection is my game of choice.  Silence is a simple tool. I don't lie - I merely fail to tell, alter feeling until it takes on an acceptable shape.

This is not to say that I hide within my silence well. It isn't even that I am greatly unhappy. Yet there is a disconnect somewhere, a niggling voice inside keeping me from any sort of comfort in asserting myself. I don't want you to know the rough number of times I have overdosed on Cheez Its and British comedy in a fit of wallowing, yet eventually the fact that I have hidden makes me angry, as if you should somehow innately have the power of mind-reading. As if you have no sadnesses of your own.

And my sadnesses feel petty, too. Soon I will be returning to Universityland; my roommate and dear friend will not, as she is taking an internship. I will be okay - it will be okay - everything will be okay. (Mantra.) Because there are always good things. Because I will find things to do, because I will find ways to occupy my mind (see: mountains of homework), because it will be okay. But still I am frantic, ready to return to Universityland but uncertain of how ready I am to be there. Tiny Town Texas is comfortable only in that its incessant sluggishness and unhappiness is unsurprising - but my mother is here, hugs ready at any hour, and my soon-to-be departure is not something I want to think about at any sort of length.

(Silence.)

Breaks from the norm are difficult in and of themselves, for the new and empty space breeds unending worry. I will be okay. It will be okay. Everything will be okay.


Miscellany: a) I no longer eat meat. Adjust your judgements accordingly, as - as you well know- vegetarianism is definitely an evil and conniving cult.

b) The Fault in Our Stars by John Green is positively glorious, and I would recommend your reading it.

c) I send my love.

(Flux, n.) Some days the cracks are less apparent.

I seem to have run out of words. The few phrasings I manage to pull together over and over again are far too familiar. I feel lost, I inevitably write. I've lost something. Maybe this 'writing' has never been easy, precisely, but here I flounder in a manner I cannot pinpoint. It used to be easier, right? I have nothing new to say; I lack color. I don't want to whine. Rather, I want to fix myself before any difference is noticed. I lack the muster to create something solid enough to say aloud. I feel disjointed, ungrounded, and unendingly transient.

I manage to (sometimes) fool myself with the idea that lies count only in what is said. Yet I am oh so practiced in the art of silence, which can be something very like lying.

The line that separates acceptance from detachment is blurred. Sometimes, in unexpected quiet or crushing noise, the things I have cast aside come back and lock the breath inside my chest. To pause against the rush is to urgently attempt to recollect and restore all things. I ate lunch an hour late today. I need to send an email. There is homework to tackle, more homework than I can accomplish in twelve lifetimes. He... no. No, I can't. Not now. It hurts.

I like to forget the cracks.

There are a lot of things I like to forget about myself, and often do by either design or total accident. I like to forget great swathes of time, and often do. I like to forget, especially, that I spent six years of my childhood overseas. My memories lack distinction, skewed just so to promote the most graceful of stomach flips. I remember then in a tangle of bleached picture memories and bitter whisperings; I like to pretend that then wasn't. I like to pretend that then is completely removed from now.

I like to forget that my father is problematic and that the years I have spent painfully toeing the line (et freaking cetera) are a nearly direct result of this, erm, "difficulty." I draw a blank for a moment when questioned about him; he tends to surface just long enough to wreak total havoc while playing the part of the victim, yet even this streamlined approximation doesn't feel fit for sharing with most. I don't hate my father for a heaping conglomeration of reasons, but the fact that so many (acquaintances, often) choose to defend him is head on desk amusing to me and enough to keep me quiet.

For whatever it's worth, writing does feel more difficult now. I have had this post in development for a week and have yet to decide what I mean by it. I switch sentences around at a frantic snail's pace, unable to make head nor tail of what I am saying. The words are all the same.

I want to tell you about college, but I feel as though I have lost the drawstrings with which to pull ends together into something sensical. I want to tell you about the guy who jaunted down the main pathway near the library on a fine Friday morning, hair a flop of wet curls framing sunglasses. He carried a vintage briefcase somehow transformed into a boombox, which sputtered a hip hop beat as he passed.

From my perch on a hanging bench, I watched people for an hour before the fountain behind me was shut off for maintenance. The white noise that had before masked the sound of footsteps and laughter suddenly gone, the already off kilter feeling of familiarity in the air dissipated.

There is an amount of comfort in knowing something well enough to make movements without worrying deeply. The harsh angles of the new are easier to navigate once you have gotten to know them. Yet the longer I consider perspective, the less I am sure of it. The stasis is intermittent. People change, the weather changes, and we move through the shifting chaos.

The all encompassing dilemma.

From the throes of a (not) existential crisis.

I am in the throes of an existential crisis.

This is a complete lie, but it feels more concise (and, frankly, fun) than "I have my first college exams this week and my body has decided to attempt illness in protest (thanks, yo)." I am convinced that I am doomed to crushing and total failure, but this is hardly breaking news and more of an occupational hazard than anything else. A preliminary count totals six humans who have assured me that I will not fail these exams, college, or life in general. It is also apparent that all I do is a) study, b) put stuffed animals on my head, c) consume caffeine and/or dairy products, and d) view the internet with longing.

Granted, I am a citizen of the Internet, future crazy cat lady and douse myself in glitter with increasing regularity, but it occurs to me to wonder what exactly I would be doing were I entrenched in a thrilling and active social scene. From what I observe through thorough and exact research, "fun" in college quite often includes alcohol and illicit activity, neither of which I am interested in partaking. While I am fairly certain intellectually stimulating conversation occurs somewhere on campus, I am currently too terrified and immersed in study (i.e. panic) to seek it out.

I may be slightly biased at the present time, as I have been studying the ins and outs of genitalia* for the past two days in preparation for an exam in Human Sexuality. Unfortunately it is not a practical exam, as we all know I am the loosest of women, constantly whipping men and ladies into a froth of raging hormones, and would thus be prepared to bring such an examination to a satisfactory finish.

Such is life.


* I have also been making all of the terrible innuendos. All of them.

A brief note on my lack of sudden and complete happiness.

I often (almost always, of late) avoid writing because I feel that I am required to maintain a certain image. I feel that I am meant to be in a certain place and am expected fit into a guideline; the few words that occur to me are distinct only in their disjointedness and lack of zest.

I didn't expect to find happiness here immediately and I haven't. Do I expect to get there eventually? Yes and... yes? I hate complaining, for it feels unnecessarily whiny and disrespectful of the trials of others. Look at me! College is so hard! I miss my mom and I want to cry all the time but can't let myself!

But it's true. I'm not happy. I do miss my mom. I've set the most potent of my emotions on the back burner, which plays a big part in the fact that I don't know what to say when asked how I am. A great deal of the time I don't feel anything.

I say these things without wishing to be overdramatic. I want to press that I will be okay. I mean, probably. As terrifying as stasis is to me (it demands disaster), I always find it again.

As for happiness? I'm starting to lose the idea that happiness is something one finds. A dear friend told me many months ago: "[Happiness] is not a location, not a prize. It's inside of you, already." This remains one of the best things anyone has ever told me.

I'm not giving up. I'm just... very much overwhelmed. Sad. Shaken. Tired. And entitled to these feelings, as lacking in poetry as they are.

Blog Every Day August: 8/31

Fifty four pages of Government reading still call my name, yet I have spent my evening writing letters and sneering at it and my other homework.

In my last English class the girl I was seated next to informed me she had not done the reading and instead guessed at the quiz questions, which apparently worked out well for her. In Government, again, several humans behind me discussed at length their tactics for doing as little as possible. Call me insane or naive (both?), but I really like schoolwork. Which is not to say that I do not expect to freak out in the near future over the state of my academics. I have no idea what I am doing.

This August has been tumultuous, to say the least. I almost want to apologize, as it has not been what I might have wished in terms of writing. Several of my buddies in this venture are facing the same problem; words are not easily found these days and oftentimes a painful ordeal. In some ways, I worry, I have failed you or wasted your time. But for what it is, this affair has helped me. Words have shed some of their fright. 

Sticking it out counts for something.

My fondest regards to all of you. I will be back.

Blog Every Day August: 8/30

I am currently putting off doing sixty pages of Government reading. It is not technically due until Friday, but I am crazy and take skeins of notes, necessitating a ridiculous amount of time. Have I mentioned that I am crazy? I suppose this somewhat of a regular occurence.

News flash: the off brand Cheez Its I am currently consuming are CHOLESTEROL FREE. Oh so reassuring, that. Government, while occasionally intriguing, is making me want to stab things. Eeyore has been brought in for moral support.

College.




Days until college: -9

Blog Every Day August: 8/29

I am exhausted. Is this a theme? Maybe it is implied at this point. Part of me wonders why in heaven's name you lot stick around day after day like this; this month has been, in my lowly opinion, a disaster. The only conclusion I am able to draw is that you a) love me and b) are at least slightly crazy... for which I thank you. Crazy is preferable, in my opinion, and the love here definitely goes both ways despite my currently lacking relationship with communication.

I would like to thank Manar ever so for filling in for me yesterday. Her words are a shining beacon to me always. Have I mentioned I am a sap? That. But really, Manar is brilliant. As are all of you. Dave, I am bewildered as to why you've put up for my ramblings (or lack thereof) for a month, but your readership and comments have been appreciated. And Lydia! You're amazing. I mention hardcore commenters here, but my appreciation extends to all of you.

My humans shall be visiting me this weekend; that my immediate family is willing to drive seven hours at (almost) the drop of a hat is itself enough to make me weepy. Needless to say, I am excited.

Partner In Crazy Laurel forced (see: nudged) me to visit the cafeteria and acquire caffeine, as I was nearly falling asleep in my chair. It is apparent that the cafeteria is the place to be at ten on a Monday night. The more you know, eh? My head is now in a special, special caffeine + tired place.

Loveyoubye.


Days until college: -8