"Don't waste your time applying to med school.  You won't get in anyway."
"Well, it's not like you'll actually graduate."
"No one will love you if you have scars on you."
"Depression isn't real.  It's all made up in your head, so just get over it."

This is how I grew up.  I can't say this is how I was raised, because I don't believe my father raised me.  He was around to point out my flaws, come up with chores that needed to be done, and make me feel useless.  Unfortunately, he was very good at it.

I've come a long way from where I was mentally when I lived at home.  Thank God, or I probably wouldn't be here today.  But his snide remarks still hurt.  I play them over and over in my mind, wanting so badly to prove him wrong, to prove to myself that I am more than he has ever given me credit for.  Yes, I deal with him better now, but he still affects me.  I have this unshakable feeling that I'm too stupid to be successful, too useless to be loved, to unworthy of anything good that may happen.

I deal - though not always well - but what kills me is seeing his effect on my brothers.  Those two beautiful, brilliant boys that I would do anything for.  That I gave up my childhood for.  That I care about more than I even knew was possible.  The fact that I have to deprogram them from shit my father has planted in their heads.  To convince them that they are good people who are talented and intelligent.  To remind them that life does get better with time and that I'm always there for them.  It seems like I get a call from at least one of them weekly, where they're so worked up all they can say is "I hate him" repeatedly.

I can't stand how he treated me, but I hate seeing the effect he has on them.  All they wanted was the support of their dad - to know he was proud - and they were forced to learn far too young that some people are never happy and to seek support elsewhere.  I thank God I can be there for them.  I only wish I had someone similar when i was young.  Maybe then I'd have a little bit more faith in myself.  Maybe then I'd feel a little less worthless.

3:08pm  8.10.11

And now, my entirely rambly, riddled with spoilers, thoughts on Drive.

As I start writing this, it is 1am, I’ve been up since 7am, I’m severely lacking in caffeine, and I just got back from the movies.  There is a very high probability that this entire post will be incoherent, fair warning.  I should probably just go to sleep, but there are a few thoughts I wanted to commit to something other than my memory before I do so.

Here’s what I knew walking into Drive.  Ryan Gosling, Carey Mulligan, Ron Perlman, Nicholas Winding Refn directed, little dialogue, heist driver.  That’s it.  That’s all I figured I needed, because that’s all the previews and interviews presented (yes, I even watched interviews with the cast and crew).  It sounded interesting, at least moderately entertaining, and hey – Ryan Gosling.  Having now seen the film, I wish I had known more about it before I sat down.

I’m sick of feeling this way; I’m tired of being unable to think of anything else.  My reality is being bombarded by daydreams.  It’s a good thing mind readers aren’t real, or I’d be in trouble.  Even my fantasies are becoming more illicit, like they have to up the ante after a certain amount of time.  I feel like I’m being controlled completely by this overwhelming want, and I’m going to explode if I can’t find a way to release it.

It’s pathetic, too, because I’m utterly incapable of verbalizing it to him – hell, I haven’t found a way to fully verbalize the completeness of it to anyone – much less act on these impulses.  My brain, my hormones, my body, are stuck in this state of craving.  I can’t seem to get enough.  Satisfaction is fleeting.  As soon as it hits, the want begins again – and I want more.  I don’t want to rely on fantasy.  I want reality.  I want him in my reality.  I want his hands on my ass, lips on my breast, hip thrusting, can’t form coherent thoughts, reality.  I want locked eyes and moans, locked lips and release.  The daydreams used to be enough – a private movie I could mentally play for my own enjoyment.  Now, they play when I should be focusing elsewhere, and they just can’t keep me happy.

When he’s next to me, I ache for contact, for the distance between us to close.  But I’m so fucking awkward that I’m incapable of doing it myself.  See?  Pathetic.  I crave that small sign that he may want me too.  That I may be enough for him.  So I sit, and I make conversation, and I try to keep my fantasies at bay so I can hear what he has to say.  And I urge him to catch on, to pick up on my desire to jump him right there.  To straddle him, to grind my hips into his, and to whisper into his ear just how much I want him. 

When I saw him last, I happened to catch a glimpse of his hands first.  The first thing that popped into my head, I kid you not, was how good those fingers would feel sliding in and out of me.  How much I wanted to feel them right then.  That instant yearning for more overcame my mind, but, of course, I did nothing.  I smiled, and we talked about inane things, and I hid the lust I felt. 

I don’t know what to do now.  But I need some relief that is longer lasting than what I have now.  The pent-up tension, the lust, the mind-numbing ache to feel his weight above me, his hands exploring me, every inch of him deep inside of me, is driving me absolutely crazy.  I’m sure someone else could fill in, but that’s not who I want. Hormones suck.

Here I am, awkward and feeling ridiculous about trying to make a brazen move, even though the me in my head is totally okay pushing for what she wants.  A huge roadblock, stopping that girl from presenting herself to him, is the fear of rejection.  The what-if of putting myself out there and learning that he has absolutely no interest in me – that no amount of fantasizing on my part will change that.  So I remain plagued by dirty thoughts, a veritable slave to my own imagination, with no more than a fleeting release.  What is wrong with me?  My id needs to back the hell off and let me catch my breath.

12:37am  15.9.11

Have you ever listened to a song that had an immediate and profound impact on you?

That happened to me today. A song came on in iTunes with a play count of 1 (not surprising, given the quantity of music I possess).  The song played through, and I realized that all other actions had ceased while it was on.  I immediately played it again.  The second time, I not only listened, but I felt it.  It was like my heart and gut were listening too.  The words struck right at the core of me, and I could feel them resonating there.  I put the song on replay.  By the fourth listen, I knew every word and run.  By the tenth, I felt tears welling up.  As I write, I am on play count 21.  I can't bring myself to turn it off.

We've all experienced a moment where a lyric, quote, or poem has stayed with us, seeming like it was written about us.  Tonight, it felt like this song was written to serve as a voice for my subconscious -- it embodies everything I hadn't realized I was feeling, until I heard it set to music.  It verbalizes thoughts I could never have formed in such a beautiful, coherent way.  It struck me.  And maybe I'll listen to it tomorrow and think it's too melodramatic.  Maybe I just got caught up in a moment and let it overtake me tonight.  Even so, the connection I feel right now to these lyrics is unshakable.  Even while writing, I am struggling to focus on the words.  My eyes keep closing.  My ears are trained solely on the music.

I'm listening to a woman I'll never meet singing every word I've never been brave enough to admit.

Play count: 24.


12:15am  12.9.11

L.O.V.E.

Lauren sat at the diner, unable to move.   She was in shock.  Three years of fear and pain, over.  Her phone sat on the counter, and she could just barely hear the dial tone sounding from when he had hung up.  She felt like she should be crying.  Should be doing something.  But she couldn’t bring herself to do anything at all.  She couldn’t even form coherent thoughts.  The waitress approached, set down the slice of apple pie Lauren had ordered what felt like ages ago, and asked if she wanted whipped cream.  The question snapped Lauren back to reality.  She jumped up, threw down some cash as she grabbed her phone, and she ran out the door.

Once she was on the road, she kept speeding up, weaving in and out of cars.  She cared less about following the rules of the road the further she went.  Everyone was moving too slow.  A drive that should’ve taken ten minutes seemed to take hours.  Her mind, frozen moments before, was racing just as fast as her car.  The past three years had been torture.  She had watched him deteriorate in front of her eyes.  She’d spent day after day, curled in bed with him, praying for a miracle.  He often moaned in his sleep, and as she watched him rest, she cried.  They both did their best to keep it together, but she knew he must’ve cried sometimes too.  She knew that he was in more pain than he let on, but he never told her when it became unbearable, when he wanted to give up and move on.  She feared her presence hurt him in some way, forcing him to act braver than he felt, but she was too selfish to be absent for very long.  His parents never minded that she had practically moved into his room.  She did her best to give them their own time, as much as the time away hurt her.  She had been at the diner for that very reason.  As she pulled into the parking lot, the same thoughts repeated continuously in her mind.  ‘I should’ve been there.   I shouldn’t have left for so long, or gone so far.’  She jumped out of the car, nearly leaving her keys in the ignition, and broke out into a sprint toward the glass sliding doors.

Victor was leaning on the wall outside his son’s room as Lauren approached, his phone still in his hand from when he had called her. She saw that his eyes were red and swollen.  He had been crying in the hall so his wife wouldn’t see.  He sucked in his breath, trying to regain his composure, as he embraced Lauren and kissed her forehead.  He nodded toward the door and followed her inside.  Victor walked to the far side of the bed to join his wife, who was unashamedly sobbing while holding her son’s hand, as Lauren neared the other side.  She took a deep breath, unsure of exactly what to do or say.

Every day for three years had been full of battling for his life.  Prayers, tears, hope, and fear had controlled their every moment.  Each hour seemed too short, each day one less that they had with him.  Seeing him lying in the bed, she knew she’d suffer through it all again with him if it meant she got to experience this exact moment again.  He was weak still, and he looked completely exhausted.  His drooping eyes turned toward her slowly, and she saw something she had feared had been lost forever.  He smiled.  She climbed into the bed next to him, as she had so many times before, and they intertwined their arms.  She glanced toward his parents and whispered, ‘It’s all over?’ They both nodded furiously.  She inhaled, and for the first time in three years, they all cried together.

27.10.09  1:55pm

25.6.10 9:42pm