this year's love

taught me to fake it. keep pushing. let go. iron eyes will never be pretty, but at least they aren't crying." I wrote that sentence when I was 17 years old. I thought I knew a lot about love, or more specifically, what love wasn't. And I guess that's true, I did know a lot about what love wasn't. I didn't want to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me cry. Of knowing how deeply I was broken and shattered and that I was actually not okay, just excellent at going through the motions and lying while looking you in the eye. Looking back, maybe if I had shown those around me how defective I was, someone could have convinced me to start taking that little white pill every morning a lot sooner. And maybe that would have been a good thing, but would I still be my own hero? Would I still know how strong I am capable of being, and how to piece myself back together when I am broken by another's hands?  I would never wish depression on anyone. It is such a con

[originally published 8/8/12 - thisyearslove] Saying things to people who used to be in your life is draining. I've done it twice in the past few days, said things I didn't think I would ever say to both of them. And they both took it fairly well.  One of them hates me, deep to his core, and I have to figure out how to be okay with that. How to realize and accept that hating me is what he needs, what he wants. And knowing someone that used to be so close to you hates every fiber of your being, that's a hard thing to accept. Because I still love him as a person, I just couldn't be with him. I couldn't get married. I couldn't be defined by him and I couldn't stand the thought of him being defined by me. I couldn't wake up with him every day, and I knew that he would feel the same eventually, I just got there faster. I just fell first. And I am so sorry. I should have been stronger, I should have done it sooner, I should have opened my eyes.  And the pa

Today, I was asked if I was okay, by someone who obviously isn't okay. I said yes, because this is what you're supposed to say, and I even if I wasn't okay, I wouldn't want to share that with you, or anyone for that matter. He proceeded to say, "so you're over it then?" to which I didn't respond, because I'm not big on lying, but I wasn't in the mood for the pity party that would follow the truth. Being okay has nothing to do with "getting over it." They are two seperate spheres, and while they may overlap in small places, they are not one body. You cannot equate them with each other. Please, argue with me. I have so many examples that will prove you wrong in less than 6 seconds. I know a girl who says she fell in love with a boy. I believe her, but to explain to you why, would lessen its meaning. She told me her story one morning while we were working together, because it was early, and there isn't a lot to talk about while stari

"what if the storm ends, and i don't see you?" well i've done it before. five times, if we're going to get technical. nobody is ever there after the storm is over. i don't know if my storms have stronger winds, or maybe harder rain, but nobody can stay through them. the aftermath is always me, solo. i like it that way. it's fact. i hate being medicated, probably more than i could explain. number one, it means you're messed up. number two, i know everyone is messed up, but that fact doesn't make it easier. don't think it does. number three, just because i take a pill every morning that you probably won't have to take until you're 40, doesn't mean i'm numb to the things 18 year olds feel. it just means i get the 40 year old feelings mixed in with the 18 year old feelings, and that messes me up. i know i need it. needing something doesn't make it easier. what's easier is when you want something, and you get it. or even if y

the most frustrating feeling, is when the thing you hate most, is the thing that is keeping you alive. fall reminds me of this feeling. sometimes, when i have time, which isn't often, i stare at the trees with their newly brightened leaves. because i live in oklahoma, it is always windy. always. and sometimes when i watch those leaves, still hanging onto their branches by their thin, brittle stems, i get this deep feeling that they want to fly. they don't want to be held back anymore. they have changed from their infant green stage-grown up, learned, transformed themselves-and they want to fly with it. but how do you fly without your roots nurturing you, feeding you? and then they're discouraged because they can see all those other leaves on the ground, being stepped on and being crushed, and see the results of an attempt flight that failed. and there are so many. and they didn't get very far at all. and what if it isn't worth it? i'm not really talking about tr

its weird when things hit you, but they have to hit you. no one will tell me what my rock bottom is, or what hill im climbing next, or what my view from the top will look like if i make it that high. i have a hundred people telling me that i destroy my own life, that it really is my fault, and although i don't act like it, i am actually aware of this. and i actually do love this. because i think its good to not want things. i think its good to be sad a lot, and darker than others, because when i live, i will know how to live. i will know how wonderful it is. and for that, you might become jealous. when we're older. and we're living.