I am spoiled, not in the sense that I grew up having everything handed to me, but in the sense that make parents dote on me emotionally. I have no doubt that I am their favorite child out of three. They make it seem that in their eyes I can do no wrong. But it wasn’t always that way.
I was never impressive as a child, not in the way that my parents wanted. I sucked at sports, where both my brothers were track stars. I never had a boyfriend in high school and instead just hooked up with assholes at party when drunk. I was smart…ish, but not enough to get a full ride to a college for 4 years. I was just kind of there. I wasn’t ugly but I was no fucking prom queen.I was the epitome of plain.
When I was 19 I decided I wanted to bar tend, cause it was a lot more appealing than working a minimum wage job throughout college. I made it happen and began working at a few whole in the wall bars in northern Vermont. I made really good money, and not just for a college kid but in general. I had plenty of money to stop needing anything from anyone…but that was not enough to make my parents proud. Instead they were embarrassed that their college going daughter was just a bartender, not embarrassed enough not to borrow money from me when they were in need. But when they were talking to their friends, it was a different story.
Then I lost my shit, I had a mental breakdown because I had apparently been suffering from severe depression since I was 15. I tried to kill myself, quit all my jobs (I had three at the time) and slept on my parents couch for about two weeks before running away to South America. That’s when things started to change.
It was a slow transition, from being the disappointing child, to being the favorite. But my parents were always so worried about me, my happiness became an obsession. Once I moved to California it really solidified their need to make sure I was okay. They stopped making any comments about how I chose to live my life. They encouraged me to travel, be transient and explore life. They avoiding asking about my love life, knowing full well that I was completely fucking that up. They basically turned a blind eye to all of my faults, flaws and shortcomings. I could do no wrong. I even told my oldest brother that if he wanted them to stop harping on him he could just cry suicide and they would quickly change their tune. It’s hard to criticize someone when you are worried they may just off themselves.
This may seem like a great thing for me, and for a while it was, but now that I’m older and still fucked up I wonder what it would have been like if I had never been a manic depressive. I know for certain that the strange Californian lifestyle I am living now would have pleased them. The fact that I’m turning 33 and have nothing to my name, nothing even close to resembling a functioning relationship and no desire to ever reproduce, although I’ve slept with almost a nation’s worth of men at this point, would not have been on their wish list for me. But instead they are driving 3000 miles across the country to be with me on my birthday. This effort, at least of the surface, seems to be an incredible act of love for their favorite child, but in all actuality it is an act of fear, because they are worried that if I’m only on my birthday I’ll kill myself. So i guess I may not be their favorite, but rather just their most fucked up. Either way at least I no longer have to hear about all the things I already know I am failing at.
I blacked out and came to in a state of euphoria. With my back against the door jam and my leg up on the counter, my mind gave up and I let my body experience the amazing feel of him inside of me. Just as my legs were about to give in he had me over the kitchen table with my ass up in the air and my nipples pressed against the cold oak. At that moment the only thing I could comprehend was how good it felt to be taken by this man, for that moment I completely seemed to forget that he was a psychopath.
It only seems fitting that the most intense and mind blowing sex that I’ve experienced is with a psychopath. I’ve never done normal very successfully, instead I seem to thrive on the chaos and thrill of the fucked up. It’s not just the excitement of the sex but also the draw to their twisted mental state. I guess my own mental illness is just not enough to satisfy this urge to pursue the crazy. Hence my current love affair with a self affirmed psychopath, with four kids by three different baby mamma’s, a few DUIs, a porn director father and an inability to be faithful or truthful. My vagina, clearly, shares my enthusiasm for the insane and the amazing orgasms that come from sleeping with crazy.
I myself have a pretty mainstream and tame fucked-up-ness. I am just a suicidal depressive, I seem to be slightly incapable of over reacting or really showing any type of extreme emotion. I go through the motions every day, going to work, the gym, a run and that’s that. I don’t flaunt my disease, I don’t use it as a means to make myself more interesting or intriguing. Instead I tend to keep it to myself and if it does come up I brush it off as if spending my days wishing to die is no big deal.
I could utilize my own issues to fulfill my desire for disaster, but instead I seek out others who are undeniably and unapologetically fucked up. This doesn’t just happen with men, even in my friendships I find myself involved with those girls who call the cops on their boyfriends, have multiple pregnancy and STD scares, and are just flat out nuts. And I fucking love it, it’s as if I am a chaos junking.
I have spent so much time “working on myself” and “evolving” that I’ve evolved right out of having any interesting and crazy traits for myself. But I carve it, I feel saddened and empty when life is just fine. I find myself working for insane bosses who ask me to do asinine things, that I always end up doing. I couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to work for someone who is not a criminal of some sort, it seems as much a luxury as a death sentence for me. I wouldn’t last more than a month in a job that did not make me question my moral fiber everyday..
The awful part is that I, not so secretly, love all this shit, cause it gives me a thrill and a story. It evokes an emotion in me that makes me feel alive. I lie to myself all the time and say I want a simple and normal life, but the truth is I just want the tornado to go on around me while I stay safely in the eye the whole time. I want all of the benefits of leading the life of the insane without every really having to get my hands dirty. I am a mental illness voyeur, getting off on watching other people’s lives go up in flames, only offering water when I am fully satisfied.
It’s all just shit really, every part of it. People may try to tell you that there are good things, or moments that make it all worth it, but that is no longer the norm. Life, to most, is just shit. When you fall within a certain economical and educational demographic, the reality is that life will only ever be as good as it is. The majority of the blue collar class will never achieve greatness or even financial freedom, instead we will be working our asses off just to support ourselves.
I have been working since I was 12, I took on an after school baby sitting gig for $50 a week for the whole school year. It consumed all of my time, and yet I agreed, because it was what I thought I was suppose to do. I worked throughout high school, giving up things that I loves, music ensembles, plays and sunbathing while pretending to run track. Again I did this because it was simply what I was suppose to do. I had to support myself, even as a child. I knew that it was the way of life. I worked through college, at times having at least 3 jobs and a full course load, because it was what was expected of me. I never once questioned it, I just worked.
I still just work, I am 32, no kids, husband, family or even pets, and yet I work. I currently work at least 65 hours a week, often times 6 to 7 days a week. I give it my all, I dedicate every waking hour to this job, I have once again sacrificed anything that may give me a little joy, all because I don’t know any other way.
The sad thing is, I am not wealthy, I am not debt free, nor do I own nice things. I am still just lower middle class. It does not matter how much or how hard I work, this will forever be my lot in life. I am not smart enough to advance beyond my nature path, and I’m not lazy enough to fall below. I am just stuck, stuck working with no reason, losing any semblance of myself or what makes me happy. And it’s all just because this is what I have been taught. I am nothing other than my work ethic and my responsibility. But the truth is I am just nothing.
My life seems to be a huge fucking waste of time. I work to sustain my life, so I can in turn keep working. But why? I have made nothing of my life that would be worth sustaining. I know that I will never get ahead, or fall behind for that matter, I will merely always keep sustaining…solely because it is what I am suppose to do. But I don’t think I want to anymore, if I’m just getting by to get by, I’d rather do it on some tropical fucking island where I can sell fruit I picked to make ends meet. My current life does not, in fact, make any sense. My life is just shit, as is the case for most people, it will never not be shit, so why on earth am I working so hard for this shit?
I can’t actually tell you how I feel, and not because I can’t find the words, but because I am afraid they will be misconstrued. For some reason, still slightly unknown to me, I decided to enter into this situation, being fully aware of the facts and the situation.
So where does this leave me, I know that I agreed and signed up for this, I knew that in no capacity could you ever be mine, really mine. But my mind can not control my metaphorical heart and to put it simply, I love you. This love, however, is not to be taken for anything more than that, love.
It seems that it’s nearly impossible to take anything for exactly for what it is. We are always reading into everything, trying to find the deeper meaning or the double entendre that may exist. Nothing is allowed to just be what is it, the sky is no longer blue but a reflection of the ocean, just as love is not love, but a million other emotions and feelings all wrapped up into one four letter word. People no longer believe in simplicity and the art of directness, people can no longer take anything at its word, everything always has a deeper meaning.
So than what happens when you just feel something, truly and fully without any strings attached.. When there is nothing attached to the the feeling, no emotion or pre-existing circumstance making or controlling your feelings. Is it possible for a feeling, an emotion, to just purely exist, to just be a fact with nothing else surrounding it or controlling it. To have that feeling not expect anything in return, it just is what it is.
I feel love, what I know to be true love. This comes with no obligation or misunderstanding. I do not feel this love in hopes of future, a relationship or any other type of commitment. I just simply feel it. I feel love. I know all of the circumstances surrounding this love and yet it does not stop or deter me. Because I do not feel this love for anything in return. I will not speak those three words to make anyone say or feel them back. For the first time in my life I own the fact that I just feel something entirely. I love fully and completely, without expecting anything in return. I feel grateful that I have been given the chance to feel something as it is, without any expectations or stipulations. I just love, because this is all I can do, all I can think or feel. It’s just love, pure, intense and completely unreal.
It’s the strangest feeling being torn between two completely opposite feelings, wanting and not wanting. The deep human desire to be loved and the utter fear of anyone ever getting close enough to even try. Every feeling and thought that has ever entered my consciousness has had a contradictory thought or feeling. I can never fully commit to anything. I am in constant limbo between right and wrong, or maybe just wrong and more wrong.
I am a walking contradiction, threw and threw. I have this crazy desire for every human being to feel loved, wanted and cared for. And yet I don’t actually like people at all. I have no desire to actually interact or get close to these same people that I so badly want to find happiness.If it was within my power to make it happen I would, ideally, without ever even talking to anyone.
My mind can not even agree on my taste in music, I love a good indie rock band with a bluegrass feel and yet can often be found listening to Drake or Ella Fitzgerald. I am never able to do anything with complete conviction because I never fully feel one way or another.
I once had a friend, in a drunken, angry rant, ask me if I was switzerland, and if I was okay going through my whole life never making any real decisions or assertions one way or another. At the time I was hurt and taken aback that someone so close to me would not see that I am an open minded and accepting person. Reflecting on it now I can see her point. I am not open minded, but instead a spineless coward who has never had to follow through on any one feeling, due to always being pulled in opposite directions.
In my more self boastful moods I like to consider myself an above par human, even going as far as saying that I am non human like, due to being so evolved that I do not feel the need to let emotions dictate my actions or thoughts. But in reality I have not, by any means, reached nirvana. In all truthfulness, I am actually subhuman, not even capable of making a decision or having an opinion. I have not been graced with the ability to fully care about anything enough to advocate for it, fight for it, or even just agree with it. Instead I am always claiming to be empathetic and pride myself on being capable of seeing all side to a situation. But really I just never had to fully commit, engage or support anything. I have found a very successful way detach from life, and justify it by convincing myself that I am better than everyone else. I’m not though, at least other people have the balls to make choices, stands and arguments for what they believe in, even of those beliefs may change. I, on the other hand, sit on the sidelines of life, in constant limbo of feelings, thoughts and actions…which in a way does make me non-human, but by no means does it make me above human.
I grew up with two brothers, two very wonderful, bizarre, awkward, and in their own right loving brothers. Even as a very young girl I knew how fortunate I was to not only be the youngest child but to also be the only the girl in the family. I was sitting pretty, in my life of the entitled, blonde ringlet-ed little girl, who always got her own room and never had to wear hand-me-downs.
I never wanted a sister. I always knew that if I had one she would be far more beautiful, intelligent and captivating than I. Although I would never say it out loud, I was very grateful that my mother was unable to have more children after me. With her overly large heart she would have kept going, until she had at least ten kids. I relished in my spot in the family. I was always convinced that I was my parents secretly favorite child. Nothing against my brothers, I was just unique!
But then I met her, I met my sister. And yes she was all that I ever assumed my sister would be. She was smart, beautiful, charming and had a way better body than me. On top of all that she was an artist, just like my mother, something that I certainly was not.
My mother actually met her first, as a student in her class. She called me one day, in my freshmen year of college and told me she had met this girl, and had the weirdest feeling that she just belonged in our family. My mom claimed that she had envisioned us living in an apartment together when we were older. I brushed it off and chopped it up to my mom being her typically, spiritual self. She always formed an attachment to her students so I didn’t read too much into it.
When our paths did finally cross it was in a completely unforced and casual manner. I was waiting for my mom to finish a class at her school, when I was home for spring break. She sat down next to me on the wooden bench in the very sterile hallway and we laughed about random things that my mom would say or do. At the time I didn’t even put two and two together, that she was the girl my mom had spoken of.
My sister, as I would eventually come to know her as, got into some amazing art schools, due to her incredible talent. Yet for some reason she decided to go to a simple state school in Vermont, and it just so happened that it was the same school I went to. Obviously we crossed paths and I was always so happy to see her, and since her family was out of state, I always brought her home to my family whenever possible. It was undeniable that I had a strange connection with her, even though I didn’t know her that well. We didn’t necessarily hang out that often, even though all my friends adored her. We didn’t even really have anything in common, other than the fact that we both loved my mom and my dad’s cooking. And yet we continued to always be in one another’s life. It seemed that whenever my life was falling apart I would seek her out.
The first summer after her freshman year, she subleased a place right down the road from where I was living. That summer I had the first of many life shattering events and after my world, as I knew it then, fell apart, I retreated to her apartment. I actually moved in for the rest of the summer, fulfilling the first part of my mother’s prophecy. This would be the first time of four that we would live together, and not all in one state.
Sixteen years later, four apartments, two coasts, mass amounts of crying, quite a few Vicodin, countless heartbreaks, a few great road trips and our fair share of fights, I have a sister. She has to be my sister because there is no other way we would have survived. We have different passions, habits, hobbies and style (well she has style, I have a lack thereof) She does art with my mother and drinks whisky with my father. She knows every detail of my life and probably talks to my mom as much as I do. She is in fact, just as my mother said, part of our family.
I never wanted a sister, but I have one, and I would not change it for the world, because I need one. I could not imagine my life without her. From Vermont, to Lake Tahoe, to San Francisco, we have done it together, when no one else could even fathom what it’s like to keep searching. We have supported each other, talked sense into each other and been there for one another, in the way that only family can do. I love my sister, and I’m so grateful that I met her in the manner that I did. If she had been born into my family a year after me, I would have grown up with the resentment of having a sister who was prettier, funnier and more lovable than me. Instead my sister came into my life at a time when I needed her most, and when I was mature enough to love her for her qualities, and cherish her for her being, and thank her for her love. I love my sister, even if she is, most likely, my parents real favorite.
So here I sit, whisky in hand, watching the whole world fall apart. I am not the only who sees it, feels it and lives it. It’s all apart of of our lives now, whether we want it to be or not. I don’t know how much more any one of us can take. My heart is full of heaviness and hopelessness.
For the past two weeks I’ve gone about living my life, consumed with the harsh reality of having to actually be an adult. I have done a magnificent job of creating situations where I get to be responsible and self sufficient without actually having to grow up. Now I find myself in the midst of real life, at a time when real life may be the absolute worst thing that exists.
I am not a good person, I don’t offer much to the outside world and for the most I lead an entirely selfish life. But on a deeper level, I am a kind and loving person. I care so intensely about people, I don’t want to really know them, but I want them to be incredibly happy. I want nothing more than everyone to feel loved, wanted and appreciated. I would knowingly sign up for a life of solitude, heartache and rejection if it would bring at least contentment to others.
This is not the way the world works however, it is not a kind and welcoming place. We can not barter one’s happiness for another’s. There is actually nothing we can do to change the immediate situation of our world. It is a world of hate, fear, judgments and violence. It is a world we created, and now the world we shall live in.
I find it slightly ironic that for the first time, in a long time, suicide does not consume all of my daily thoughts. I have somehow crawled out of the deep hole of depression that I tend to live in on a regular basis, at a time when there isn’t actually any reason to come out. What I really don’t understand is how the rest of the whole world does not suffer from sever depression. Honestly at this rate we should all be on drugs, very strong drugs.