I almost forgot I had this blog but here’s a vent post from yours truly

So here’s the deal. I think I have officially lost the right to call myself anything remotely close to a creative and artistic person. I have definitely foregone any right I had to call myself a writer. Which is such a damn shame because those things used to be such an important part of my identity. They were things that calmed me, excited me, made me feel good about myself and want to rage and scream at my open word document or canvas all the same. I don’t even fucking read for fun anymore unless it’s bullshit short stories because that’s all my pea brain has the attention span for these days. It’s like, with the complete and utter lack of motivation I have to do any of that now that I am either working 9-5, going to classes and sapping my brain dry with coma-inducing legal reading and writing, or too drained to do anything else.

The sad part is that I know, if I were a stronger, more disciplined person, I could make the time. After work, between classes, whenever. Instead I spend that free time watching mindless YouTube “Top 10” videos, drinking until I fall asleep assisted by the spare bottle of vodka I always have stashed away in my room so that my roommate won’t see me constantly back and forth in the kitchen to get to the alcohol cabinet and recognize that I, quite possibly, have a problem (side note: come back to this, it’s a big fucking problem), or, most often, staring into space and doing absolutely fuck-all. I don’t even run anymore. It’s like, now that I’m thinking about it, I’ve lost everything about myself that made me a person in the first place, all of my go-to topics when asked about things I loved. Now, if someone asks me what my hobbies are or what I do for fun, I genuinely draw a blank, because I really don’t do anything anymore. Nothing that brings me any sort of joy, at least. Sometimes I still have the gall to say “reading and writing and running” because I can’t say “more often than not, literally nothing” as if I have any right to define myself by those treasures anymore when I haven’t actually connected with any of them in years.

And I get that people change and interests change and that’s okay, I don’t have to define myself by the things I did five or so years ago. The problem is that those things weren’t replaced with any new hobbies or joys or healthy interests, they were filled with nothing and nothing and more nothing, and the occasional really fucking bad habit. I just miss being me, or at least knowing who “me” was. Having things that brought me joy, things I was decent at, things that I miss so fucking much but can’t find a way to bring back. It’s like the life’s just been sucked right out of me, and the world is much less beautiful looking at it through these eyes. That all sounds super-fucking-dramatic but that’s where I’m at right now. Might revisit some old writing in the hopes that it might spark something but who knows. Anyone else have these kinds of problems? If so, did you ever get past them? I just want to rediscover the things I used to love — the things that made me, me.

vodka & butterflies

There’s not enough room in the cab we cram ourselves into; four open seats and six of us. She ends up sprawled out on top of us in the backseat, her head nestled in my lap as she squirms to get comfortable. My face burns, my thoughts feel fuzzy and too-loose, and all at once I wish I wasn’t wearing shorts, I wish I hadn’t sat on this side of the car, and I wish her head hadn’t ended up in my lap. I’m so glad it did.

Her hair fans out across my legs in wild curls, tickling the skin on the inside of my thighs all the way to my knees. She smiles up at me, the corners of her eyes crinkling, the moonlight glinting off her teeth. I can’t look away, even though I know I should.

She laughs at nothing; I am too busy staring at the way her mouth moves to really hear it, but I can feel the way it shakes her shoulders, and I can’t help but laugh along with her. Right now, even though we’re driving along in the dark, everything seems just a little too bright. I think if I concentrate hard enough, I could count the freckles that dance across the bridge of her nose, so I try really hard not to. She smells like strawberry shampoo and alcohol, and it’s making me dizzy, because I can’t breathe without her filling my lungs. I sit as still as I can, but my skin is too warm and feels like it’s buzzing, and I wonder if she notices.

Her eyes are sparkling. Her lips are very red. I want to kiss her.

I don’t. I can’t.

But at least I can admit to myself that I want to.

waging a war when the enemy is yourself

I fought a war today. I tackled hidden battles raging beneath my skin, standing valiantly against my opponent. I wrestled with anxiety, shot down thoughts of hopelessness, riddled negativity with bullets, and clashed with the jagged edges of apathy.

I fought a war today. And all the while I felt my resistance crumbling. With each passing moment, I felt another chink in my armor, another crack in the walls that I have so carefully constructed. But while I may not be unscathed, I am still here.

I fought a war today. I struggled to escape from the clutches of sleep, so laden with false comfort, so full of the promise of nothing, so safe from the threat of combat. But I broke free from captivity, and I patched up my wounds, and I counted my scars. I soldiered on.

I fought a war today. I learned that my opponent does not intend to fight fair, waiting to strike when I am most vulnerable. Forcing me to steel my skin, to strengthen my resolve, and to always be vigilant.

I fought a war today. And I am tired, tired, tired. But still, I press on. Still, I pick up my sword. Still, I spar with my enemy. And still, I make it through another day.

I fought a war today. I fought the same war today that I fought yesterday, and that I will fight again tomorrow, and next week, and next year. Maybe even the rest of my life. I still cannot tell whether I am on the winning or losing side, but I am fighting.

I am always fighting.

—waging a war when the enemy is yourself

for all my girls out there who like girls more than boys; you are not alone

You are six, and you are still at a stage in your life where you are convinced that boys have cooties. You wrinkle your nose in distaste at the thought of them, and one day you find yourself asking your mom why girls can’t just be with each other instead. The idea seems nice enough to you–girls are nicer, prettier, softer, anyway, but you watch as she goes pale at the question. “It’s just not natural, sweetie,” she says, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear and plastering on a smile that’s clearly forced. “Just you wait, you’ll like boys when you’re older.” She sounds so wise, so sure. And since when is your mom ever wrong? You do not know any better. You are only six. So you nod, and you believe her.

You are nine, and you come up with a new game to play with your friend. You pull your shirts up to cover your mouths, and you pretend to kiss, because it’s okay if your lips aren’t really touching. You laugh, and you do it again. When your friend’s mom comes to pick her up, she sees, and then your mom sees too, and they tell you to stop, stop, stop–you can’t play that game anymore. For the life of you, you can’t understand why they look so horrified. It was just a game, after all. Maybe, you think, it’s just another one of those things that you’ll understand when you’re older.