Posted in Daily Post

Daily Prompt: He’s So Fine

What was it that drew you to your significant other? Their blue eyes? Their ginger countenance? Their smile? Their voice? —http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/hes-shes-so-fine/

You guys want me to talk about my boyfriend? Well okay. =) I can do that. Don’t mind if I do!

The special man’s name is Kirk, which is, of course, why I call him Captain when I refer to him on my blog. Now you know. He is a few inches taller than me and he currently weighs like, 15 pounds less than me. However, I own P90X and now have a space in which to do it, so I intend to change that last bit (I’m sick of being fat). He has very, very blue eyes, an oval face and stereotypically misaligned British teeth. In short, he’s bloody adorable.

I met Kirk last summer, about mid-June, on OKCupid–and I’m only slightly embarrassed to admit to that. Oh well. (I think I told my parents I knew him from band camp, which isn’t a lie, although it took getting to know him online to realize that.) His first message to me was a compliment, and it was even a polite one. He just wanted to make sure that someone told me how beautiful I was. And I realize that’s a line–but I’ve sent the same message to people before strictly to make someone smile–and that I fell for it, but #noregrets.

I just hashtagged in the middle of a sentence. I have a problem. Oi.

Anyway, Kirk and I started texting, and then we were texting a lot, and then he just called me out of the blue, which was really cool because it seems like all of my friends are terrified of talking on the bloody phone. Immediately, Kirk called dibs on a date when I moved back to Grand Forks–which was fine with me, because I really just assumed it was going to be my first foray into the Grand Forks dating scene. Except… then we started really getting to know each other over the phone and Skype and everything and… all of a sudden we’d fallen in love. To quote John Green, “[We] fell in love like you fall asleep: slowly, and then all at once.”

We’d been in a relationship for a week before we actually met in person–after seeing each other repeatedly in high school at various things and never really noticing–and the chemistry was intense. It was like the moment I set eyes on the man, our souls wove into each other and became one–as cheesy and ridiculous as that sounds.

In August, I moved into the same house as him downtown, and it was great. Even though things haven’t always been totally perfect, we’ve come a long way in almost-10 months, although a few months ago we just about fell apart. In all honesty, even though part of me was hurt and wanted to walk away and never look back, the idea of extricating him from my life was too painful to face. He’s as much a part of me as my family is now, and although that’s terrifying sometimes, it’s so beautiful and reassuring that I can’t let it go. I can’t let him go. Relationships have speed bumps and potholes, but this is a vehicle I’m not willing to abandon.

We’ve just moved into a 2-room apartment together just north of campus, and it’s perfect. A little ghetto, but perfect. We have the ugliest frickin couch I’ve ever seen in my life, but it’s surprisingly comfortable, so whatever. Effectively: I’m happy. As a person with chronic, intense depression clouding my life, being happy is a big deal. A really big deal.

Kirk and I had very, very similar childhoods and it’s almost scary how many experiences we share. Our perspectives don’t always align–he’s not religious at all, and I’ve found over time that I’m a bit more so than I ever really gave myself credit for being, and it causes the occasional argument, but we respect the other’s viewpoint. In the end, I think that’s what attracted me to Kirk most; he understood. He got it. I can share my life with Kirk and not worry about him asking questions I can’t answer because he understands. He knows what I’m talking about, how I feel and how I felt. And he knows what to do when I have emotional breakdowns. He knows what to do when I have these godawful flashbacks. He knows what to say when I’m upset; he can just feel when I need a hug and when I need some space. But even being so deeply connected, we still have to work sometimes. We aren’t perfect, and two imperfect people can’t fit together perfectly, but we’re about as close as possible.

I usually avoid talking about my relationships on my blog(s) because I think it’s ridiculous and I always want to go back and slap myself. But this one is for real, and I don’t have a single problem expounding. He is mine, and I am his, and I don’t ever intend to change that.  As frustrating as he can be, he puts up with me when I’m being stupid and frustrating, so it’s okay. It’s great.

It’s perfect.

Edit (06/18/2015): Kirk and I broke up in January of this year. I don’t feel the need to change a single word of what I said in this post, because at the time that I wrote it, it was completely true. I was unequivocally in love with that man. However, we began to fall apart, and in a desperate attempt to pull it back together, we got engaged in November. After two months, the zombie relationship reared its ugly head, and we called it quits. It wasn’t a good time, but it was necessary, and we both got over it and have moved on with life. A small part of me will probably always love and miss him, but that’s okay, because at no point have I hated him. I am very glad that we aren’t getting married in a month and a half, but I don’t hate him. I don’t know if I could. We’re better off apart now, and I think there’s something to be said for that. Either way, love is a beautiful thing, and I don’t believe in hiding what I felt because I no longer feel that way.

Posted in Daily Post

Daily Prompt: Dust in the Wind

Have you made your bucket list? Now’s the time — write about the things you want to do and see before you become dust in the wind. —http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/dust-wind/

Bucket list… hmmm…

  • Get married
  • Raise happy, healthy children capable of meeting success
  • Write and publish at least one full-length novel worth mention
  • Donate a significant amount of money to a charity
  • Return to England
  • Visit Ireland
  • Visit Scotland
  • Visit Germany
  • Visit Norway
  • Sell jewelry on Etsy
  • See the Grand Canyon
  • Go to Warped Tour
  • See A Day to Remember live
  • See gender equality in America
  • Actually get fully caught up (and stay that way) in Doctor Who
  • Catch up on Supernatural
  • Become fluent in French
  • Maintain fluency in Spanish
  • Become fluent in German
  • Play with a baby elephant
  • Be part of an animal rescue team after an oil spill
  • Write a memoir

[to be continued…]

Posted in Daily Post

Daily Prompt: Sixteen

Tell us all about the person you were when you were sixteen. If you haven’t yet hit sixteen, tell us about the person you want to be at sixteen. http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/only-sixteen/

Oh, God, 16.

16 was not a good year, I can tell you that. Actually, honestly, most of my seventeenth year was spent in a depression cycle I couldn’t even flounder to the surface of. I was so far gone that I forgot that the hole in which I was living could be a tunnel with a light at the end. I turned 16 my sophomore year of high school, which was also the last year that my best friend went to school with me.

It was the year I got drunk for the first time and almost lost my job from being hungover. It was the year I started smoking–because I decided that I wanted to do something stupid. I know, right? The hell was wrong with me? I think I was just trying to find my way back above water and trying anything to get me there. Even though my chosen methods were such to throw me further yet down. Not the smartest, I realize.

I went to 2 proms that year, one in my hometown with a friend, and one halfway across the state with a guy I had a crush on (although he turned out to be a bit of a loser). I also discovered how fricking overrated prom was. That was a letdown. Oh well.

Frankly, I barely remember that entire year because I kind of worked really hard to block out most of my life back in Stanley. It was unpleasant and it’s better not to have to think about it. Soooo I don’t. You know.

Posted in Daily Post

Daily Prompt: In the Summertime

Theoretically, summer will return to the polar-vortex-battered Northern Hemisphere. What are you looking forward to doing this summer? If you’re in the Southern Hemisphere, what are your fondest memories of Summer past? —http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/04/06/daily-prompt-in-the-summertime/

This summer will be the first summer that I don’t move back home between (spring & fall) semesters. I will be attending the School of International Linguistics @ UND–SIL partners with my university–in order to complete my linguistics minor… and I’ll have a job, because Captain and I are getting an apartment together and, hello: bills.

So with my classes and job and, you know, maintaining a healthy relationship, I’ll be keeping pretty dang busy. I’ve also resolved to work out on a daily basis because the 20 pounds that I gained over the winter–and at least 20 of their nasty friends–need to scram. Plus, I keep reading that exercise helps relieve the symptoms of depression–and that would be a really good thing for me.

Honestly, though, I think it’ll be good to have a bit of a schedule set up. I’ll still have free time, during which I’ll probably do just about the same things that I always do: write, read, blog, paint, craft, party–just kidding; you need friends for that–etc. But I’m hoping to visit a pool or something at least once. That’d be fun.

Ooh! And my brother’s wife is supposed to have their baby sometime in June!! I’m on the cusp of aunthood, and I love it. So I’ll be spending a weekend with them for the sake of baby. And Captain’s sister’s family is driving in from Maine at the end of the month, so I’m sure I’ll be spending some time with them as well. Their baby will be turning 1 right around then, so that’ll be a lot of fun, too. (=

Posted in Daily Post

Daily Prompt: Land of Confusion

Which subject in school did you find impossible to master? Did math give you hives? Did English make you scream? Do tell! —http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/04/02/prompt-land-of-confusion/

So in high school, I rarely had a problem with anything. In high school, academics came pretty dang easy. Breezed through math, practically snored through English–seriously didn’t hand in a single paper in 4 years that I didn’t BS from start to finish (and never got less than an A)–and science classes were easy enough.

Until I got to Physics.

Physics was a disaster. In my defense, we had a teacher who hadn’t taught in over a decade and then a student teacher who couldn’t teach his way out of a paper bag. But that was when science and I had a disagreement. It said its spiel and I said “Um… what?” Seriously, there were a couple of points where I was crying from frustration in attempt to do my bloody homework.

Not okay.

And then I graduated high school and got to college. And most of college hasn’t been dreadfully hard, although there’ve been a few bad grades.

Micro Econ was a shit show. Again, in my defense, the prof was from some country in Africa and his accent was so bad it took all of my focus to interpret his speech to hear what he was saying and then I didn’t learn anything. So I tried not going to class, and that also failed miserably. My bad.

Intro to Logic just made my brain hurt. Seriously. I tried so hard in that class, too. The prof was really good. He was, honestly. I just couldn’t wrap my brain around a fair amount of it. I went into the final for that class knowing exactly how many points I needed to get in order to pass that class with a C–and I was 1 short. ONE POINT SHORT. But the prof gave me a C in the class anyway, for which I’m eternally grateful. I seriously don’t think he understands just how grateful I am for that C. hahaha.

I Can’t.

I don’t have a therapist. I don’t see a grief counselor. I don’t see a psychologist/psychiatrist. I know that I need to, but I stll can’t make myself do it. It isn’t because I’m afraid of a stigma–I have too many friends ‘on the couch’, as they say, for that. The human condition frequently requires a sounding board that sometimes intelligently answers back.

But I’m too stubborn for my own good, and so that leaves me on my own to deal with my shit. And I’m telling you guys, I have a lot of shit to deal with. It’s not just being a victim of familial suicide. I have anxiety and clinical depression, and there are other things I’ve been through that I can’t admit to publicly. Life hasn’t been very good to me.

Don’t get me wrong. I have a loving and supportive family. My parents are always behind me and will love me to the ends of the earth. I’m also relatively smart and talented, and at least somewhat socially capable. But it’s the rest of life that’s trying to kill me. I know it.

From a very young age, I’ve struggled with depression. When I was in elementary school, it manifested in a way much different than it has since. It’s hard to explain, really, but I think it was tied into my inability to socialize successfully with my peers. I learned recently that I was ostracized because the popular girl in my class was jealous of my pretty, long hair, and so everyone followed her lead and disliked me. It’s much more complicated than that, of course, but that’s where it started. The loneliness that ensued probably triggered a lot of my depressive states, but I’ve worked too hard to forget my childhood that I can’t adequately speak about it anymore.

My first fight with suicide happened in eighth grade. I spiraled down into this deep blackness that I grew unable to see out of. There was no light in any peripheral direction and everything seemed hopeless. It wasn’t that I didn’t have friends, or hobbies, or things I enjoyed, or that things weren’t going well. It wasn’t that I didn’t have things going for me. Depression doesn’t work that way. Depression says nothing matters, you don’t matter, life doesn’t matter, why bother? Depression says Who cares, Why care, What is there to care about? Nothing matters. Anxiety joined in and threw me panic attacks that made me want to die.

I started hearing voices in my head telling me to do things like take a handful of pills for that headache that’s probably just dehydration, to ‘accidentally’ slice open my leg when I was shaving, etc. It was winter by then, so roads were often icy, and it started to get so bad that one morning I realized how easy it would be to just end everything by turning the wheel and swerving into the semi passing me on my left. My brother was in the car, and we both probably would have died, and that doesn’t even count the semi-driver. I won’t pretend that it didn’t scare the shit out of me. Because it really, really did. I didn’t want to die. Part of me did, because thanks depression, but I really didn’t. I was holding onto the idea that eventually life would get better. It had to. Eventually I could leave that shitty-ass town and life would get better.

I came out of that depression cycle approximately all at once, seemingly out of nowhere. But the next one wasn’t far behind it. And I really mean it wasn’t far. Within two months, I was right back in the throes of depression, and it wasn’t any easier than the previous one–although I consider it a minor victory that I haven’t heard voices since that first one. The next voice I hear, I’m throwing in the towel and getting professional help. I haven’t got time to deal with schizophrenia on my own. Not happening.

Throughout high school, I spent more time fighting with depression than I did free from it. Even my writing reflects it, if you can find it scattered through my stuff. I’ve done a pretty solid job of finding and destroying most of my early writing because it’s terrible. Don’t get me wrong; I had moments of brilliance, but they’re so lost amid the crap that they’re hardly worth finding–and they’re far from usable it’s pointless to save them.

My senior year of high school, my younger brother committed suicide out of the blue. We’d been watching him for awhile ages before it happened, but at the time, he’d seemed to be doing just fine. It really came out of nowhere. He’d been making plans for what he’d do after graduation. And then just suddenly, he was gone. My life fell apart. Completely. I spiraled so far into depression that I didn’t even know which way was up. And, truth be told, even though I have high points and periods where I don’t feel completely helpless, I don’t think I’ve really made it all the way back out of that depression. My life is still in pieces, although I’ve gathered up as many of them as possible and hauled them along with me, because what else am I supposed to do?

I am still frequently suicidal. More often than I care to admit, actually. The last time it was bad was the week before finals last semester, and Captain and I damn near had my ass committed to a psych ward. Frankly, I’m still not convinced I should throw myself in one for awhile, but I don’t know that I can really afford to do it. But then, how much more of this can my mental/emotional health really sustain? I’m hobbling along–even though I argued with my mom over it this weekend. I’m hobbling along through life because I can’t figure out how to walk, let alone run or fly. I don’t think she really understands that the things I’m doing aren’t what’s holding me doing. I’m so broken-hearted on so many levels that I just can’t do it. And I’m trying, I really, really am. But it’s so hard. And the medication helps balance the brain chemistry enough to carry on, but not enough to actually feel good. I don’t even know what “Happy” actually feels like. I know what shadows of it feel like. I know what it can feel like because I’ve had fleeting glimpses. But I’m so far from it that I don’t even know what to do anymore.

I do the things I enjoy. I go to school. I learn things. I love my boyfriend. I go through the motions of everyday life. But happy? Do I even have time for happy? It just seems like it takes so much effort. People patrol my Facebook page because they’re worried about me, and although I get really annoyed by it all, I understand why. I have these moments of clarity where I get it. I do. But I don’t think they really understand the depth of the cracks through my heart. I haven’t yet found a glue strong enough to hold me together. Sometimes my emotional/mental turmoil is so bad that it turns into a collection of physical pains, and that’s when I seriously just want to lie in bed forever and neglect everything. I lose my purpose and forget why I give a shit about anything. It’s so hard to give a shit sometimes.

I read stories in which people lose loved ones, and even though I’m not emotionally invested in the thing, I still sit and cry because it prods a wound that hasn’t healed yet. You can cover a cut with a bandaid, but it still hurts when you poke it. I hurt when you poke me. Anywhere. With anything. It doesn’t even matter anymore. I would say that I’m desolate, but there are parts of me that aren’t.

That’s the complicated part of depression: you’re never all any one thing. You’re bits and pieces of yourself held together by a name and a timeline where some of you goes one way and some of you goes a different way. Which doesn’t account for the rest of you not going anywhere. And those parts vary in size day by day. You can’t really generalize your emotions when you have depression, because you feel a thing, but you don’t; you want a thing, but you don’t care; you know a thing, but, then again, what’s it even matter? And that inability to be wholly anything is what really bothers me most of the time. And even though I try–really, truly do try–I frequently just… can’t.

Posted in Daily Post

Daily Prompt: Moments to Remember

It makes me crazy when people wear their shoes in my house. What habit/act drives you crazy? How do you prevent it from happening? —http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/03/31/prompt-drives-me-crazy/

Bad grammar drives me up a friggin wall. People who say things like “I seen” or “Your welcome” grate on my nerves more than anything else. I also really detest the use of “u”, “r”, and “y” in place of real words. “Hbu”, “asl”, “omw”–none of these are acceptable. I realize that some people can’t spell, and although misspellings bother me a little, they are much less annoying than unnecessary abbreviations and blatant errors. Apostrophes do not belong in plural words. “Welcome”s are not possessions. The list goes on.

I realize that typos happen. I’m certainly not free from the periodic typo. We are human; we err. So it goes. But for the love of all that’s holy, can we please learn how to string together a proper sentence–or at least hire an editor who does?

Unfortunately, the only thing I can do to prevent getting irritated by horrid grammar is to not talk to people who can’t hold a conversation at the level that I demand. I’ve been known to neglect to message people back simply for being incapable of sending me a decent message. Does that make me a snob? Yeah, probably. But if you can’t take the time to actually talk to me, then I guess I don’t really figure I should be required to take the time to talk to you. It’s pretty simple, really.

I like to think that demanding more from people would inspire them to be more on a regular basis, that offering the correct grammatical structure (or spelling, in some cases) might actually help a person get it right the next time. I’m not trying to point out your errors so much as I’m trying to save you from making the error again. It rarely works, for the record, and consequently I’m frequently disliked because of it. (The friends I do have are intelligent, though, so at least it works as a filtering process.)

This all makes me sound like a really terrible person, doesn’t it? In my defense, I do have friends I’ve decided are lost causes, and I do still talk to them. I just sit and stew in my irritation in silence because it doesn’t do any good to say anything. Personally, though, I think that if you’re in college, you should at least be able to string together a grammatical sentence. Clearly you’re smart enough to get here; you’d probably better speak like it.

Posted in Uncategorized

Daily Prompt: She Drives Me Crazy

It makes me crazy when people wear their shoes in my house. What habit/act drives you crazy? How do you prevent it from happening? —http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/03/31/prompt-drives-me-crazy/

Bad grammar drives me up a friggin wall. People who say things like “I seen” or “Your welcome” grate on my nerves more than anything else. I also really detest the use of “u”, “r”, and “y” in place of real words. “Hbu”, “asl”, “omw”–none of these are acceptable. I realize that some people can’t spell, and although misspellings bother me a little, they are much less annoying than unnecessary abbreviations and blatant errors. Apostrophes do not belong in plural words. “Welcome”s are not possessions. The list goes on.

I realize that typos happen. I’m certainly not free from the periodic typo. We are human; we err. So it goes. But for the love of all that’s holy, can we please learn how to string together a proper sentence–or at least hire an editor who does?

Unfortunately, the only thing I can do to prevent getting irritated by horrid grammar is to not talk to people who can’t hold a conversation at the level that I demand. I’ve been known to neglect to message people back simply for being incapable of sending me a decent message. Does that make me a snob? Yeah, probably. But if you can’t take the time to actually talk to me, then I guess I don’t really figure I should be required to take the time to talk to you. It’s pretty simple, really.

I like to think that demanding more from people would inspire them to be more on a regular basis, that offering the correct grammatical structure (or spelling, in some cases) might actually help a person get it right the next time. I’m not trying to point out your errors so much as I’m trying to save you from making the error again. It rarely works, for the record, and consequently I’m frequently disliked because of it. (The friends I do have are intelligent, though, so at least it works as a filtering process.)

 

This all makes me sound like a really terrible person, doesn’t it? In my defense, I do have friends I’ve decided are lost causes, and I do still talk to them. I just sit and stew in my irritation in silence because it doesn’t do any good to say anything. Personally, though, I think that if you’re in college, you should at least be able to string together a grammatical sentence. Clearly you’re smart enough to get here; you’d probably better speak like it.