It takes gettin…

It takes getting everything you ever wanted and then losing it to know what true freedom is.

Lana Del Ray

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Bad News

How strange that the moment something you didn’t want to hear comes to light, everything changes. Everything seems to, anyway. But really, nothing is different. This thing that has seemingly ruined you still existed in the moments of ignorance prior to learning it. Moments before, the world still spun. This detrimental event existed in the moments the world still spun. So, why do we suddenly feel different? Why can’t we go back to the peace we had before? Not knowing didn’t make the reality any less true. 

Nothing changed and we feel the pain of it, anyway. 

Id

“I want.” Childish requirements that are for the most part unfounded but worth throwing a tantrum over if they aren’t received.

  • I want to be able to sit in the peace and quiet of my own privacy and read, cry at a sappy television series, or Skype my friends without the audience of another human.
  • I want to be able to listen to my favorite songs without wanting to burst into tears.
  • I want to be able to make it through the day without needing a nap so that I can fall asleep at a reasonable hour.
  • I want plans to not fall through.
  • I want to turn 21 surrounded by the people I love the most in a “birthday bitch” sash and crown.
  • I want someone to send me flowers.
  • I want to be genuinely surprised.
  • I want girlfriends that are without question bridesmaids.
  • I want time to read for leisure.

I want to believe that these things aren’t impossible.

Little I miss yous.

There are some things that only your best friend understands. That statement is such a cliche, but the person that knows you inside and out really does enjoy hearing the little things. The little I miss yous. And you enjoy telling them. I find myself aching to send little I miss yous. Things so minuscule that only mean something to one other person. Triumphs, annoyances, and inside jokes that only the two of you understand.

I miss little I miss yous. Maybe the big ones, too.

Weight Watchers

No one expects the skinny girl to be self conscious. Society has conditioned us to aspire to be stick thin. I am currently barely 100 pounds, and I have never felt more insecure in my life. Worse yet, how do I have that conversation with anyone? I hate being this skinny is not a phrase any woman wants to hear muttered from another female. How egotistical. But what everyone seems to forget is that being too small has the same repercussions as being too big.

The skinny girl doesn’t like to shop, either. I, too, can’t find a size that fits me. I swim in the dress that I fall in love with on the rack and can’t buy it. Cute jeans fall off my butt even with the help of a belt. I leave the mall with nothing in my bag but emotional turmoil of feeling unpretty. 

People still stare at the skinny girl. When someone is nearly bare as bones, people look at you with judgement and wonder how on earth you stay so skinny. Which is the disorder of your choice? Anorexia? Bulimia? Both?

People pity the skinny girl. People are tactless, really, and a frequent conversation starter is “You’re so SKINNY!” Followed by instructions and inquiries about what and how I should eat. Nearly every embrace is followed by some sort of analogy about how breakable I am.

And the very worst, people envy the skinny girl. They want to look at the mirror and see skin on bones. They want exposed clavicles, the muscles in their arms undefined, and measure their attractiveness by whether they have a gap between their thighs.

I despise it.

I want to cry out in complete frustration at my lack of womanly confidence. I hide my tiny frame behind big sweaters and sweats because I can’t stand the lack of definition on any part of my body. I force myself to eat three meals a day, and have not once counted a calorie.

Most frustratingly of all, I drown in the guilt of giving anything to be rid of what people kill themselves for.

I don’t want to be the skinny girl.

Deserve? Be car…

Deserve? Be careful with that. Start trying to work out who deserves what and before long you’ll spend the rest of your days weeping for each and every person in the world.

Loathing

Pray: A four letter word so loaded that the sound of it makes you feel. Maybe that’s just me. I feel everything too much and too often. Lately, when I tell myself to pray, I become overwhelmed with all of the things I want to pray for; All the the things I should pray for. The list seems too great. There are too many bases to cover.

When someone asks me to pray for them, the good Christian inside of me says “Absolutely.” whole-heartedly. As silly as it sounds, I like to believe that a certain amount of vulnerability is required when asking someone who devoutly prays to pray for you. So why wouldn’t I? But then, I tell myself to take a small portion of my day to actually say these prayers, and I can’t.

Lately, I have been too lax in my faith. And when I pray, I don’t know where to begin. I have never felt so far away. My head tries to rank these pleas to God in order of importance and I can’t determine it. I’m at a loss for what’s right to ask for. Is it my place to even pray for these things?

The assumed absence of God is a slippery slope. Sure, he actually never leaves, but we are asked accept that He has a plan for us. Certain pains are meant to be felt. It will all make sense some day. But in this absent, floating anguish, I think to myself “What’s the point?” in praying for anything if God has already decided? And I allow myself to fall away. I’m faithful, but I am tired.

I have always told myself that God merely appreciates the sentiment. I could exist along like most Catholics, periodically attending Mass, believing whole-y in the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, maybe attending Confession or even taking time out of my day to pray. Most people exist this way, and they make their way to heaven eventually too (However long the process takes) But if you really know the “rules” of Catholicism and you don’t obey them, doesn’t it make it worse? Yes. Knowingly sinning, as opposed to ignorantly doing so, is without question worse.

So here I am, knowing these things about myself. Falling into slumps of mediocre Catholicism, and I can’t stand myself. Instead, I remain stuck in this guilt ridden, self-loathing hole, unable to escape. And the worst part of all is that I am completely aware that it is happening.

I do not deserve answered prayers.