Wow

It has most definitely been a while.  Since last we meet dear reader, I've found a different job, moved, gotten a dog, and cried over someone I didn't think I would.  I've made new friends, lost some acquaintances, and am coming out stronger for it. 

I've spent Thanksgivings and Christmases with different sorts of family, and crossed that strange threshold into my thirties. I've spent too many nights out until 4 and not at a bar.  I've stayed up too late listening to rambling as we both fought sleep. 

I think it's going to be an interesting year. 

With that last bit of whining out of the way...

Oh dear Dog, can we just kill the bitch in the room next to mine? So much less stress if that happened. 

Blah

Why do I let myself get so dragged down when I shouldn't have let myself get emotionally attached in the first place? Fuck. 

Simply Put

Don't like me? Don't care.

I'm finally hitting that point where I'm just done giving a shit.

Huh...

No wonder he liked her. She is a "little girl" that he can fuck without legal repercussions...

(Don't ask... It's a long story. I just needed to get that out there) 

When did it become outlawed...

For me to say that I'm feeling bad in some shape or form?

I admit to having an emotionally bad day -- "Oh, this time of year screws with her."
I admit to feeling physical discomfort -- "Well, -insert name here- has been in pain all day and barely managed to get out of bed."

I'm fucking HUMAN! I'm supposed to feel. I push myself. I feel pain.

Especially, when I go from working to going out, which I wasn't initially planning on doing, to working again with little to no chance to stop and let my body recuperate. When my arms are aching and trembling to the point they don't want to work -- when the muscles in my legs attempt to give out going up the stairs at work leaving me to worry that I was going to have to relive Valentine's day 2006. When I spend the latter part of the day almost dropping drinks that weigh just over a pound. When I finally get a chance to sit down only to have my feet start cramping up because they finally don't have to be flat in a pair of falling apart shoes.

Do I deserve to be treated like some whining little brat? Do I have to be fucking chronically sick just to be allowed to say how I'm feeling?

Don't take this as a condemnation. It's not. It's a statement of how I don't think it's fair that I have to keep my mouth shut when I'm feeling discomfort. How everyone else can go and say how their backs are hurting or their hips are popping out of place, yet if I open my mouth to say something, I keep getting all but told to shut the hell up, in so many words. 

Happy Fucking New Year

Less than two hours to go until the end of 2012, and as much as I know I should go out and enjoy it with my friends, I can't do it. It's been a struggle to keep everything at bay for the past two days, and even then, I failed to keep it all in check. Right now, tears form in my eyes, impulses run rampant through my head, and normally unthinkable images flash through my imagination.

I've been told to decompress. That it would be good for me, but how can I? How can I when I hate everything around me for the most petty of reasons? When I want nothing more than to scream and rip into them for being happy when I'm incapable of that sensation?

I just want to give in. I want this struggle to be done and over with. I don't want to fight with my own mind for the rest of my life. I just want peace. 

Not even started

I'm wishing that January was over already. It didn't hit this hard last year. Why am I feeling like I'm getting slapped around emotionally already? 

Bing Bang Boom

What in the world is wrong with me?

One stupid inconsequential thing goes wrong tonight, and the next thing I know, my brain is downward spiraling, and it's taking far too much thought and self control to keep myself in check. There are alcohol and razors and needles and pills in the house, and I'm far too aware of that.

So again I have to ask-- What in the world is wrong with me!

On a Serious Note

I try to keep this blog free of political leanings, barring the desire for people to let women decide what to do with their bodies -- in every sense. But in the latest thing to catch my interest, Obama's Health Care Reform, one politician's words struck me as funny.

"Europeanizing Health Care."

This was said as though it were a bad thing. I admit we're far from being like Europe in terms of our Health Care, but I'm fine with that. Why? Because according to the World Health Organization's Ranking of Health Systems, the top five were all European Countries. Fifteen out of the top twenty countries were in Europe. Where did the United States come in? #37.

Why? Personally, I think it was because they have a different sort of health care system. There is a chance for proper health care in the top fifteen, while in the states, if you aren't making below a certain amount, which is well below the poverty line ($208 monthly/$2496 yearly in Georgia, though amounts vary from state to state), you can't dream of qualifying for medicaid (the closest to health care coverage for those who can't access by any other means). Even women with children have to make below a certain amount, though that isn't much more than what a single person is allowed to earn.

But I'm running out of time currently. Work calls, and I still need to get ready. This was just something I felt the need to comment on. 

Baggage

So I told K about A. I think K got a little mad at the fact that I was dependent on A during rougher times of my life. Not at me, but at A. I explained everything, and K didn't seem too scared off by my baggage. And I mean baggage. Granted, if he wasn't at least thinking that I'd ever considered suicide, then, I'd hidden it well. I just wonder how obvious it was that I was, at one point, too attached. 

Anyways, hopefully, there won't be any sort of repercussions from the great revelations of tonight. 

Moving on

For the first time in a long time, I thought about someone who, at one point, was a major part of my life just because he was the one person I felt I could talk to about any and everything. He was my best friend, and I was half in love with him (okay, potentially more than half). Tonight, I came to the realization that, just maybe, I've finally moved on. I don't know if I should be relieved or saddened.

But with that, I have to wonder if I have indeed moved on, what have I moved on to? To being a stronger person because of this connection I once had, or to another connection that may never amount to anything? I think I am falling for someone, but I don't think I've fallen. The possibility of this scares me. But then, it's the same thing all over again, and it feels exactly the same yet completely different.

God, it's strange the way just thinking about all of this just makes me want to cry, and go to the best friend, but I don't know if that's an emotionally healthy option anymore. 

Exhausted

This patience this is overrated. I'm doing what I can to make things better for my crew at work (who due to my manager being a passive aggressive wench, I've gotten to work with a good deal more), but it's taking a while. And honestly, it's wearing at me. My emotional and mental reserves are drained, and if not for the people I call friends, I don't think I'd have made it this long.

Granted, I'm trying to figure out how much of this is due to the fact that I've pretty much left myself emotionally opened for a while and it's hurting because while I'm open, the person in question is seemingly stuck in friend mode. Such is the problem with being the person with no confidence, no real redeeming qualities, and no real hope who falls for her best friend time and time again.

Ah well, back to better thoughts. If things work out... I'll be putting my name in for consideration in terms of managing my little corner of the work world. That's a very optimistic if.

Update for those who follow this thing --

I'm alive? I survived Hell Week and managed to piss off my manager because I was called for Jury Selection (but didn't get picked for actual duty) and had to take the week off.

Okay, I suppose that I didn't have to, but you know what? My temper was flaring by the time Hell Week rolled around, and she was egging me on by being whiny and lazy. I was done. So I talked to the AA and she put in for my vacation time. The manager pretty much said that I shouldn't be taking my vacation, despite how I have injured myself recently only to barely take a day to rest.

But enough about that.

Just wanted to say that just when I was getting to the point of losing faith in people (or rather one person in particular), I was given a reason to not give it up. And I got to play with a farting hippo puppet. For those who watch NCIS, you should know what I'm talking about. And what was the most awesome... It had a little spiked collar on! Yay!

But yeah, I'm alive, and this has been a good week. Just not sure if I'm going to be up to dealing with work next week, but hey, at least I get my raise on this coming paycheck (paid for doing 34 hours of NOTHING!)

Neuroses

I think I'm too neurotic for my own good. I think that part of it might not be as bad as I think, but I can never be sure. To quote a text conversation earlier this evening --

Me: "Well, if you have some time, and are feeling up to it, I figure I might want to do some damage control since I feel like I've been a mess the past few days."

K: "Damage control?"

Me: "I feel like I've been a huge mess for the past few days. To prove that I haven't completely lost my mind."

K: "That's a lost cause. You can't convince me you're sane now. :-P hehe"

After the past few days, this honestly made me feel better. Honestly, with January comes a good deal of psychological stress that I've been fairly incapable of handling. January entries from the past few years will give you a good idea of everything that has been going on. With two deaths that have left me devastated courtesy of a lack of handling abilities, I'm finally starting to learn to swim. I still want to cry. I still want to scream, but not so much. And that was what made me happy. Add to that was... The fact that he used the notion of combined self deprecation. It was sweet in a way, and made me feel better after having spent the better part of the day sick and the better part of the week driving myself nuts over the idea that maybe I'm too broken. That maybe I've been shattered one too many times.

I should not be getting this attached. He might only view me as a friend, and that will be setting me up for a good bit of heartbreak. But if I don't attempt at opening up, I might wind up breaking my own heart for simply lack of trying. That also means getting over this whole shyness thing that I've got going on.

One step at a time. Blarg.

Aw, hell

Simply put -- I think I may be falling for someone. Goofy smiles and the general wanting to see the person.

I'm going soft... And I'm not sure if I like or dislike it.

I know I need to just let go, but I don't know if I'm strong enough to actually make the attempt.

It's funny how admitting something can make one feel better. I know people say it does, but I just made the realization.

An Admittance

Earlier this week, I wound up telling someone something I'd never told anyone. I don't know if anyone has ever had any shred of an idea, but I know that it is something that I've been scared to admit for almost two decades.

To those who know me, they know that my father figure and I had a very unhealthy relationship -- he was a victim of the cycle of abuse, in the most simple of terms. His father beat him, and as such, he passed down that treatment onto me with the idea of "I was beaten when I was a kid." Part of this is the reason why I've never wanted kids. Part of this is the reason why I want nothing to do with children in all truth. I've seen brilliant little ones who I think would be tainted if I were to be too involved with their lives. They shine on their own. Why risk bringing them down?

To those who know me, they might know that I also don't have a good relationship with my grandfather. I think the fact that since I have left Dahlonega back in 2003, I've only seen my grandfather once proves that point. I don't know if anyone knows why.

That lies in the fact that when I was little, I wound up having to learn how to fight off an attacker from the once place a child should never have to -- inside my home.

My grandfather was meant to be a cheap live in baby sitter since my grandmother and father took random trips places (bank, grocery shopping, etc.) for hours and didn't take me. He was fairly new to the household. I was still fairly naive to everything that went on in the world. As a result I never anticipated my grandfather attempts at molesting me. I fought off enough to make it to my room where I was safe behind a locked door the first time.

He made an attempt a second time.  I learned how to fight back that day. Some people know the story of how I wound up having to nail Thomas Wade in the crotch, but where I learned that came from the second attempt my grandfather made. He never made another attempt.

That should have been the end of it, but I never actually made the admittance to anyone. I begged for him to be evicted, but it never happened. Instead, I kept being told, "We need the money." He was allowed to stay because we needed the money for bills and the like. The one decent tenant we had stay never touched me, but out of fear of it happening, the guy was evicted. I wonder what would have happened if I had told what happened that day.

I have never told anyone any of this except for one person. I think I'm too scared of losing everyone and everything that I've gotten attached to because the cracks might be too apparent. The idea that I am so stained might be appalling to those around me. They might choose to desert the girl who was scarred in such a way. I know that those who are truly there in terms of friends won't, but I can't help but be scared.

I want to smoke until people think there's a fire.

I want to scream until sirens can be heard in the distance.

I want to cry until deserts flood.

I want to feel numb.

I want to sleep until the pain's died away.

I want catharsis.

I want something more than feeling like I'm so inexorably broken.

I want to stop so that I can move on.