Such a pretty girl glances into the second mirror in the hall bathroom
that when she nods, and her soft chin and long hard eyes lift, her reflection snaps yes,
yes i know what i am and she hates it. Just the way she hates
pink lipstick, dim lighting, indie rock music, black dresses and vodka
cranberries and the lazy eyes of men who desire
but do not want her- the way she hates everything that made her, up to
God and Daddy and each delicate and symmetrical strand of DNA, and hair down to her
little waist and blue polished toes.
Barefoot, she eats strawberry ice cream on the hall bathroom floor, listens to an unpopular song
foretells the fate of girls like her and complains, to herself or prays, resentfully,
for someone who will rescue her from Maybelline, the PKA house, leering construction workers,
and anyone who's ever called her precious.
She doesn't take off her eyeliner but sleeps,
alone, and well.
terrible first attempt ever at poetry. inspired by cambridge ladies+girls like you (the naked and famous)+feeling too much like i'm becoming this kind of person and needing to create an ornate caricature to scare myself away from her.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Monday, January 23, 2012
I keep telling myself that it'll be fine;
It's my birthday.
Well, technically, it isn't anymore, but since I haven't gone to sleep and woken up yet, my world says that it still counts.
On the first morning of my twentieth year on the planet Earth, I woke up at 11:20, I had a brief discussion with my roommate Jordan about why I wasn't in class, I thanked Jesus for letting me wake up for the first morning of my twentieth year, I walked downstairs switched over my laundry, I flat ironed my hair and I put on a pretty dress and some eyeliner. I walked to the mailroom and I brought back 11 packages. I thought all of them were birthday gifts but actually most of them were text books. Not that I am complaining, because I was fortunate enough to receive:
102 facebook wall posts
17 text messages
2 answered phone calls
6 very sweet voicemails
3 serenades
1 floral arrangement from my uncle
a Kindle(!!!!)
a birthday cake from my mother
a Starbucks run with a lovely friend
a cupcake shaped chalk board/chalk/eraser
12 cupcakes and a very thoughtful card hand-delivered by a boy who I wish I could will myself to be attracted to
and all sorts of other blessings.
My re-entry to the blogosphere seems and feels and is extremely sporadic. A dear friend of mine sent me a link to a blog post she wrote today. Viewing her post tag-teamed with the fact of my birthday to create this intense nostalgia that inevitably lead me to one possible course of action: blog. And so. I am.
In the nearly two years since I have ventured into the little corner of the world reserved only for me, a few dear friends, and our Deep and Important sixteen-year-old musings, and a lot has changed. I went abroad! I overcame an eating disorder! I feel in real life capital L-O-V-E with a boy who honestly and constantly and valiantly loved me back! I got my first job as a barista at Starbucks! I graduated high school! I had my heart broken. I started college. I went through a (thankfully brief) Dark and Wild Phase. I got over it. I maybe did not get over him, but I fell in love again: with my Savior. Is that the corniest thing I've ever said? Yes, okay, maybe, but it's true. So that's where I've been.
And where am I at? My beloved WoCo-> a very green place that I am glad to call home #2, which surrounds me with beautiful people and circumstances that have challenged an educated me. I've been trying real hard to be both stronger and lighter, though my definitions of those two words have changed considerably along with everything else. More on that later, maybe.
you can't make everybody happy all of the time.
Well, technically, it isn't anymore, but since I haven't gone to sleep and woken up yet, my world says that it still counts.
On the first morning of my twentieth year on the planet Earth, I woke up at 11:20, I had a brief discussion with my roommate Jordan about why I wasn't in class, I thanked Jesus for letting me wake up for the first morning of my twentieth year, I walked downstairs switched over my laundry, I flat ironed my hair and I put on a pretty dress and some eyeliner. I walked to the mailroom and I brought back 11 packages. I thought all of them were birthday gifts but actually most of them were text books. Not that I am complaining, because I was fortunate enough to receive:
102 facebook wall posts
17 text messages
2 answered phone calls
6 very sweet voicemails
3 serenades
1 floral arrangement from my uncle
a Kindle(!!!!)
a birthday cake from my mother
a Starbucks run with a lovely friend
a cupcake shaped chalk board/chalk/eraser
12 cupcakes and a very thoughtful card hand-delivered by a boy who I wish I could will myself to be attracted to
and all sorts of other blessings.
My re-entry to the blogosphere seems and feels and is extremely sporadic. A dear friend of mine sent me a link to a blog post she wrote today. Viewing her post tag-teamed with the fact of my birthday to create this intense nostalgia that inevitably lead me to one possible course of action: blog. And so. I am.
In the nearly two years since I have ventured into the little corner of the world reserved only for me, a few dear friends, and our Deep and Important sixteen-year-old musings, and a lot has changed. I went abroad! I overcame an eating disorder! I feel in real life capital L-O-V-E with a boy who honestly and constantly and valiantly loved me back! I got my first job as a barista at Starbucks! I graduated high school! I had my heart broken. I started college. I went through a (thankfully brief) Dark and Wild Phase. I got over it. I maybe did not get over him, but I fell in love again: with my Savior. Is that the corniest thing I've ever said? Yes, okay, maybe, but it's true. So that's where I've been.
And where am I at? My beloved WoCo-> a very green place that I am glad to call home #2, which surrounds me with beautiful people and circumstances that have challenged an educated me. I've been trying real hard to be both stronger and lighter, though my definitions of those two words have changed considerably along with everything else. More on that later, maybe.
you can't make everybody happy all of the time.
Monday, February 1, 2010
cleaning up mistakes i've made
I should be doing homework right now.
I should be writing an annotated bibliography for Mrs. Chadwell's research paper, or studying for my french quiz, or finishing a US History handout. After I finish those things, I should dig out my script for Tracks. I should attend to the mountain of clean laundry strewn across my bed and floor, the remnants of my most recent 6 AM melt-down. I hate getting dressed in the morning. I hate how when I put on clothes, I don't think about what I like, or what's comfortable, or what I want to wear. I think about what might catch Someone's attention. I think about what makes me look skinniest and what makes me look like I still have enough meat to keep myself from blowing away on windy days. Most days, I want the former effect. On some, the latter is neccessary. I shouldn't try on my smallest pair of jeans every morning, and my mood should not have anything to do with whether or not they are snug. I shouldn't be this superficial, this stupid, this plastic person who straightens her hair every morning and practices her pretending smile for the mirror, this person who adjusts the skirt so that it shows a little bit more. I should be better than that.
At school, I should take notes. I should listen to Madame V, and Mrs. Chadwell, and the movies in Conflict Management. I should be diligent, because High School Is Not Forever and I am going to be a Real Grown-Up Person someday. I should think about the going future and the past imperfect, about the Westward Movement, about Beowulf and Grendel, and about how I can better myself. I should not think about him. I should not fill up my notebook with bad poetry and interior monologues and fictionalized transcripts of half-remembered conversations and song lyrics from the mix CD he made me. I should not choose my hallway routes according to which way might lead to him, even subconciously. I should not try to will him to look at me. I should be disappointed when he doesn't look and I should not run to the bathroom to press tissues into my eyes and take too many deep breaths when he does. When we have free reading time in English, I should be getting to the huge pile of books from the library and Allison and my birthday. I should not be reading Wintergirls for the God only knows how many-th time. I should be sane.
I should tell my mom that I need a one-on-one therapy session, but I haven't been to one since December, and I don't want to explain about Zac. I don't want to hear her say the things that I already know about what I should do. I don't want to hear her say that he's wrong for me, that I need to cut him off, that phone calls at one in the morning are not healthy or normal and neither am I. I already know that; it's just that knowing and accepting aren't the same for me. I need to go, but I don't miss that couch, I don't miss crying into her afghan, I don't miss the hazelnut coffee with milk and sugar or the sad look on her face or the reports to my mom or the ugly numbers on the scale or the way she'd smile as I stepped off of it and say how does that make you feel?
I should say, Worthless. Like too much. Like not enough. Like a disgusting waste of an unnecesarily large amount of space. Like shit. But how is that different from any other moment of the day?
I should delete this post like I have every other thing I've tried to write here since thanksgiving. I should let keep pretending that I'm Just Fine, even though I suspect it's quite obvious that I'm far from it. But my shoulds and wills don't measure up.
Caroline
replacing them with ones i've not made yet
I should be writing an annotated bibliography for Mrs. Chadwell's research paper, or studying for my french quiz, or finishing a US History handout. After I finish those things, I should dig out my script for Tracks. I should attend to the mountain of clean laundry strewn across my bed and floor, the remnants of my most recent 6 AM melt-down. I hate getting dressed in the morning. I hate how when I put on clothes, I don't think about what I like, or what's comfortable, or what I want to wear. I think about what might catch Someone's attention. I think about what makes me look skinniest and what makes me look like I still have enough meat to keep myself from blowing away on windy days. Most days, I want the former effect. On some, the latter is neccessary. I shouldn't try on my smallest pair of jeans every morning, and my mood should not have anything to do with whether or not they are snug. I shouldn't be this superficial, this stupid, this plastic person who straightens her hair every morning and practices her pretending smile for the mirror, this person who adjusts the skirt so that it shows a little bit more. I should be better than that.
At school, I should take notes. I should listen to Madame V, and Mrs. Chadwell, and the movies in Conflict Management. I should be diligent, because High School Is Not Forever and I am going to be a Real Grown-Up Person someday. I should think about the going future and the past imperfect, about the Westward Movement, about Beowulf and Grendel, and about how I can better myself. I should not think about him. I should not fill up my notebook with bad poetry and interior monologues and fictionalized transcripts of half-remembered conversations and song lyrics from the mix CD he made me. I should not choose my hallway routes according to which way might lead to him, even subconciously. I should not try to will him to look at me. I should be disappointed when he doesn't look and I should not run to the bathroom to press tissues into my eyes and take too many deep breaths when he does. When we have free reading time in English, I should be getting to the huge pile of books from the library and Allison and my birthday. I should not be reading Wintergirls for the God only knows how many-th time. I should be sane.
I should tell my mom that I need a one-on-one therapy session, but I haven't been to one since December, and I don't want to explain about Zac. I don't want to hear her say the things that I already know about what I should do. I don't want to hear her say that he's wrong for me, that I need to cut him off, that phone calls at one in the morning are not healthy or normal and neither am I. I already know that; it's just that knowing and accepting aren't the same for me. I need to go, but I don't miss that couch, I don't miss crying into her afghan, I don't miss the hazelnut coffee with milk and sugar or the sad look on her face or the reports to my mom or the ugly numbers on the scale or the way she'd smile as I stepped off of it and say how does that make you feel?
I should say, Worthless. Like too much. Like not enough. Like a disgusting waste of an unnecesarily large amount of space. Like shit. But how is that different from any other moment of the day?
I should delete this post like I have every other thing I've tried to write here since thanksgiving. I should let keep pretending that I'm Just Fine, even though I suspect it's quite obvious that I'm far from it. But my shoulds and wills don't measure up.
Caroline
replacing them with ones i've not made yet
Thursday, November 26, 2009
thank you thank you thank you
so, out of curiousity, I was just reading my post from last year's thanksgiving. All the things I was thankful for. Seeing which ones still held true, and which a year's time had taken away or changed or faded, thinking of new things to add to the list. I'll get to the new things in a minute, but first some comic relief, because we all need that, always. After reading that post, I got into a reminiscing mood and started reading the last few posts before that, and the comments. there was one right before Emma auditions, and I started freaking out about the nature of the kissing in the movie and how I didn't want to see anyone in drama doing that. and you said...
*Heather* said...
I'm vaguely creeped out by the image of anyone in Drama Club "making out." At all. Onstage or off. It just freaks me out. Especially if (and we all know there's a huge chance that he will) Paul gets Mr. Knightley. That would be damaging to my health.
Oh, what a difference a year makes.
Especially this year. It's been my hardest yet. Reading all of those words of mine and yours from 365 days ago is almost surreal. This year has changed me so much. All of the pain, the loss, the confusion. The mess. The nights and weeks and solid months in my memory where all I can recall is crying. That's taken a toll, and it's had an effect on who I am, how I think and act. But certain things are the same. And while sometimes all I can see is darkness in my direct line of vision, I still have so much to be thankful for.
I'm thankful for the tiny pleasures of every day: coffee and nice pens, converse and sweaters and hair that's finally long enough to be pulled into a presentable ponytail. People who make me laugh, intentionally and by accident. I'm thankful for the WHAT. I'm thankful for Mrs. Lawson, how her intimidating fierceness makes me strive to be better, and her faith in my abilities makes me want to live up to her expectations and shine like the silver in the first place plaque that I could have never gotten without her. I'm thankful for Glee. I'm thankful for gorgeous melodies and lyrics that make me feel less alone. I'm thankful for the unlikely source of happiness and distraction that is making me dance around my kitchen like an idiot, singing unabashedly girly Taylor Swift songs about falling in Like at the top of my lungs while I do the dishes (more on this tomorrow).
I'm thankful that I have so many people in my life that love me and care for me. These past few weeks, I've been distracted by the effects of that love that I can't help but resent- the mistrust, the constant demands and requests, the hesitant words and sidelong glances that contain so much worry, so much fear. Today, I realize that I'm so incredibly lucky. I'm thankful that, no matter how much I messed up and hurt the people around me, they didn't move away. I'm thankful because I don't deserve my family, or my friends, or the three of you. But by some miracle, you're still here. I thank God or whatever brought me so much to be thankful for.
I'm thankful, especially, that I'll be seeing Anna and Heather tomorrow.
Love,
Caroline
*Heather* said...
I'm vaguely creeped out by the image of anyone in Drama Club "making out." At all. Onstage or off. It just freaks me out. Especially if (and we all know there's a huge chance that he will) Paul gets Mr. Knightley. That would be damaging to my health.
Oh, what a difference a year makes.
Especially this year. It's been my hardest yet. Reading all of those words of mine and yours from 365 days ago is almost surreal. This year has changed me so much. All of the pain, the loss, the confusion. The mess. The nights and weeks and solid months in my memory where all I can recall is crying. That's taken a toll, and it's had an effect on who I am, how I think and act. But certain things are the same. And while sometimes all I can see is darkness in my direct line of vision, I still have so much to be thankful for.
I'm thankful for the tiny pleasures of every day: coffee and nice pens, converse and sweaters and hair that's finally long enough to be pulled into a presentable ponytail. People who make me laugh, intentionally and by accident. I'm thankful for the WHAT. I'm thankful for Mrs. Lawson, how her intimidating fierceness makes me strive to be better, and her faith in my abilities makes me want to live up to her expectations and shine like the silver in the first place plaque that I could have never gotten without her. I'm thankful for Glee. I'm thankful for gorgeous melodies and lyrics that make me feel less alone. I'm thankful for the unlikely source of happiness and distraction that is making me dance around my kitchen like an idiot, singing unabashedly girly Taylor Swift songs about falling in Like at the top of my lungs while I do the dishes (more on this tomorrow).
I'm thankful that I have so many people in my life that love me and care for me. These past few weeks, I've been distracted by the effects of that love that I can't help but resent- the mistrust, the constant demands and requests, the hesitant words and sidelong glances that contain so much worry, so much fear. Today, I realize that I'm so incredibly lucky. I'm thankful that, no matter how much I messed up and hurt the people around me, they didn't move away. I'm thankful because I don't deserve my family, or my friends, or the three of you. But by some miracle, you're still here. I thank God or whatever brought me so much to be thankful for.
I'm thankful, especially, that I'll be seeing Anna and Heather tomorrow.
Love,
Caroline
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
give me therapy
It really is a lot like what you read about in books or see in movies.
There's a comfy couch in a cozy office with charming decor, including plaques with her medical degrees and signs with inspirational quotes in swirly handwriting. She wears a quirky yet remarkably well-put together ensemble, scribbles in a notepad 'just for personal reference, to put in your file' and mmhmms a lot. It drives me crazy not knowing what she's thinking, wondering if she's about to call the hospital and have me locked up because I'm obviously beyond repair.
I talk about myself more than I ever have, but I also talk about my parents, my sisters, my teachers, you. I cry. I babble. I stare at my shoes trying to find something to say. I get used to it.
She weighs me on their scale, and their scale says 107, and I close my eyes and think how I'm wearing jeans with a phone and quarters in my pocket and a sweatshirt and two layers underneath and converse, and my stomach is full. I hold my hands together and try not to let the feeling in my chest leak out onto my face.
She says food journal, but only if you're going to be honest.
she says no weighing yourself. weekly weighings here, nothing else.
She says three meals a day. They can be small to start, but you need something.
she says 114 lbs by this time next month-
mom says and you can go to disney world
she says if your weight drops below 95, you'll go to the hospital.
she smiles but that's not going to happen.
she says this is going to be hard. it will hurt. emotionally and physically. but it will get better. You will get better.
And I think I believe her.
Caroline
I'm a walking travesty
There's a comfy couch in a cozy office with charming decor, including plaques with her medical degrees and signs with inspirational quotes in swirly handwriting. She wears a quirky yet remarkably well-put together ensemble, scribbles in a notepad 'just for personal reference, to put in your file' and mmhmms a lot. It drives me crazy not knowing what she's thinking, wondering if she's about to call the hospital and have me locked up because I'm obviously beyond repair.
I talk about myself more than I ever have, but I also talk about my parents, my sisters, my teachers, you. I cry. I babble. I stare at my shoes trying to find something to say. I get used to it.
She weighs me on their scale, and their scale says 107, and I close my eyes and think how I'm wearing jeans with a phone and quarters in my pocket and a sweatshirt and two layers underneath and converse, and my stomach is full. I hold my hands together and try not to let the feeling in my chest leak out onto my face.
She says food journal, but only if you're going to be honest.
she says no weighing yourself. weekly weighings here, nothing else.
She says three meals a day. They can be small to start, but you need something.
she says 114 lbs by this time next month-
mom says and you can go to disney world
she says if your weight drops below 95, you'll go to the hospital.
she smiles but that's not going to happen.
she says this is going to be hard. it will hurt. emotionally and physically. but it will get better. You will get better.
And I think I believe her.
Caroline
I'm a walking travesty
Thursday, October 8, 2009
take me back
I've been thinking about those birthday parties your mother threw for you when we were little, always at the clubhouse in your neighborhood, that I went to every year, remembering how by mid-october it was much too cold to swim but you always did anyway. You were the only one in the pool, just doing laps and handstands, neglecting your guests for a few moments. Once, I was standing by the edge, shivering in the pink swimsuit and shorts my mother had chosen, and you motioned for me to come too. It was freezing but I didn't complain. I would have dove into the polar bear exhibit at the zoo, if you were the one asking me. I was usually alone at those things; two years younger than you and all your friends, and boys had cooties anyway, but there was never one where you didn't talk to me, didn't flash your slantways smile with half the teeth missing and ask me to play.
Today you'd be a man, a grown-up; you'd celebrate somehwere with no swimming pool or swingset and I wouldn't be there. I'm not sure whose fault that would be, but I'll always blame me.
And I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry that I'm even clumsier with words than with slippery floors and stilletos and sporting equipment. I'm sorry for daring you to kiss me and sorry for running when you tried. I'm sorry for every time I avoided answering one of your qestions or said
Moooom when she suggested that we go on a walk,just you and me. I'm sorry about that last time more than anything, and for being colder than those pools, and for the way I would only nod as you lifted your hand up to wave goodbye, not even smiling.
I'm sorry I don't stop by every week anymore, and sorry that when I do come, I walk, instead of running barefoot and falling to my knees as soon as I'm close. I'm sorry that I don't feel like crying every time I think of you when I don't do it enough anyway. I'm sorry that I get so preoccupied with things that aren't half as bad in the long run but still hurt more today.
I'm sorry you never graduated or went to college or became a great chef/writer/video-game-programmer/astraunat (I'll never forget). I'm sorry you never flew across the country or got your driver's liscence or got married or won anything or got further. I know I couldn't have saved you, but I'm still sorry. I always will be.
I saw your family last week; John looks so much like you now that the smile I owe him is shaky Rory is the same. They cleared everything up with your dad, he's off the hook, and your mother almost looks happy. She still hugs me more tightly than anyone else in the world. They each keep a piece of you hanging around their necks, and I wonder what piece it is (your nose, arm, thumb, heart?) and exactly how morbid it is of me to to wonder this. Just in case you needed an update. Just in case you can't see for yourself.
You're still my fireworks- the fourth of July becasue that was our day, New Years because it was our last- and hang gliders and Harry Potter books. The black shirt I wore to your funeral is faded and soft; it's too big now but I'll wear it today anyway. Some afternoons I still walk around my backyard in circles and think about you chasing me- I cried for an hour when my father gave away our swingset, knowing I'd never find the TS & CB that I remember but might have imagined you scraping into the soft wood with your thumbnail. I see bunny ears sticking out of someone's head in a picture and I remember the first time I ever heard of those- I was at your house and you followed me around with two fingers behind my head and when I asked what it meant you said it means I love you and I still don't know whether it really does. The 23rd of every month is often someone's birthday, but half the time I still count how long it has been, like I did the first few months (almost thirty-two). I still missyouloveyouwantyouback. And if I had it my way, I still wish I could say my first kiss was Tommy Sullivan, I was seven and he was nine and it was underneath the swings in my backyard and my life was complete.
You would be eighteen today.
I'm sorry you're not.
to the house in the backyard tree, said you'd beat me up, you were bigger than me- you never did. You never did.
Today you'd be a man, a grown-up; you'd celebrate somehwere with no swimming pool or swingset and I wouldn't be there. I'm not sure whose fault that would be, but I'll always blame me.
And I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry that I'm even clumsier with words than with slippery floors and stilletos and sporting equipment. I'm sorry for daring you to kiss me and sorry for running when you tried. I'm sorry for every time I avoided answering one of your qestions or said
Moooom when she suggested that we go on a walk,just you and me. I'm sorry about that last time more than anything, and for being colder than those pools, and for the way I would only nod as you lifted your hand up to wave goodbye, not even smiling.
I'm sorry I don't stop by every week anymore, and sorry that when I do come, I walk, instead of running barefoot and falling to my knees as soon as I'm close. I'm sorry that I don't feel like crying every time I think of you when I don't do it enough anyway. I'm sorry that I get so preoccupied with things that aren't half as bad in the long run but still hurt more today.
I'm sorry you never graduated or went to college or became a great chef/writer/video-game-programmer/astraunat (I'll never forget). I'm sorry you never flew across the country or got your driver's liscence or got married or won anything or got further. I know I couldn't have saved you, but I'm still sorry. I always will be.
I saw your family last week; John looks so much like you now that the smile I owe him is shaky Rory is the same. They cleared everything up with your dad, he's off the hook, and your mother almost looks happy. She still hugs me more tightly than anyone else in the world. They each keep a piece of you hanging around their necks, and I wonder what piece it is (your nose, arm, thumb, heart?) and exactly how morbid it is of me to to wonder this. Just in case you needed an update. Just in case you can't see for yourself.
You're still my fireworks- the fourth of July becasue that was our day, New Years because it was our last- and hang gliders and Harry Potter books. The black shirt I wore to your funeral is faded and soft; it's too big now but I'll wear it today anyway. Some afternoons I still walk around my backyard in circles and think about you chasing me- I cried for an hour when my father gave away our swingset, knowing I'd never find the TS & CB that I remember but might have imagined you scraping into the soft wood with your thumbnail. I see bunny ears sticking out of someone's head in a picture and I remember the first time I ever heard of those- I was at your house and you followed me around with two fingers behind my head and when I asked what it meant you said it means I love you and I still don't know whether it really does. The 23rd of every month is often someone's birthday, but half the time I still count how long it has been, like I did the first few months (almost thirty-two). I still missyouloveyouwantyouback. And if I had it my way, I still wish I could say my first kiss was Tommy Sullivan, I was seven and he was nine and it was underneath the swings in my backyard and my life was complete.
You would be eighteen today.
I'm sorry you're not.
to the house in the backyard tree, said you'd beat me up, you were bigger than me- you never did. You never did.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
sleep with all the lights on
hello hello.
I'm not gonna lie- I am blogging right now because I'm waiting for music to download and facebook is boring.
Okay, I just said I'm not going to lie. So it's not just boring. It's also confusing and weird. I'm talking to Zac. And I don't know why. I mean, technically, it is because he sent me a message regarding my status, asking why I was angry. What I don't know is why I answered it - or, more accurately, why I answered it honestly, instead of throwing out a generic "parents teachers homework" answer, and started an actual conversation. Why? WHY?
All right, a bit more honesty? I might know why. It might be because my self-esteem is about as low as it can possibly get. It might be because I have fallen into the same disgusting, sticky trap that so many teenage girls do- the foolish belief that all of their problems would go away if only a boy would love them (please verify that this is false?). It might be because when you feel repulsive and hideous and all wrong, hearing any guy say that he sees the way you look down when you're walking down the hallway and that you shouldn't, because "no one is better than you" is more flattering than creepy.
Why is that? How come the steadily decreasing number on the scale and the resounding chorus of "you look so skinnysosmallsogreat!" I hear from everyone ranging from Courtney to random old men can't make me feel even a little bit better about myself, but one tiny could-be-flirting encounter with a guy I'm probably not even interested in does?
Gah. Short, stupid post, but that's all I've got energy for now.
Love you all,
Caroline
you're not so happy, you're not secure.
I'm not gonna lie- I am blogging right now because I'm waiting for music to download and facebook is boring.
Okay, I just said I'm not going to lie. So it's not just boring. It's also confusing and weird. I'm talking to Zac. And I don't know why. I mean, technically, it is because he sent me a message regarding my status, asking why I was angry. What I don't know is why I answered it - or, more accurately, why I answered it honestly, instead of throwing out a generic "parents teachers homework" answer, and started an actual conversation. Why? WHY?
All right, a bit more honesty? I might know why. It might be because my self-esteem is about as low as it can possibly get. It might be because I have fallen into the same disgusting, sticky trap that so many teenage girls do- the foolish belief that all of their problems would go away if only a boy would love them (please verify that this is false?). It might be because when you feel repulsive and hideous and all wrong, hearing any guy say that he sees the way you look down when you're walking down the hallway and that you shouldn't, because "no one is better than you" is more flattering than creepy.
Why is that? How come the steadily decreasing number on the scale and the resounding chorus of "you look so skinnysosmallsogreat!" I hear from everyone ranging from Courtney to random old men can't make me feel even a little bit better about myself, but one tiny could-be-flirting encounter with a guy I'm probably not even interested in does?
Gah. Short, stupid post, but that's all I've got energy for now.
Love you all,
Caroline
you're not so happy, you're not secure.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)