Thank you for telling me, repeatedly, that I am not normal. That there is something wrong with me. That I have problems.
I know.
Trust me I know.
But thanks for reminding me. I might have forgotten.
We wouldn't want me to think I was okay. No.
We wouldn't want that.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Monday, July 23, 2012
The concept of beauty and the lie behind it.
Facial symmetry.
All of our ideas of beauty are left over reactions to times past when symmetry signified genetic health.
This is practically useless now-a-day. Society is a cruel invention filled with backwards ideas of insignificance and ugly. The pedestal of perfection that we call beauty is unattainable at most and at least is detrimental to our mental heath as a whole.
Beauty is our own cruel invention.
Ugly is now synonymous with different. But what is wrong with diversity? Going back to a strictly genetic school of thought, diversity is the goal. A large genetic pool eliminates problems that come with genetic disorders; a wider group of genetics to pull from means more combinations of genetic code and less ways that the code can be messed up. But that is thinking purely scientifically, something that can not be done 100% of the time.
Different is wonderful, it allows for the world to be seen in new ways and for thoughts and ideas that can bring about great periods of change. It is the different, the ugly, those that do not fit that have the ability to grow and bring about upheaval where it is so desperately needed in a society of close-minded people that spend their time setting a standard that can never be attained.
Think of how horrid of a life this is for anyone to be born into, they will never attain the perfection that is the obsession of society. We are beauty obsessed. There is no question about it. Those with any trait that is not considered the norm is stigmatized and pushed to the back both in social situations and financially. Those that are considered exceptional as far as beauty goes lead a different and easier life then someone considered to be ugly.
The secret though, is that this label of ugly comes with the opportunity to be stronger.
Beauty is a lie, the greatest and cruelest of all the lies.
All of our ideas of beauty are left over reactions to times past when symmetry signified genetic health.
This is practically useless now-a-day. Society is a cruel invention filled with backwards ideas of insignificance and ugly. The pedestal of perfection that we call beauty is unattainable at most and at least is detrimental to our mental heath as a whole.
Beauty is our own cruel invention.
Ugly is now synonymous with different. But what is wrong with diversity? Going back to a strictly genetic school of thought, diversity is the goal. A large genetic pool eliminates problems that come with genetic disorders; a wider group of genetics to pull from means more combinations of genetic code and less ways that the code can be messed up. But that is thinking purely scientifically, something that can not be done 100% of the time.
Different is wonderful, it allows for the world to be seen in new ways and for thoughts and ideas that can bring about great periods of change. It is the different, the ugly, those that do not fit that have the ability to grow and bring about upheaval where it is so desperately needed in a society of close-minded people that spend their time setting a standard that can never be attained.
Think of how horrid of a life this is for anyone to be born into, they will never attain the perfection that is the obsession of society. We are beauty obsessed. There is no question about it. Those with any trait that is not considered the norm is stigmatized and pushed to the back both in social situations and financially. Those that are considered exceptional as far as beauty goes lead a different and easier life then someone considered to be ugly.
The secret though, is that this label of ugly comes with the opportunity to be stronger.
Beauty is a lie, the greatest and cruelest of all the lies.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Looking back at what I said
Friday, June 24, 2011
Shed no tears until seeing the coffin.
why does that comfort me so much
I can now say, coffin seen and tears shed that no, it did not. And I cannot wait until this can comfort me again, but I wonder if it ever will.
Pardon My French
C'est bordelique! Do you have ANY idea of hard it is to please ALL OF YOU AT ONCE! I cant even keep myself mostly happy and I am still expected to coddle all of you! Fous le camp, you are supposed to be the parents and yet I have been doing your job for dieu sait combien de temps.
I will never be perfect like any of you want me to be, your expectations are outrageous and frankly make me hope I either get kidnapped or die young because a lifetime of this will either kill me or drive me mad.
C'est nul! Yes, sometimes I will screw up royally and get things wrong but it is perfectly within human rights to fail every now and again and you know what I DON'T CARE IF I DO! Because I will figure it out with time, and all of you shoving your idiotic forms of logic down my throat dose nothing but make it perfectly clear that you will never be happy with anything I do. So why do I keep trying? Je n'ai aucune idée putain.
This is my life, a small part for if I were to describe it in whole and have to lay it all out infront of myself where I can behold it all, I don't think I could live with it and I don't know what I would do...
:
I wake up to the scream "get down here!" around 8:30, I do downstairs to see what the urgent problem is. It is nothing. I get that look, you know the one you give me, the one where I can tell you eyes are looking me over and lingering on my bed head, my pimples, my sweatpants and I just what to scream "Je me suis réveillé salope!" You screamed for me you made me run down here and now I know what you are going to say. "Oh my God clean yourself up. You are trash, just look at you. Do you think you will ever get anywhere looking like this? You think you will ever get any guy looking like this? What is wrong with you"
And I can say nothing DO nothing because this is your cruel game to play everyday.
I finally get to leave, to go upstairs again and fight for another 30 min or so of sleep and try no to hear your scream over and over again on the broken record of my head. Then I really get up, I brush my teeth the ones that I will never hear the end of the ones that you make me get braces for before I was rid of of my baby teeth, the ones that through your own impatience have messed up so thoroughly. My skewed bottom incisors. My upper canines that sit a little too high, a little too much like fangs. My slight over bite. And I can hear as if you are there and saying it out loud how ugly that is. How ugly MY mouth is.
I get dressed. I put on jeans even in the summer heat because I am ashamed of my legs that are a little too long and too fat for my small body. There is a hole in the knee from over use and a spot of green paint on the thigh for some old painting that drove me to fling my paint brush. I know this will not escape your notice, so I put on the brightest top I have, the one that after I bought you complained that you had wanted for yourself *vomit* I hope that this will make you not notice the other little imperfections, that this will make you happy. That this will make you like me enough to get me off the hook for another day.
I go to the bathroom again this time to tackle my hair. MY hair. The mousey brown hair with the strip behind my ear that is bright blue. Not exceptional. It is wavy curly. You hate it. You blame it on me, you blame MY own dieu maudit hair on me, as if it is a mistake that something needs to take blame for. It is a crazy mess or almost curls and small ringlets and little its that want to fly right off my head. And I love it sometimes, except when you look at me. Then I hate it, I want to rip it out straight from the roots like you have threatened to do so many times before. You wish it were straight, sick straight like your own dead mess that you chemically straighten, lifeless and just as eager to lay flat as it is to stick straight up like wire. You tell me everyday, "Just straighten your hair, then you will look normal, you will look like everyone else! You are disgusting it is like an afro. Disgusting, Trashy."Maybe I cave today and straighten it into submission, so it looks as dead and frayed as your own so that maybe it can be a peace offering and you will love me despite my hair. Maybe today I am sick of your merde and let it be its self, maybe braid a bit of the front, maybe but it up in a clip, maybe pull it back and put a headband in. Whatever I do it will not be enough. It never is, because it is not what you want.
The rest of my day is spent pretending I am not myself. That this is not my life. I do everything you told me to do around the house and nothing more, because if I were to you would complain I did it wrong and tell me I am retarded and ask yourself where did you mess up on such a daughter. Still I know when you get home you will sigh and bring up all the little things I could have done. The ones that you have conditioned me not to do because I fear your anger and accusations of stupidity if I do it any other way but the way you do it.
Then you come home and the first couple of moments will set the tone for the rest of that day. If you are nice and talkative it will be a good night. I will read or watch a show and then go to bed. If you look at me and I see your eyes focus on all the little things I know that I am screwed. I want to scream and yell and kick something hard until I hurt. Maybe I get defensive right away and cause you to let your anger out all at once and sit through the yelling and pain and the words that my mind will whisper back to me as I try to sleep.
I always try to do something else inside my head as you rant , maybe I sing something, maybe I tell myself a story. It never works I still end up hearing your words clear enough that I can repeat them all back to myself later. I don't look you in the eye, I look slightly above or below because the complete hatred and the manicness scares me. It is not normal. People do not behave like that, they don't say things like that, they don't do these things that will hurt. But when I say this, you tell me to grow up. Stop acting like a baby, stop crying, stop pretending to be hurt.
These things always end with you telling me to get out, to leave, to move out, that maybe my father wil want be but not to count on it how could he ever love me. And then you play the martyr and tell me how you always bought me everything I wanted always put me first and went with out because of me, for me. And I hear you blame your own pain on me. But I never asked for any of that. I never even wanted any of that.
I would have loved having a life where all I had from my family was love or at least acceptance. I don't need things. I don't need you to give up things just so you can later say HERE LOO! LOOK at all this I did, you owe me. I gave you this and I deserve this and that.
Ungrateful.
Disrespectful.
Give me love to be grateful for having, give me some reason to respect you.
You pitiful woman. Get help.
God knows I'll need it too.
I will never be perfect like any of you want me to be, your expectations are outrageous and frankly make me hope I either get kidnapped or die young because a lifetime of this will either kill me or drive me mad.
C'est nul! Yes, sometimes I will screw up royally and get things wrong but it is perfectly within human rights to fail every now and again and you know what I DON'T CARE IF I DO! Because I will figure it out with time, and all of you shoving your idiotic forms of logic down my throat dose nothing but make it perfectly clear that you will never be happy with anything I do. So why do I keep trying? Je n'ai aucune idée putain.
This is my life, a small part for if I were to describe it in whole and have to lay it all out infront of myself where I can behold it all, I don't think I could live with it and I don't know what I would do...
:
I wake up to the scream "get down here!" around 8:30, I do downstairs to see what the urgent problem is. It is nothing. I get that look, you know the one you give me, the one where I can tell you eyes are looking me over and lingering on my bed head, my pimples, my sweatpants and I just what to scream "Je me suis réveillé salope!" You screamed for me you made me run down here and now I know what you are going to say. "Oh my God clean yourself up. You are trash, just look at you. Do you think you will ever get anywhere looking like this? You think you will ever get any guy looking like this? What is wrong with you"
And I can say nothing DO nothing because this is your cruel game to play everyday.
I finally get to leave, to go upstairs again and fight for another 30 min or so of sleep and try no to hear your scream over and over again on the broken record of my head. Then I really get up, I brush my teeth the ones that I will never hear the end of the ones that you make me get braces for before I was rid of of my baby teeth, the ones that through your own impatience have messed up so thoroughly. My skewed bottom incisors. My upper canines that sit a little too high, a little too much like fangs. My slight over bite. And I can hear as if you are there and saying it out loud how ugly that is. How ugly MY mouth is.
I get dressed. I put on jeans even in the summer heat because I am ashamed of my legs that are a little too long and too fat for my small body. There is a hole in the knee from over use and a spot of green paint on the thigh for some old painting that drove me to fling my paint brush. I know this will not escape your notice, so I put on the brightest top I have, the one that after I bought you complained that you had wanted for yourself *vomit* I hope that this will make you not notice the other little imperfections, that this will make you happy. That this will make you like me enough to get me off the hook for another day.
I go to the bathroom again this time to tackle my hair. MY hair. The mousey brown hair with the strip behind my ear that is bright blue. Not exceptional. It is wavy curly. You hate it. You blame it on me, you blame MY own dieu maudit hair on me, as if it is a mistake that something needs to take blame for. It is a crazy mess or almost curls and small ringlets and little its that want to fly right off my head. And I love it sometimes, except when you look at me. Then I hate it, I want to rip it out straight from the roots like you have threatened to do so many times before. You wish it were straight, sick straight like your own dead mess that you chemically straighten, lifeless and just as eager to lay flat as it is to stick straight up like wire. You tell me everyday, "Just straighten your hair, then you will look normal, you will look like everyone else! You are disgusting it is like an afro. Disgusting, Trashy."Maybe I cave today and straighten it into submission, so it looks as dead and frayed as your own so that maybe it can be a peace offering and you will love me despite my hair. Maybe today I am sick of your merde and let it be its self, maybe braid a bit of the front, maybe but it up in a clip, maybe pull it back and put a headband in. Whatever I do it will not be enough. It never is, because it is not what you want.
The rest of my day is spent pretending I am not myself. That this is not my life. I do everything you told me to do around the house and nothing more, because if I were to you would complain I did it wrong and tell me I am retarded and ask yourself where did you mess up on such a daughter. Still I know when you get home you will sigh and bring up all the little things I could have done. The ones that you have conditioned me not to do because I fear your anger and accusations of stupidity if I do it any other way but the way you do it.
Then you come home and the first couple of moments will set the tone for the rest of that day. If you are nice and talkative it will be a good night. I will read or watch a show and then go to bed. If you look at me and I see your eyes focus on all the little things I know that I am screwed. I want to scream and yell and kick something hard until I hurt. Maybe I get defensive right away and cause you to let your anger out all at once and sit through the yelling and pain and the words that my mind will whisper back to me as I try to sleep.
I always try to do something else inside my head as you rant , maybe I sing something, maybe I tell myself a story. It never works I still end up hearing your words clear enough that I can repeat them all back to myself later. I don't look you in the eye, I look slightly above or below because the complete hatred and the manicness scares me. It is not normal. People do not behave like that, they don't say things like that, they don't do these things that will hurt. But when I say this, you tell me to grow up. Stop acting like a baby, stop crying, stop pretending to be hurt.
These things always end with you telling me to get out, to leave, to move out, that maybe my father wil want be but not to count on it how could he ever love me. And then you play the martyr and tell me how you always bought me everything I wanted always put me first and went with out because of me, for me. And I hear you blame your own pain on me. But I never asked for any of that. I never even wanted any of that.
I would have loved having a life where all I had from my family was love or at least acceptance. I don't need things. I don't need you to give up things just so you can later say HERE LOO! LOOK at all this I did, you owe me. I gave you this and I deserve this and that.
Ungrateful.
Disrespectful.
Give me love to be grateful for having, give me some reason to respect you.
You pitiful woman. Get help.
God knows I'll need it too.
Comment suis-je encore en vie. It is horrible knowing that you will never be good enough. You consider doing a lot of drastic things.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
#feelings
Maybe I could have loved you better. Maybe you
should have loved me more. Maybe our hearts were just next in line. Maybe
everything breaks sometime.
Dammit Jewel, you have all the words I guess
Dammit Jewel, you have all the words I guess
Monday, July 16, 2012
Life isn't just a sequence of waiting for things to be done
This is an invocation for anyone who hasn't begun, who's stuck in a terrible place between zero and one.-ZeFrank
Friday, July 13, 2012
I tried it.
I tried to write again.
And now I hear your voice saying it over and over. You never even said it out loud, you acknowledged it out loud, it 'out loud existed' but you never said it.
I can hear now and it hurts as much as it ever has, which is much more then it ever should have.
I know why, its because you said everything I ever feared and fought against about myself. You are making me have to face this. My fears I never allowed to be realized were suddenly unavoidably real and I couldn't hide. I will get over this, having to second guess every word I write, or think to write or want to write. Or really just words. I am kind of afraid for my words even these words right now, and these words were always the easiest to me; they are just what I need to say, still I find my brain saying "these are not good enough" and then I begin to edit myself. I never want to edit myself. My words have just as much of a right to everything as everyone else's.
Still:
I am afraid of the lack of justice I have to give them.
I am afraid that they are fake.
I am afraid that somehow they will never be what I so need them to be.
I worry about how they are perceived and what, in turn they say about me. And that is okay. I am okay. And my words are okay.
Your moment of harsh words, unintentionally meaningful and unknowingly cruel, have stayed with me. And I will get over that.
If nothing else I have no more choice but to be honest with myself. And I have no choice but to only write what I am most happy with.
And now I hear your voice saying it over and over. You never even said it out loud, you acknowledged it out loud, it 'out loud existed' but you never said it.
I can hear now and it hurts as much as it ever has, which is much more then it ever should have.
I know why, its because you said everything I ever feared and fought against about myself. You are making me have to face this. My fears I never allowed to be realized were suddenly unavoidably real and I couldn't hide. I will get over this, having to second guess every word I write, or think to write or want to write. Or really just words. I am kind of afraid for my words even these words right now, and these words were always the easiest to me; they are just what I need to say, still I find my brain saying "these are not good enough" and then I begin to edit myself. I never want to edit myself. My words have just as much of a right to everything as everyone else's.
Still:
I am afraid of the lack of justice I have to give them.
I am afraid that they are fake.
I am afraid that somehow they will never be what I so need them to be.
I worry about how they are perceived and what, in turn they say about me. And that is okay. I am okay. And my words are okay.
Your moment of harsh words, unintentionally meaningful and unknowingly cruel, have stayed with me. And I will get over that.
If nothing else I have no more choice but to be honest with myself. And I have no choice but to only write what I am most happy with.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
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