Scribblings from the Black Hole

I think the hardest part is wanting to feel normal and never actually getting there.

I envy myself on the days when I don't feel anything. Because, obviously, when I don't feel anything, it means that I don't feel depressed. Or sad. Or angry. Or holding on to something negative that I can't quite identify but which throws me off of feeling like a normal person. Not feeling anything feels good to me. When I'm sitting down and don't have to sigh to try and release all the tension built up inside of me that came from somewhere... and I'm not always sure where... that's really nice.

I'm depressed. I'm imbalanced. I know it. I'm working on it.

I went to my first round of therapy last Friday. For those of you who have arrived at my blog late, here are a couple things you should know:

1. I am severely depressed and have been since my parent's divorce. However, I am normally able to cover it up with schoolwork, since I am a perfectionist. This winter break, 5 weeks of doing nothing, determined that I need to go to therapy again (yes, this is my second time since the divorce) and finally work through my feelings about that man that's supposedly my father and my depression.

2. I know my therapist. He was my Drugs in Our Society instructor and I'm convinced that the only reason why I was in that major (Health Education) for a semester (before settling with journalism) and why I took that class was so God could have me meet him. He is a very kind man and the fact that I know him makes talking to him 100 times easier, although he doesn't necessarily think so.

So, my therapist and I sat down Friday to begin things. I spent the first half-an-hour talking about my week and when he said, "I wouldn't give a teacher that much power," it began. After much discussing, we settled on a couple of things to work on.
1. My perfectionist nature — why I kick my butt to get straight A's when I know I don't need to.
2. My depression — the fact that it didn't begin due to my parent's divorce
3. My crying — I do it whenever I have an overabundance of any emotion

None of these I can work on alone. I should probably work on my anger as well, but I'm sure that, with time, working through the depression will lessen the anger.

What's really not helping me this week is the unnecessary drama that I've been going through. One of my goals was to stay away from all the dramatic stuff this semester at the newspaper... but it seems to have followed me out of it. It really makes me sad to be in any kind of rift with any of my friends, especially since I'm new here and still don't have that many friend.

But I'll keep working through it, the stress, the drama, the depression.

There's got to be a light out of this hole somewhere.

Here We Go Again

I have to start therapy a week from this Friday and I have no idea if I'm prepared for it or not.

I don't know what to say about my dad or even where to begin. He haunts my dreams sometimes, always yelling about something, and I wake just wishing that he was gone. I hate wishing someone to just be gone from my life but it's true. What hurts so much is to be starting this again, to be telling the same stories all over again, to be reliving some of the same memories all over again. With my friends and my family... they know what he did. They know what he did to hurt me and my family. They know all the reasons why I despise the man with every last bone in my body. They know all the horrible things that he's done and said to make me wish he was on another planet. They know why I talk about how I don't really have a dad.

But I do have a dad and I have to talk about him next Friday. I have to talk about his verbal abusive attitude and his hate for everything in the world, and how he would treat everyone in my family horribly and say how wonderful his daughter, Megan, was. I have to talk about how everyone else outside my family couldn't believe me when I told them that living with him was like walking on egg-shells because "your father is such a good man and he seems to love you so much." I have to talk about what he's doing now, the lying and the toying he's doing with the lawyers.

And somehow... I have to find a solution. I have to come to terms with myself. I have to figure out a way not to hate myself so damn much... I have to figure out how to look in the mirror and see someone I'm proud of looking back, not someone who I absolutely loathe. I have to come to terms with the fact that I can't change my last name until I get married someday. I have to figure out how to be happy again.

But I just dont know where to begin.

Help

I've been keeping most of this inside because I've been a bit embarressed and a little unready to tell everyone my big emotional flaws. But, when I broke down today and told my mom the truth, I decided that I better let the cat out of the bag and break it to the world. Because, really, I shouldn't be ashamed.

I'm getting therapy.

I am one messed up "young adult," if you can't already tell. I'm not quite sure who reads this besides my grandparents and maybe an uncle or aunt, but I really am one messed up person. Because when I was a teen, my dad began his tirade of emotional abuse. Because when I was a teen, I figured out that the only way I could solve things (due to my father) was to get angry. Because when I was a teen, I jumped in the middle of countless arguments, received endless griping about how horrible my mother and sister were, and cried in the corner of my bedroom, hoping that no one would find me there. Because when I was a teen, I discovered that the only way to relieve stress, anger, or any sort of emotion was to cry.

I know this sounds weird and, if you know me in person, you might think I'm a really strong personality and that I have it all together. However, that's my game face. That's what I want to be, what I spend every second trying to be.

The truth is that I am on big ball of salty wet tears. And I can't seem to turn off the hose whatever I do or try. I don't just cry when I'm sad or angry. I cry when I'm scared. I cry when I'm nervous. I cry when there is a situation that I can't control. I cry when I can't figure out my statistics homework the first time. I cry when any sort of emotion beyond happiness gets beyond the level of basic function. And, like I said, I can't turn it off. So imagine being me, going in to my boss' office to ask for a raise, and crying because I'm a little nervous about asking him...

Yea. Pretty pathetic.

But, of course, that's not the reason why I'm going into therapy. The crying is the relief, the break in the dam that helps the pressure to subside. What creates the pressure is the hatred, the pure black blinding hatred for my father and myself that I have built up inside of me that leaks through little cracks, without the crying, effecting my every day life. Making me angry in situations where I shouldn't be angry. Making me depressed when nothing is wrong. The hatred that I have for my father that I can control, which only causes me to hate myself more because I feel like I'm turning into him. The hatred that I have for myself when I look in the mirror and see something different that the person other people tell me that they see.

People tell me not to think badly of myself. They tell me just to take a deep breath and to just calm down. But that's what they don't understand. I don't know how to calm down. And since I don't know how to calm down (except to cry), I can only see myself as this angry, pitiful creature. And it makes me suffer, it makes me depressed. It makes me miserable.

So I'm going to therapy.

Conflicted Holiday

Christmas is a conflicted time of year for me.

Now that I live away from home, Christmas is no longer a holiday that I begin and end with my family. It is a holiday that I join in on, a holiday that is left to childhood memories and feelings of the past. I really feel like that, until I am married and have my own family to celebrate the holidays with, Christmas has become simply a time to "remember when" and just spend time with the family I have.

Two memories dominate my mind when December decides to show her chilly face in my life. First, there's the memory that makes me look forward to Christmas. The memory of growing up in Tehachapi. The memory that reminds me of how Christmas feels. This one consists of decorations on the house, the snow covering our 2 1/2 acres of land shimmering in the moonlight, my sister and I pulling our sleds up a hill only to ride back down it again, calling after our dog who had decided to hide in the snow from us, making cat huts (instead of snowmen) out of snow for my cats (who loved them, by the way, and would hide in them as soon as we put an old towel inside that they could lie down on), hot chocolate, a roaring fire, a giant Christmas tree with presents stacked underneath it, listening to the sound of laughter as I watched my family open presents, the smell of the pancakes my mom would make every Christmas morning...

The Christmas of my childhood.

Then, there's that memory that always ruins my Christmas, that memory that makes me despise this time of year more than anything else. You probably guessed it. It's the memory of my father and the legacy that he left behind when he decided to thrash his way out of his family's life. Now, most people might be mad at me for not just saying "screw him!" and throwing this memory out, but, when it's been so deeply ingrained in my mind, it's hard to remember Christmas without remembering him. Without remembering how much he hated the holiday. Without remembering how he moaned and groaned about getting the Christmas tree every year because "it wasn't Christian" and "it's too much trouble" and "that's not what Christmas was all about." Without remembering how, on Christmas day after my sister and I had opened up all of our presents, he would ask us to give him half of the presents that we had recieved to give to the homeless shelter. Without remembering him getting mad at us when we asked him why he didn't just ask us to do that before we opened the presents, before we had seen what they had given us. Without remembering closed blinds and hiding in bedrooms and going out to see a movie with my mom and sister just so we could get the hell away from him sitting at home, being an absolute terror.

I once gave my father a Grinch tie as a Christmas gift and a joke. Now, years later, I wonder if I was predicting the future.

So, as I end finals this week and head from my university to my mom's house for Christmas, I open my book of memories and try to flip backwards through all the bad memories to my childhood in Tehachapi, when all I thought about was stockings and snow and servings of bacon, fresh from the skillet.

What memories do you carry with you at this time of year?

The Dripping Darkness

You think things are good. You're reaching towards the light and your fingertips just barely brush it. Fascinated by the illumination on your fingers, you just stare, blissfully happy. And then the world goes black and you are in darkness again. In the emptiness again. All there is left to do is weep.

I didn't get the job, as some of you might have guessed. I didn't even get a second interview. And then it all fell back again upon working "at the hardware store." I don't want to work at the hardware store. This is not in offense to my previous coworkers or my former boss. Sure, I loved it there and I miss all of them. However, it's time for me to move on. But, at every turn, all I hear is, "Why don't you go work at the hardware store?" or "why don't you go home for the summer and go back to work at the hardware store?" And I feel as if I'm losing my balance, falling backwards as I struggle to keep upright.

I am told that there is more than embracing the darkness. I am told that I should search for the light, because it is there, somewhere. But when all is darkness, all I can do is adjust my eyes and go on. Maybe the light will find me someday. Either way, I cannot keep from weeping.

Valentines Day

Last night, I was talking to a friend of mine about poetry that we used to write in high school. It seems to that a lot of people in high school write poetry and I've never really been able to figure out why that is. (I know why I wrote poetry but a few of my friends, who couldn't even put a simple story together, could end up writing some of the most beautiful poetry I have ever read.) I'm assuming that, due to raging hormones in high school, poetry was written as a release from all that.

This reminds me of the fact that I'm finally going to be done with high school this year, once and for all. I know what you're probably thinking: "you're in your 3rd year of college; you've been done with it for a while!" However, that's not quite true. As a senior in high school, I experienced something that I hadn't experienced in about 3 years: being single. One of my best friends who had graduated the year before had been bugging me to "take on a freshman" or guide a new one through the craziness that is high school. Surprisingly, I actually took on this project and I say that it's surprising because I had a huge resement against freshmen at the time. My boyfriend of 3 years (who was a senior) left me for a freshman. Never-the-less, I sort-of accidentally became friends with this girl and she is finally graduating this year. I talked to her the other day and it hurt my heart so much to hear all of the high school drama that I'm finally over. I could only assure her that it would be over soon and she could start over in life.

Anyway, back to the topic of the first paragraph, I found on my myspace (which I can't believe I still have) a poem that sounds a bit like residue from high school. Since it's fairly decent poetry, I thought I would share it with you all.

The Most Mocking Holiday of the Year

I say I'm content with everything
My friends, my family
They hear me
Content with everything
My school, my work
They see me
Content with everything

And there, looming ahead, you lie
Taunting, twirling, with your red, pink, and white
Dancing and mocking, never leaving my sight
Until I am not content with everything

You laugh and you play, making my each step heavier
As I hold out my hand to you;
Brushing the bare edges, my fingertips rejoice,
And then you move away.
I am left with nothing.

You stand before me, in your pink and your red
Holding what I want, flashing what I desire
Commercialized now
Visual affection, according to the media
And I don't want it…
But I do.
Not the candy, the cards, or the gifts
But you.

You may loom ahead but I
I sit instead
Turning a blind eye as you mock me openly
And I allow myself to hide
Just for one day
I hide from you

In the darkness, then, you return to me
Colors shed; I feel your cool touch on my face
Your smile prickles my skin
And I know you have returned to me once again
Returned to my heart
And I am comforted.

Dreams of the Past

I love walking into used bookstores.

Normally, I head straight for the fantasy/sci fi section to see if they have any new David Eddings books that I have not yet read (and I found one today that was originally $27.95 hardback and sold used for $6.50!) Today, however, I headed into the children section for a trip down memory lane. I absolutely adore looking at the books that I used to read, the books that changed me into the person that I am today. Most of them were magic, of course, such as Half Magic, which my mom used to read a chapter of every night before my sister and I went to bed...

The Tales of Chrestomanci, which I discovered on my own (and would recommend to anyone)...

and, my favorite, the Roald Dahl Treasury. I used to own this book but it got lost somewhere and I've never been able to find this again. This is sad because it is something I would love to share with my future children when they get to the age to appreciate the beautiful insanity that is Roald Dahl's genius. (I will pay anyone who finds this book and wants to send it to me!)

Then, of course, I went down into the fantasy/sci-fi section.

When I look at these books, I feel revived again and I wish desperately to someday be one of their number. I would like to publish a book that is unique, one that people will read for years to come.

By the way, my mom discovered the most interesting video that I've ever seen. It's pretty steampunk, although I will mention that it isn't what my book is exactly going for. It's a little sad but a great video. Hope you all like it!

An Odd Take

I was going to tell you all about the protest that is going to take place on Tuesday, the first California mandatory furlough day of the semester; however, I think that blog will do further justice on Tuesday when I (hopefully) attend the protest.

So, on a different note, I'll start with this thought:

There are some memories that never die.

This was brought up in my human sexuality class on Monday. We were discussing love, the different types of love and your "LoveMap," which are the traits that your subconscious finds attractive in other people, when my professor just so happened to mention that love can be a very strong bond. Especially when it's your first love.

People shun high school relationships as something temporary, and mock their endings, when both sides are left bleeding. People laugh at the love that children feel for one another and shoot it down, saying that it can't be true love because they are only children. How can they know what love is, right? But, truth be told, they are experiencing their own version of love, which is the strongest emotion their minds can comprehend at the moment. There's even been studies done on it. So I have to ask, why don't those same adult's who criticize a child's "puppy love" mock the love of college students? They're just high school students a few years older. Or why don't grandparents mock the love of adults? They're just full-grown children. What do they know of love, right?

Heck. We might as well mock all love in America. It means nothing with as high as the divorce rate is these days.

I suppose this is why I found the video that we watched in my Human Sexuality class uninteresting. It dealt with love and how we find love, our LoveMap as it were. With all the divorces this day and age, telling people that they should get married just based on love just makes me want to laugh. The end of the video, however, was all about arranged marriages from the perspective of those who are in them. I found this interesting because those people actually preferred those marriages and said that, if they had the option, they would rather choose to have a marriage arranged than actually to arrange one themselves.

This is because the people in arranged marriages base their marriage on trust, obligation, and duty, instead of just love. "Love isn't important when you first get married," one man said. "Love comes later." Surprisingly, because of this, the two people learn to trust each other more because they aren't blinded with those romantic feelings. According to these people, their relationship works better that way because, as one person suggested, "You have a lifetime to get to know someone. You're never going to know them completely when you first get married."

Now I know that you all know my second biggest fear is marriage because of my parent's divorce. However, this video gave me some hope. If I can, someday, get married and build a marriage upon those foundations (including love, of course, because a marriage needs love), then I have a better change of staying married longer. And my fear of marriage should begin to shrink.

Instead of ending this on a "I'm all hopeful" thought, I'd like to ask you all a question. What is your LoveMap? What are the things that you for in a person personality-wise, physically, ect that make you go "I need to walk across the room just to talk to that person"? Everyone has their own LoveMap. What's yours?

Standards

I've been trying to figure out how to phrase this. I suppose I'll just start from the beginning.

I remember going to church as a kid where you wore your church dress and there was a choir and church was church. You went there to learn, be fed with the Word of God, and filled with the joy of being in Christ.

I was a kid, though, and that memory is a stale 10 years old. Today you find more bands than choirs and I'm thrilled when I can wear a pair of jeans on a Sunday instead of scrounging around for a nice skirt (I wouldn't normally mind wearing a skirt but I have something along the lines of folliculitis and my legs look a mess). Never-the-less, despite the changes, I still go to church on Sundays to be fed. Finding a church up here was a bit easier for Jo and I because my pastor's older brother teaches up here, so we switch off with his church (non-denominational) and an episcopal church (for Jo) every other week. So far, I've been fairly cool with going to his church because he was very nice to us when we introduced ourselves and he's had a few good talks with Jo, who likes to discuss religion much more than I do. Also, this church is relaxed, just like my pastor's from home, so I felt like the transition went fairly smoothly. However, today kind of threw me off guard.

For a moment, stop to ponder this: where do you draw the line at how relaxed a church is? I'm not talking beliefs but what specifically is or is not allowed of the congregation.

My pastor's brother's church is housed in an old movie theater and it is what I would call "a mega church." It has a large congregation and I'm not surprised that I hardly recognize any regulars because I A) am there every other week and B) have only been a couple of times due to trips home. When Jo and I walked in today, the worship service had just begun so we searched for seats and other people arrived and sat around us until the whole place was fairly full. Normally, I hardly pay any attention to the people around me because I'm there to learn but, today, the guy sitting on my left definitely caught my eye to the point where I was distracted by him for most of the service.

Let me begin with this by mentioning that this church, like my pastor's, has a coffee shop, so I'm used to seeing at least half of the congregation sitting with hot or cold coffee in the cup holders. The guy sitting on my right had brought his own water bottle and that had no effect on me. What began to irritate me a little was when he decided to pull out a power bar and proceed to ear it fairly loudly, twisting the wrapper down so it made that horrible crinkly sound. I nudged Jo and we both smiled in an agreement of "how weird" and then I went back to listening. 5-10 minutes later, I was distracted again by heavy breathing and, looking to my left, I saw that he had begun to fall asleep. OK, I admit, I will get sleepy in church at times but I have never permitted myself to actually fall asleep because I feel it is very disrespectful to your pastor as well as to God, so I was slightly annoyed by this. Especially by the fact that he woke up, dozed off, woke up, and dozed off again. Sighing to myself, I returned my attention to the pastor.

Then I heard it. The crinkle of light plastic. I looked over to see him reaching into a bag of Jelly Belly's that a girl (daughter/sister?) was holding out for him. At that point, I was done. "What are you doing?" I wanted to say to him. "This isn't a lecture. This is church. You're snacking through church! Did you not eat breakfast or lunch? Excuse me?"

I realize that this may sound a bit harsh (and mom and I have already had this chat so I know exactly how she feels) but this kind of turned me off of the church. I mean, my pastor's church was probably the most relaxed church I've been to but no one snacks in there. And people there stand up and worship without needing the band telling them to. What are these people afraid of? I'm not just talking about a few people, either. I mean BIG theater seating. And, when the band was finished playing a song that seemed to be a local favorite or a hit, half of the congregation clapped. Excuse me? This isn't a concert. This is worship service! This band is playing to lead us in worship, not perform their favorite songs for our enjoyment. This shouldn't bug me but, honestly, I feel that a lot of standards and traditions have gone down the drain. If I didn't disagree so much with most of the Catholic doctrine, I would become Catholic because I feel like basic church standard is gone. Eating during church. Sleeping during church. Next thing you know, people will be texting on their cell phones, bringing their laptops, and answering phone calls.

I realize that the people shouldn't judge a church on it's congregation but doesn't a congregation reflect the church? I pondered this with Jo all the way back to my apartment because this was something that bugged him as well. And we've decided that this church has received a little check in our "black book". If I didn't adore the pastor and his brother so much, I'd be researching new churches before next Sunday to visit. However, due to the beliefs of my mom that, if I feel that I am being fed properly, that I should keep going, I've decided to give it another chance.

I want to throw these thoughts out there to all of you. I'm curious for a response as to what you think about current church standards and whether or not you think I'm out of line. Honestly. Give me your thoughts. Don't hold back. Not today.

Watching Them Fall

Last night, Jo and I joined our friend Ian and seven of his friends in watching the movie Taken. I have to say, I had been a little afraid to watch it but I love Liam Neesson and we decided that the movie was basically him playing Qui'gon Jin physically instead of using the Force in Star Wars. If you haven't seen this movie... it's really up to you to decide whether or not you would like it. It covers the issue of the trafficking of women, which is something I've learning in my women's health class last semester. It's a very sad movie.

After the movie, we piled all ten people into two cars and drove north to a little elementary school, where we hopped the fence and watched the meteor shower. It wasn't a bad meteor show; if I hadn't been as cold as I was, I would have liked to stay longer because the clouds were beginning to burn off (we stayed until 1:30 am). I know for sure I'm not cut out to be a crazy college student when I hop the fence of an elementary school at midnight and spent the entire time afraid that cops are going to show up and throw us in jail and wondering what my mother will say when I call her because she is 7 hours away and cant just come and get me.

My favorite meteor shower took place when I lived in Tehachapi. We had broken down on the side of the freeway while coming back home from Bakersfield after a Condor's game (hockey). The girls (my mom, my sister, and I) had to ride in the van on the back of the tow truck (which is VERY illegal, by the way) while my dad rode in the passenger seat with the driver. By the time we got home (which was around 1 in the morning), the meteors were falling at full speed and we had our faces pressed up against the glass, not able to keep up with all of them. Then, after we had gotten home, my parents pulled chairs and blankets out on the deck and we all had stayed up until 2, watching the sky. The Tehachapi sky is magnificent at night. I miss it.

Anyway, today's prompt was a little ironic because it reminded me of the movie last night. I apologize if the subject makes you all a little uncomfortable but it was the first thing that came to mind when Jo presented the prompt to me. So, here it goes:

Prompt #2: A priest is attacked for being a pedophile. He is innocent of the crime but guilty of something far worse.

There were tales that St. John’s Abby was haunted. Others just said it was cursed. It was something, indeed, for in the past year, eleven of its alter boys had disappeared. Father Bernard knew better and, when the royal guard broke into his office that fateful evening, he knew that they knew better as well.

But they were wrong.

“Pedophile!” Captain Rolf shouted, pointing an accusatory finger Bernard.

Bernard stood, a trace of a smile on his face. “My dear captain of the guard, you cannot possibly mean to say that I have done anything to my boys…”

“I want my son back!” a mother shouted from the doorway. As she pushed in, another mother appeared… and a father… another mother… They continued to pour into Bernard’s office, despite his objections.

And then they were on him, beating him, biting him, screaming how they wanted their sons back and how they would do anything in order to get them.

Rolf searched Bernard’s office, ignoring the priest’s pleas. In a drawer he found strange papers with the names of the missing boys. In another he found locations of far off places and new names that were associated with each place. He continued to search, sneaking through a door exiting Bernard’s office, a different door from that he entered. Rolf found himself in a hallway, with doors on either side. He opened one door, finding a boy dead on a bed, his face completely pale. Soon, he was running down hallways, opening doors, finding boys either dead or half alive. And, when he inspected them closely, they all had the same needle holes in their arms, the same chapped lips, the same pale faces.

Rolf came to the terrifying conclusion.

Bernard wasn’t a pedophile. Others were. Other’s who bought these boys.

Bernard ran a trafficking business behind the back of the church.

By the time that Rolf returned to Bernard’s office, the priest was dead. Even so, this did not stop him from putting a bullet in his head for each of the missing boys before assisting the broken-hearted parents with taking the children out of the secret passage.