tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67459662643030011912024-03-13T09:50:00.094-07:00BlinkBlinkBlinkBlinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042747697435620939noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745966264303001191.post-82647647257942150172010-06-24T11:28:00.000-07:002010-06-24T11:39:47.218-07:00Chasing CarsI want to be <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Wonder Woman</span>. No, I don't want to run around town in a leotard and cape (no thanks necessary, dear readers). I want to be a woman who can do it all, have it all, be it all. I want to do things well and be appreciated for them. I don't want things to be taken for granted because <em><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">BlinkBlink</span></em> has a positive track record.<br /><br />Some days, I hate my job. And then I feel guilty because in this economy, I know I am so lucky to have a position with stability and great benefits. Many people would kill for this kind of opportunity right now. The job has enabled me to buy a house, and if the IRS ever decides to send me a check, the purchase of that house will help me <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">eliminate</span> a large chunk of debt. However, I don't feel like what I do matters - like I am making a difference to anyone other than spoiled faculty members. <br /><br />Today, I feel like I'm just an average person, living an average life. Average isn't enough. I want spectacular! Amazing! Exciting! Joyful! Even if it's just for today.BlinkBlinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042747697435620939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745966264303001191.post-24590636259842584622010-03-18T07:49:00.000-07:002010-03-18T07:51:50.732-07:00The L WordI keep biting my tongue, biding my time. He's never told a woman he loves her before, and he needs to say it first. It keeps trying to worm its way out of my mouth. To say it would be as easy as breathing, because that is how I feel it.BlinkBlinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042747697435620939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745966264303001191.post-12575634700610358642010-02-17T10:52:00.000-08:002010-02-17T13:23:27.862-08:00WorthyI'm terrified. And happy to the point that I can't stop smiling. Nice combo, huh? Mr. Random, also known as my sweet boy, is the source of my pleasure and my pain. As his new nickname would imply, he's considerate, thoughtful, and attentive. I've done nothing but be myself with him; I haven't tried to heal him or make him happy. I just give myself over to the joy of being with him, and he adores me. Which should be, and is, a cause for joy. That doesn't mean I'm not scared, though. I don't know that I am worthy of his devotion. And I worry that my insecurity will push him away.<br /><br />He says things that are so amazing I feel my heart stutter in my chest, even as I struggle to catch my breath from laughing at his latest random bit. He shows me everyday that he has picked me - that he wants to be with me. After working over 70 hours last week, he still surprised me with flowers on Valentine's Day. I had started to believe romance didn't exist in real life - that movies and books had lead me down a path where I would never find fulfillment - until I met my sweet boy. Romance doesn't look exactly how I pictured it, but I think this is better. His romance, like his humor, is random and keeps me on my toes. I don't want to catch my balance.<br /><br />All I want it to believe I deserve this. That I deserve him.BlinkBlinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042747697435620939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745966264303001191.post-72641534246556345272010-02-04T12:39:00.000-08:002010-02-10T08:34:49.496-08:00I'm Number One?I meet with my therapist every other Tuesday, and each week is a revelation. The most recent one included me yelling, cursing, and, of course, crying. I left exhilarated and with a sense that it really is okay to make myself a priority in my life. It's not a secret that I constantly sublimate myself to address the needs of others, but I have also come to the realization that I have no idea of how to take care of <em><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">BlinkBlink</span></em>. Apparently mom isn't the only one who has neglected me. As my anxiety and depression improve through awareness and diligence, the next step is to learn how to take care of me so I am not weighed down by the very thought of trying. <br /><br />It's scary to me to think that as I knock on thirty's door I still have so very much growth ahead of me. It's exciting, though, and I have to think this progress will only help me contribute in a healthy way to the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">relationships</span> I hold so dear.BlinkBlinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042747697435620939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745966264303001191.post-59019938173555141022010-01-12T09:40:00.000-08:002010-01-12T09:45:14.292-08:00Breathe in, Breathe outI need to calm down; to stop second guessing my every word and action. Cease being convinced that I'm one mistake from making Mr. Random run for the door. I know there is value in me. It's there. He knows it, too. Chill, <em><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">BlinkBlink</span></em>, darling, and enjoy the ride.BlinkBlinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042747697435620939noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745966264303001191.post-3010108254171144042010-01-10T18:07:00.000-08:002010-01-11T07:06:53.387-08:00Open mouth, insert footBetween the therapy and medication, I really thought I was gaining control over my anxiety. Now, I feel like the only change is that I am cognizant of the issue. I said one little thing to Mr. Random without thinking, and it quickly spun out of control. He was concerned about what I said, I was flipping about his concern and the fact that I was a colossal moron* to begin with. We finished watching our movie in near silence, then started a second one. All the while, my anxiety and fear were building to a fever pitch. By the time the second movie ended, I was a mass of nerves and worry. I couldn't sit still, I couldn't stop moving my hands around, and I couldn't stop talking or thinking. He teased me in his usual manner, and it was too much for me. I took something I <strong>know</strong> was a joke literally and had to leave the room. He heard me fighting back tears and followed me. I made him feel awkward, which made me feel worse, and I was rendered unable to talk except to stammer "I'm sorry." Obviously, he didn't know what to say in the face of an anxiety-hormone-insecurity riddled mess yet with my sniffling the only sound to punctuate the silence, my anxiety continued to build. I tried to explain that the issue was in my head, not based on anything he had done, even delving into what Generalized Anxiety Disorder is and how this lovely freak-out was symptomatic of it. He was supportive and asked some good questions, but ultimately he needed time to process the afternoon. We hugged and kissed goodbye and he left, assuring himself as he left that I was okay.<br /><br />I'm tired of feeling like an insecure mess. He's more awesome than I can really process, and somewhere, not to far below the surface, I feel like I don't deserve him. Like I'm not good enough for him. I have to get this out of my head. I should be worried about whether or not he's good for me, not what I have to do to keep him. He <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">texted</span> this morning to check on me. He obviously likes me. Why can I believe all the wonderful things about him and none of them about me?<br /><br />*my opinion at the time, not an actual accusationBlinkBlinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042747697435620939noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745966264303001191.post-46521286673741818782010-01-08T19:36:00.000-08:002010-01-08T19:39:30.565-08:00Sparkling like a CullenOh the weather outside is frightful, but Mr. Random is so delightful. I sent him a text saying "The snow is sparkling like diamonds. It is so beautiful." He replied "I know something more beautiful." Wow.BlinkBlinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042747697435620939noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745966264303001191.post-86706188592251522642010-01-04T05:57:00.000-08:002010-01-04T06:43:27.082-08:00The New GuyIt's been four weeks and he's told his parents about me, so I guess I'm officially dating Mr. Random. I like spending time with him; he's funny and fun and warm. He has theories on life and relationships that keep me on my toes. So far these theories range from why men ask women to dance (to establish trust between the partners) to the recipe for a relationship (a solid base of friendship, several cups of laughter, four to five gallons of physical attraction, and enough time to bring it all together).<br /><br />He was at my house yesterday when his mom called to tell him his grandfather had passed away. He's hurting, and I'm hurting for him. The funeral will be about four hours away, and I'm not sure if we're at the point where I should attend. I care about him a lot, and I hate the idea of the him making that drive alone. We share so many things about our lives, but being together when he got the news brought a new level of intimacy to the relationship and I'm not sure of my footing. I want to help, but I don't want to push. I want to give him space, but I want to be supportive. It's a balancing act, and I'm not the most graceful person under the best of circumstances.BlinkBlinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042747697435620939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745966264303001191.post-27263396789348229002009-12-24T07:20:00.000-08:002009-12-24T07:46:08.809-08:00Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas TimeAfter the insanity of the last several months, I am actually looking forward to Christmas. Mom and dad are flirting with the idea of reconciliation, my brother is in love and facing life as an adult, and I'm genuinely happy. Things aren't perfect, but who needs boring old perfection, anyway? I have a great job, amazing friends, my own little house, and presents under the tree.<br /><br />I'm not concerned with the presents I'll unwrap tomorrow morning. I'm more fixated on putting my new attitude to work when I'm with my family tonight. My insecurity often holds me back from them, and I've realized that I can seem snobby. My cousins may not ever be my best friends, but they really should get to see the real me rather than the girl who hides. This is my Christmas goal.<br /><br />I'll leave work around noon today and I won't return until January 4<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">th</span>. I am looking forward to this recharging time, but I'm also eagerly anticipating the plans I've made. Tonight is the Christmas party for mom's family, tomorrow is dad's crew as well as our nuclear family Christmas. Early next week is a gift exchange with my dearest local friends, and I have an exciting evening planned for New Year's Eve. I'll be honest - that last one has me all in a tizzy. I have a date. He's someone I met on my latest foray into the online pool and, wow, the water is warm. It's new, but I can honestly say I'm excited about him. Being with him is easy. There's no stress, no worry, just an honest enjoyment of being together.<br /><br />For all of my complaints of roller coasters and buckets of tears, 2009 has been a pretty good year. Ugh. I'm <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">rhyming</span>. Hate it when that happens. Anyway - I salute you, third decade of my life, and I can't wait to see what 2010 brings.BlinkBlinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042747697435620939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745966264303001191.post-56819739760335965632009-12-17T05:50:00.000-08:002009-12-17T06:40:06.229-08:00What's with all the water metaphors?Oh, little blog, precious little nugget of loin fruit. How I've missed you. I've been avoiding posting here. In part because there is nothing new to say about my family insanity and in part because I've been afraid to post about one part of my life because I didn't want to hurt a certain reader. You know who you are, and I'm sorry if any of this stings. However, I've come to the conclusion that I need to be honest and authentic here, otherwise, I might as well delete the page and pretend <em><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">BlinkBlink</span></em> never existed.<br /><br /><strong>S</strong> and I broke up - anyone who reads this blog knows that. We had our reasons, and the fact that we wanted different things from life is a biggie. Another reason, though, is that I didn't feel valued by <strong>S</strong>. I know he loved me, but he didn't love me the way I want to be loved. I didn't feel like I was a priority in his life. Therapy has helped me see that. And as I said one day on the doctor's couch, "I don't always feel valued by my mother. I'm sure as hell going to feel like I'm valuable to the person I spend the rest of my life with!" <strong>S</strong> didn't do anything wrong - we just didn't mesh on all the right levels in the end. I don't want to sound clinical, but I learned a lot from my time with him. I guess with each relationship, you learn more about what you want in <strong>the</strong> relationship.<br /><br />I've decided to wade back in to the dating pool, and I'm trying to move slowly. I know how fickle the water can be.BlinkBlinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042747697435620939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745966264303001191.post-2911914723143881522009-11-26T16:58:00.000-08:002009-11-26T17:00:29.212-08:00ThanksgivingI'm thankful for my own little house - my port in the storm. I'm thankful for my friends, my therapist, and even my fucked up family. I'm thankful this day is almost over.BlinkBlinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042747697435620939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745966264303001191.post-45290807990658329982009-11-10T08:36:00.000-08:002009-11-10T09:20:41.669-08:00Hope Springs EternalI'm in therapy for the third time in my life. Therapist #1 was convinced my mother was the root of my problems and didn't address the underlying depression that tempted me to drive my car off of a bridge. Therapist #2 had good insight, but was inexperienced and not clinically trained. After our sessions, I left her office tired and slightly weighed down by all the thoughts bouncing around in my brain. She left the practice a couple of months after I started seeing her and I decided not to see another person in the office. Therapist #3 has his PhD and specializes in Medical Psychological Consulting. He's interested in the root problems rather than treating the symptoms. I leave his office feeling lighter than when I went in. I'm less angry, less scared, and a lot more hopeful.<br /><br />I have a new song I want to cling to: <em>I Hope</em> by the Dixie Chicks.<br /> <em>There must be a way to change what's going on</em><br /><em> No, I don't have all the answers, but</em><br /><em> I hope - </em><em>For more love, more joy and laughter</em><br /><em> I hope you'll have more than you'll ever need</em><br /><em> I hope - </em><em><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">There'll</span> be more happy ever afters</em><br /><em> I hope - </em><em>We can all live more fearlessly</em><br /><em> And we can lose all the pain and misery</em><br /><em></em><br />I want to cling to hope. I want to change so many things. I want joy.BlinkBlinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042747697435620939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745966264303001191.post-34809235508311331092009-11-05T19:58:00.000-08:002009-11-05T20:09:27.584-08:00Heads or Tails?For my parents' twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, I collected quarters from each of the 25 years they had been married and created a custom art piece for them. Dad loved it. He raved about the creativity and thoughtfulness it exhibited to his friends and colleagues. Apparently, the number twenty-five stuck with him more permanently than the marriage it represented. My father has been having an affair for over a year with a woman who was born when he was twenty-five. She is my age. After going home last night and telling mom he wanted to try to work on things, tonight he revealed the affair. <br /><br />I'm angry. So very, very angry. This man is not my father. This is not the man who raised me.BlinkBlinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042747697435620939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745966264303001191.post-74198455953091698722009-11-05T06:29:00.000-08:002009-11-05T06:42:02.713-08:00LightI'm trying not to get my hopes up, but dad moved back in last night. He and mom are going to try to work on things.BlinkBlinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042747697435620939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745966264303001191.post-67562764948269943322009-11-04T06:47:00.000-08:002009-11-04T07:04:08.821-08:00Siser Synchronicity<strong>E</strong> and I share a birthday. Really. We were both born on the 77th day of the year. It's one of those things that links us - something that helps us in our brain-sharing pursuits. However, given the astrology of having the same birthday, we experience things at the same times; highs, lows, and funks all happen at the same time. We're in a low right now. Not in our relationship, but in our lives. We're both subject to strong forces beyond our control. We're both spinning and confused and scared. <br /><br />Siser, I want you to know that even though I am seeming very-self focused right now, you are on my mind. I love you and want nothing but the best for you. Sending all the positive energy I possess your way as you prepare for the days to come.BlinkBlinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042747697435620939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745966264303001191.post-8877078551900206632009-11-03T07:01:00.000-08:002009-11-03T08:12:39.494-08:00Sing! Sing a Song!I like music. This is nothing <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">revelatory</span> - most people (with the exception of Bella in <em>New Moon</em>) have an affection for some type of melodic noise. What I don't know is if other people hear music differently depending upon their mood or what is happening in their lives. <br /><br /><strong>S</strong> and I have broken up, and <em>So Hard</em> by the Dixie Chicks has struck a new chord with me. It's a song about infertility, but the lyrics just hit me - "Back when we started, we didn't know how hard it was...I try my best to be strong, but you know it's so hard. It's so hard when it doesn't come easy...So hard...Felt like a given, something a woman is born to do - a natural ambition to see a reflection of you and me...Could you be happy if life wasn't how we pictured it? Last night you told me you can't <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">remember</span> how to feel free. It's so hard..." God, it was so hard to end it - to know that love wasn't enough to make us work. As I type this, <em>Love is All You Need</em> is playing on my <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">iTunes</span>. Ironic. And wrong. Love <strong>isn't</strong> all you need.<br /><br />Things have just all around sucked lately. Week one - <strong>S</strong> and I broke up. Week two - found out <strong>M</strong>'s drinking had gotten out of control and he's attending AA, that mom and dad were having problems, and that mom's best friend sees a disparity in the way mom treats <strong>M</strong> and me, proving that is not all in my head. Week three - dad has moved out. What's coming in week four? Plague? I need distraction. Fun. Something new to focus on. If you can get past the very sad ASPCA commercial it is used in (and the unfortunate Nicholas Cage connection), <em>Angel</em> by Sarah <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">McLachlan</span> is a perfect song for me right now. Forgive me, but I need to insert the entire first verse so you can understand...<br /> <em>Spend all your time waiting</em><br /><em> For that second chance</em><br /><em> For a break that would make it okay</em><br /><em> There's always one reason</em><br /><em> To feel not good enough</em><br /><em> And it's hard at the end of the day</em><br /><em> I need some distraction</em><br /><em> Oh beautiful release </em><br /><em> Memory seeps from my veins</em><br /><em> Let me be empty</em><br /><em> And weightless and maybe</em><br /><em> I'll find some peace tonight</em><br /><br />I sat at home alone last night last night, patio doors open to draw in the cool autumn air. I'm sure the neighbors grew tired of hearing my faltering voice launch this <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">song</span> out into the night. I'm aching. I'm numb.<br /><br /><br /><em></em><br /><em></em>BlinkBlinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042747697435620939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745966264303001191.post-68984568509331904022009-11-01T17:40:00.000-08:002009-11-02T15:14:31.603-08:0024 Hours - UPDATEDMy parents have called a family meeting for tomorrow night. In the almost thirty years of my life, we've never had a family meeting. In light of this week's revelations about that state of our family, I can think of two things that might be on the agenda.<br /><br />1) With the economy the way it is, mom's job situation has been a little rocky. She's been fearing a lay-off and I guess that could have come to fruition.<br /><br />2) My parents are divorcing. They've both told me it is a possibility.<br /><br />Either way, this is not a good time to be out of Zoloft.<br /><br /><strong>My parents are separated.</strong>BlinkBlinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042747697435620939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745966264303001191.post-88362395513892153042009-10-29T07:22:00.000-07:002009-10-29T08:57:24.754-07:00Murky WatersI almost died when I was fifteen. I know that is a dramatic statement - even a melodramatic one - that can cause a reader to doubt the validity of anything I have to say, but it's true. I was fifteen and on a family vacation in Panama City Beach. We decided to take a boat a few miles off shore and visit Shell Island. Although I am a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">Pisces</span> with a great love of water, I've never really liked the ocean. I don't like the sand and salt sticking to my skin and never knowing exactly what I'm stepping on as I ease into the surf. On this hot August day, my mom convinced me to play in the waves with her. We took a raft and bounced in the waves, with the undertow carrying us out further than we realized. A powerful dolphin watching boat rounded the rock cove that framed our swimming area, and we were pulled further out. Our feet could no longer touch the ocean floor and violent waves crashed over our heads. Although we are both strong swimmers, we were unable to fight our rapid progress towards the boat. We turned ninety degrees and swam towards the rocky sea wall. We reached the rocks, and tried to climb their slippery faces in a quest for stability. Mom grabbed my arm when she attained a perch, keeping a humongous wave from carrying me away. The waves surged towards us again, and I was lifted above the lowest rocks and deposited into a depression, jagged rocks all around me. The waves beat me between the rocks, tearing my swimsuit and the tender flesh beneath it. I had to move from this spot, yet mom wouldn't surrender her tether so I could climb. Another huge wave crashed over us, pulling me over the low rocks again, slapping mom after me, and loosening her grip on my arm. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">Mercifully</span>, this wave shoved us towards the shore, and we were able to swim again. As we neared the shore, bodies bruised and bloodied, we tried to scream for help. Finally, people rushed out to haul us to the sandy beach. I remember the details of that experience so <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">vividly</span>, but the rest of the day is a blur. However, I do know a category two hurricane hit Panama City Beach that night. We had been on a small island in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">pre</span>-<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">hurricane</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">conditions</span>.<br /><br />Even as I carry the scars of August 2, 1995 with me, I can't help but see it as a metaphor for my relationship with my mother. Mom only sees that I would have been lost had she not held on to me, whereas I know that at some point she had to let go so we could each be safe. It was out of her power to save me that day. We face the same struggle today. She wants to be my savior, and that's not what she's supposed to be. I have to stand on my own - be in control of my life. I've seen this dichotomy in our relationship for years, but I've started to see it in her <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">relationship</span> with <strong>M</strong> now, too. <strong>M</strong> spent a year in rehab. Three weeks after his graduation from his program, he got a DUI. Now, he's attending AA meetings to combat his drinking. I don't know if he's slipped up in other ways, because I'm kept isolated from the family where these things are concerned, but mom has again taken it upon herself to save <strong>M</strong>. Last night, she told me she has to help him, just like she had to save me on Shell Island. <strong>M</strong> has been drowning for years. The time for mommy to save him has passed. He needs to stretch his fins and swim on his own. Until he is accountable for himself, anyone <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">else's</span> best intentions are just paving the road to hell.BlinkBlinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042747697435620939noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745966264303001191.post-6271586788474917602009-10-23T05:22:00.000-07:002009-10-23T05:23:31.847-07:00DehydratedI've come to the following conclusion...<br /><br />It doesn't matter how deep still waters run if they can't quench your thirst.BlinkBlinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042747697435620939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745966264303001191.post-57864949865018324092009-10-08T14:08:00.000-07:002009-10-08T14:32:04.130-07:00Down With Distance!I am a fan of many things. I like Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">Avocado</span>. Movies. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">Rain showers</span>. Long, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">girly</span>, giggly conversations. Hugs. Good ideas. Well-orchestrated events. Jeans. The color aquamarine.<br /><br />I have a list of things I don't like, too, though. I don't like fighting with my mom. Spiders. Crows. Crow's feet around my eyes. Dark lip liner. Lima Beans. Tracey on this season of <em>The Biggest Loser</em>. Tornadoes. Ponchos.<br /><br />There is one thing that I need to add to the "not a fan" list. It's something I'd never given a ton of thought to until about six months ago. I don't like distance. Yes, <strong>S</strong> only lives an hour and a half away, but when schedules are as different as ours, it feels like we're a continent apart. I miss him. I miss threading my fingers through his and seeing the warm light that shines from his eyes when he looks at me. I can't help but worry that he thinks I'm being pushy when I tell him I want to see him more. I can only hope that he sees it as what it is, though. A declaration of my love for him and a natural gravitation towards something that makes me so happy.BlinkBlinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042747697435620939noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745966264303001191.post-73372102167042490702009-10-05T08:21:00.000-07:002009-10-05T11:28:20.522-07:00Hanging By A ThreadMy hands are sore from grasping my sanity so tightly. My mind is bruised from the force of her words. My eyes are unfocused, unable to see beyond the truth revealed to me. I'm twenty-nine years old, and my mother doesn't like me. She uses a creator's love to mask the hurt and to explain away her obvious preference for my brother. She is a flawed, maybe even damaged woman, yet I yearn for her respect. It's never given. I am never enough.<br /><br />It's time. I need to stop judging myself through her distorted lens. She made me, but she's not me. I need to quit fighting for her approval and earn my own.BlinkBlinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042747697435620939noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745966264303001191.post-71822524062413101272009-08-26T08:57:00.000-07:002009-08-26T09:19:08.673-07:00S Called It!Heather and her layers of black eye liner were sent home, as was Kristian. Damn. I was really hoping to see Kristian replace her <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">competitors</span>' shampoo with Nair!BlinkBlinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042747697435620939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745966264303001191.post-15624040138580264542009-08-25T10:17:00.000-07:002009-08-25T10:19:52.747-07:00More to LoatheOkay, so I knew Fox was low-brow, but WOW. I just stumbled across the application for <em>More to Love</em>. Follow the link at your own risk. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Yowza</span>.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.moretolovecasting.com/">http://www.moretolovecasting.com/</a>BlinkBlinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042747697435620939noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745966264303001191.post-24305063797086125102009-08-25T08:44:00.000-07:002009-08-25T08:49:24.909-07:00Peaceful, Easy FeelingModern medicine is an amazing thing. Two weeks ago, I saw my doctor to discuss treatment for depression and anxiety. I've been on medication since that day, and I'm already seeing a difference. It's in little things. When I say "I'm not going to worry about it" the statement is no longer tinged with desperation, but rather an ease in knowing I can let go. I can enjoy my happiness rather than waiting for the other shoe to drop. I know there will be days when things aren't so easy, but knowing I can handle the small stuff makes me confident I can tackle whatever comes.BlinkBlinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042747697435620939noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6745966264303001191.post-75521682984726421472009-07-29T11:06:00.000-07:002009-08-25T07:57:39.812-07:00The Last Acceptable PrejudiceI am an admitted fan of <em>The <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Bachelorette</span></em>. I don't watch the show for romance or dreams of happily-ever-after. I watch it for the weekly train wrecks. I yell at the television and act as if the participants can hear me. I critique their clothing, correct their grammar, and express my exasperation at their idiocy. Fun times. I drew <strong>S</strong> into the madness this season and we watched it together each week. It was our standing phone date each Monday. I feared we'd lose that time together when Jillian picked Ed (<em><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">coughlyingcheatingbastardcough</span></em>), but we found an even more infuriating show to watch together. It's another Mike <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Fleiss</span> creation, the ludicrous <em>More to Love</em>. To put it kindly, I am a curvy woman, and yes, I get tired of watching pencil thin girls who claim to love McDonald's (I'm looking at you, Molly) traipse across my television screen. However, I find it insulting for the show to insinuate that only a heavy man can be attracted to a woman of size. The show further posits that Luke (our non-hunk) is representative of other heavy men. Doubtful. In the premier, the usual "name/hometown/profession" tag was displayed in each candidate's interview. However, the evil geniuses at Fox also included the contestant's <strong>weight</strong>!<strong> </strong>Why? This show claims size is an unimportant factor in finding love; anyone watching the show can see that the women are not exactly petite. This monstrosity is supposed to be a dating show, not one designed for weight loss, so is there a purpose to sharing individual weights? Oh, wait. The show is on Fox - the humiliation comes standard.<br /><br />As a long-time <em>Bachelor</em> viewer, I know a little about the ins and outs of the show. Chris Harrison, host extraordinaire, has revealed in the past that the day of the first cocktail party, production assistants visit each of the ladies to consult on dresses and hairstyles, insuring that the women look their best for the party. On the premier of <em>More to Love</em>, however, women arrived in ill-fitting, unflattering dresses and had obviously styled their own hair. More than one woman had her hair pulled back in a simple elastic band rather than the perfect coifs we've come to expect from <em>The Bachelor</em>. What does it mean that only <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">glamazon</span> women make it to Harrison's inner circle, yet model <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">Emme's</span> is comprised of women who not only can't find love but also don't know how to wield a flat-iron?<br /><br /><strong>S</strong> and I have been watching the show for several weeks now, and he says the best part of the show is listening to me scream at the television. I've watched sheltered, insecure Melissa be sent home. I wish I could adopt her, if only to figure out why she went on the show. I'm waiting anxiously for Kristian to go <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">ape-shit</span> on someone - it will happen - or for Tali to be revealed as a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">transsexual</span>. I think Malissa is the one who's going to surprise viewers with her insanity. Right now, I'm picking Heather and Mandy for the final two, with Mandy taking the win. If you can call a proposal from <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">douchey</span> Luke a win, that is.BlinkBlinkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14042747697435620939noreply@blogger.com3