Don’t Hate the Player

I saw her take photos on her phone of the food. She even flipped the food packages around to take snaps of the nutrition facts. She didn’t notice that I noticed or maybe she didn’t care that I did.

It’s not about me after all. This game has been around way longer than me and will likely outlast me.

I played all the same moves. I acted like it was all effortless and random too.

It is hard to watch. It is hard to know she will be praised for it.

It is hard knowing how there are many ways it can end and that none of them are empowering or satisfying.

Whatever the case, I soldier on. I don’t count calories. I don’t scan food labels. I don’t carry in my head a list of food rules longer than the Constitution.

I quit the game, but I’m still living in it.

Annoyed

I feel some emotions coming up and I’m annoyed by them. I feel pressure to write something and that bothers me.

I might as well try. It has become too painful at this point to avoid.

I feel stuck, so I guess I will jog in place.

Broken Metaphors

The hardest part of looking at old photos of myself is recognizing how disordered the people around me were. I was consistently told how I was too plain, too fat, too pale, too awkward, too short, but I don’t see that in the photos. I have heard many people talk about how difficult it is to see photos of themselves and remember all the mean things they said or believed about themselves at the time. That comes up for me as well. However, the piece I cannot process is how others could see me as I were and still say those things.

I wonder what made adults fixate on the fat on my body. Why would an adult care that much about the belly fat of a child? Being on the receiving end of that treatment previously terrified me; now, it repulses me. How could adults have so drastically misinterpreted their responsibilities? Why would an adult say to a child something that he or she would be mortally offended by if subjected to? Why were adults complicit in humiliating me?

It has taken me quite some time to acknowledge that I was a victim of bullying and of broader emotional abuse. It can be hard to acknowledge this because it reveals that bullying and emotional abuse was present in environments where so many people have denied it.

A victim is somehow expected to simultaneously see from her own frame of reference and from bird’s eye view of her own suffering. It’s an impossible task.

I think emotional abuse is like being trapped in a cube, seeing the edges and corners meet. The abuse isn’t the box itself but rather being told that box is a sphere.

I should work more on that metaphor. I have the time, but not the patience. I’m going to go ahead and publish and give myself the opportunity to revisit this topic later.

Body Negativity

I noticed the new stretch marks a few months ago. Once I saw them in the mirror, I thought I could feel my skin ripping apart for the next few days. I knew it couldn’t be true, but I somehow felt it or at least feared it so much that I believed it to be true.

There has been tremendous pressure (on me and, perhaps, on you too) to achieve an external-facing image of health by engaging in self-destructive habits. Most of my influences have likely experienced moderate to severe body image issues. This has been normalized to me and compounded by a media presence with pervasive bias toward misogynistic industry practices.

My body image issues are part of my inheritance. It comes with the territory. I cannot divorce my childhood, family, friendships, or even education from body image. All are intertwined.

I understand now that I have to choose. Women in my situation are destined to perpetuate generational patterns of self-hatred unless they change.

I did not consider myself someone capable of such a change. Now, I might. I want to resolve my body image issues and self-loathing. I don’t want the diluted self-love message broadcast on morning television in between celebrity interviews and the weather. I don’t want self-care packages sold from disgruntled middle managers who repurpose their business degrees to import face masks in the name of entrepreneurship. I don’t want carefully curated “candid” selfies that strategically show off skin as a self-promotional rebuff to the beauty industry.

I want to actually respect myself. It doesn’t seem like a glamorous task. There are probably not many face masks that can help with this goal.

I see women perform all the time: tying to pretend they care so much more than anyone else or, conversely, trying to pretend they care less than you could ever imagine. I don’t want to perform. I want to be.

Eventually, the show must come to an end anyway. You can act perfectly through all the parts or maybe just glide and stumble and jump around the stage. Have some fun. Have a good cry and an unsatisfying cry and a jarring scream. Maybe, I’ll see you out there: living instead of performing.

Front & Center

I’m showing up today mostly to say I did.

Consider this my attendance check in homeroom.

I’m not going to socialize with anyone.

I’m not going to smile at the teacher.

I’m here.

Because I said I would be.

And, I’ll be back tomorrow.

Probably.

Bird Watching

I can’t believe I read about Her again. I don’t like Her. She is arrogant and entitled and represents so many of my childhood peers. Watching Her, though a stranger, succeed is like watching my bullies continue to taunt me through the newspaper. Watching Her fail with mean tweets as the only consequence is like watching Them all get away with it again and again.

Outrage is not much of a deterrent, I guess. I’m terrified of putting too much baking powder in my pancakes, but She parades her self-entitlement across magazine covers, social media, and television.

I no longer want to lend my whisper of a voice to the outrage. I would rather be different.

I think a lot of people are already being different and I can’t see them yet. I have tunnel vision for the abusive types. Not the violent ones, but the woodpecker ones that hammer down your self-worth.

She writes words like they’re nothing. She throws them around like plastic confetti, letting them litter the streets. Words don’t rot away like compost; they overwhelm landfills.

Her incompetence (or is it ignorance?) has that effect on me. It sits in my mind, heavy and unnatural. As repulsive as compost can be, at least it changes form; it serves a purpose. Plastic just changes form and shape and color and loses all function, like the corpse of a memory.

I read about Her and People Like Her because it enables me to shut down from my emotions or at least steer close to Annoyance Street between Miffed and Irked Avenues. I don’t like Her or Him or Them. Move on? I can’t.

Or, I won’t? Such a classic dilemma.

I want to write. I don’t. I read about Her and become resentful that She writes. I still don’t write.

Maybe, if I didn’t read about Her or Him or Them, I would write something, anything. Even now, I’m writing about how I don’t want to write about Them. I’m stuck in a never-ending loop of adding meta layers to my issues without finding any resolve.

I create distance, but perhaps I need to walk straight towards my resentment and bitterness. I’d like to tell off those parts of myself off though that has only gotten me here. Maybe, I’ll stay a while; here, where I write about Her and Him and Them, but not for Her, and Him, and Them. I don’t know what this space is: between inferiority and superiority. It doesn’t feel like equality when I think of how much She has in terms of opportunity and wealth and connections and access. Yet, don’t I have words too?

For all Her, His and Their power and influence, I’m still writing about my discontent. I’ll never be published, but I won’t be silent either.

Shoulds & Other Grief

I think I should start taking this blog a bit more seriously: developing ideas and honing my craft. However, I don’t know how to do that and have no drive to do that.

My goodness. I can’t believe I’m writing that, but it is true. I want a blog, I think. I want to work hard at it, I assume. Yet, what do I actually do here? I can write anything, but mostly my self-loathing seeps through. I mostly write very little, as you can see for yourself, and simply about my own hang-ups about writing anything at all.

Is this some sort of rusty pipe situation? Will something else eventually come out if I run the water long enough or are the pipes rusted through? Which outcome should I expect from this endeavor: a clear stream of tap water at the end of this or cockroaches scrambling up the drain?

Can I even call it an endeavor? Is that warranted?

I like the idea of writing off-the-cuff here, but I feel like I should be thoughtful and prepared. I’m just so bored with thought and preparation. I do so much of that already.

I’m annoyed with reading about people and their perfectly planned adventures and their sitcom-worthy setbacks. It’s really draining after a while. All of this follows with inevitable breakdowns and then packaged resurrections where one reflects on how “raw” and “authentic” breakdowns can be. Or, should we call them breakthroughs? I’ll pause for a moment so that you can wipe away your barf.

I don’t know why all suffering has to be so neatly tied-up with a bow. Who are we putting on this grand show for? Ourselves?

What happens when you don’t know how to learn from a mistake? What happens when you don’t know where you went wrong? What happens when you don’t know whether you made a mistake or someone wronged you? How do you write that story?

I’ve lost the thread. I don’t know what I’m getting at. I keep winding up here: talking in abstractions. I still don’t want to write down what is actually bothering me. My hands feel heavy on the keyboard suddenly. I don’t want to write that I feel very upset about writing, about trying, about questioning so much of my life.

I pressure myself to be content with the way it is, but I don’t even know why anything is the way it is. What would I even be accepting?

I had a bad experience in graduate school. That’s about all my stomach can handle for today.

Blah Blah Blah

Blargh. What am I supposed to be doing? This moment? Today? Ever?

I’m consistently confused and indecisive. What matters? What doesn’t? I’m supposed to determine that. Pffft. Seriously?

I wish I could wish for something. I want to want things. Yet, I wind up here - writing to no one for nothing.

Sourdough Nonstarter

I feel like an absolute failure. Well, that’s not entirely true. I feel like a slight failure.

I opened the lid to my sourdough starter today and found what appeared to be tiny slugs all over the surface. Mind you, I have been working on this starter since May 10th. (Time check: It is August 1st.) I have read troubleshooting about it and apparently, slugs might be attracted to yeast so much that micro-brewers use sourdough starter to distract slugs from their beer. Are you kidding me?

I feel like this is the type of thing that only happens to me though part of my issue is that I tend to believe nonsense Internet hype. So many people have posted about how straight-forward it is to learn, but I have not made one loaf that I consider average in the past three months.

I mostly want to bake bread because (1) it is hard to find tasty sourdough and (2) I want fresh bread without going to the store all the time.

I made four loaves with the now deceased starter, of which only one rose while in the oven. I’m perplexed with all these tutorials about mastering the sourdough technique in a week. Huh? Am I missing something?

Logically, it doesn’t make sense how you can master something that is the basis of an entire profession so quickly, so I’m (once again) judging myself for believing the hype.

I do want to try again. This will actually be my third starter to initiate because I used the wrong flour the first time around. Or, at least I think I did. I’m not totally sure either way.

Anyway, I might write more another day about my sourdough nonstarter experience. For now, I thought I would open up about a failure.

Building a Mystery

I don’t need to be special. I don’t need to stand out. I mostly need to try. Then, wake up the next day and try again. Try the same thing again and again. Try something new. Try something different. Key word: try, try, try.

I’m doing that right now by posting this. This is the effort that I know how to take right now. That’s amazing that I have identified a step and shown up each day to take it.

I’m not going to undermine this post. It is not about nothing. It is about something I do not yet understand.

Let’s build a mystery.

ttyl

I’m tired of thinking about someone who doesn’t think about me.

I’m tired of changing for someone who doesn’t notice.

I’m working on this each and every day.

I’m embarrassed about it all: about trying so hard for others and for trying so hard to try to do (literally) anything else but people-please.

I’m embarrassed about coming up short so many times.

I’m better for admitting it.

ttyl

Prossimo Episodio

I’m so annoyed because I don’t want to write this right now, but I also don’t want to lose my streak and quit altogether. Then, I think it doesn’t matter because no one will read this, so all of this pressure is in my head.

My goodness. This is turning out well.

I shouldn’t be so sarcastic and condescending toward myself. Now, I’m judging how much judgement I have. #Spiral?

Sedimentary, my dear Watson

How do you engage with someone who is determined to see you through a filtered lens?

You know those water filters. They first take out the large chunks and, then, the smaller sediment and, then, the teeny tiny microscopic bits that are so small you wonder if they even make a difference? When you distill it all, do you get pure water? Or is it filtered water? Which version is the pure one? The one that naturally occurs or the cleanest version?

If I distill myself down into something simple, am I more or less pure? This is the definition of pure that I’m thinking about today: “without any extraneous and unnecessary elements.”*

He will probably apologize to me later today. I’ll say I accept. I’ll lie to seem like my heart is more pure. Maybe now it is.

*From Oxford Dictionary

Okie Dokie

Let’s try this one on for size:

I’m anxious.

I struggle with anxiety.

I’m learning how to address my anxiety.

I don’t need to blame myself.

Nah, I’ll pass.

Just kidding :)

I might as well try.

to: the invisible reader // from: the invisible woman

I don’t let myself write. Like ever. I thought I didn’t have enough time to try, but even when I do, I refuse to try. I thought I do not have enough potential, but even when I have an idea, I refuse to try. I thought I do not have enough support; well, that point may be accurate.

In college, I wrote a short story for a creative writing class assignment. It took so much encouragement from my father to even enroll in the class and I would battle panic and dread before each and every class. I would fantasize about writing good stories, but would dread every minute before class. Our teacher, Julie, was a very conventionally pretty and good-natured graduate student. Once I found out she had a boyfriend, I thought she had it all.

Julie was so kind to me. She encouraged me so much. I had trouble believing her because of it. It seemed unrealistic (and still does) that someone with so much of the social status I lacked could be decent to me.

I really enjoyed most of the books she recommended and tried to imitate a Shirley Jackson book for my assignment. Julie noticed and complimented me on making it my own. My classmates complimented my sense of humor in it. I showed a subsequent draft to my sister who separately told me she found it funny. I didn’t mean any of it as a joke.

It is hard for me to believe Julie’s encouragement still because she was one of the only people to pay attention to my words. Speaking of, no one will even read this story and yet I’m crying as I write it.

I would ask why I’m trying so hard for a dream that will never materialize, but I’m actually not trying much at all. Why does it feel so excruciating to write each word when I know that I’m only writing a paragraph a day (if that) and nothing I write has a common theme. That might not be entirely true. I dread thinking about the self-loathing that all of these posts are probably steeped in.

I wanted to write a poem today and say: “What a horrible thing to be coveted.” I feel so stupid for wanting to write a poem with that line or a poem at all. Anyway, let me leave it here before I break my own heart.

I took a nap & other meaningless choices

I took a long nap today. Well, ok, I fell asleep for about three hours in the afternoon.

Plenty of potential reasons. None seem worth exploring.

Maybe sleep can just be that sometimes.

When Inspiration Strikes & Misses

I have felt a lot of pressure to change the world. It sounds grandiose when I write that on paper, but I think a lot of other people might put that same pressure on themselves. We collectively talk about how we don’t want others to experience the pain we have been through as though we have some sort of insight that will protect them. We obsessively try to prevent pain in ourselves and others instead of acknowledging the universal nature of it.

I have experienced common – read “millennial” & “first world”- forms of pain avoidance in my life; namely, binge eating and self-isolation. Ironically, those patterns have proven to be significant sources of pain in my life. There’s a bit of an evil that you know is better than evil you don’t know energy. I have reached a point where the pain of the habits I use to avoid pain are now more painful than the pain I’m avoiding. Talk about revelations I could do without.

For example, I have avoided most social interactions outside of my family for the past year. I wanted to protect myself from judgement and speculation about what happened with my graduate program, my subsequent depression, and my shame about it all. It worked. I protected myself from my (mostly) unsupportive friendships. Now, I’m dealing with persistent loneliness. I haven’t addressed yet that the foundations of the friendships in my life cause me to feel discouraged and unsupported within them. Now, I don’t know if I will ever return to them.

The friendships themselves were to mask my loneliness among other people. Years of bullying has made nearly everyone seem untrustworthy. I’m consistently on edge, fearing public humiliation is one glance away.

I didn’t know I was living in a box until I bumped my head on the ceiling. I don’t mind the walls, but I have to be able to at least stand up straight. I don’t fit into the life I created for myself. It is too restrictive. I would have to retreat back into restrictive eating, monitoring every word I speak, and apologizing for every breath I take. That sounds a lot more painful that opening up.

Day 3 & I’m Already Losing Momentum

I don’t feel comfortable writing what I’m thinking about today. I fear it will come across as (unintentionally) offensive on a topic where there have already been way too many harmful opinions. Maybe omitting my opinion is enough of an opinion for today.

I feel at peace with that.

See you tomorrow. Probably.

American Television in Mexico & Exhaustive Self-Reflection

Apparently, writing yesterday only provided temporary relief to my anxiety, so we are back at it. Perhaps, yesterday seemed tongue-in-cheek, but today we will see that the self-loathing is too real. It’s getting annoying, isn’t it? That soon? Yikes…

I’m having trouble sleeping, which is further exacerbated by my daily decision to delay sleeping indefinitely. It is hard to fall asleep when you do very little and it is hard to do more than very little when you are consumed by anxiety. And, that’s what we call a cycle, folks.

I remember watching Bill O’Reilly on Fox News while on vacation in Mexico. Weird choice, I know. My sister and I could not find the television channel guide, so we kept scrolling through channels in Spanish. Perhaps, this would have been an ideal time for me to brush up on my rusted high school language skills, but I could not stand – and still cannot! – watching American shows dubbed in Spanish. It is so uncomfortable watching the words mismatch to the actors’ faces. It creeps me out. I don’t care if it is a first world problem. I would have settled for Mexican television shows, but it was channel after channel of American actors with the dreaded dubbed audio. So, we settled for Fox News, which seemed to be the only American channel that was still in American – I mean, English.

I had heard so much about Bill O’Reilly over the years, but I never actually watched him in his primetime glory. Note: this is prior to the public revel of the lawsuits and the subsequent dismissal from Fox. I nearly wrote “fall from grace,” but grace doesn’t seem like something even his supporters would describe O’Reilly as ever possessing.

He was actually a compelling interviewer from what I could see, except for how he constantly interrupted and shouted at his guests. I can’t really hold that part against him though as that is more of a chronic problem with cable news than him in particular. There was one part that perplexed me about his show. About twenty minutes in, he started a segment entitled the “No Spin Zone.” It sounded so official; he even announced it with a graphic that was also titled “No Spin Zone.”

I still think about it from time to time. What on earth is a No Spin Zone for a journalist. even a cable news one? Isn’t it all presumably no spin? Like, obviously, they spin it, but don’t they all pretend like they don’t? And, the part that utterly fascinated me, was that he announced it almost half-way through the show. Half-way! What was I just watching? Spin zone? Are we in the spin zone until you tell me we aren’t? Where are we after the segment ends? Back in spin zone?

My sister told me I was reading too into the whole segment, but every night that vacation week, between drying off from my afternoon shower and leaving for dinner, I entered the no-spin zone and left none the wiser. 

Is my anxiety my own private spin zone? A space where I tilt the truth that undermines my own worth. No clue. The existential dread that would accompany answering that question is a bit too heavy for a Wednesday.

My First Post

I absolutely don’t want to be a writer, so why does it keep nagging at me? I absolutely hate it. I’m consumed by my own self-hatred really. The first post should be introductory. It should reveal what you need to know about the blog and the writer behind it. But, I don’t want you to know anything about me. I don’t want to know you either. No offense!

I just want the nagging inside of me to stop. Perhaps, if I write consistently and fail consistently, I’ll get over this. The tightness in my lungs will relax and I can get back to my regularly scheduled programming.

I suppose I’m butchering my first post with my self-hatred. Write what you know, huh? I am so – so, so, so incredibly – tempted to write something more palatable for you – you, the nonexistent reader. From my mind, you are Joanna, the writing teacher who told me the only redeeming quality of my work was my grammar. Or, you are Loren who smirked every time it was my turn to share. Loren was a man, by the way. American too. Don’t ask. I don’t get it either.

You’re also my parents who would hate the whole idea of this. I hate this too.

Maybe, now that I’ve sabotaged my first post, I can give up on writing successfully and just write something, anything, until the knots dissolve in my stomach acid.