personalized guilt

It is hard to not take everything in this world personally. I struggle with this in nearly every aspect of my life.

I’m watching an international adventure show. I thought it would be a fun escape from my own thoughts. Instead, seeing dozens of people from all over the world trek through the wilderness with no sleep and limited water makes me acutely aware of my negative body image and lack of exercise during the pandemic.

Why am I doing this to myself? I can enjoy the show without making it a negative experience, can’t I?

I also feel insecure about my choices today. I spent it with someone who consistently undermines my self-worth. I had my reasons for engaging with this person, but it was still tough even with knowing what to expect.

The day was challenging. I want to prioritize myself tomorrow. No favors for anyone else. No undermining myself for anyone else’s comfort. For me, all of that is easier said than done.

driving miss delusional

You know how you can repeat something a million times and one day realize some detail that is so obvious all of a sudden that it is practically smacking you in the face and you can’t believe it was there all along? For a long time, I was so puzzled by the Disney logo because I thought that the D looked like a Q. I wondered why a company as large as Qisney couldn’t correct a simple typo. It wasn’t until years later that I realized it was just a sloppily written D. Of course, it always said Disney. Why would it say Qisney? Duh.

Yet, when I happen to see their logo somewhere or another, I immediately notice that Q for a split second until I remind myself that I’ve been through this before.

“Maybe, I should go to therapy too. It’s like a spa appointment.” This is what someone said recently about my choice to go to the spa. Kidding, obviously. I know that this person doesn’t believe in therapy as she has made that abundantly clear. I also know that she is disappointed in me as she has been consistent about communicating that message directly to me.

Her voice has been one of the driving forces of my self-hatred. Her rejection of me morphed into my rejection of myself. Her dismissal of my feelings blossomed into my hopelessness surrounding my depressive thoughts. Blossomed is too flowery, right? It’s not technically a good choice of words, but even weeds blossom, so I rule in favor of keeping it.

Does she fear therapy because she knows that sometimes she is the topic for discussion?

Does she fear therapy because she might have to find a new person to criticize if I change?

Does she fear that I will leave her behind?

I’m merely speculating. I have no idea. I have heard a thousand times that comments like the spa day one are projections of another’s insecurity. I have trouble believing that though as I still take it very personally.

Maybe, that’s the Q of the situation. Believing that her opinion of me is simply seeing Qisney as the logo. It’s not really there (or at least, it’s not meant to be there), but I can’t unsee it until one day it will just smack me in the face. And, then, it will all make a lot more sense; although, every once in a while, that Q will appear again even if for just a moment.

alright ok // alright ok

Dare I admit that I’m excited about this blog? The possibilities are endless, which is intimidating and overwhelming and hopeful. I can create anything with my words. What is possible? I don’t even know!

I want to write a blog that I’m excited to type out every day or at least most of the time. Now, let me define that excitement. I don’t necessarily expect to be happy about all or even most of what I write. I expect to be driven and ambitious about it. Passionate seems too cliche for my taste.

I want to write about important things, not necessarily facts and not necessarily stories. I want to write, write, write and see what happens. Perhaps, nothing happening is an interesting outcome too.

After all, I will probably wind up pandering if I try to be successful at any of this. So, I will follow my drive and ambition and ability day by day. Today, I’m writing about writing the blog. This is surely lightyears ahead of writing about how I couldn’t possibly write a blog.

Here we are! Alive and applying ourselves. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? Doesn’t matter. Not at all. What matters is that I showed up today and feel excited and so pleased with myself for the few minutes that I’m here writing.

What a release from all the depression and self-loathing that takes up so much of my time. I hope that you - dear Wishbone, my nonexistent reader - derives some hypothetical enjoyment out of my excitement. I won’t say reading pleasure because (A) you do not exist and (B) the word pleasure makes me irrationally uncomfortable.

x

if not now, when?

If I try, why not? If I dedicate time to it, why not? I can write a blog; in fact, I’m already writing one.

I am having second thoughts about all of my self-defeating posts. I can write this blog. Sure. Why not?

I can try and fail and keep trying anyway. It is a helluva lot more interesting than sitting in my anxiety and insulting myself.

I’m proud of myself today. I survived yesterday while hanging on by a thread. I had a much better day today. I’m hoping for some more sunshine tomorrow.

x

electric skin

Today has been terrible for me though I hardly had to do anything at all. I mostly thought about how negative my body image is and how depressed I feel. I have no idea how to improve my situation.

I went down a rabbit hole online about celebrity culture and now regret it. Reading about the problems of random famous people made me feel distracted for about an hour, but now I feel worse. I don’t know them. I can’t relate to them. I’m still stuck with the same problems I woke up with.

I want to improve my mood, but everything that has been suggested to me sounds so simple yet elusive. Some of these ideas sound easy enough, but feel so overwhelmingly difficult.

I do not want to struggle this way indefinitely. I feel like I’m experiencing a dull sensation of heartache and dread all over my body every waking minute. My mind is cloudy. I have glimmers of hope that maybe last seconds. Then, the depression swallows me again.

The idea of positivity taunts me. Most people I know would tell me to suck it up. I do not know how to do that anymore. Well, in other words, repressing my emotions put me in this position in the first place.

I want to feel better, but I don’t actually know what that would mean for me. I’m assuming that I want to feel better, which feels silly to write. However, that’s the most accurate way I can think of phrasing it: that I assume I want to feel better about myself.

nothing fits

I have a closet full of clothes that do not fit. There is no plan to make them fit. I don’t care much about fashion, so it is not the actual items that bother me, but the abundance of clothes that I cannot use. I have several pairs of stretchy black leggings that I have washed every week for a year. I’m amazed that these leggings - approximately $15 a pair - have held up this long.

I can squeeze myself in some shirts. I eventually had to buy bigger underwear. I never have enough bras that fit. I am physically uncomfortable in my clothes more days than not.

I do not want to make any effort to lose weight because that has made my life so much harder in the past. Those efforts put my at such intense odds with myself. It is hard though because there are so many comments around me and so many advertisements whenever I try to zone out and watch television.

sad

I’m very sad most of the time. If I’m not sad, I’m typically anxious or scared. I don’t like feeling better even for a minute because it makes the return of the sadness feel more burdensome.

I’ve been thinking about London lately. The images that flash through my mind are of the mundane moments, which actually makes me super uncomfortable because I do not know why those images pop into my head at all. I think of my daily walk to and from school each day, of the paths at different times of day, and of the weather. Simple moving images in my head. The walks were calming at the time, but remembering them is painful.

I would strive to feel hopeful on my daily walks to and from campus. I would think about how I was trying to confront my self-hatred in therapy, which was brand new to me then. Nobody knew I was in therapy, except for the therapist.

I was guarded and secretly hopeful that my hard work would pay off. Why secretly hopeful? Well, hope scares me more than a hungry lion does. Every time I have experienced pure hope, even in small doses, it has been following by the biggest humiliations of my life. I hoped London would be different; it was even worse.

My hard work did not pay off as it turns out. I’m worse off than I was when I applied to go. I’m still criticized overtly and silently. I’m still devastatingly lonely. I’m scared to have any hope at all. Why bother?

The problem that I’m facing is that I have no reason to wake up in the morning without hope. My lack of hope makes it hard to survive. I’m in the process of cultivating some hope for myself. I don’t have any seeds though and the soil is dry. I’m mostly sifting through weeds, praying that one of them bears fruit.

I wish I could hope that this blog goes well, but I don’t even have any hope for this. Sorry to disappoint. I will continue to try though, hopeless as I feel every day. Is hoping for hope a thing? If so, I’m somewhere on that spectrum.

gosh

I feel absolutely miserable. My mood has been sinking from yesterday afternoon and was low all day. It is now night time and I have felt terrible and mostly avoided talking to anyone at all.

There are people I can reach out to, but I don’t see how I could speak at length about my feelings. I don’t want to be bothered writing about it on my blog that no one reads.

I wish someone wanted to listen to me. Sometimes, people say they do, but my low self-esteem seems to repulse them. I could elaborate on that, but I don’t feel like it. I don’t feel like trying at all.

I’m showing up here today to tell myself I did it. No expectations. Minimal effort. Still here. Today.

x

scaredy cat

I feel a lot of resentment towards her. She is nearly always on her phone, but denies it. Pretty much anything on her phone is more interesting than anything I say or that’s at least how it comes across. She has pretended to be looking at important work e-mails when music for an advertisement suddenly plays because she is actually looking at Instagram yet again.

She will mention she is interested in a new product, service, or activity and, then, recite a robotic advertisement to me about how life-changing it will be. When I have simple doubts, she tells me I just don’t get it.

She talks me into supporting purchases she makes, touting how this is what she has been missing all of this time. Then, when it doesn’t work out well enough to meet her sky-high expectations, she tells me about the next thing that will solve it.

She does not seem to acknowledge when she changes her mind or how she feels about nearly anything, except when accompanied by a snide comment about someone else or about myself.

She is a negative influence on my; yet, I am partially dependent on her for a sense of identity. I am so accustomed to seeing and describing myself by what she has told me I am. I’m starting to doubt the sincerity of her narration now and that scares me.

In some ways, it is a relief because she has largely cast me in a negative light. However, it is scary because if that is untrue, then there are so many overwhelming possibilities that my head spins.

I’m scared and ready. Here I come.

God v. Me

Coming in at five-foot-five and an undisclosed weight due to disordered eating, Bambi Sawyer is a legend at self-loathing in her weight class. She has toured the world as the heavy-weight champion of self-hatred.

In the other corner, we have Almighty God as featured in the Bible and the general history of the world. Descending from the heavens, His size is unclassifiable and impossible to measure.

Are you ready to rumbleeeeeeee?

It’s the third round and Bambi is just getting pummeled out there. God will not let up: grad school, a pandemic, two family deaths, and body-slamming her with body image issues. And, watch out, here comes that depression coming up from the rear.

God is vicious out there. He won’t let up. What is a self-deprecating woman with long-standing emotional repression to do?

thanking myself & other self-help

Now, it’s possible that I may be over-inflating the stakes here. After initially fearing that I could not even buy a domain name, I did that. After regretting the $10 purchase of the domain name, I decided to try to write every day on the blog since I’m paying for the use of the template anyway. I have done that, with perhaps one exception so far.

I have been doing what I set out to do. However, I feel terrible about it because my writing is not excellent, my blog has no readers, and my life has not changed immeasurably. I have not become a highly-regarded screenwriter of feminist stories and social commentary.

I keep missing the initial point though. I did what I asked myself to do, but I keep saying it is not enough because all of these external rewards did not come rushing towards me at the speed of light. Do I seek out readers? No. Can a person choose to change her life immeasurably overnight or even in a year? Probably not at least in a positive way; downward spirals might happen in a year, but climbing upward is harder than sliding down. Have I ever written a screenplay or any story? Um, well, no.

I’m trying to work out here which aspects of rejection in my life have been concrete and which have been imagined. When I say imagine, I’m talking about instances in which I tell myself that that the world is “telling” me something permanent and unchangeable about me. That something is almost always super insulting: that I’m pathetic or a loser or unloveable. You get the point.

I cannot stress enough to myself how significant it is that I was able to start this blog and write here even when the posts are one sentence. It shows that I am interested and that I am trying. Part of my motivation for writing this today is that I felt so terrible last night when it was nearly midnight and I started writing. I felt so bitter towards myself for having watched Youtube videos and documentaries (yet again) that showed other people working hard and trying, but I was simultaneously procrastinating on my own dream to make something of my writing and of myself. Perhaps, more accurately, I am just trying to write something, anything. I’m trying to learn something about myself. Something, in this case, that is not super insulting and permanent and unchangeable.

Thank you, self.

x

irritated

I don’t like writing a blog that nobody reads. Nobody would read it even if anybody ever heard of it. I don’t like that I feel like I have absolutely no control over my space. I don’t like that I do nothing and feel anxious. I also don’t like that I feel anxious every time I actually do something.

I don’t like that I waited ten minutes to midnight to open to write this. I don’t like that I put off the one activity that I like lately. I’m hurt and frustrated by my own actions.

I’m also annoyed about writing this way once again.

devoid

My life feels quite devoid of meaning. I previously felt like the purpose of my life was to lose as much weight as possible and convince a man that I was worthy of marrying. Now, I sit around feeling anxious most of the day.

I’m supposed to find meaning in my life, but I struggle to even find any meaning to this minute or this hour. The pandemic has not caused this existential crisis in myself though the state of the world has certainly exacerbated my worries.

I keep saying that I’m confused, but I think I may be more lost than confused. I don’t care about anything. The sunshine seems too bright, but the nighttime seems too dreary.

I don’t really want anything, but I don’t know what else to do without consumption. I’m so used to wanting, but now I don’t want at all.

I feel so emotionally shut down when it comes to my body. I do not like the way that I look. I also do not like that I do not like the way that I look. I do not like the ways in which I was taught to demean my appearance and, even further, demean my entire worth through my appearance.

I fear that I can never like myself no matter how many self-help exercises I agree to in therapy. I fear that I will only manage to cover the gaping wound that is my self-loathing with a child-size Mickey Mouse band-aid.

I’m drowning in shallow water. I could just put my feet on the floor of the pool and stand-up straight, but the panic and lack of trust in myself is causing me to suffocate. My self-awareness is stunningly useless in this regard.

I can watch myself falling almost in slow-motion. I don’t move to catch myself or even put a cushion on the ground. I’m trying to help myself and believe that (1) I am competent enough to help myself and (2) I can worthy of the help.

sleepy eyes

I had energy before; now, I’m too tired.

A forthcoming memoir by yours truly.

x

when you get bullied for liking Titanic

I fell asleep today before 6 p.m. I was so drowsy and tired. I want to write something creative, but I’m terrified. I’m scared that everything I write is either annoyingly boring or plain bizarre. None of that is accurate anymore because I hardly write a word. It is hard to even write here.

When I took a screenwriting class in college, it was so hard for me to even sign up. I looked forward to every class and every class was a disappointment. In the first class, we were supposed to name our favorite movies, like a top 5 list. We went around the room and I hardly recognized any of the titles that others were saying. It wasn’t even a matter of not having watched the movies in question; I had never even heard of them before. I panicked because Titanic was on the top of my list, so you can imagine the types of movies I named. I decided that it wasn’t a big deal and I could just read my list as is. If others found me basic, then that’s their opinion, right? Well, I remember one guy muffling his laughter with his hand as I finished reading my list. The teacher had a dumb smirk on his face too. Apparently, it was hilarious that I liked popular movies like Titanic?

Now, I understand that academic study of an art is different from entertainment criticism; and, both are distinct from commercial viability. Of course, these elements could converge where a piece of art is deemed a commercial and critical success that is studied by academics, but typically, art succeeds in one category if it succeeds at all.

I also understand that I have mainstream references and taste. At the same time, what is so amusing about liking a very popular film? How is that so funny? I’m definitely not the first person they came into contact with who liked popular mainstream movies.

I didn’t think it was funny that they liked fringe art-house movies, so why can’t I be entitled to enjoying blockbusters? Anyway, the class went on that way. I will concede that I was emotionally uncomfortable in that setting and may have projected an insecure persona. At the same time, you can imagine it was not quite welcoming if liking one of the most commercially successful movies makes you a target for muffled laughter and dumb smirks, even by the teacher.

Perhaps, you - nonexistent reader - think I’m petty and that it is all in my head. Well, I had accused myself of the same exact thing. I told myself that no one signed up for this class to make fun of me. Yet, the semester was rough for me nonetheless. Every class, a few people had to read their work aloud by selecting classmates to read their workshop writing so that we could all listen to the dialogue through different voices. I was never picked to read unless literally every role was “cast” and that was only ever to read stage directions. Even the teacher was picked before me! You read that correctly. My classmates would rather have the teacher read the lines than me. Mind you, there were probably eight to ten of us in the class. So, it wasn’t even a matter of the class being so large that you couldn’t keep track of who read what.

The one time I remember being asked to read the stage directions was by the guy who tried to hide his laughter from the first class. He had confidently cast a whole ensemble on the spot, stating who should read what lines. Then, he glanced at me and mumbled: “Um, do you want to read the stage directions?” He didn’t even seem to recall my name even though I had never missed a class. Yet, he knew everyone else’s name!

We all use some form of the expression: the 800-pound gorilla in the room. But, what happens when you come to symbolize the proverbial gorilla? It was like I had become awkwardness personified. And, I had gone into the class feeling terrified of writing and hoping to at least address my fears. Instead, that class dumped a truck load of new fears I didn’t even know I could have onto me.

There’s more to say about this, but I need to step away for today.

x

run this by me again

I’m confused here. I dislike the way that I look because I was trained to dissect my appearance and all of my mannerisms against a standard created via computer technology by already rich people who wanted to buy even bigger yachts. Now, I am supposed to forget all about years of emotional torment - or rather, “process” years of emotional torment - and grow as a person? Am I getting this? Because this all seems like mumbo jumbo to me.

Why was I taught to hate myself? Why do I mostly feel indifferent about it at this point? The self-hatred is so familiar that I have to actively remind myself that it is hurtful to me. Is this numbness permanent? The idea that I will forever be this numb to insulting myself and continue to eat a steady diet of hatred scares me.

My stretch marks also scare me, mostly because I fear that they are a sign that no one will ever find me desirable just as my childhood peers said. Those peers were not the only ones though. I have also seen nearly every woman I have ever come into contact with speak the exact same way. Where do I go from here? How do I escape this? Is there any alternative?

I’m confused. Trying seems futile. Giving up seems bleak.

x

floating over the abyss

I’m writing to no one in particular. I’m writing for myself. This scenario is tricky for me as I do not value myself highly. I’m working hard on this recurring issue every day.

I do not care about my own feelings, which has been very problematic. I can write whatever I want here; yet, I see page after page of self-loathing. I don’t like this. I want to change this. I want to write feminist screenplays and stories full of social commentary about class and history and technology. However, this is what I wind up with. To be clear, I do not write outside of this blog.

It is a struggle to even write on this blog each day as I feel incredibly discouraged that no one reads it and also incredibly terrified that anyone could read it.

I want to write prolifically and meaningfully for myself. I have absolutely no idea how to do that. I guess I could learn by practicing. This could be one path toward that. After all, I am writing while carrying all of this fear and insecurity.

x

impractical practice

I’m learning Italian. I’m totally embarrassed about it. I have my reasons. I don’t want you to know my reasons because that would entail me over explaining a simple five-minute a day commitment. That isn’t necessarily at all.

Anyway, I have always wanted to learn Italian because most of my family is Italian. I have long been discouraged from learning it (and consequently discouraged myself) because Spanish is Italian’s more successful cousin. I studied Spanish for a long time in school. (Italian was not offered in my school, which is probably not a shock to you.) I enjoyed learning Spanish and had aspirations of one day conversing in it until I made my way into AP Spanish Literature. For context, this meant that I had passed (and performed well) in AP Spanish Language. The Spanish Literature class, however, was a totally different beast. We had to read highbrow literature, not stories about Raul and Paolo going to the biblioteca after school because they are dos amigos. This was literature for fluent speakers, so it had nuance and innuendo and certainly no bibliotecas.

Soon after I spent a few hours translating a one page poem about a horse only to learn that horse was a metaphor for the author’s masculine sexuality, I dropped the course. It was the only course I recall dropping in high school. I had no idea what was going on in any of the stories. The best I could do was translate each word and pray our teacher didn’t ask me for a breakdown of the literary devices. My classmates didn’t seem to understand it either, but appeared unfazed or at least pretended to be. I don’t even regret dropping it because that year was the second worse year of my life (i.e., second to this year) due to the intense depression I experienced.

That leads me to a few years ago when I felt inspired on a vacation to Italy with my family. I decided that I would learn Italian and learn it quickly. Of course, my perfectionism wasn’t going to let me make the thousands of mistakes necessary to learn anything, especially an entire language so that plan fell to the wayside. I would stop and start in fits.

Then, this year, after a particularly difficult family loss, I concluded that Italian is a language. You’re shocked; I can feel it. It is a series of grammar rules and sounds that help you communicate. There is no reason I can’t learn it. Now, I’m using a free online platform to learn some basic words each day. I’m making so many mistakes and that makes me so uncomfortable. I never feel like I’m learning enough. I’m consistently embarrassed. And, I still try to do five minutes a day. I have more than five minutes a day to commit to it, but that five minutes is tough on my emotionally.

Someday, I’ll be able to rewrite this blog post in Italian. That would be cool. Hardly anyone will be able to read it though. And, I can already hear my nonexistent critics whispering, should have taken Spanish.

the first of the month

I neglected to write earlier today and now it is late and I would rather watch trash television.

I let other things get ahead of what I dream about doing.

Do I do that on purpose?

Does anyone care?

I care and that’s what matters.

Instead of being harsh on myself, I’m going to thank myself for trying this much. So, thanks.

enough

Today was the day that I thought I couldn’t make it through. Today was the day I had dreaded. And, it went fine. It was bumpy. It was hard. It still went.

I’m rethinking a lot right now. It is too soon to write about what exactly, but it is not too soon to remind myself to try. I’m trying and that’s amazing and I’m choosing to congratulate myself on it.

That’s more than good enough for today.

Tomorrow will figure itself out.