I feel irritable

Why don't people understand the concept of a secret. It's bad enough when you feel pressured to tell somebody something, and even worse when after telling them then betray your trust.

It's fucking embarrassing.

Happy New Year.

And now to change the tone of this blog entirely...

I have one really big insecurity. I have many other insecurities too of course, but one main one. And that is my general child-like...ness.

 I have always been perceived as very young, much younger than I am. I am short, and very thin, always have been. I still haven't reached the triple digits on the scale. I could still purchase children's clothes if I wanted to. People seem to think that's somehow flattering, or a good thing, "You'll be glad for this when you're older!" or "I wish I was as thin as you, how is that a bad thing?" But you see, I am a little older now, at least since the beginning of receiving those comments, and I am not glad for that. There is nothing flattering about being called child-like. It implies that I'm somehow unable to be sexually attractive, unless under the gaze of some type of pedophile. There is nothing flattering about a mother buying her college age daughter Disney underwear, or children's toys, or not being trusted with the most simplest of tasks because I might mess them up.

I struggle frequently with feelings of uselessness. I am neither strong nor skilled. I lack much of the common sense that most people seem to have in cooking, cleaning, and mechanical skills. I take at least twice as much time to complete a task compared to a normal person. I have anxiety, contamination fears and other annoying tic-like behaviors that interrupt normal function. I am accident prone and spacey. My mind is frequently plagued with distracting thoughts. The world can be extremely confusing to me, but I want to learn how to be successful in it.

I also have another big problem. I am still, in the conventionally accepted sense, a virgin. I have never had PIV sex. A culmination of many factors brewed an intense fear in my subconscious that causes me to become hysterical in such situations. It's not like I have never seen a penis or anything, I have done it all, but that. However, the assumption that I must a nun or something seems to frequently come up, like I'm some sex-hating man-eater or something trying to kill my boyfriend with blueballs. And that really just feeds into my feelings of childlike-ness. I feel entirely stripped of my ability to be sexual, because I can't get to the home-run so to speak, that I'm stuck in the teenage mindset of just fooling around. I can only supply the appetizer but never the main course...

One of the last confrontations I had with my boyfriend before we broke up involved a letter he wrote that said that living with me was like living with a child. And that, confirmed all the fears I had of his perception of me. No matter what truth or validity may have been in that statement, it hurt me so irreparably, that even though we stayed together for another 2 months after that, I knew that we were done. Even if for some reason, we can reconcile our differences, if he apologized for that remark, I don't know if I could ever get past that statement.

Once upon a time I built my life with a person I loved, and because I couldn't have sex with them, it was somehow okay to strip my of my mature personhood, my ability to survive on my own, and my sexuality. And that is not okay, and that is not what makes me a child.

I am an adult because I am an adult. I am not a child because I am not a child. And that's that.

This Year in A Nutshell...

It started off with a bang, the worst type of bang ~ after thirty years of suffering grandmother passed away. She was the glue to our great Italian family, the matriarch, the head-honcho. I never knew her when she was truly well, but I heard stories, many stories, legends of Grandma's Greatness, which I dearly admired. I had to deal with the strangeness of the way that others deal with death. I had to deal with the strangeness that I deal with death.

I went on to dominate the rest of the semester, loved my classes, my professors, my friends. I dealt with temptation, confusion, loneliness, confrontation, an old friend came back into my life, listened to some great music. Rejection. Rejection. A strange moment of social ineptitude ended up landing me a job with an awesome professor. Spent the summer months completely detached from reality, only briefly touching back to the surface to eat and sleep the bare minimum to survive. More confusion, loneliness, confrontation. Sitting atop my contrived tower of solitude, shutting others out, shutting out the truth
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Then 21 came and I could barely get out of bed. I could see no further in front of me than a miner without a flashlight. Still so confused. I started my job, and whole other set of trials began to come my way. It was the beginning of what I can say was the most challenging months of my life.

Working thirty hours a week, with no money in the near future. My only monetary support coming from a person whom I was beginning to realize I could not make happy. I was stubborn, so stubborn, like a proud idiot mule. I thought I could do it all myself, I thought I could stay on campus for twelve hours a day, swallow my hurt feelings, do my homework, keep house, and do it all on the sustenance of hamburger buns. Boy was I wrong. Drip, drip, drip went the water through the cracks of my failed plan (literally and figuratively). Who had that time to keep bothering the realtor's office? I held out faith that they would come again, but meanwhile the water stunk like rotting garbage, rotting the floor, leaking through to the floor below, it was an omen, telling me that I couldn't hold anymore water. Soon I would burst.

And I did. The pain, loneliness and confusion was too much too handle. The most difficult words I have ever had to say left my mouth. They were mutually shared feelings. The ceiling collapsed, ensuring that I had no solace in my own home. But I worked, I had purpose. I worked and worked even though I knew our project was a failure. My heart soon let it known to me that it wanted to feel again. I didn't want it to, crushing and grieving at the same time was confusing. And kind of horrible. I was on a roller coaster of feeling all the time. But it was okay, because I worked, and worked, and learned, and I didn't have to feel.

But then my project ended for the semester. The results were mediocre at best, completely laughable at worst. All because of the faults of others. People who didn't depend on this job for personal solace, people who would never understand why this job was so important to me, the things it represented. I started to feel things for the realness that they were, sickness made sure of that. I got to lay in bed and writhe in my own personal hell again. Feel the pain, of an uncertain rejection, feel the pain of certain rejection, the pain of all things bad I experienced prior to this moment. And I thought about it. And thought. And thought.

Now, here I am. This semester, this test of my strength, comes to a sort of close. Although it seems bleak, I left out a lot of it. In this time, I learned so, so much. I learned that I am never alone, I learned that there are many amazing people out there who are willing to help you, even when they hardly know you. I realized that sometimes having a good feeling about someone is enough. I learned how to be a bigger person, how sometimes good people can be shitty and toxic to you even though they don't mean to be. How sometimes you just have to swallow your pride and lay it all out there. And how often times the strongest thing you can do is admit that you are weak.

And through it all, I laughed. I laughed loudly, I laughed obnoxiously and shamelessly. I poked and prodded at my own misfortunes. I discovered it's okay to cry, and okay not to cry. I swallowed my resentment, guilt, disgust and took risks. I acted freely and of my own will. I listened to others, had others listen to me. I had many highs and lows. I felt everything and nothing.

I have cried over a bag of dinosaur chicken. Sat outside on the fire escape and watched the lightning crackle in the sky on a warm night. Watched the leaves change spectacular colors and fall. I have stumbled home drunk with a pan of mac and cheese in my arms. Baked a pumpkin pie with no prior cooking experience. I made friends, many friends, remade old friends.

I have felt the strain of not having enough purpose in my life, and I have felt the strain of having too much purpose. But in the end it all evens out. Purpose is what we make of it. What makes you wake up in the morning doesn't have to be the grandeur promise of saving the world. Saving the world has to start with the individual. Who am I? A person who plans on saving the world. But how can I begin to help others unless I know this important answer?

I strive to become a better person, a stronger person. I strive to learn more each day, to blossom more fully into the person I was meant to be. To become a better communicator, a better listener, a less nervous person. As I move forward to the next year, I hope to continue doing these things, to keep finding these mini-paradises in the nooks and crannies of my life. I realized that as the baggage of the past accrued beneath me, I was given a beautiful view of all that is below.

I am deeply excited by the future that lies ahead of me. I know I won't be disappointed.