It’s Always Me

It’s always me. I am always the one in hot pursuit. The one who is head over heals. At least that’s how it feels.

I think I’m being obvious, maybe not. Maybe not at first, but at some point I always say something, point blank. But it’s always me. Why?

The old adage that I’m just “more mature” and they don’t know how to be straightforward may have passed a while ago, but I refuse to believe they still haven’t caught up.

Others say that I’m more mature than everyone. But going around in circles like this feels like a throwback to middle school. The way this feels in the antithesis of mature.

I know that I am likeable. I know I am attractive. So what on earth am I missing?

Am I to subtle? Am I too direct? Am I too intimidating? Am I too shy?

For the love of god can someone please give me the crash course on how to interact with boys because I clearly missed something in the 7th grade.

I think what I missed was the crash course in accepting the social norms. I didn’t receive a copy of the manual in how to play the “dating game”. I think I missed the memo on not getting invested to easily and instead “playing it cool”. No one bothered to inform me that you have to flirt and can’t just say how you feel because who on earth would do such a crazy thing as being straightforward.

What is wrong with society? If I went up to a guy and know and said “Hi I’m Freddy and I like you” I would be labeled a hundred different things, including but not limited to crazy and bitch.

There is a boy I like and I wrote him a letter that I could never send:

Dear S-

Preface: This is decidedly one of those “fuck it” moments. I do not intend to incite confusion, distress, or frustration, though all may ensue. I am trying to not be inconsiderate in doing so, but for my own sake, I had to. (Also, I know the format is a little unconventional, but it’s kinda my thing.)

For the record, I like you.

I’m at least 50% sure this is news to you. I can never tell. In a way, I hope it is, because the alternate is that you already knew and either didn’t care, or are just as awkward, oblivious, and unsure as I am. Either way, now it’s on the table. What remains to be seen is how you will respond.

As per usual, having it out helps, but only eases my muddled mind about half way, because of the still looming uncertainty. That’s the real killer, not knowing. The anticipation is literally killing me.

Obviously I have a preference, but a decisive answer, even a “no” is better than this wishy-washy nonsense.

I am utterly convinced that the full on “crazy brain” that is occurring is just due to the uncertainty. If I could just get a goddamn answer I would be like “cool, ok, awesome.” And then return to being the normal, rational, responsible person I once knew. All I want is to be upfront and get the same in return, how simple.

I would be happy, but not tripping on some psycho-chemical flood that’s occurring in my brain and making me do and think and feel inexplicable things. (Thanks biology).

But yeah, I like you. I don’t know when saying so became so taboo and such a damn big deal and we had to be all back-handed about things, but fuck it, screw the patriarchy! I. Like. You.

And why shouldn’t I like you. You’re funny. You’re smart. You’re nice. You’re talented. And you’re pretty damn cute.

And guess what, so am I. (Gasp! A woman with confidence, what can I say, but I’m not apologizing.) Funny how that works. In my humble opinion we would be an excellent pair. We would balance each other and play off each other and have a damn good time. What more could you ask for?

Nothing, that’s right. So why am I crazy for pointing this out? Because society said so. And that’s a load of bullshit. So frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn. I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it any more.

So there it is. My grand gesture. My middle finger to the world. My confession. I like you.

Now you’re up.

-Freddy

But I can’t send that, even though I want to, because this is America and we don’t make any sense.

The “Education” System

This is my rant for the day.

I have always known, and I would like to hope that at least most other people recognize too, that education system in America just straight up sucks. Fact. It’s a hot mess and in need of some serious rescue. I have known this for a while and have always spent hours hypothesizing what could be done to fix it and what are the most effective ways to educate people, in some weird pipe dream of retiring from film after winning a few Oscars, then reforming the entire education system. I know, it’s a little weird, but that just goes to show you how important education is to me.

Education has always been something I have deeply valued, and that mostly came from the fact that I feel like I received a pretty good education, thankfully, entirely apart from the public system. (The fact that I say thankfully should also tell you something.) While in the various private schools I attended, some better than others, I feel like in each I was instilled with the some key values, such as recognizing the power and need of education, to love learning for the sake of learning, and the importance of a well-rounded liberal arts education. The private institutions I attended tried, on some level, to inspire deep thinking, create autonomous learners and instill a quest for knowledge. But most importantly, to teach students not to simply learn how to exploit the system and “win” the academic competition, but to truly learn. Key word, tried. This competition was unavoidable, but at least they were trying to fight it. My high school didn’t have a class rank, swore they didn’t teach to the standardized tests and even had 21 “Valedictorians” in my graduating class. They did this, but it didn’t matter, we all knew, but I still applaud them for the last ditch effort.

These values often caused me to look upon the public education system with scorn and dismay; how could America be failing this badly? As a consequence of this, these beliefs also caused me to foster an unintentional, but distinct, feeling of academic superiority. Also, the presumption that those like me, with superior private educations, who I chose to surround myself with were equally intellectually superior. (I know, I’m terrible, but it’s not my fault, I swear. Proof: When I switched from the most prestigious, pretentious, expensive, all-girls school in the city, to what is, to others, regarded as one of the best catholic middle schools, my dad told me “You could not try at all and be better than all of them, or you could try just a little bit and blow them out of water.” See, not my fault.)

But once I arrived at college, I was in for a rude awakening. I thought things were bad, but they are much, much worse. And the sad thing is, it’s not these poor, ignorant, 20-somethings faults. When I arrived at my relatively academically rigorous, Jesuit-education-values-riddled, “educate the whole person” liberal arts, $60,000 a year, private university, I was so excited to be surrounded by intelligent, interesting people. I was told that I would no longer be the smartest person in the room, that these people rival and surpass me academically in all facets and fields. This was the academic wonderland I was promised.

This was not my experience. Here is what really happened: I was in an intro level history class, one that everyone is required to take. It covers from the French Revolution to Present Day. During lecture the professor, whom I really like, would ask basic, what he assumed to be common knowledge questions, to keep the class engaged, questions like “Now why would the ideals of the French Revolution appeal to the urban poor?” or “Who were the Allies in WWII?”. These questions were met with half blank stares, but most people could answer. But there was a distinct change from the 60s on. He would ask, “Why did we go to war with Vietnam” or “Who built the Berlin wall?” And 90% of people DIDN’T KNOW! And you know why they didn’t know, because schools spend years drilling in dates of battles and names of obscure leaders, and then just stop. I don’t remember a day that we spent in any history class talking about the 90s on. Not one day. The time period that is most directly relevant to our lives get blatantly ignored while useless facts get drilled, to be soon forgotten, because that’s what the system requires. What a system, huh?

This results in 3 distinct sets of people, all of which I have found at my University. About 10% of people here are these truly smart, interesting people, who read books for fun, and think about the world, and could spend an hour critically debating the new Great Gatsby movie. These wonderful people make up about 1/3 of the Honors Program I am apart of, a program that for the most part has been a wonderful educational experience, exposing me to great works, giving me access to great resources, pushing me harder than I have been before, and surrounding me with lots of interesting people. (Albeit there were the few times I was very bitter about getting very gipped on an exam because my chicken-scratch handwriting made it took like I didn’t know how to spell obscure Greek Goddesses Name “x” during one of the Hunger Games-level intense, time-pressured exams. Otherwise, I am very glad I did it.) Then there is the rest of the Honors Program that consists of almost entirely of Bio major, pre-med, 34 on their ACT, information-regurgitating robots who couldn’t possibly fathom reading Plato’s Republic “just for fun”. These people have mastered the art of beating the system without actually learning anything, and they make me the most sad. Because they are proud of it, they think they are winning, and in reality they are the biggest losers. They have so much true, untapped potential and it’s all getting thrown away. What’s worse is that the system encourages this, and that is where this attitude comes from.

Then there are the rest of them. These are the kids who couldn’t find out how to beat the system, or didn’t care to, and as a result that skate through, content with Bs and Cs, and remaining blissfully ignorant. These people are so frustrating to me, because I think “How can you not see what a problem this is?!?! How do you just not care about what is going on in the world?!?!” And then I realize, oh yeah, because no one ever told you to care. You went to 12 years of public schools that told you the only thing that mattered was that standardize test and if you can do that, you are set for life. That just sickening.

So what are we to do? I don’t know, but if we don’t do something soon, we are in for a very bleak future.

What do you want?

“What do you want?” they ask me.

Well, that’s a loaded question, now isn’t it?

I’ve been asked it a hundred different ways, but have never been quite sure how to answer.

It all depends on what exactly you mean.

What do I want right now? A Carmel Macchiato or a nap. Preferably both. And to not feel pangs of guilt that I should be writing a paper on The Odyssey instead of this right now.

What do I want this week? For the highlight of my week not to be making it to the gym, getting all my laundry done, and getting to eat Chipotle while I watch House of Cards. Again.

But what do I want… big picture? In the grand scheme of things? To do with the rest of my life?

I don’t really know.

Maybe it’s easier to start by figuring out what I don’t want.

I don’t want to feel like the only thing I have going on in my life is school. I don’t want the sense of fulfillment or productivity in my day to come from menial tasks like keeping my room tidy and getting all my reading done. I don’t want to be “homesick” for a concept of home, of comfort and familiarity, that now doesn’t exist anywhere anymore and won’t be waiting for me when I get back. I don’t want to desperately yearn to return to a time in the past that I tried to runway from, to the future, to now, while it was happening. I don’t want to feel like I have no idea what is going on in the lives of the people 3 months ago I was intricately apart of.

I do know now that I want several things, though. But these are more ambiguous things, things that are unclear as to how they are to be achieved.

I want to feel confident that I picked the right school, or at least establish that I didn’t. I want to not be jealous of people at tiny schools in cornfields because they went to college with their best friends. I want to feel like I’m actually in a big city that I am apart of, not trapped in a snow globe, looking out into a world I can’t have. I want just a callback, not a part, but just a callback, so that I don’t have to think I’m crazy all over again. I want someone to talk to that I don’t have to qualify or preface every other sentence to. I want to know whether or not the program I’m in will prepare me for my career goals. I want to know how the ugly, shy girl down the hall always has guys in her room and not one will even talk to me. I want to know what the hell my professor means by turn 3-4 writing assignments in about the readings by the end of the semester. I want my annoying aunt to stop texting me innate questions. I want to do something fun that doesn’t include keg parties or creepy guys trying to hit on me. I want to feel like I am doing anything that’s important, that’s relevant, that has meaning, that I care about.

So what do I really want? What one thing would fix all my problems and make me happy?

I wish I knew.

23 Classic ‘Cruising Things’ That Only Cruise People Understand:

(Ya know, unless you’re on Carnival…)

1. The shame-free, gluttonous amount of food you eat and the jokes everyone makes about it all week.

2. Ding-do-dee “Good Morning Oasis of the Seas, this is your captain speaking, we have a great day in store for you today…”

3. Tax and duty free: The second you hit open ocean, hello booze and Burberry bags. #ThanksInternationalWaters

4. Space toilets.

5. Not possibly being able to get to every show, party, event, and activity that you want to because there is simply too much to do including 3 stops at Sorrentos for pizza along the way.

6. Getting hardcore lost because you don’t know the difference between port and starboard. (Whatever happened to regular left and right?)

7. Cruise Virgins: Those that don’t know that there’s a difference between Midwest sun and Caribbean sun and end up redder than the lobster you had for dinner. They also don’t listen when they tell us to NOT drink the water on the island. (They get rather well acquainted with the space toilets…)

8. That super cool moment when you find someone who lives in the same city.

9. The epically bad decision making exhibited by all passengers because in a week you’ll never see any of these people again.

10. “Mustard drills” It’s called a muster drill, but that’s okay.

11. Steel drum music all day, er’y day because we in da Caribbean, mon.

12. Piña coladas in coconuts being an hourly occurrence. Plus, virgin drinks are totally a thing (you will still try very hard to make sure no one hears the virgin part), because even in international waters, the drinking age is 21 and that’s a total buzz kill, but you are certainly not going to miss out on the drinking-out-of-a-coconut fun.

13. Towel animals. Who doesn’t love when their linens come in the shape of monkey!?!

14. Every activity that is even mildly cool on land, and some things that are in no way interesting at all on land, are automatically incredibly cool because they are on a boat: rock walls, zip lines, Broadway shows, ice rinks.

15. SeaPass card and the delusion they induce because “It’s your sea pass card. That’s not really money, you never have to actually pay for that.” (And you don’t, because it’s your dad’s card on the account, woohoo!) Plus, at the end of the week there’s just one giant bill you don’t have to pay, and you parents are still too hung over to notice that you ordered room service at 3am every night. (SeaPasses are especially fun for the little ones who don’t understand the concept of credit cards and also posses no guilt for anything, little brats.)

16. The super competitive rivalry you feel with other ships for unexplained reasons. (And when you’re on The Oasis, you always win because it has a zip line and no one can beat a zip line.)

17. The international crew: Holy super attractive British guys!

18. The cruise director: He is the official ship celebrity. He is always seriously overly peppy, repeats the same 3 bad jokes all week, and by the end of the week you have a strong desire to slap him, but you still totally wish you had his job.

19. Pop-Up-Parade-Dance-Party-Conga-Lines: Equipped with Madagascar characters and confetti at 2pm, because what else are you gonna do between lunch #2 and the aqua show?

20. Formal nights: The fun of dressing up more than you did for Prom, awkward family portraits, and laughing at all the Cruise Virgins who clearly never got the memo about formal night and try to get away with a palm tree tie with a polo and flip flops.

21. Staterooms the size of a closet. (They say the room can accommodate 4 people but that thing isn’t even big enough for your dog.)

22. Being absolutely convinced that you could live on the boat forever in utter bliss and totally leave your old life behind, forgetting about things like jobs, friends, and Netflix. (The crew will tell you otherwise: After being on a boat so long you miss land and once you go home you miss the boat, talk about the struggle.)

23. Having the time of your life and wanting to share it with all your land dwelling friends (who now secretly hate you and are one more tweet with #paradise away from blocking you on all social media) and ending up getting frustrated because it’s one of those ‘cruise things’.

And the extra special set of #OnlyOnOasis
1. Rising Tides Bar, which moves up and down from floor to floor: giving a whole new meaning to raising the bar.
2. Zip line
3. The seven neighborhoods: Central Park. In the freakin’ ocean.
4. The carousel
5. The aqua theatre
6. The glass bridge that unfolds out of the globe over the promenade
7. Starbucks
8. Ultimate bragging rights because you’re in the world’s largest ship (Fun fact: technically the sister ship Allure of the Seas has us beat by 2 inches due to a welding mistake, but no need to harp on that…)

Those Sunday Evenings

7:23pm. Goddamn, it’s still to early. I can’t check yet.

Sunday nights always have a faint sense of gloom, but this Sunday, these Sundays, are agonizing, each worse than the last, and for good reason. They’ve never ended well, past Sundays. They’ve ended in tears and queasy stomachs and embarrassing phone calls and crushed dreams and restless nights and even more miserable Mondays. These Sundays suck. Because they’re supposed to be wonderful; they are for some, but never for me, yet.  I hope, vainly—I always hope, I try not to, but I hope. And, in the end, that’s what gets me, the hope, dashed hope. I don’t really know what I’m missing out on, I just loose the hope, the dream of what I imagine it to be, not the real thing. I know it would be much worse if I did know, I take some solace in that. I pretend it helps as a mope, pathetically, melodramatically, for weeks. That makes it worse, that I know, objectively, that I’m being utterly ridiculous, objectively. But to me, I’m not. It doesn’t feel ridiculous to me. That’s just how much I care, how much it means to me—far too much. I know it’s too much. I know I shouldn’t. And yet, I do, because when has ‘should’ ever stopped me from doing anything, ever. I care much too much. I do this over and over, desperately hoping that the next Sunday will turn out differently. I’m pretty sure that’s the textbook definition of insanity, but that beside the point. By now, I have learned how to combat the hope, keep it from running rampant and out of control. It is impossible to not hope at all, but I have learned to not torture myself. To wait until it is time and check once, fast, like a band-aid, instead of staring at an empty computer screen, hitting the refresh button for the 9^th time, knowing nothing will be there. Still.        

It’s still too early, so I can’t check yet. To make a point of it, I snap my computer shut, shove my phone under a pillow and march downstairs. I turn on Scandal because it’s supposed to be an exciting episode and it will keep me distracted long enough, until it is time to check, just once, like a band-aid. I try to focus on the show as I try to keep from eyeing the clock and chant in my head ‘it’s a long shot, I don’t expect anything, I’m only checking because I have to check, don’t be too disappointed.’ Scandal is good and does its job, I forget every once in a while and can lie and tell myself my racing heart and sweaty palms are because of the dramatic plot twist and not the clock. Finally it’s over, I fulfilled my promise with myself, it 8:10, time to check. Walking upstairs, I take deep breaths.  Once I reach my room, out of mindless teenager habit, I grab my phone first because subliminally it was disconcerting to not be within an arms reach of my fifth appendage.

4 missed calls, 3 for Shannon, the other from Tess, and 3 text Shannon and Tess as well.  Good Lord, was it really necessary… I mean, call? Yes. But 4 times? That’s a bit much, it’s been 10 minutes. I know they want to commiserate, but really. I set down the phone, I still have to check, for good measure, I can’t just not. Then I’ll call them both, because you never know, stranger things have happened. There is technically a chance that it’s just me, technically… Gmail is taking what feel like an eternity to load. The seconds tick by, with enviably growing anxiety. I just want it over with. Despite myself, my eyes are glued to the screen and I hold my breath. But then, finally the page loads.

And then I see. I don’t believe my eyes. I blink, but there it is. My heart pounding away in my ears makes it hard to think coherently. Could it really… I click on the link. Read it once, then again. But there it is, there no mistaking it, plain as day in black and white…

“Allison, are you alright…?”

It take as moment but I process that my mother is calling up to me, concern in her voice. She hates these Sundays too, because she knows how I get. I try to respond back, which makes me realize I am already screaming. I stop myself and catch my breath and then I’m able to sputter out a “Y-y-yeah, I’m fine”. I am boarder-line hysterical, and it was some mix of crying and laughing as I dial the phone.

 

“Freddy!!! It’s about t—”

“No. Friggin. Way.” Holy shit holy shit holy shit.

“Why didn’t you answer the phone!?! What’s wrong with you? He sent it out 20 minutes ago, you have to email him back right now!!!”

“No way.”  I’m dazed. I must be dreaming.

“Freddy, NOW.”

 I grab my computer but my damn hands are still shaking, but then I pause—

“…what do I say?”

“ ‘Yes’ and ‘thank you’ ”

“How about ‘thank you, god’? And by god, I mean him, of course, because he is.”

“Ha. Really though, he is.”

I managed to put together a somewhat coherent sentence and hit send…

“Wow.”

“Oh my god, is this really—…”

“Is it?”

“Yeah.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Yeah…”

“I feel like I’m having an out of body experience.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m crying.”

“Me too.”

“I’m so happy”

“Me too.”

“But how—why…?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t care, just so long as he really did”

“Well, he did.”

“Yeah… Now what?”

“We gotta call Tess.”

“Oh my god yeah!!! Aww Tess!”

“…And you gotta tell Liz…and Danny”

“Oh god…yeah.”

 

I know I have to tell them, and it won’t be fun. But I am beyond ecstatic, literally tigger-dance jumping up and down cannot contain myself level excitement. And nothing in the world could make me happier. And nothing in the world could ruin it for me. This is the beginning of the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. It is what I have worked for and wanted for the past 3 years. And finally, this is it. I made it. But I just wish that small part of me still didn’t feel like I was loosing something, too.

It’s not about me

It’s not about me. I wish it were the Freddy Show, all about Freddy, starring Freddy. But it’s not. I want to make it about me, I really, really want to, but I can’t do that, I know I can’t do that. But I still want to. And that’s a problem. Because that is selfish. That is not how this works. And I can’t do that. So now, it is time to set my ego aside, check my emotions at the door, and get over myself, even if I don’t want to.
I was not the first and I will certainly not be the last who is disappointed and didn’t get what I want, what I may have even deserved. But if you want to be apart of this, you are going to have to get over what you think you are entitled to right now. Because you aren’t entitled to anything. No one owes you squat. Because this isn’t about you and it’s not about me. There is no place for selfishness and egos here.

It’s about us. We. The Show. And it is fair. Because I am the show. You are the show. We are all the show. And anything that is good for the show, now and in the future, is good for all, not the other way around. All for one. One goal. One Show.
If one of us is hurt, upset, weak, or has a problem with another, the whole system fails.

I would have loved to be the star, to have my moment in the spotlight. But I am not going to. That really hurts. But that is not why I do this. Why I do this is more than a moment in the spotlight. I love this thing more than I love anything else in this world, so that means I will do what is best for it, even when I don’t want to. Because that’s what love is.

So I will sing every “oooh” and “ahhh” with every ounce of energy I have, I will put every last drop of emotion I can muster into each line I deliver, I will execute my jazz squares with the utmost precision, I will concern myself with each and every character I portray, and I will never again consider how the one singing the lead could’ve been me.

I will never get the chance to have my own standing ovation. No one will likely ever know how many hours I spent perfecting each note to sing in the background. No one will see how I checked everyone’s props, one extra time, because I know they didn’t. I will not be a showstopper. I won’t be memorable. But that’s okay. Because he will get a standing ovation. They will ponder how long it took her to hit that note. They will be showstoppers. It will be memorable. We will have achieved our goal. And no one may ever realize, but I made that happen. I get to know I am one of the many reasons that could happen. I am the show. And that is enough.

I Am In Love

I was heartbroken. Because I wasn’t in love. I wasn’t in love when I so desperately wanted to be. To know what that feels like.

And then it occurred to me, I am.

I am in love. Hopelessly, recklessly, stubbornly, endlessly, in love. With an idea. An ideal, a dream, a future, so grand, no words could articulate the grandeur.

It took only the smallest of sparks to reignite the fire within myself—a fire that never truly died, but burned on, small and strong, through the darkest of days. The fire is once again alight and it burns with determined strength.

A love, a passion, a drive this unadulterated—a love of a thing so perfect to me—may have a force greater than anything else in this world. The idyllic hope of pure love cannot be touched.

I now see again that all pursuits should be turned toward the actualization of this end. My focus is on one and only one thing. No feat is too great, no request is too taxing. For when you love something, you give all of yourself, every fiber and nothing less, to that cause.

This is rash and short sighted and unrealistic and melodramatic. But in this moment I don’t care. Because I am in love, and nothing could possible shake my resolve. And nothing brings me greater joy.

I am in love.

I’m Glad I Didn’t Tell You

I’m glad I didn’t tell you.

I didn’t tell you I love you. And I am glad. Because I don’t, I didn’t. And I wouldn’t want to be untruthful.

I don’t love you. I really thought I did for a while, and I hoped that you might one day, too. But I didn’t and you didn’t, and I am glad I know that now. I realized this when I thought about the other people I loved–truly loved, two in particular–and remembered what real love really feels like. I thought about what I do, or rather did, for them, what I would do for them. I thought about how much it hurt to do those things sometimes; the sacrifice, the commitment, the loyalty. The love–there is no better word. I also thought about how much they loved me back, and how I never questioned that. Because they showed me. And I realized how important that is, to have someone love you back. To know it and to feel it. Without that, it is nearly impossible to love someone. Why else would you, unless they loved you too? You owe it to them if they do, because they would do nothing less for you. And that is the only way to be grateful for the love they give you, to give it right back. But without that, you don’t owe love to anyone. I thought about how much I loved these two people, and I realized what I feel for you doesn’t even come close.

Also, at that moment it occurred to me that you most likely don’t and haven’t ever truly loved someone. I cannot guarantee of course. I don’t know you, but the way you throw the word around, it sound like you don’t. This is so sad, because loving someone unconditionally is the single greatest gift I have ever been given and it has changed me for the better in ways I cannot ever fully explain. It has made me selfless and humble, and taught me that I am not the most important. It taught me what it means to be loyal and honor a bond with someone. It taught me that love is a choice, something you must actively and continually choose and prove through action and word. It taught me that it can hurt like hell. It taught me that there is nothing more fulfilling. It taught me that no one is owed love by title or position and no one is automatically granted love. It taught me that I am worthy of love. I dearly hope you get to truly love someone one day. I remember thinking and being so sure I loved people when I really didn’t and how unsatisfying that felt. I hope you will figure it out one day, because everyone should love and be loved. You deserve to be loved by someone, that someone just can’t be me, though.

Just because I don’t love you doesn’t mean I didn’t care. Because I did–a lot. You meant something to me and you will always mean something to me. I care about you more than you know. I gave you a lot of firsts. I really hope you don’t take that for granted, because it was a big deal to me. I know it wasn’t to you, but it was to me. I don’t regret that though. I don’t regret any of it, because I learned from it. That is what I will take away: a lot of “lessons learned”. I made a lot of mistakes, I know. I’m really sorry. I didn’t include you, I didn’t tell you what I was really thinking. I made a lot of decisions in my mind without you. I expected too much. I wasted a lot of time. I thought of you as I wanted you to be, not as you really were. For all of this, I am sorry.

I never trusted you.  It took me a long time to figure out that I didn’t, but I never really did. I figured out that I didn’t, when I figured out why: You never gave me any reason to. I finally figured out that not once did you ever let yourself be vulnerable, you didn’t trust me. You said you did, but never acted on it, which makes me feel deceived. You would never let me hurt you, and you never trusted that I wouldn’t even if I could. I never felt like you cared. You were incredibly kind and generous and considerate, you told me how much you liked me. You enjoyed my company and you gave me time and effort, but you never gave me emotion. You had a heart of stone and I was never given the chance to know who you truly are, flaws and all. I knew what you thought about me, but I never knew what you felt, which leads me to believe that you didn’t at all. All of those good things lead me to believe that I trusted you, because I wanted to, but I realize now that I didn’t.

I also recently realized you were the first person to break my heart. I have cared before and liked before, but I have never given my heart before, which for some reason is something entirely different. I didn’t, I couldn’t, I wouldn’t, or you didn’t let me, give you all of it, but I did give you a piece of my heart. And that part is broken now. Mendable, but broken and it still hurts.

I don’t feel like I have any of yours, though, which is part of why I’m angry. The anger has faded somewhat, but it is certainly still there. But I am angry because it doesn’t seem like you are hurt, and that’s not fair. You screwed up. You are responsible. And I’m responsible too, but not like you are. And I am the one that is hurt. That just doesn’t seem fair. I want you to hurt too, to make it fair.  I want you to see me happy, without you. I want you to see that I am fine. Because I am. And that is what you do to me—make me see you happy, without me. So that would make it fair. And it would show me that you did care, that you could hurt, that it meant anything to you at all.

I have tried not to be, but I am still really angry. Because you were stupid, and you broke my heart. You were so stupid it is not even funny. It was one of the biggest lapses in judgment I have ever seen. But you know what, in whatever strange universe, you still had noble intentions. You tried to do the right thing (you failed miserably), but you tried. And you know what sucks about that, is that as idiotic as you were, I can’t hate you for it, because you tried. And that just makes me more angry, because I want to hate you. That would be so much easier, if you were just a horrible person, but you’re not, so I can’t.

And it makes me angry that that was what you thought was the right thing to do. That really worries me, if that is how you think. What you did was so selfish and immature. You don’t mean to be, but you are. I thought you were better than that, I want you to be better than that. That was absolutely not the time or place. And, yes at some point those things needed to be said, in a far more tactful form. But not that day. I was still lost and vulnerable and destroyed. That was not you being noble, that was you being selfish. That day, that one day was about me, about me and no one else. I had earned that. And you made it about you. Which makes me more angry than I can explain. I am trying to forgive you for that, I know I need to for my sake, but I could never forget, that is not something you can forget. I should miss her, I should be thinking about her. But instead I am thinking about you. And I feel horribly guilty for that, because what kind of person does that make me, to be thinking of you, instead of her.

But I do. I still think about you. All the time. I miss you. I miss the idea of you. I miss all that I’d hoped we would be. I miss how I thought I was special to you. I miss the hope. I miss the fluttery feeling in the pit of my stomach when I thought you. I miss being nervous around you. I miss the chase. I miss blind, stubborn, hopeless infatuation. I miss the thought that missing you would be fun in some twisted way, because I would have had something real to miss. I miss the idea of it being real. I miss everything I thought you were. I miss believing I would know you. I miss your praise. I miss the way I used to feel. I miss having fun. I miss your lips, even though I know you won’t be able to focus after I say that. I miss pretending like I wasn’t really angry when you would do that.

Besides all of that, it hurts the most to know that what I want, I will never get to have. We are two totally different people. I had always said I saw so much of myself a year ago in you, based on everything you told me. It took me a long time to figure out that really, I see myself 3 years ago in you. Because of what you said, and how in reality none of it matched what you did. That is not meant to be a slam in any way, because that was me, too. I also don’t mean to sound like I know it all. I don’t, I know I don’t. But you think you do, at least a little bit, and that’s the problem: you don’t have a clue. I am confident enough in myself to say that I am wiser that you and you have a long way to go, but I believe in you. I am wise because I have suffered. Be glad you are not, the suffering I have endured, there are not words. I would not wish that kind of pain upon even my worst enemy. But it was valuable, because I learned from it, in large part because all of the far wiser people that came before me. I am disappointed that I couldn’t be that for you—someone to help you grow. I wanted to be. That is where the problem came in–you didn’t want that, certainly not from me and maybe not at all. You weren’t ready for that.

You said you knew me. That really bothered me. Because I know what I told you, or rather how much I hadn’t, and how much I still wanted to tell you. And for you to say you knew me based off of just that, for you to think that was it, with all of those crucial holes you could only know if I had told you, missing, for you to believe that was all there was to know, shows me that you don’t know me at all. You don’t know me, or how I think or why I do what I do. You also said she and I are the same person. And we are not. Not even close. And if you don’t think there is a difference, then that is even more of a problem. You don’t understand me, you didn’t give me that chance—to let you understand—so don’t pretend you do.

This is why we are different people. I am sure of what I believe. One thing I firmly believe is that all relationships have value, no matter the outcome, as long as you learn something. And that the point any and all relationships is to help the other person grow in some way, and in doing so you will hopefully grow and become better yourself. To do this you have to connect with people on a deeper level and you have to know yourself. You don’t believe this. You don’t spend hours discussing philosophy and morality and politics and religions and sociology. Which is fine, that doesn’t make you better or worse. (And certainly doesn’t make you good or bad because no one is good or bad, because people are more complicated than that and cannot be described so definitively or simply). But I do spend hours doing that, and that is important to me. To discuss things, to argue and disagree and poke holes in theories and research and ask opinions is important to me. Because being sure of what you believe in, and standing by that, no matter what it is, is important to me. And it isn’t to you. You aren’t sure of what you believe yet, which is fair, but you don’t actively try to discover it, whatever it may be.

You are not decisive, you are obedient. You do not love yourself. You think your dad doesn’t accept you. It matters to you that he does, more than it matters to you that you stand behind who you are and what you believe. You like to text. You don’t have a filter. You said I had bad taste in music because you never gave me the chance to tell you the story behind each song that I spent days hand selecting for you because they meant something to me, whether they were Katy Perry or not. There is a 50% chance you never cared about me at all. There is a 60% chance you think I am crazy for writing this. You talked shit about me behind my back. She told me that she wouldn’t say because she promised, (I know what loyalty and honoring her word, deserved or not means to her.) But she wouldn’t tell me because, if it were her, she wouldn’t want to know. You have no clue how much that hurt, because I wouldn’t do that to you. I may think it when I am angry, but I would never say it. All these are not simple nuisances, or differences to overcome, as I once believed, they are huge. They indicate such defining qualities of your character. So it would just never work. We are, on that level, so fundamentally different, we could never survive.

I am disappointed that you are not who I though you were. It’s frustrating that you can’t be. It hurts to realize how much I wanted that. I still care about you anyways, and I always will, even if you never did. I am not sure if I have forgiven you yet, but I’m trying. I’m still angry and hurt though. I know you try, but it isn’t enough. I’m glad it happened. Goodbye. 

I Want to Tell You I Love You

But I can’t. I want to tell you I love you. Because I think I do. But that makes me question it, because everyone tells me, “you’ll just know.”  I don’t know, so maybe I don’t. Maybe “I love you” is the wrong way to put it, but I don’t know how else to put it either. Maybe I mean it in a certain way. Or maybe I don’t.

I care about you a lot. I want the best for you. I want you to be the best you can be. I want to take care of you. I worry about you. I want you to be happy. I care about the things you care about. I sacrifice for you. I am here for you. I want to know you. I want you. I want you to want these things for me. So if all that means I love you, then I do, but maybe it doesn’t.

Because notice how each of those start with I, none of them start with you. It’s not “you make me happy,” because you do, but that’s not a reason, because I could be happy anyway. I don’t need you.

So maybe I love you, but I am not in love with you. Because me loving you is about me. I can love you all I want, and it doesn’t matter what you do. That’s part of what love is, you love them in spite, not because. But that works out, because I am in control. I choose to love you. That is on me. But if I were in love with you, you could break me. You could choose. And I won’t let you do that, not yet.

If you leave right now, I would be terribly sad and miss you and still want the very best for you, but I would be fine. I would cry and eat chocolate and go on with the rest of my life. But if I were in love with you, I would not be fine, I would be destroyed, shattered. I would have been vulnerable. And vulnerable is a very scary thing. I am vulnerable enough as it is, I would be crazy to add to it. I would have chosen to put myself in a place where I can be broken. And I haven’t done that yet, because the thought of letting someone have that kind of control makes me sick to my stomach.

I love you is action. “I love you is a thesis, because you have to prove it.” It is what one does for another person. It is sacrifice, it’s compassion. But I am in love with you is feeling. That is all about what you think in your head and want in your heart and feel in your stomach and know with every fiber of your being. And I’m in love with you, does not exist without I love you. You would never subject yourself to that if you didn’t. But that’s exactly it; it is what you do to yourself.

I would do anything in the world for you, because that, for better or worse, is who I am. But I wouldn’t feel anything in the world for you. I would do anything for you, right up until it hurts me. I would put your happiness above my own, but I would not hurt for you. I would protect you from the world, I can handle the world, but what I can’t handle what my own mind would do to me if I let go of the control.

I don’t trust you, or maybe anyone, like that. But I want to. I’m just not sure how. I hope you will give me the chance to get there one day. If I can.

I won’t tell you any of this, because I have no idea how you feel. Maybe that’s why I won’t let myself get hurt, because you won’t either. I feel like I don’t know you, but I so desperately want to. But either way, I won’t say it, because you would feel obliged to say it back. And I don’t want that, because you wouldn’t mean it. And that’s okay, you don’t have to. I hate that I can’t tell you though, because you deserve to know that you are loved.

Everything I Want I Can’t Put On A Christmas List

Everything I want, I can’t put on a Christmas list. I don’t have everything, but I have everything I need, and most everything I want, and I am happy with that. I am truly grateful for the things I have, for probably, the first time ever. There are some things that would be nice to have, some things I would like more of or better of. Like more clothes or a better phone. But I have clothes, I have a phone, I have a car, I have a computer, I have food, I have a house. I wasn’t always able to say that I had all those things, but I do now, and I don’t really need anything else. A few years ago, I would have given anything to get those kinds of things for Christmas, and I wanted them more than anything, because I knew I wasn’t going to get them.  I had so much, but never knew it. It was never good enough then. It all seems so silly now.

There is nothing that I really, really want. At least, nothing I can put on a Christmas list. Because there are things I really, really want. Things I would kill for. Like for my mom to be better or to get into college or to have more time with people I care about or even to have someone to write my English papers. But I can’t ask Santa for things like that. No one can wrap those things up with a bow. I can hardly think of anything to put on my list for the first time in years, because I don’t really want the things I will receive, they won’t be good enough, people can’t give me what I really want. Maybe that’s my problem with Christmas, nothing I ever get will be good enough. And I thought this year would be different…