Before Boys and Broken Hearts

It's been a month today since I last wrote on this lovely blog and I think it's about time I reflect on who I am. Things haven't been very clear to me for awhile. I've been crying much more than normally and had two panic attacks last month. I stress way too much about things I can't control, but I think the major factor is that I put too much pressure on myself to be perfect all the time, which is obviously impossible. If I understood myself and my limits I would be able to get through scratch free. But lately I've come to realize the power one person's opinion can have on your well-being. Two people I love are telling me two different things about who I am and how I present myself to them. It's sad that I have to rely on other people to understand myself, but that's why there's people who are paid to do so. Anyways, I'm feeling much like the awful person that I've been told to be right now. I wish I could see who I am and understand why my actions might hurt, but I'm not sure where to start. Well, I'll guess I'll begin by reflecting on my life before boys and broken hearts.

For the longest time I was never comfortable with the girl in the mirror or the girl in pictures, many teenage girls/boys likely go through the same thing. Luckily I am blessed with amazing friends who are unique and fun. Unknowingly they helped me through rough times by simply being there and in that way managed to shape me into who I am today. Because of their presence and influence, soon I began to view the good intentioned (sometimes major fuck-up) yet stubborn vegetarian looking back at me in the mirror as a good thing. The girl behind the glasses was changing for the better (in my opinion). I started working out, eventually I became confident enough to wear nicer/tighter clothes (that I never wore because I was ashamed) thus attracting compliments from family and friends. I lost weight, but I also lost the bulk of clothes designed for people to hide in. I began to push myself hard in school because for one I love learning and two I thrive off receiving praise for my hard work. - I was finally getting the much needed ego boost that I had denied myself for the longest time, which had left me miserable and lonely. I am so lucky to have such a great family, environment and group of friends to support me and make me feel loved.

Now let's get to the boys and broken hearts part. Don't get me wrong, I did attract the attention of boys before my boyfriend, but I never understood why they would want to date me. I know eh? Pity party for me! But, seriously, it never occurred to me that they might find me pretty or that maybe I had a personally that appealed to them or something. I'd turn them down thinking I was doing THEM a favor. Jesus. My "oh pity me" ways not only hurt myself, but also those boys that probably genuinely liked me as a person. In the words of my father: "you're a heart breaker, that's not a good thing." When I would turn them down, I saw myself getting more and more miserable, burying myself in giant sweaters from value and hating people for some retarded reason. My actions made me hate myself and I was spiraling into some metaphysical pit of permanent isolation. Then the craziest thing happened, one boy managed to get through my defenses. For some crazy reason he found the giant sweater wearing awkward girl to his liking. At this point I was already beginning to change myself (working out, becoming more friendly, etc.).

So now back to these conflicting attitudes. This brave boy, who saw me at my weakest point, doesn't like the person I've become. Lately I've been celebrating my confidence by wearing girly clothes, by painting my nails neon pink and loving the way my bikini looks on me. Some might call me fake or something, hypocritical etc etc. But I'm finally doing what makes me happy and sadly I haven't been happy for a long time. Too bad that it doesn't make the people who count happy. Well, I don't think my personality has changed much, I'm still a goof ball, jokester, obnoxious, sifi nerd, non-gossip, loner and often shy girl. I am proud to say that I'm not afraid to speak my mind anymore. My teachers helped a lot in that department, but also the eye surgery that I received helped with my fear of eye contact. I never really mentioned that. But that also made me avoid boys because who would want to date the crazy-cock-eyed girl who was afraid to take off her glasses. All in all, I had believed these changes were for the better but, I think I'm as vulnerable now as when I started. I hear that I'm a good person from my mom, as to be expected. But on the other hand I'm told I'm a bitch and a slut, with no one in mind except herself. I take it all to heart even if they are jokes because I'm stupid and weak and I'm left with old miserable self once more and I not sure what to think about the confident girl in the mirror anymore. I think I'll miss her when she's gone, even if she wasn't a great person. I know that I never intend to do awful things, I believe that I have good intentions. But did I have to pay a price to get to this point? I think I have, for I feel so unloved right now despite being surrounded by my family.

I'm going to Kingston in September. I'll hopefully be making new friends and will be beginning to stand on my own. My worst fear is that I'll lose the girl in the mirror. I think I like her - despite some negative reviews.

I've grown so much since I first started this blog. I'm proud of who I have become. The scary thing is, I'm not sure how long I can keep telling myself that if I don't really believe it.

Creative Writing EXAM 92% BITCHES

“By bus or car, By the sway of train over a long bridge,/ We wanted to get out.” Gary Soto

The Children of Light

by Jessica Shelley

The City’s gray cement horizons prevented early risers from rising with the sun and daydreamers from dreaming. The dull gray light perpetually shown down upon the massive waves of people walking to and from their jobs at equal paces. The faces in the crowd were always solemn, the lack of light casting shadows across sagging cheeks and wrinkled skin. Small children held onto their mothers with equal misery plastered around their eyes and little to no hope of innocence left within them. Their tiny limbs were lost in the sea of bodies. There was no use swimming and so they held on to their parents, their sinking ship, as it was all they had ever known. For these were the people and the children of the future that you may have read about, all fifty billion of them, all equal, all the same, in every miserable way.

The absence of sound in the City just reassured us that our own personal misery was mutual. It was as if the entire population was resting and the City was just waiting for me to take my first breath.

We used ancient clocks that beeped at the turn of every hour to count the days. Without these decaying devises, we would never know of the passage of time. When I was born, my mother told me that the clocks beeped 14 times before I decided to leave her womb. Harper, she called me.

Our building number was #46,990,234 and there was little that a young boy could do in the City except play with the other miserable children.

“Harper, don’t ask if you can go play with the other children in the other buildings. That’s forbidden.” His mother groaned with annoyance, her face drooping ever more with a pathetic frown.

“But, why?” he asked with defeat, even though he knew the answer, since he had heard it many times before.

“All the buildings are the same. The people are the same. Just play with the children in this building.”

And that was that. Harper stayed within his own building with his mother as his only companion for the first twelve years of his life. He had no father. Before Harper was born, his father had decided that he had had enough of living in the City. During his three hundred and fifty thousandth, three hundred and ninety-ninth hour, without telling his pregnant wife, Harper’s father ventured into building #1 with hundreds of others and spent his last hour waiting in a line to be incinerated. He had heard the clocks beep 350, 400 times. He died along with the masses of people who spent their final hours in a line waiting to die, knowing that there was no heaven in a world without a sky.

As Harper grew up, he found it incredibly difficult to play with the children in his building. The other children had an amazing ability to make him feel as hopeless as them, trapped within their concrete boxes, playing with their concrete toys. Harper would try to spend time with them, but just couldn’t bare it. He’d run back to his room and pull out his crayons. With various shades of blue, yellow, pink and orange, Harper would recreate the place in his dreams.

Harper began to spend more and more time within his whitewashed bedroom, drawing pictures and placing them on his walls. But Harper soon realized that he didn’t want to spend all his time in his room, talking to himself and drawing pictures of a world that he’d never find within his own concrete box. So he devised a plan. He waited until his mother was sound asleep and snuck past the incompetent patrol at the door, too dumb to see the young boy crawling on the floor in front of his desk. When Harper reacted the outside, no alarms were ringing in his ears and he was free.

This was the first time that Harper had been in the streets without the massive crowd pushing its way past the buildings. The street was deserted. Harper closed his eyes, took a slow breath and began walking along the street. His heart was beating so hard in his chest that he wondered if the sound of it would alert the patrols. This only made it beat harder. Harper stalled to take a look around him in apprehension, not a single thing moved. That is, until a building’s door across the street was jerked open and a tiny voice called out, “Hey! Hey You! Are you stupid or something? There’s a patrol coming by in the next 10 seconds. Get your butt in here!”

Shocked by the broken silence, Harper crouched and ran, covering his head. When he reached the building, two small hands jutted out and grabbed him by his perfectly pressed dress shirt. “You are crazy or are you stupid? Geez. Maybe it’s a little bit of both.”

Harper looked over the boy sitting in front of him. He had curly blonde hair tossed on top of his pasty white head and a mouth that seemed to never know when to stop moving. “… and why the heck were you covering you head? There’s no use trying to protect your head with your hands, unless your hands are bulletproof!”

Impervious to the boy’s abuse, Harper introduced himself.

“Why hello Harper, I’m Jackson, the boy who just saved your stupid life. You’re lucky I was here, waiting for the patrol to pass so that I could go out in the street too. You’d be dead if it wasn’t for me.” He replied, irritated by Harper’s lack of gratitude. “Anyways, I think you should come with me.”

Harper followed the boy, wondering where exactly Jackson was taking him. He climbed about ten flights of stairs and when he reached the eleventh landing, Jackson motioned for him to go through an ominous steel door, situated before him. Harper gave Jackson a quick inquisitive glance and then turned towards the door. Without looking back, he turned the knob and was instantly blinded.

He awoke to the sounds of a girl’s giggling voice. “I love it when they faint.” Harper strained his eyes trying to find the girl who spoke, but found it impossible to see. He cleared his throat and pleaded, “Please help me. I can’t see.”

A boy’s voice this time, “Wow, this one sure is a whiner. Where’d you find him Jackson? Cause, I propose we send him back.”

Another voice joined the conversation, “Quiet Lyle, you act as if you were born first. I’m five minutes older. Therefore, I’m five minutes wiser and I say that we give this whiner a chance. Jackson obviously knows what he’s do-"

Harper interrupted the second girl “Excuse me, but who are you? What have you done to me?”

“Don’t worry Harper, you’ll get used to the light soon enough.”

Harper was almost overwhelmed hearing Jackson’s familiar voice among the strangers. But, the words he spoke confused him even more. Light? The light in the City never blinded him before.

“I don’t understand.” Harper’s vision was slowly coming back and he could make out five blurry figures standing around him.

The other boy’s voice started up again, “Well, seems you’re the newest member of the Children of Light. The sixth. Jackson chose you because… so why did you chose him anyways?”

Jackson gave Harper a friendly punch on the arm. “I chose Harper because he was daring enough to go out into the streets while a patrol was roaming.”

The other figures shook their heads and laughed at his carelessness in the face of death. At the same time they patted him on the back and Harper felt a rush of pride turn his face bright red.

Now that Harper’s vision had returned to normal he could see that he was sitting on the floor of a generic whitewashed room. Yet, there seemed to be a brightness emanating from a small crack in one of the walls. None of the strangers spoke to Harper as he made his way to the wall. The brightness that had blinded him earlier was now dancing upon his skin. He moved his fingertips over the crack and felt that it was warm. How was it possible?

“This is amazing. Jackson, this is light?”

The five strangers just nodded and smiled, amused at Harper’s amazement.

They eventually introduced themselves and Harper soon began his true exploration of the City and of the light.

So, he had found friends in the other buildings after all. Their leader, Jackson was from building #46,990,231, the twins Lyle and Mona from were building #46,990,249, and the stern Wallace and the constantly giggling Rhea were from #46,990, 230. They became fast friends due to their shared rebelliousness that led them from their buildings while their parents slept, and into the streets of the City. With their quick feet and youthful energy, not yet destroyed by the hopelessness of the City, the six mischievous companions made their way through the streets, narrowly avoiding the armored men patrolling the area.

There was no space in between the concrete buildings to hide from the patrols; the only space was the one you could stare up at, two miles above your head. Occasionally you could spot an elderly gazing up at the sky for just a moment, but then they would lower their head once again and sigh. It was no longer the sky, the sky they had known, before the buildings were masses of concrete and the light was gray. All they had known, was now a lifeless gray void hovering heavily above their heads.

(not finished)

This is where my story was going:

- sky obscured by buildings, only gray light

- Harper born, finds crack of light in room, mesmerized by it

- Gang of children from several buildings, led by Jackson, become Children of the Light, so Harper, Jackson, Lyle and Mona (twins), Wallace and Rea.

- ends with massive earth quake, tears down city

- sets people free to explore, but instead adults cower in the rubble of the city and the Children of the Light go explore new world

- shows the innocence and adventurous nature of children

Hey There. You Bad Seeds. Let's Get It On!

I was born upside down.

My dog had puppies. One was born inside out.

We're all born with sins. Better start cleansin'.

I'm disturbed by the world and its grim surprises.

Reality is a bitch sometimes.

Life is beautiful, - as long as you see it that way.

I choose to see many ways.

That's why I'm bitterly cynical.

Finally! I'm clinically perfect.

I've checked out and I'm on my way.

I'm not finished though.

I still have a long way to go

until my head is right.

What about you?

How's your head doing?

I love the heat in your movements.

But, coldness throttles your every word.

You love cold, lifeless things.

You hate those close to you.

Their touch burns your skin.

You hate them for what they don't give you.

Is there no other reason for it?

It's so hard to love someone for what they do give you.

On their death beds you will remember it all.

Only then will you see, that you hated them for being everything you could have ever wanted.

People tell me to be things, but I don't feel like listening.

But, you... you listen to the movies, the music and your real self fades.

You are hiding.

I try not to listen, because this chameleon needs sleep.

So do you.

Take a break, write a song, sing it to yourself.

Find God.

Then find out that there's more to life.

Find your own answers, ones that you can't find in any book.

Discover the world outside your room. Find a balance.

Discover that outside of your bad seed sprouting head there is an occasionally beautiful world out there.

Change again my brother and you'll lose your

grip.

I could stare at ink blots, but I only see ink.

Tell me what you see and I will change my story.

Because there is more to you.

You're not just a depressed teenaged boy.

You're scared of being alone, so scared you'd rather die than think about it again.

As long as you stare at everyone else, you'll only end up failing the Rorschach test.

"The voices say hello." - Matthew Good A Boy and His Machine Gun

American Psycho

I've been reading American Psycho. The book is much more detailed and perverse than the movie. Reading it, I thought about writing my own horror story. I started thinking about the character, whither it would be a woman or a man, stupid or Hannibal-like, what would his motivation be... etc. In my head I saw him as a man who only killed the people who loved him most. As to why he killed the ones who loved him, he didn't what to let them down, he didn't what that responsibility of loving someone back, of holding one piece of the puzzle while they held the other. So he let everything collapse right away before he had love and he could feel loss. Mostly he's scared. In his mind, he is saving his victims from a much worse pain. It makes me a little worried that I have created his twisted mind from my own. I wish I could play the piano... I wish I could do something more productive with my time like learning an instrument or improving my knowledge of the world by traveling the world or even going outside. But, it's much easier to write about things than experience them yourself. Horror for instance. I could go out and kill some people... (I'm not going to.) But, it's much easier and healthier to write about it... or read about. The reason why I'm talking about killing people is because watching horror movies or reading horror novels makes my mom angry, not scared or sick to her stomach, angry. She gets angry because she can't understand why anyone would want to watch or read about murder. To quote my favorite author and song writer Matthew Good, "The telling of such occurrences, though anyways touched by a bit of danger and mystery, never quite lives up to the true depravity of such actions. And therein lies the sickness that we embody as a species. Horrified by the fact and entirely mesmerized by fact sold as fiction." - From Porno Safari. The reason I think that people are so intrigued by horror is that it is so removed from their normal lives that the mystery of a man going through the night and murdering people to fulfill some sick need in his heart is enjoyable. It's as if they like to be close to something so awful that the good things in life seem greater... like being alive. I wonder what our lives would be like if everything was good and nothing was psychotic about anyone. Well, in order for that to happen our brains would have to be removed. See, the brain is just a pot filled with soil and our thoughts, good or bad, are either nurtured or removed like weeds, voluntary or involuntary. All my thoughts are vines, not exactly beautiful flowers. They crawl through my body and escape through my mouth, my hands. At one time my skull was too crowded with bad thoughts and the only way I could relieve the pressure was to write. I think I've reached a healthy balance. The headache is gone and the horrific thoughts have become characters, settings and morals, not actions. But that doesn't make me any less of an "American Psycho".