Love or something like it
I'll never forget the way he looked at me.
It was prom night, our first and only. I was wearing a beautiful periwinkle dress with roses around the bodice. My dark brown hair was piled half up in wavy curls. My eyeshadow complemented my outfit perfectly, the trademark sparkles around my eyes glinting just so.
I stood at the top of the stairs and stared down at him. Big bright smile. Big brown eyes. Focused solely on
me.I remember how wonderful that look made me feel. I remember being so proud of him, of us. Of just the simple fact of being together.
I had a picture of that look of his. One of my parents snapped it at the exact moment that he saw me appear at the top of the foyer stairs. And as much as any picture could capture an emotion, that one captured it.
Anticipation. Joy. Love.I think he really loved me.
I'm not sure if I still have that photo. I may have thrown it away during one of my concentrated efforts to purge him from my life.
But now I wish I'd kept it, if not just to capture that happy moment one more time. Since that night, I'm not sure that anyone has ever made me feel the way he did with that
one simple look six years ago
.I need to be loved. Every fiber of my being is constantly yearning for affection.
I need to be wanted.
I now realize that one of the reasons I may have stayed with CollegeBF for so long was that he
wanted me so desperately. The first time we broke up, I remember thinking, "How will I ever find someone who loves me as much as he does?"
I'd already found one guy who loved me almost unconditionally (at least that's how it felt to me). Wouldn't I be crazy to give this one up?
Because no matter how hard of a time we had, I could always find happiness in those simple moments. Moments similar to that prom night so many years before.
Moments where we'd be lying in bed and he'd just stare at my face. When he'd graze my cheek gently with his hand and whisper,
"You're so beautiful."I'd always respond with a sarcastic comment or a little smile, but inside I was singing with happiness.
Just like DishonestBF before him, he validated me. And as much I miss that constant validation, I know I'm better off without it. Because I shouldn't
need a man to love me, to look at me, to tell me I'm beautiful.
These things should come from within.
Maybe I'll never find anyone who loves me as much as he did. But I think I at least owed it to myself to find out.
Or maybe...
that person should be me.
I used to be
I used to be
this bitter:
Ode to the EnemyI hate you all.
You who embitter my heart and harden my gaze
to falsities and trifles
and promises.
You who by your existence and being
force me to feel guilty
for the ugliness of others.
You who are inhuman fools,
basking in the empty void
of that which you call living.
You who are blameless and superior
in your righteous ignorance.
You are wrong in character.
You should not be.
Yet I am wrong in hate.
Forgive your enemies, he said.
But never forget their names.
I hate you all.
(2001)
I used to be
this sad:
Worth
I'm twisted in circles.
Wandering through days, nights,
I sleep, wake, up and down.
I am the value of a lost circle,
The average of meaningless symbols,
The circumference of hopeless dreams, Around.
(2002)
And at one point, I used to be
this happy:
My Release A thousand emboldened white stallions
Run with thunderous hooves
Across the plain of my longing heart
(2001)
But now? I don't know what I am. I'm not even writing any poetry to prove it.
*All of the above poems written solely by me.
The Crying Game
I remember a time when nothing could make me crack. When I would sit trembling in frustration or anger, and still not a single tear would fall. When I was so defiant and stubborn that I even had trouble crying at my grandfather's funeral.
I'm not sure what brought about a change, but somewhere along the way, I became a crier. And not just a crier, but a weeper and a sobber, too.
I think it happenedsometime in high school. The pressures of fitting in and looking good were a lot for me to handle, and the tears came so naturally. Night after night, I'd think about how unhappy I was with myself. I'd weep quietly in my bed, writing sad poems in my diary, looking disapprovingly at my own red eyes in the mirror. It became a viscious cycle.
And eventually, it became a way of life. An essential way of coping with anything that even mildly upset me. I've broken down in tears while sitting in traffic just out of sheer frustration. I've burst into salty spasms because I missed my favorite television show. I've cried at home, at work, and in front of many other people.
For the past few years,I've been crying about nothing at all. Well, it seems like nothing, at least. It's just that I often cannot even pinpoint the stimuli for my breakdowns.
But I do know that one single, negative thought, no matter how fleeting, can be a very powerful mood shifter. My negative thoughts can move mountains.
I'm lonely. I'm worthless. I'm sad. That's all it takes.
Spiraling down from there is a natural, seemingly logical progression. I fear that I may need this progression to survive.
It's rare, but sometimes I don't cry for weeks at a time. And just when I've forgotton what those warm tears on my cheeks feel like, a little buzzer goes off. It comes in the form of the most insignificant thought, but it reminds me to cry.
Last night,
I cried, thus breaking a very long streak of happy, sob-free days and nights. I'm not sure why I cried, but I know I needed it. It only lasted a few minutes.
I thought about being tired. I thought about being alone. I even thought about
him. And then I fell asleep.
I woke up this morning feeling fine.
Why do I cry for no obvious reason? Do I chalk it up to being a girl? Does it run in the family? After all, my sister cries at those "Save the Children" commercials.
I know it's natural to cry at the big things--deaths, relationship problems, extreme stress. But is it normal to cry at all the little things? Have I turned into a sobbing brat? Or am I just extremely sensitive?
It feels so repetetive and pointless,like a game. I go around the board, landing on the same spaces over and over again. I pay my luxury taxes, I pay my rent, sometimes I even win money off Community Chest. But I never get to the end. I don't pass "Go" as often as I should. I just feel defeated all the time.
So when is it my turn to shine? When do
I get to beat the Crying Game?
The Loneliest Number
I'm not good at being alone.
In fact, I
hate being alone. Anywhere. In my room, in the car, in an empty office.
I think I've forgotton how to enjoy my own company.
I need human touch. I need to feel the warmth of another person next to me. I need to be hugged.
I need conversation. I need someone to talk with, someone to argue with. I need the presence of another human being.
The smell of his skin.
The familiar tone of my sister's laugh.
The way my mom smacks her gum while watching TV.
I need it all.
Without it, I am alone. My mind takes me to far away places. Sometimes they're silly. Sometimes they're places I don't want to go.
I need friends. I don't
need television.
I need human companionship. I don't
need a boyfriend.
I'm not one of those people who can disappear for hours by herself. I'm not one to venture out into the city all alone for a day. To sit solitary, still and quiet in a movie theater.
I remember how it felt to eat lunch alone sometimes in college. Everyone else buzzed around me as I sat at my empty table. I always brought something to read. I knew I couldn't face it otherwise.
I couldn't sit there and look around at everyone. I couldn't meet their eyes. Because I was alone. And in my head that made them better than me.
I'm not sure why I hate being alone so much. Because I know that we're
all alone at some point in our lives. We're born alone, solitary beings. And eventually we find a special person, have a family of our own. Yet in old age, so many of us find ourselves alone once more.
Somehow, we all make it work. Why can't I?
When did I become so afraid of myself? When did my mind take this hold on me?
I think learning to be with yourself--and
only yourself--is a vital part of growing up. Learning to be completely independent, soul, mind and body, is very special.
And maybe it takes a lifetime for some people.
Maybe it took my grandmother most of her life to learn to live alone. Or maybe she knew how all along.
Maybe she's perfectly happy with her little dog, her nice community, her Mah Jong games. Or maybe she's not.
Either way, I know she still misses my grandfather. I know she'll never stop yearning for that essential part of her life. I know she'll always long for that human touch.
I've never spoken to her about any of this, but I think I know how she feels.
I realize that I need to learn to be alone. I realize that I need to accomplish that before I can settle down with someone, before I can move away from my family.
But I also realize that companionship is a fundamental need. It's crucial to my happiness, crucial to who I am at my very core.
In 10 years, I could be the strongest, most independent woman in the world, but that won't change this one fact:
My name is Lauren, and I need people. 
One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do
Two can be as bad as one
It's the loneliest number since the number one
No is the saddest experience you'll ever know
Yes, it's the saddest experience you'll ever know
'Cause one is the loneliest number that you'll ever do
One is the loneliest number, worse than two
It's just no good anymore since she went away
Now I spend my time just making rhymes of yesterday
~ Three Dog Night
Thanatophobia
Sometimes I worry that I'm dying.
I know, the magnitude of that statement is, well...scary, to put it mildly. Insane, to put it bluntly.
But I've always had this intense fear of my own death. I've always felt like it would take me by surprise. That I would die young without warning.
Maybe in a car accident. Maybe in an even more violent, non-accidental way that I don't even want to think about but that I DO think about every time I walk alone at night.
Or maybe, as I've recently become compulsively obsessed about, I'll die of some fatal illness. I suppose it was my dad's sickness that really got me started on this. We never knew the tumor was there, despite the fact that it had been growing for at least a year. I look back at pictures of him from that time and I think, "How did we not know he was sick?"
We didn't know because we couldn't tell. Or we didn't pay enough attention to the subtle symptoms. We didn't take them seriously because it's just not
normal to think about death all the time, or at all, really.
But now I think about it even more than I used to. I think about it when I feel strange pains in my body. When those shooting pains go up my leg, or when my lower back aches day after day. When I experience that occassional shortness of breath and my heart seems to skip a beat. When my leg tenses up and I carry around that dull ache.
I think that maybe all of this could mean something. And I won't know anything about it until it's too late.
I fear my death so intensely. And yet, I'm not really sure why.
Maybe it's because I fear the unknown. Because I don't really know if I believe in Heaven. Because I don't want to end up just a pile of bones in the dirt.
This feeling came over me as I was driving in to work the other day. There was a big truck behind me in traffic, and I thought about how easily it could plow right into me if the line of cars stopped suddenly. That's how a girl from my college died. How easily her life ended in an instant. How easily that same thing could happen to me.
But as I thought about it, my eyes intently watching that truck in the rear view mirror, I realized that maybe death would be a release. A long, sweet rest from the stress and turbulence of life. No worries, no pain, just nothingness suspended forever.
My sudden complacence with the situation scared me. Was I okay with dying? Even worse, did I
want to die?
I'd spent so long being afraid. Was it normal to feel serene about my eventual demise? Even
if it came all of a sudden? Even
if I was so young?
I don't know why I think about these things. But death consumes me.
Every time I get in my car and fasten my seatbelt, I think about it.
42,000 fatalities a year on our nation's highways.Every time I feel a strange pain, I think about it.
It only takes one sunburn to develop skin cancer.
And every time I hear about someone dying young, I think about it.
Alcohol poisoning. Car accident. Sickness. Murder. Drowning. Fire.
There are so many ways to die. People die every day, young or old.
So I suppose that all of this is kind of silly, because we're all going to die eventually. We're all on that path. What does it matter when or how it happens?
What does it matter as long as I make my life worthwhile?
I'm really not sure what or if it matters. I'm just sure that if I keep thinking about it, I may ruin however much time I have left.
Behind on Life
I do everything five years too late.
At least that's what I keep hearing lately.
In high school, I never cared about how I dressed. I didn't put in much effort to put outfits together or wear jewelry. And I absolutely hated shopping.
Now, I can easily drop hundreds of dollars on clothes, shoes, jewelry and purses.
I also never went out in high school. I never went to the parties, never did much of anything short of a movie or dinner with girlfriends.
Now, I do that kind of stuff on a regular basis (except the parties, because well, people don't really have those too often).
In college, I started drinking alcohol, and I met a lot more people. I even stayed out late and did really bad-ass things (note sarcasm here) like skip class and spend the night in other people's dorm rooms. But I acquired a boyfriend right away, and mellowed out from there.
So, in the past seven to ten years, I really haven't done much of anything that most people my age have. I was a late bloomer as it was, but having two serious boyfriends held me back even more.
And now I'm finally catching up with myself.
My parents and sister keep remarking that they don't understand my behavior. By behavior, I mean going out more with friends, staying out later than I ever have before, and being much more interested in guys and dating.
But I keep telling them that this is how normal 20-somethings act. Am I right? I don't think it's odd that I want to have fun for once in my life, that I've become more outgoing and more interested in being social.
Yeah, it may not be my usual style to want to get the phone number of a random and drunk but
totally hot guy at a bar. It may not be like me to be interested in someone even if I don't see any relationship potential. And it may not be normal for me to want to stay out all night just chilling instead of sleeping.
But that's the thing about growing up. You've gotta do it sometime. You've gotta try new things. You've gotta allow yourself to experience all that life has to offer.
So what if I'm five years late on all this stuff? All that matters is I'm doing it now.
And not cause I need to catch up, but because I'm finally ready for it.
Maybe I'm not behind in life after all. Maybe I'm just getting comfortable with my own pace.
If you call
I will answer.
It's that simple, isn't it?
I think the first sign of a doomed relationship must be when you choose not to answer the phone.
Oh, he calls too much...why is he bothering me again?I'm too busy right now.I don't feel like hearing his voice.He's probably drunk and I don't wanna deal with it.I'm mad at him so I will make him suffer by ignoring him.There are so many reasons not to answer, not to be there for him.
And yet if it's right, none of those should matter. Perhaps they shouldn't even exist.
All of the above reasons have gone through my head over the years. And I've let them dictate my actions. Yet I never realized that every time I had one of those thoughts, I poisoned my relationship.
Because a relationship shouldn't be about playing mind games.
It shouldn't be about avoiding the other person.
It shouldn't be about thinking of
reasons.There are a lot of reasons not to answer. But there should only be ONE reason to pick up the phone, and it should trump all others.
Once that's gone, there really isn't much left to talk about, is there?
I think
it's getting to the point where I can be myself again.
It's getting to the point where we have almost made amends.
I think
it's the getting to the point that's the hardest part
If you call
I will answer and if you fall
I will pick you up
and if you court this disaster I'll point you home
I'll point you home
You think,
I only think about you when we're both in the same room
I'm only here to witness the remains of loving you
You think,
we're here to play a game of who loves more than who
You think,
It's only fair to do what's best for you and you alone
You think,
It's only fair to do the same thing for me when you're not home
I think,
It's time to make this something that's more than only fair.
I'm warning you, don't ever do
those crazy messed up things you do.
If you ever do, I promise you
I'll be the first to crucify you
it's time to prove that you came back here to rebuild?
Rebuild...Rebuild
The Barenaked Ladies had this shit figured out
way before I did.
I'm a lot of things...
...sweet, silly, clumsy, kind of an airhead sometimes, smart, shy, sincere, a bit introverted, lazy, pessimistic, clever, fiesty, curious, polite, sort of an exaggerator, loyal, whimpy, girly...
Sure, I could go on and on, because of course, I'm a lot of things.
But am I selfish?
This is the question that's been on my mind the past few weeks. It's strange to consider it, because I've always thought of myself as almost
too giving.
Anytime someone has needed me, I've tried my very best to be there. I've freely loaned things to family and friends without a second thought. I've done everything possible to give up my time, money, food, et cetera to preserve and grow my relationships with other people.
But suddenly, I find myself feeling differently.
I'm not spending enough time with my parents anymore, despite the fact that I live with them.
I'm not spending nearly enough time with my pet bird, Precious, despite the fact that she's been my loyal little companion for the past 14 years.
And I'm not calling my friends as often as I should, despite the fact that they are some of the most important people in my life.
Basically, I'm doing whatever the hell I want.
I'm starting to think it's a reaction to being single. When I first began dating my ex five or so years ago, I was so naive and open. I gave him everything.
But as the years wore on, I became less and less willing to compromise. By the end, I was so sick of worrying about his feelings, wants and needs that I became completely inflexible.
If he wanted to do something that I didn't want to do, I'd end up crying on my bed (literally having an adult tantrum of sorts) until he did it my way. And if I did have to compromise, I'd never let him hear the end of it. Somehow we ended up fighting against each other on everything from whose car we'd drive to where to go for dinner or what TV show to watch. And those were just the little things.
I went from being an extremely patient person to being a time bomb of emotion that could unleash at any moment.
Thankfully, now that I'm finally alone, I'm so much more serene. And I'm relishing only having to worry about myself.
But am I becoming too set on my own desires?
Is it okay to be that flaky friend who doesn't always call?
Is it okay to interact with my mom only via e-mail because I get home too late and don't see her for a day or two?
Is it okay to let my bird sit in her cage for two days because I'm not there to spend time with her?
If I'm not even willing to make time for my pet and my parents, how would I ever make time for a boyfriend? Or even a husband some day, and children?
I'm so many years away from being ready for those types of commitments. It feels good to realize that.
But I'm still not sure if it's okay to be this way, even if it's just a phase. Even if putting myself first is supposed to be "healthy."
Because I may be a lot of things, but I don't want to list selfish as one of them.
The Struggle
My entire life has been a struggle. Not a struggle in the conventional sense. Not in the sense that I had a bad childhood or grew up poor or came from a broken home. Not a struggle against society, and not against my parents.
This struggle has been against myself.
Because I, dear friends, am quite possibly one of the laziest people ever to be lazy. I've been waging a fight against my overwhelming lack of motivation for as long as I can remember.
And not only am I lazy, but I have a tendency to be very pessimistic. This pessimism coupled with laziness makes for a very lethal combination.
So lethal, in fact, that I've spent many weekends lying frowny-faced and sad in my bed for hours doing absolutely nothing at all.
Take yesterday, for example. I woke up with high hopes, ready to throw on my bathing suit and wash my car. But as soon as I realized it was too cold outside to do what I wanted, I sunk into an irritated and listless state. I threw myself face down on my bed, and I just laid there.
I thought about how I needed to clean my room, how the weather was perfect for rollerblading, how I wanted to go shopping...and then I thought about how all of that seemed like too much. How I didn't have the energy. How I had nothing to look forward to, no one to talk to, and no one to see.
How suddenly a simple weekend day had turned into a gargantuan reason to sit in my dark room and be sad and lonely.
The tears started to come as I laid there in silence and stillness. I tried to blink them away, feeling the familiar lump in my throat. Wishing that there was an "easy" button for my moods so that I could be happy again.
And then, after about 30 minutes of monotony, I made a decision. I
had to get up to maintain my sanity.
I know it sounds like a simple thing, but jerking myself out of one of those moods will always be one of my most difficult struggles. I am one stubborn girl, so you can imagine how hard it is for me to talk myself out of or into feeling a certain way.
I finally told myself:
This is unhealthy behavior. Why would you want to keep doing something that makes you feel so horrible? Of course, that worked (those therpaists really do know what they're talking about sometimes).
And I stood up. Breathed in the now-slightly-less-depressing air, and started my day. I cleaned my room first, then the bird cage, then my room again, then the bathroom. Then, I moved on to myself: painted my nails, showered, did my hair, put on makeup. And out the door I went to go shopping, singing happily while blasting my old Ace of Base CD.
Later that night, I was taken aback when a strange feeling came over me. What was this feeling that brought a (gasp) smile to my face? Oh yeah, satisfaction.
It was a good day, I thought to myself.
And I made it that way!It may not seem like an accomplishment to most people, but yesterday was a personal triumph for me. I know I'm constantly rambling on and on in this blog about my emotional issues, and I may be sounding pretty crazy right about now. But crazy makes me who I am.
And whether or not you struggle to overcome laziness or anything else, know this: There's no better satisfaction than being in control of your own life.
And yeah, I'n one of those people who has to work pretty hard for that. I have to constantly wrest my life away from my irrational emotions and bring it back to reality.
But the struggle makes success that much sweeter.
