I figured me out
The sad reality of my life is this: I need men to feel good about myself.
And even sadder? More often than not, men make me feel bad about myself.
I am constantly looking for their approval. Because for one reason or another, I base about 99.9 percent of my self worth on my looks alone.
I know this is ridiculous. Yet I cannot change the way I am.
I somehow grew up to be this way. Why? I truly do not know.
I have great parents. They love me unconditionally.
I had a happy childhood. Nothing really traumatizing ever happened to me.
Maybe it was the little, every day things that made me this way. Like my mom's constant complants about her own body and hair. Or the way she agonized over the clothes I would wear to school. The way she'd yell at me until I wore the exact outfit she picked out.
Maybe it was that my dad didn't give me enough affection. Maybe he didn't hug me enough, maybe he didn't tell me I was pretty as much as he could have.
Maybe it was society. For placing so much emphasis on women's bodies on TV, in advertisements, and everywhere else.
Maybe it was the people in high school. Those girls with their tan skin, big boobs and little waists. The ones who seemed to always have the boys' attention. They didn't do anything to me at all. But I still hated them.
And yet somehow, I came out of all of this hating myself.
I'm intelligent, kind, and even pretty good-looking. But I still have a problem with me. I still don't feel comfortable in my own skin. I still need constant attention and reassurance to feel good.
The crazy thing is...the more attention I get, the more I crave. It's never enough. I'm always craving. Always interpreting the worst out of every situation that even remotely involves my body image. Always searching for reasons why I'm not good enough.
Maybe the blame shouldn't fall on anyone. I can't blame my parents for making me this way. I should be grateful to them for being as wonderful as they are. And I certainly can't blame people that didn't even know me, or something as abstract as society itself.
I can only blame the one person who has the ability to someday change this sad reality.
Me.
I missed my own Blogiversary
I'm not gonna make a big deal about it or anything, but...
it IS pretty impressive that I've been blogging for an entire YEAR.
I didn't expect to stick with this at ALL. You see, I had another blog before this (started back in 2003), and it was just horrendous in comparison. No really good writing. Just a basic day-to-day summary of my life, except I only wrote every couple weeks and then stopped altogether.
I started "A Sleepy Girl's Thoughts of Life" simply because I'd been reading other people's blogs, most of which were powerd by Blogger. I thought the design looked cool and professional, so I figured I'd give it one more shot. For the first few months I had okay entries--better than my previous blog but still nothing special.
Then it was like something snapped inside me (could've been the big break-up, or really any number of things that brought on my onslaught of sadder times). I just relaxed and let the words pour out. My writing became more emotionally-charged, more
real. I stopped trying so hard.
And look at me now. I can't even believe the stuff I write on here sometimes. I feel like being so honest and candid about certain subjects--about my insecurity with life in general--might not be the smartest idea. But it's been well worth it.
Now I have a place to go when I need to vent. I have something I can be truly proud of and can call my own. I have all these intelligent and interesting personalities reading me--and me reading them--and reacting to me.
And I've become a
much better writer in the process.
Don't get me wrong, I always knew I was good. I just didn't know I had
this in me.
Bring on the next year!
This what we dream about
but the only question with me now
Is do I make you proud
Stronger than I've ever been
Never been afraid of standing out
But do I make you proud-- Taylor Hicks (don't make fun, he's good)
*Let's pretend I posted this on July 5, the actual date that my little blog turned 1 year old.
Life Goes On
I look down at my turquoise strappy sandals--the ones that match the flowy skirt I'm wearing perfectly--and I see a small smudge of dirt. It's just a faint stain, but it sends a chill right through my heart.
Because I've just realized that
these are the shoes I was wearing the day my dad had his car accident.
These are the cute sandals that trudged through the dirt with me to look at the accident scene, the ones I had to wash off when we got home from the hospital.
And
this is the long flowy skirt I wore to work that day--50 days ago, to be exact. A Thursday, just like today, only
very, very different.
It amazes me how easily I can block things out. It's not that I'd forgotton about my dad's accident, but I'd just gone on with my life. The little reminders of what happened have faded away: His cuts have been long healed, he's finally been able to go back to work, he bought a new car, he's started treatments again.
Even so, everything's still not how it used to be. He still can't sleep in his bed because it hurts him to lie flat. But regardless, life has simply...kept going...for all of us.
I guess it just makes me uneasy because I feel like we're in this nice lull. Almost two months have passed with nothing really bad happening. No hospital visits, no accidents, just business as usual.
And remembering that day, that feeling of panic, scares me. I remember that morning when he left for work. I said goodbye to him so nonchalantly. I don't even know if I told him I loved him. I was too occupied with my own morning routine.
And not even an hour later when I found out what happened, that nonchalant morning goodbye haunted me. What if that had been the last time I got to see him? To talk to him? To give him a hug?
The worst part is, I still don't think I hug him enough. I don't say "I love you, Dad" enough. Despite everything we've been through--every scare and every "lesson"--I
still don't appreciate my time with him enough.
It's very easy for me to fall into a preoccupied state. To want to be away from my parents because living with them can get on my nerves. To want to do my own thing and not worry about them.
I suppose that wearning these shoes today was just the reminder I needed. The reminder that family should be my priority. That even though life goes on and time heals, we can't forget those important experiences--and the lessons we learned from them.
The reminder that my parents are growing older--and I'm growing up (yikes!), so I'd better make the most of
every minute.
And nobody knows what's gonna happen tomorrow
So don't let go, now we've come this far
You've got to believe
it'll be alright in the end
-- Duran Duran
Singleness
I'm sitting at work, staring vacantly at my computer screen. A Grateful Dead song starts playing on my iPod and I immediately hit the skip button when all of a sudden...BAM...it's the Smashing Pumpkins. 1979.
It's
him.Another one of his favorite bands, another one of his favorite songs, and yet another reminder of what used to be.
And I hate it. I hate having to take pause in the middle of the afternoon just because some song makes me feel sad. I hate that things like this can still affect me so profoundly nine months after we broke up. I hate being such a girl.
And perhaps most of all, I hate my singleness. I even hate
the fact that I hate my singleness. Because my rational self
knows I need to be alone. And it knows that most days I'm perfectly happy alone.
It's when I'm confronted with little reminders of our coupledom that I get all nostalgic and long for that warm body next to me. It's not even
his body I want. It's just any body. Faceless.
I haven't found my body yet.
Every time I see a couple holding hands, I wonder when it will be my turn to have that special connection with someone. Every time I hear about another person getting engaged, every time I see a cheesy romantic comedy, every time, every time, every time.
It feels like couples are all around me. It feels unfair. Why do all these people get to have what I want? What have I done wrong? When is it my turn to be happy with someone?
I don't understand how some people find contentedness with someone so early in life. Theoretically, it just shouldn't be possible. Out of all the people in the world, they find
one who is "perfect" and who they're perfectly "happy" marrying. And yet they've barely even explored the world, barely even experienced anything. They're not even mature adults and yet they're getting
married.I suppose I'm jealous. It's hard not to be when I have very good friends who are all settled down with their perfect guys, planning out their lives. They have someone to call whenever they want. Someone to be there for them no matter what. The only people I can depend on in that way are my immediate family. And even then, I can't ask too much of them.
Maybe I'm being selfish. Sometimes I think I just want someone there--that body--to make me feel better. To complete me as a person. I want to take all I can from them and suck them dry of all compassion and love.
I want a human sponge. I feel like I've fulfilled that role for other people. I know it's not at all healthy. But I still want it.
Sometimes my singleness feels refreshing. And sometimes it feels like this--stifling and empty. I guess those are just the ups and downs of finding my own way.
And after so many years of letting someone else lead me blindly around, I know I have to be my own leader. My own source of confidence. My own biggest fan.
It's just kind of crappy.
Shakedown 1979, cool kids never have the timeOn a live wire right up off the streetYou and I should meet
I Want More
Certainly, travel is more than the seeing of sights; it is a change that goes on, deep and permanent, in the ideas of living.
-- Miriam BeardI always heard that once you started travelling, you couldn't get enough. But I never believed it until now.
I never believed it until I sat lazily at the top of the Eiffel Tower with the wind whipping through my hair and cameras flashing around me. I never believed it until I dragged my heavy suitcase all over two cities, across streets, up and down countless sets of stairs, and in and out of sweaty subway cars. I never believed it until I was sad to take that plane ride home.
My trip to Europe was special on many different levels. Perhaps the most important of these is that I was able to share it with my sister, who happens to be my best friend in the whole world. She was my partner in crime as we navigated our way from place to place, metro to metro, hotel to hotel.
She was always there to listen to me complain, or to tell me I got the directions wrong--or when I got them right, though it didn't happen too often. And she was there to make me laugh, and to plan out a schedule of the day's events, and to let me know when I was being a brat.
Little sister and I spent about two weeks together 24/7--probably the most time we've ever spent consecutively--and we had a wonderful time. Sure, we had a skirmish about halfway through the trip (at the very top of the Eiffel Tower, no less), but it only reinforced the fact that we have such an iron-clad, strong relationship. I couldn't imagine taking such a trip with anyone else.
A man travels the world over in search of what he needs and returns home to find it.
-- George MooreNow, this trip was also special because it was my first foray abroad without my parents or some other force leading me around. As I detailed in an earlier post, this prospect terrified me to no end. But what I found when I got there surprised me even more: I was completely capable of travelling.
Little sister and I read the signs. We consulted the maps. We asked people. And when all else failed, we simply guessed. And about 97 percent of the time, we guessed right. We took everything in stride, and it worked like clockwork.
I'd like to describe every site we saw, but there are just too many. From the gold and marble sumptuousness of Versailles to the stoic and majestic turrets of the Tower of London, I took everything in with excited reverie.
Each museum beheld countless masterpieces: the Mona Lisa, Monet's impressionist paintings, the Rosetta Stone, Rodin's Le Penseur, the Parthenon sculptures, artifacts and armour and blinding jewels galore. Each church boasted beautiful stained glass and vaulted ceilings stretching up to the sky, with the bodies of great men and women, royals and heros alike, buried beneath the cold stone floors.
Each restaurant and piazza or square had a different, unique feel. Each place, right down to the outdoor bird market in Paris or London's Tower Bridge, was utterly beautiful. And not just beautiful in the conventional sense, but beautiful in the sense that these were all part of a different culture, perhaps even a different time. Everything was so steeped in history and heritage that it was simply impossible to see anything as short of magnificent.
And the people were magnificent, too, Londoners and Parisians both. The waiters in France went the extra mile to help us understand menus, and the tube attendants in London always went out of their way to come over when we looked lost. The boys in the pubs with their cute British accents were sweet despite their drunkenness. The Parisians drinking wine in the evenings on the Eiffel Tower lawn didn't hesitate to treat us as their own by asking for a cigarette.
The night shift man at our hotel in Paris always chortled out a happy "Bonsoir" when we came back from dinner. And our tour guide for Stonehenge gave up his umbrella so some of us wouldn't get soaked. The people were just as refreshing as the sites themselves.
Once you have traveled, the voyage never ends, but is played out over and over again in the quietest chambers, that the mind can never break off from the journey.
-- Pat Conroy, The Prince of Tides
About halfway through the trip, as we rode on a crowded car in the Paris metro, I remember thinking to myself,
I can do this.
Not just this right now, but I could
do this interminably. For once in my life, I felt perfectly capable of finding my way in the world, both figuratively and literally. And even more than that, I wanted to keep going, to see as much of the world as possible.
Travelling had become the hunger I'd always read about. I
wanted more
. I want more. I want to see Greece, Thailand, the rest of the UK, Australia, and countless other places.
I want to experience other cultures.
I want to meet new people.
And I want to be surprised by my own capabilities over and over again.
It's all just too good of a feeling. And I don't want it to end.
(pictures to be added in later when Blogger cooperates with me!)
The Resurfacing
I've been back in the country for almost a week now, and this is the first time I've sat down to write. Like any writer, I'd thought about what I would write plenty of times--during the trip, on the airplane, in bed at night--but I just didn't have the urge to do anything about it until now.
In truth, there is too much for me even to capture in words. I saw too many amazing things and experienced too many new and wonderful feelings. My trip to Europe was a completely overwhelming experience in all the right ways. A completely healthy exercise and--now that I look back on it--a completely
mandatory part of my growth.
I'm ashamed to admit this, but I've always been scared of new things and new places. I've never wanted to find my own way. My parents have always known this fear in me, and they worked diligently over the years to fight it by encouraging me--and often, pushing me--to do the things that scared me most. But being the stubborn girl I am, I always fought them right back, thinking of convenient excuses not to study abroad or take other risks of similar magnitude.
So, when my good friend asked me if I'd like to do this two-week trip with her, that familiar sense of fear kicked in. "Don't do it!" my fragile psyche screamed out at me. I all but capitulated to its selfish whims.
And then, in one of the most logical moments I've ever experienced when dealing with my own mind, I let the fear go.
I could not think of
one single good reason why I shouldn't go on this trip. And the old standbys just didn't make sense anymore. Almost nothing would be worth missing this opportunity. I had finally reached a point in my life where I could take a risk and be perfectly fine with it.
As the airplane lifted off into the air on that Saturday three weeks ago, I felt serene and excited. I far over-packed for the two-week trip, but I felt confident knowing I had left the biggest obstacle of all back at home--my fear.
'Cause I remember how we drank time together
And how you used to say that the stars are forever.
And daydreamed about how to make your life better by
Leaving town, leaving town.
~ Dexter Freebish
