I’ve been working on two autobiographies (I know. They’re about two completely different things, but I’m in love with both of them). Of course, life throws you curveballs, and I’ve been thrown a good deal of them lately. I’ve been having a very difficult time putting them all together. I was lying in bed this afternoon, crying because the heartache came over me again, and the idea hit me; I need to write about this. It will be fiction, but only sort of. I’m making a character and giving her experiences like mine, like my friends’…anything. The two of us need to understand each other with different ideas so we’ll actually have things to write about and learn about one another. I plan on calling it, Chasing Daisy, for reasons I will explain. Daisy is the name of Gatsby’s one true love; that almost unattainable dream that he needed to be truly happy. For me, Daisy is not just a novel character. She is the happiness I’m looking for in everything. She’s the ex-boyfriend who is now going into the air guard, saying he’ll be back for me when he comes home. She’s the sadness I feel–the demons that haunt me every single day. She’s so many things for me, and I need to address them. Hell, this whole book could be Daisy for me, and I could actually catch her. This is going to be interesting to write, but I can’t wait. I’m holding off all other projects until this one is complete. I’ll post things periodically about the book on here; maybe I’ll ask for opinions or editing or what I should even do, but I’ll definitely let all of you wonderful, talented people stay in the loop!
Sorry about that last post. It’s sort of dark, but I had written it for a good reason, and I’m so glad I did. I had the opportunity to meet with author Mindy Lewis last week and be a part of a small writing workshop with her. We had to write pieces about a time when we couldn’t speak for ourselves, and this experience was the first thing that came to my mind. In this piece, we were asked to actually say what we wish we had said at the time, and that’s what I tried to do. People loved it, but I loved it even more, mainly because it felt like in my head, I was saying what I wanted to at the time. Maybe there’s never really a lost chance to speak up. This was just the right time for me to do it. It was a risk for me, but I put it all out there. I’m rather proud of it. So, once again, I apologize if the last piece upset any of you, but it was very important to me that I get it out there, because I deserve to be heard.
I used to be innocent, but things changed. I spent nine months under your power, not once questioning you—at least, not to your face. Looking back, not defending myself earlier than when I did is my sole regret in life.
You had no right to do those things to me. Don’t you dare ask where you went wrong. You know what you did, but if it will really help you understand, I’ll go through it again. It’s not like I don’t relive it every day, anyway.
I understand that people have their own ways of dealing with issues; we all have demons, and it’s important to face them in a way that is effective. Was taking them out on me really as effective as you thought? You would always say, “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” and the funny thing was, I believed you. The cycle was relentless; I let you hurt me continuously for months because you convinced me that I deserved to be treated that way. From time to time, there wouldn’t be bruises—perhaps only a few stinging words—but those hurt just as much. I would hide the feelings and marks and brush it all off, still having a flicker of hope in my eyes that we would reconcile.
Do you know what that does to a person? Just holding everything in, just so that she will have a sliver of proof that what’s happening is reality and not just an awful dream? It has the ability to kill, but I didn’t reach that unfortunate fate. I just live with the memories and continue on with my life. I have yet to figure out of that is a blessing or a curse.
It wasn’t just me I let you hurt, though. I lied to our families and friends for you because everyone adored you. I acted thrilled when you gave me gifts—the ones that came conveniently after the fights that occurred while no one else was looking. Everyone thought it was so sweet of you to buy me flowers or strawberries or the brand new Taylor Swift CD the day it came out. The same goes for the stuffed animals, candy, and jewelry. They were like rewards for me for not saying anything about what you were really doing. If I don’t talk, I get hurt anyway, but if I do, I get hurt much, much worse. Nobody would have ever guessed that you were a guy who would abuse his girlfriend. I’m not even afraid to say that anymore; it was abuse. It wasn’t love, like you tried to tell me, nor was it deserved or a lesson or any of those manipulative tricks you tried to use in order to justify all the things you did. I never had to apologize to you, but I always did, hoping the attacks would stop, even though I knew they were inevitable. You were a hopeless case, but I never lost faith in either of us.
I used to be innocent, but maybe that hasn’t really changed, after all. I’m innocent in the sense that I did nothing wrong. There’s so much I still want to say. Actually, I want to scream it all in your face, just like you did to me so many times. You stole my voice and my courage, and those are things you should never deny a person. Thankfully, all of the horrible impulses you acted on weren’t enough to end me. I’m still here, and I’ve gone a whole year without you. Leaving you and moving on were the two best things I’ve ever done in my life. I will forever be better than the punching bag you made me out to be, because I deserve to be happy and respected. So, thank you, for helping me discover my self-worth. If that’s the silver lining in this, I’ll gladly take it.
At my college, I was recently hired as a night host in my residence hall. It’s a decent job-you literally get paid $8 an hour to sit around, have people sign pieces of paper and do your homework. It’s not too demanding. At all.
The thing here is, on weekends, night hosts work from 11:45 at night until 4:45 the next morning (which is why this is being posted at such an odd hour). We can’t get up and walk around unless it’s 4 feet to the bathroom or taking our hourly rounds of the building, in which one of the two hosts must stay behind to watch the doors. Back to the timing of the job, though (my apologies-writing this at 3:30 in the morning is not as easy or fluid as I thought it might be).
I figured that since my homework is done, I would bring down my writing things (notebook, laptop, pens, pencils…) and write some pieces or work on ones I already have in progress or something. I have no idea. Just to write and stay moving and awake. That’s all I wanted. I want to just write and enjoy myself and what happens? Writer’s block strikes. My dear friend, how I’ve missed you!
*That line was sarcasm. I promise.*
So now, here I am, 3:33 in the morning, sitting in a college lounge chair with a little bag of potato chips and a craving for one more cup of coffee (to add to the 3 I’ve had all day), and I can’t even think of a story to tell or a song to write or a poem to construct. Nothing is coming to me at this point, and I’ve still got about another hour.
Lesson learned: don’t bother writing at 3 in the morning unless there’s something really weighing heavy on your mind that you know for a fact you can write about. Especially if you’re me.