Crystal Clear, Razor Sharp

So why do you want to read my blog?

Maybe it's because something I say or the way I say it will touch you. Maybe you can relate in some way. Maybe you’ll start to care about what happens to me, or begin to worry about the people that come and go from my life like it was some revolving glass door without a doorman. Maybe you’ll even start to like me. And I think I know why.

Odds are, you’re no one special either.

You’re just like me. You just live life, hoping that someday the things you have done will somehow amount to something worthwhile. You want to be able to sit down on your couch when you’re sixty years old and life aches in your bones and believe that someone cared. Maybe you aren’t even looking that far down the road. Maybe you just want to survive this week.

You are reading this because, I believe, life is worth reading about, even if you are no one special. Day after miserable day we get up, rub our eyes, and breathe in the next moment of life. We go through each little detail, joy and pain, of each little moment, because life matters.

That’s what this blog will be about. My life, as it happens, seen only through my blogs. I may be vague at times, but I will always be honest. Life is honest. I won’t tell you where I’m from, I won’t tell you who I am. For now, I won’t even tell you my name. But I will be here whenever you feel like reading about life.

Because life is something special.

Why are you reading this?

Life is a multiple choice test and I forgot my scantron

In the fish tank of life, I’m the one tapping on the glass

Yes, no, maybe so, 99, 100

Handle me with care

Whistle whilst you Serve

Snooze button – haiku 1

Love for locks

Do unto others

Odd couple

Random blog

A cordial invitation

Midterm grades

Loose lips sink ships

Help! My relation-ship is sinking fast!

Polly in his pocket

Nowhere to run - Poem 1

Skank-a-thon

November frost – haiku 2

Does God pray for me?

Trouble in paradise

Mother, may I?

A lame joke

Crystal clear, razor sharp – haiku 3

Life by the numbers

Control - Poem 2

Confession

What now?

Self evaluation

Poem 3

A letter to the reader

University life is meant to prepare a person for the future. If you ask most students WHY they are throwing thousands of dollars down each semester, their answer will usually include a reference to a career. “They have a really good economics program,” says one. “I want to play in such-and-such orchestra and they are more likely to give you an audition if you have studied music theory,” says another. “I’m only here until law school,” replies a third.

So why don’t I feel prepared?

I’m a sophomore now, studying psychology. I am almost halfway through this program (or I still have half left, if you are a pessimist) and I still don’t know what I am going to do.

There are numerous possibilities, of course. There’s school counseling, but I don’t think I could listen to bratty girls whine about catfights and whether or not they should sleep with the quarterback. There’s professional counseling, which pays great, but I don’t feel like I could actually be much help. Criminal counseling is out of the question, I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night. Same with child psychology. How do you listen to a 13-year-old girl talk about how daddy has molested her since she was six and then go home to dinner?

There are a lot of other options as well, but I made my point, right? I have an interest in this field, I just don’t know what I should do. Next semester I will need to gear my classes more toward a specific field. I have 15 weeks left, and I can’t decide. At this point in time it feels like I should have all the answers. My life is a classic standardized test, just like everyone else’s – all I need to do is fill in the bubbles. I’ve got my No.2 pencil, but I haven’t studied.

In the fish tank of life, I’m the one tapping on the glass

Today I went to the library to study, I need to get this chapter down by Friday for biology, and I accomplished quite a bit. Unfortunately, none of what I accomplished had to do with my homework. I slipped again into a “people watching” session. Don’t wrinkle your eyebrows at me, lots of people do it, and I love it.

As suggested by the name, I just sit there and watch people. I make up stories about their lives based on what they are doing and how they interact with other people. Sometimes my stories are just ridiculous things, all made-up and fantastical nonsense. Other times I really try to understand who the person is and what it’s like to be them.

For example, there was this boy. Shaggy hair, shoulders slumped, pouring over a calculus book. He didn’t wear glasses, but he squinted a bit. He was there before me and still hadn’t moved when I left. He didn’t wear any headphones.

My theory? He’s the oldest child in a middle-income family. His parents could help him pay for school if there was an emergency, but he has a scholarship he wants to keep so as not to be a burden. They live in another state, and he doesn’t have a car. He’s studying to be an in-house accountant for a big corporation. He doesn’t think his family is poor, but he never wants to worry about money, and so he studies.

There was also a couple there, sitting a table to the left of the studious student. They tried to study, but the girlfriend would sigh or touch his hand or rub her sandaled feet along his calf every time he seemed to be concentrating. He didn’t seem to mind very much. He was tall and lean, but not skinny, and she was a blond little stick figure with a cute nose. My theory? They just started dating, and before that the blond had been interested in study-boy. She got upset when he wanted to study all the time, and he told her he didn’t want to date anymore. The blond is interested in the new boy, but she hasn’t been so affectionate with him before. Little does he know, she is just trying to make study-boy jealous.

See what I mean? Nothing done on my homework, unless you count people watching as an observation of organisms in their natural habitats.

Yes, no, maybe so, 99, 100

I don’t know if I like myself. It’s a simple question, if someone ever asks you. “Do you like yourself?” You’ve got a 50-50 chance. Yes or No.

And I can’t get the right answer, no matter which I choose.

I was thinking about this today. It was kind of a warm-up discussion in psychology today, but it has plagued me ever since because I HONESTLY DON’T KNOW. I don’t think I dislike myself, but I am not totally happy with who I am. Why is that?

Maybe because I don’t know who I am.

Maybe I can talk my way through this.

I am a psych major who can’t figure out what she wants to be - I don’t even know where I am going after this next semester. I have no religious affiliation, but I believe in God. I have a lot of people that I talk to, people I trust, but not one I would consider my closest and dearest friend. I don’t have a boyfriend. I like running, reading and Mexican food. I collect rubber ducks, and I have the habit of occasionally turning on soap operas during the day and watching for ten or fifteen minutes just to try and figure out who is cheating on whom. (I just said ‘whom,’ isn’t that great?)

Hmm, by that description I could be almost any girl. “I am every girl.”

You see the dilemma, don’t you?

I have decided that by the end of this semester, in 11 weeks, before finals begin, I will be able to answer that seemingly simple 50-50 question. I think I can do that if I can answer the following questions about myself:

1. What do I want to do with my degree?
2. What am I going to do next summer?
3. I know I believe in God, but does God believe in me?
4. Who is my closest friend? Do I even need one?
5. And . . . something else . . . because this shouldn’t be an even number . . .

Handle me with care

Do you know how glass is made? This will be a somewhat juvenile explanation, what I understood from this website, but hey, I never suggested chemistry was my strong suit. Raw materials such as sand, silica ash and limestone, are heated until they melt and fuse together. This can take temperatures of 1100 degrees Celsius or higher. It forms a crude liquid. The liquid is again heated and refined, then molded.

Isn’t that me right now? I am nothing but a pile of dirt with a bit of potential. I have to first be heated to the point I break down, and then I will be refined. Something will mold me and shape me until I am beautiful to behold.

I have some changes to make.

Also, the nature of glass is telling, I think.

Glass is fragile. Glass should never be hit, pushed or dropped. Glass can be beautiful and bright, showing you your reflection with every move, or it can be cold and distant. Glass is honest - it has no secrets. It sparkles, even when it’s broken.

I am Glass. Please handle me with care.

Whistle whilst you serve

Tonight, as a part of my “define who Glass Girl is” plan, I decided to join a club. It’s the kind of “get involved” action that you heard every counselor harp about in Freshman Orientation, but I did it.

Also, I thought it would look good on internship applications for next summer.

I joined the Service Club. We meet every Tuesday to plan and carry out, you guessed it, service. And not just putting out recycling bins for aluminum cans, either. Last year the club did things like trips to the children’s cancer wards in the University Hospital, volunteered to moderate support groups for alcoholics and arranged a sit-in to raise awareness about domestic violence.

The people there seem to be genuinely kind. They were friendly, welcoming and natural. I talked to one guy named Matt for while after the meeting, just small talk about school and life, but it was a flirtatious and comfortable conversation. We went for a walk around campus, and he bought me an ice cream cone. And did I mention he is attractive?

Snooze button - haiku 1

Mechanical chirps

Steal dreams like air from my lungs

I can’t escape now

Love for locks

Warning: This blog is all girl.

When I look in the mirror, I see hair. I think my hair is very pretty, one of my best features, and it defines me. I can go out without makeup and be fine, I can wear a baggy t-shirt and jeans, but I need to do my hair. It’s all I have. I don’t consider myself an unattractive person, but frankly there is little about my appearance that would make me stand out in a crowd. My hair is the one thing about me that keeps me from being lost in the sea of females that just want to be noticed.

I have worn my hair long, but right now for convenience sake I have it at a medium length, hanging just past my shoulders. I could never wear it too short because my high forehead and round moon face would look ridiculous.

I love and hate my style at the same time because it is very versatile. I love it because I can style it several ways, but I hate that I can never just LEAVE IT and it will look ok. It is to wavy to just be straight and too thick to just dry curly.

I have been known to give certain styles nicknames, which I will share with you now.

• Flipped hair: Ok, not a very original name for that one, but it gets better, I promise. The way I have my hair cut cut, with some layers around the face and some long bangs that hang in my eyes when I let them, I can flip the ends either under or out. I usually flip it under, just because that’s how it tends to dry naturally, but lately I have been experimenting with flipping it out, and I have been told it doesn’t look half bad.
• “Top Ramen” or “cocker spaniel” hair: At the beginning of this semester I actually had a guy in my psych class tell me I had Top Ramen hair on a day I had done my hair curly. I think he was trying to be cute, be he just sounded stupid. Another male classmate, upon hearing the comment, shook his head in disbelief and averted his eyes. After I got it cut, I said the curly hair made me look like a cocker spaniel, and a few friends have picked up on the name.
• Country music video hair: I guess I can just let my hair dry, if I put the right stuff in it and then fix it up a bit with my hair dryer. The result is a wavy mess, not as curly as when I dry it. It is usually accompanied by dark eyeliner and an angsty smile, which is why it received the name it did.
• Straight as sin hair: I am also known to straighten my hair and just let it hang in my face. This look is fun with a hat and also usually gets dark eyeliner for a kind of emo look.

Thanks to everyone who actually read that. I just wanted to talk about my hair.

Do unto others

Big points to whoever thought up the idea of joining a club to give my morale a jumpstart. Hey wait, that was me!

Tonight was week three of Glass Girl’s “Help others to help yourself” plan, and things are going splendidly. It is a lot of fun, and I’m happy. We are collecting donations of clothing, towels, soap and other hygiene items to send to war-torn Darfur. The key, we decided, is to get light and useful items, because it will cost less to ship. Then we can send cash donations to the Red Cross, helping them supply food. I think it’s great – helping people makes me happy.

And did I mention there is a boy there?

Ah yes, the truth comes out – I admit it. No girl is ever without ulterior motives, right?

I spent the whole evening talking to Matt again. He likes to flirt with me, something I am not opposed to in the slightest, and I think he is incredibly attractive.

Physically, he falls perfectly into the kind of men I am attracted to – lean yet athletic with dark hair, broad shoulders and a goofy smile. Intellectually, he is unlike any guy I have yet encountered. He is honest and insightful, intelligent and a real problem-solver kind of person. After the meeting there was another long walk and ice cream, even though the temperature has been steadily dropping each night. The conversation was more meaningful this time, more personal. As cheesy as it sounds, we talked about goals and dreams, careers, our families. He was very trusting, sharing with me some very personal details about his past, and I did the same in return.

Good things are definitely coming of my attempts to socialize myself. Do unto others, and maybe others will do unto you…

Odd couple

My roommate is driving me crazy today. She just gets so impossible when she is stressed – meaning any time she does homework.

Meet Julie. Everyone knows a Julie.

I know part of the problem is that my patience is running on empty, but I’m not feeling gracious enough to take the blame here. It’s her, all her. Hrmph.

Julie and I were friends last semester, before I went home for the summer. Well, we’re friends now, but seeing each other every day is bound to alter interactions between any two people. She just seems irritated at everything I do, everything I say. I should maybe show more concern for her, since she is so stressed out, but any suggestions of going out are lost somewhere between her furrowed brow and gnashing teeth.

And besides, I don’t understand, as she says. I don’t take “the same kind of classes” as she does. She thinks my life is so easy? Not hardly.

Bitch fest ends now.

Random blog

Feeling emotional, listening to music.

A cordial invitation

Matt asked me on a date!

Some of you may have just rolled your eyes at the screen in true “So what?” fashion, but this is a big deal for me! In my life, a total of five men have had the GUTS to actually ask me out on a formal date. The modern dating world seems to have shifted to a “hang out till you make out” philosophy (meaning just get to know each other in group shindigs until you move into a relationship), and I’m fine with that. But there is something special about being asked to go on a date.

For tonight’s Service Club activity we were blanketing the area in fliers letting people know about our project. Much to my delight, Matt volunteered himself into my group. This means I abandoned all plans of leaving after an hour to get back to cramming for my stats midterm, but you only live once right?

As we walked up and down innumerable amounts of apartment stairs, leaving little slips of paper in a trail worthy of any Hansel and Gretel, we talked. We talked about our pasts, our families, our dreams and the most random nonsense you can imagine. At the end of the night, he very cordially asked me to go to dinner with him Saturday.

That’s all for now, those stats notes are glaring up at me, and that midterm (on Friday, of course) will be the Yin to my date-night’s Yang. Psych and English shouldn’t be that big of a deal. But I have worked hard (most of the time) and I think I can handle this. A few more study sessions and then all I can do is my best, right?

Buenas Suerte to me!

Midterm Grades

I failed. Damn it.

Loose lips sink ships

I have postponed writing an update from Saturday’s date, hoping the situation would change, but no such luck. I can’t run away anymore.

I was . . . emotionally unstable . . . after failing my stats midterm. Even though I didn’t get the score till this week, I knew it was bad. 68 percent. And anyone reading this and thinking “Oh c’mon, a 68 isn’t actually failing,” you can take my D+ and shove it.

Anyway.

Went on the date. After dinner Matt, kind and considerate Matt, wanted to hear all about my bad test. How sweet. We went to a park and walked around as dark was falling and I poured my pathetic soul at his feet. He was full of consolation and encouragement, and took my hand as we walked.

As the temperature dropped, we headed back to his car and talked some more. Then we stopped talking. He kissed me. He kissed me till all I wanted to was to block out the memory of my academic ineptitude. He kissed me right into the back seat of his stupid four-door coup.

I’m so . . . ashamed of myself. We are talking hot and heavy make out session. The whole show: fogged windows, roaming hands, flat-on-my-back-where-did-our-shirts-go, urgent kissing.

You might expect a little something to come of this, wouldn’t you? Another date. At least a phone call, I mean he’s got my number. I got nothing. I let myself believe he was just busy and he would talk to me at Service Club on Tuesday. Nope. He offered a polite kind of “Oh, hello. Yes, I know you,” and then ran off. He vehemently avoided me the rest of the night and hasn’t called all week.

Help! My relation-ship is sinking fast!

In this world, there are lovers, there are haters, and there are relationshippers.

The lovers are people that can easily love, find love and keep love. However, they are also fine without love, because they know that if they just keep living their lovely lives, love will find them just around the next corner. They are secure. The kind of people that fall into this category are flirts, happy couples, pretty and confident females, suave males and those who struggle with commitment.

The haters are people who aren’t interested in love; they seem to do fine without it. They may be stand-offish and prone to wear dark clothing and makeup. They probably seem angry. Love doesn’t find them because it is afraid of having its limbs removed. They hang a “no soliciting” sign over their hearts. Despite all this, though, they are happy – they have an identity.

Then there are the relationshippers, as I like to call them. Us. Whatever.

I am a relationshipper, and I hate it. I always want to be loved. I am always trying to sum up whether the man I am talking to is a potential boyfriend – I do this even when I have a boyfriend. I am happiest when I am in a relationship.

I can’t carry on a casual conversation with anyone male, because even as we discuss our class sizes and our professor’s toupee, I am running through my mental checklist: am I attracted to him? Does he seem like he could somehow be tricked into being attracted to me? How have I seen him act towards other females – is he interested in someone else? CAN I GET HIM?

Why do I do this? Why can’t I just be happy with me? Huh? Why do I need the attention of some sex-driven male to make me feel like a woman? I hate the part of me that is always looking and always wanting to be with someone. I detest my desire for constant companionship. I want to strangle the voice inside my head that is constantly prodding me “he seems interested, tell him what he wants to hear before he gets away,” or “forget it girly, he’d never want you.”

I HATE THAT I ALWAYS WANT TO BE LOVED. Because I can’t truly love myself until someone else loves me.

As you may have guessed, things with Matt didn’t go the greatest. I talked to him. I think that was a mistake.

I saw him at the library tonight. I dropped my books at an empty table and began to sit down. Just as I was at the point in the motion when it is impossible to stop the movement, I noticed who was sitting just two tables to the left and slightly behind me. You got it - Matt, poring over some video game on his laptop.

It was too late to leave, I had sat down, and he had seen me. I tried to study for about 20 mins, but my psych terms just blurred before my eyes and my hands shook. Finally, I gave up. I walked over to him and I told him, stupidly and honestly, that he had hurt me when he didn’t call me and then ignored me – after all that happened I thought he would. He seemed happy to see me at first, he even touched my knee at one point, but at any question that implied I needed an answer about his level of commitment (but don’t think I was stupid enough to use those words), he looked away and shuffled his feet.

Polly in his pocket

Who the hell names their kid Polly? What does a name like Polly imply? “Hi, I’m Polly. I’m cute and loveable and my curls are never out of place. I’m simpering sweet to everyone I meet and my eyes sparkle when I laugh. Hee hee hee.”

I met a Polly today. It wasn’t pleasant.

I went to Service Club tonight, perhaps against my better judgment. I didn’t want to see Matt, I wanted to give him the “time” that he needed. At the last minute though, I changed my mind. Tonight we were supposed to assemble hygiene kits to send to Darfur, and for that the club needed all the hands it could get on its assembly line of love.

I brought my generosity and goodwill to try and help starving children in Sudan, and Matt brought Polly. Some blonde freshman with hair grown long and straight down her back.

I watched them talk and laugh, all the while wringing the cloths I was to be putting in the hygiene kits with all my might and imagining they were Polly’s blonde locks. She has the annoying habit of crinkling her button nose in the most endearing way when she giggles. I could practically smell the pheromones.

This was a calculated message, I’m sure. He doesn’t want time, he doesn’t want me and he certainly doesn’t want to talk tomorrow. He’s a lover, not a relationshipper. I opened my mouth because I wanted to put him in the “defined by attention from a male” piece of my puzzle. And he ran like he had stolen something (probably the wiser choice on his part).

Well, he did steal something. I won’t say my heart - I care too much about myself to say something as petty and cliché as that.

Nowhere to run - Poem 1

Thud, thud on the drizzled ground,

Cold pavement welcomes me like an old friend.

A morning wind rips oxygen from my lungs.

My heat is lost to autumn air.

Keep running. Keep moving.

Why do my thoughts stray?

Why do they travel, back in time, back in space?

My limbs feel heavy as I drag on.

Why am I here?

Just keep going. Don’t ask questions.

It hurts!

I know.

Thoughts fly back to another time and feeling cold

A cold night, a hot car,

The feel of his jeans, his kiss and a smile in the dark.

I get lost…

Forget it! Keep running. Keep moving.

I know I am getting close. I know where he lives.

Every footstep and I’m closer. I gasp.

Thud, thud. Thud, thud.

Don’t look. Keep going.

But I just want to -

No! Keep going.

I want to see –

No! Keep running.

But what if –

No! Just keep running!

I round the corner and run away.

Heavy feet, heavy Souls.

Skank-a-thon

“Halloween is the one night a year when a girl can dress like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it.” –Lindsay Lohan, Mean Girls

When I first heard this statement, I took it to heart. And when I went to the party at The Blue Lamp last night, I kept hearing it again in my head, because it’s so true.

Welcome to the obligatory Halloween blog.

The holiday of candy and costumes, masks and glitter, couldn’t have come at a better time this year. I mean, Halloween on a Saturday implies huge party. I wanted to look sexy, like every other female in this town, but I still wanted to wear clothing. I had kind of an alien thing going – tall black boots with a short black skirt and fishnet stockings, a silver top, yellow sunglasses and those antenna bopper things on my head. It was a pretty cheap ensemble, but I figured since I was wearing black and fishnets, I fit in.

Most of the girls there lived up to the slut rule, and this year there seemed to be a “Cheap porno career day” theme. If I never see another short-skirted flight attendant or postal worker, it will be too soon.

But back to me. I wanted to feel sexy. I wanted some sort of fearless liberation to hit me as I stepped onto the dance floor. I wanted to meet the eyes of a mysterious stranger across the room, slide up to him and start dancing without a word.

Didn’t happen.

November frost - haiku 2

Colder each morning

Unknown darkness looms ahead

I see the frost now

Does God pray for me?

I said in my monumental Sept. 17 blog entitled “Yes, no, maybe so, 99, 100,” that I had the question “Does God believe in me.” Since I have a few minutes before bed, I would like to explore this a little.

Care to come along?

I don’t doubt there is a God. I never have. There are too many things in this life that don’t make sense otherwise. There is too much goodness in the world, right along with all the bad. I can’t help but look at beauty in the world, I can’t help but feel happiness and love and know someone must have had a hand in it. I don’t practice with any organized religion, I just don’t feel like it fits me. I went to a Methodist church a few times with a friend, and I have been to a Catholic church. It all seemed too theatrical and I really just didn’t feel anything. For now, I’m just not interested.

But I pray, and I have a bible. I read it sometimes, mostly psalms and happy things like that. I pray when I need help, when I’m sad or scared. Not really bowed head, palms together kind of praying, more of an ongoing narrative in my mind.

That’s a little wishy-washy, but hey.

When I graduated from high school, I went to the cemetery with my dad. We went to take my grandma a graduation announcement. She died when I was only seven, and being the oldest child as well as the oldest grandchild, I am the only one of us kids that remembers her, however vaguely.

Dad doesn’t share the same view as me concerning God. In fact, he’s exactly opposite. “There is too much sorrow in this life for there to be a God,” he says. “This morning I read an obituary about a six-year-old boy who died of cancer. How could God let that happen?”

As we knelt there, I cried a little. Don’t ask me why, I just do it sometimes. I looked at dad and felt so sorry for him. Without a belief in God, he must not think he will ever see his mother again, I thought. “Dad, how could she be gone?” I asked him. “How could someone as good and loving as grandma just be gone? I can’t believe that. There must be a God, because I know grandma can’t really be gone.”

“I don’t know what I believe,” he said, and we wept together.

I believe in God, but I don’t know if he believes in me. There are times when I feel like dad – how could God let something like this happen? Why doesn’t he do something? Does he care? I know I wouldn’t want to let bad things happen to good people.

Trouble in paradise

I said before that when Julie gets too stressed she is difficult to live with. Lately she has developed the annoying habit of bossing me around. She feels out of control in her life, so she decides to rule mine. She thinks she’s my mom.

I like to leave myself sticky notes with reminders on them, because it sometimes helps. Sometimes. Then I usually forget to take them down. If she is in a foul mood she will spot them and ask if I remembered whatever it was I was trying to remember. She checks up on me to see if I have eaten dinner, asks me what homework I have and suggests that I make my bed. A few weeks ago she even suggested, “Shouldn’t you be getting to bed if you have to get up early?”

Last semester we got along so well, we did everything together. And even at the beginning of this semester things were good. It seemed to work perfectly – we had the same schedule in the morning, but we weren’t in each other’s way. We would take turns in the bathroom and never fought over the mirror.

Maybe this is why I feel so lonely. I don’t have a close friend here, and it’s true. Most of the girls around me are sweet, and I consider myself fairly charismatic, so I get along with all of them. And despite our rougher moments I get along with Jules too. They are all my friends, but I have yet to find an ally. There isn’t one person I can truly trust. I haven’t told anyone (in person at least) about the Matt drama. I saw him with his new girly today. Bastard.

I don’t know what I need – a friend, a man, what? But I need something . . .

Mother, may I?

Today she crossed the line.

I had to get up early and go to a last-minute cram group for biology, so I left before Julie got up. When I came back a little later, she went through the usual, “When did you leave? What did you do?” questions. Then she really pissed me off. “Did you even brush your teeth before you left?” she asked. “I didn’t hear you when you woke up.”

Say what?!?! It may seem stupid and insignificant, but it’s the principle of the thing. Even if I hadn’t, what business of hers is it? She’s not my keeper. No one asked her to be, and frankly I don’t need it.

Like I said, it’s stupid, but it ate at me all day long.

Tonight I was hanging some laundry and decided I was going to attempt to ignore my petty irritation. I attempted friendly small talk and gossip about the day, but she continued to be surly. She wasn’t even studying, just texting on her cell phone and occasionally glancing at her notes.

Finally, I snapped.

“I hate it when you do homework,” I said.

“Oh? Why is that?” she replied in about the same tone.

“Because the first thing you do when you study is shove a 2x4 up your ass,” I barked.

A lame joke

It’s not very nice . . .

Q: What’s the difference between a rose and a guy in a Corvette?

A: With a rose, the prick is on the outside.

Told you so.

Crystal clear, Razor sharp - haiku 3

Glass walls before me

Crystal clear and razor sharp

Keeping cold inside

Life by the numbers

I feel inadequate in all things. I have studied and actually done well in my psych class, a goal I had, but I don’t feel closer to an answer to my “after college” question. I will pass Stats but not with the grade I want. I don’t have a close friend to talk to. I don’t have anyone to hold me. I am not totally happy with my appearance.

The numbers just don’t add up.

5 – The number of full semesters I have left before I graduate.

72- My current grade percentage in stats.

6- The number of months left until summer.

13- How many pounds over the weight-for-your-height recommendation I am.

4- The number of times I have talked to my family in the past three weeks.

0- The number of times I have called my family.

7 – The number of non-family people I have on speed dial.

2- The number of times I have called those people them in the past week.

6-The number of guys I have kissed.

1-The number of guys I have broken up with.

5-The number of guys that have broken up with me.

Control - Poem 2

I can’t find it

Don’t remember looking, actually.

Am I looking now?

What’s the answer?

What’s the question?

How do I make this stop?

Give me back my map, I’m lost!

Hello?

Silence crashes upon me

The empty room is a noose at my neck

There’s no one here.

No arms close to fold me in

No warm eyes to build me up

Still no answer.

Why can’t I let it out?

All the pain and the worry inside me

It has to be in there somewhere, inside me –

And no one is here…

Keep running. Keep moving.

If I make it hurt, what else can hurt me?

Let it out

I can be my own keeper, just let the confusion go –

Let it out

Steel glints cold in harsh fluorescent lights…

Don’t worry, take control

Fingers on soft flesh. Will anyone be able to see?

Higher, just a little higher

I can control the waves, I can take control –

Take control!

Cold steel on soft flesh, Don’t hesitate –

Let it out

BURNING PAIN!

Burning pain…

I control the waves. I control the pain.

It drips warm and crimson on the ivory floor.

I sit quietly and cry in –

What?

Pain . . . and . . . pleasure.

I control everything.

It drips warm and crimson on the ivory floor.

Confession

I can’t believe what I’ve done. I don’t know what to do about it, I don’t even really know what I think. I can’t sort it out in my mind. That’s why I’m writing this, that’s why I wrote the poem. I am taking these thoughts and feelings and now deeds that terrify me and I am throwing them out into the depths of cyberspace, like a cry for help in a digital bottle, thrown into my dark ocean.

What have I become?

I don’t know why I did it, I just felt so lonely and so lost in my life. There are only three weeks left until finals, and in some respects I am further behind on this “path of self-discovery” than when I started walking. I want to be able to answer those questions.

But now I’m rambling…

On Saturday I cut myself. Some people won’t understand at all, I know. If you find yourself wanting to ask me obvious questions (“That was stupid – why did you do that? How does that help anything?”) odds are you don’t understand. So don’t ask.

I just wanted to be in control. I wanted to feel powerful, like the master of myself. I just made a few little cuts on my upper thighs. I guess I thought such a drastic action would make me feel better.

And it did! For one fleeting moment as the first drops of blood ran down my skin, I did feel better. I was in control, and I felt relieved. I was able to relax, just sit and watch the blood for a moment, and breathe. It was a release, the worry and the doubt didn’t matter. They were gone.

How could I have felt that way?

I’m going home tonight. It’s Thanksgiving Break, and I will get to go home and see my family. I can’t tell them, though, I could never talk to my parents about this. I’m driving back to school Sunday. The travel will give me time. Time to pray. Time to talk to myself about all of this – I don’t even know who I am anymore.

What now?

This has been a productive few days. Being home made me feel, peaceful. Not happy, but peaceful. Seeing the boys, finding out my sister has been sneaking in Mom’s makeup and seeing Mom prance about the house in her new sweater made me feel comfortable.

I haven’t told you about my family. I’m one of the few people I know whose parents are still together, and I consider myself lucky. I have two little brothers, they’re twins, and a little sister. I’m the oldest. I love my parents, but I haven’t talked to them much this semester. I just get lost in all I have to do; I work and I play and forget until it’s too late to call, but I’ll do it tomorrow. And then tomorrow, and then tomorrow.

I obviously couldn’t talk to them about how I am feeling now, they aren’t very open minded about such things, but that’s what I have this blog for.

I have one week of classes left, and then its finals week. I said I would answer my questions before the last class was out, and I still intend to do that. I still feel about the same, a little lost and lonely, but not in the same desperate way. I don’t have answers, but I think I’m closer.

Self evaluation

I have thought more about what happened, about what I did, and why I did it. Cutting yourself doesn’t seem like a way to solve anything. I still don’t understand it, but at the time it really did. It made everything go away.

But I still can’t believe what I did. I knew that wasn’t really an answer, because it did nothing to change the situation. It gave me a few dramatic moments of release, but eventually all I had been feeling rushed back, waiting to be cleaned up along with the mess I made in the bathroom.

I had heard about cutting only briefly in some of the psyche classes I took in high school. I didn’t understand it, but it intrigued me and it stayed with me, and at times when I was upset I would think of it. But I never acted on it. In junior high I would prick myself with a safety pin at the worst moments, but I was too scared to do anything else. But just the needles made me feel better, only seeing them even, just knowing they were there. I started wearing them on my backpack.

I stopped just before high school began, and I forgot all about it until now. But I guess this desire has always been with me. And the other day when things just felt so heavy and sad, I remembered. And I acted before I could even really think.

I’ll never cut myself again. I’m afraid of the way it made me feel; I’m supposed to be going into psychology of all things!

Poem 3

I walk to the edge of the stone and I sit

Dangle my feet into space

The empty below falls away soft and slow

And the cold wind kisses my face.

I look down at the valley, so peaceful,

A secret place I keep for someday

It’s empty for now but with pick and with plow

I’ll make a safe home, and I’ll stay.

There’s paper and ink I left there by the road

I’ll map the path I can’t see

Once a journey’s begun under crisp Autumn sun

I’ll charter the way inside me.

A secret place, tucked away in the hills

Only seen from this high spot

I’ve rested a while before facing the miles

In this valley I almost forgot.

I sit at the edge of the cliff and I sigh one more time

Inhale, the time’s almost here

There’s more to do everyday, I can’t waste time this way

For every moment Madam Winter draws near.

A letter to the reader

Dear blog reader,

We’ve made it all the way to the first week of December without any snow, but the clouds on the horizon say that won’t last much longer.

Winter is here. Finals are here. The end is here. Tomorrow is the last day of class.

This is my final blog for the semester – the one you have been waiting for. The one I have been waiting for.

I know the things I talked about here may seem trivial to some, overdramatic to others and unimportant to most. But it’s my life, and it’s all I’ve got. I said it on that very first day – my life is nothing spectacular, it just is. But I have learned one new thing about it – it’s mine.

It feels strange to write this. I’ve read the final chapters of other stories, but never my own. That’s what I am doing, essentially. I write a sentence or two, I pause, and then I re-read what I just said. I am reading the final chapter of my own story – Glass Girl’s journey through the fall of her sophomore semester.

I guess it’s time to ask the inevitable question then: Do I like what I see?

Let’s go back to my five questions. Now is the time.

1 – What do I want to do with my degree?

I said before that I didn’t want to work with teenagers, that I couldn’t handle their petty drama and whiny voices. Maybe I was wrong. Thinking about all that has happened this semester, all I have said, I’m not much better. But maybe that means I can understand them. There’s a girl in my apartment, a freshman, and sometimes she seems so scared. She is rude to some, ignores others, all because she is afraid. I like talking to her, because I know how she feels. Sometimes I see the things I say reflect in her eyes when we talk, and I think it helps. I think I would like to work specifically with girls. I am every girl.

2 – What am I going to do next summer?

I haven’t even addressed that question this semester, even though I intended to. But thinking last week made me realize it wasn’t terrible to be home with my family. I just don’t want to do it for the whole summer. There is a study abroad program I am interested in, they announced it this week in my psych class. I would stay in London for a month and a half, then spend the last few weeks with my family. If I split it that way, I think I can afford the trip.

3- I know I believe in God, but does God believe in me?

To this question I have truly found an answer: yes, He does. God believes in me enough to let me be stupid, to make mistakes and to learn. I resented Julie when she tried to control my life, wouldn’t I resent the same thing from God? I guess I just have to trust Him. Granted, when times are hard I will probably cry and question, but I think if I can just remind myself once the sea calms why I was asked to swim alone, I will understand.

4 – Who is my closest friend? Do I even need one?

I have a half answer to this one. No, I do not know who my closest friend is, but I do need one. I am a person who likes loyalty and companionship. I am learning I can live without the affection and attention of a man, even though I don’t like to, but I need to trust someone. I have been avoiding Julie ever since she got back from her weekend at home. When Spring semester starts, I am going to let her read this and I will tell her everything. I need to trust someone. I need to trust that she won’t judge me. I need a friend.

5 – The mystery question…

I think I know what this question is now: Am I ok? My answer is yes. I’m not perfect, I have some knots I still need to untangle in my heart and my head, but overall I am an ok person. I am ok with who I am, and even more I am ok with the person I am becoming. I am every girl, but I have the potential to be me. Maybe I’ll write a book about it someday.

It seems kind of sudden, but I have decided to end this blog. I feel a certain amount of closure here, and I want to keep that. I learned a lot this semester, and I am different than when I started walking.

Writing is therapeutic, I will certainly continue maintaining a blog, but under a different name. Maybe you’ll find it, maybe not.

Reader, in my first blog I asked you why you were reading this, and now I ask you again. Why are you still reading this?

It’s because this is life. This is my life. My life is something special, because I am just another person like you, trying to find out who I am.

Don’t forget me.

Sincerely,

Rachel Glass