Identity Crisis? Post Breakup Crisis? Crisis?

As I pace in an out of rooms with teachers, I ask them, “I think I’m having an identity crisis.” The reality of it all is that I don’t know what is happening to me, or if it is even a crisis at all. I desperately search for labels or a title for my situation and I desperately try to find someone to connect and relate with. The more I do this, the more I feel alone. And so now I get to write about it! Yay!

What goes through my mind when I think that I have lost myself?

I don’t know if it has a connection really, but I think way to much about it. I spent 2 years in a relationship where I was told how to act, what not to say, what not to do. I can’t put that shirt on, and I cant wear my hair like that. That song I played sounded ghetto, or my hyper attitude was childish. I smiled to much when he said it was a serious situation, and I cried too much because I didn’t have a backbone. He told me to be mature, which was funny sounding when I was 14. I allowed a man who was already an adult, control my life for 2 interminable years, and I enjoyed it because he loved me. He loved the way I conformed to what he wanted. He loved my still, child-like nature that was so malleable and naive to him. He could bend me, and shape me and make me take any form he wanted. I was for him. And to this day, I believe that he was for me.

But then I think, what if having my person controlled by another became a normal to me. Maybe I feel lost now, because I am not controlled. I do not know why I feel so lost when I am free. Maybe it’s a matter of reconnecting with myself. Maybe taking back everything I loved, that he made me take away. Maybe I feel incomplete because he took pieces of who I am away. I am like a puzzle, with many pieces that I will perhaps, never get back. Maybe another person out there has the pieces that I am missing. And now I ask.. Am I actually broken? Or do I just know myself reaallly well

Maybe its both.

Why did I stay in that relationship? There is not a day that this question does not pass through my mind. I do not think there is a day where I do not think about how I have changed, and how I would be if I never met those experiences and made those memories, good and bad. Sometimes I wonder how I lost myself. And then I wonder if I ever lost myself at all. Maybe I just changed. And I am absolutely hating it.

Carri 


My manager named Carri.

Carri saw me cry today.

Carri hugs me, and I hug Carri.

Carri makes me pinky promise I will talk to her when I’m sad.

Carris love died 6 months ago.

I make Carri a good collage of their happy times.

Carri doesn’t cry in front of people.

Carri almost cried in front of me.

Carri makes me smile really big.

Carri is pretty, and has black hair.

Carri is like a get-a-way resort.

Carri is nice, even when she says she can be mean.

I have not seen Carri mean.

I yell, “Carri!!!!”  when I see her.

I look for Carri.

I look for Carri outside of work.

Carri is not outside of work.

But

Carri makes me happy.

Carri makes it all okay.

I love my manager Carri

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

I hate you. 

Big Hands 

​I thought about you when I was driving home yesterday. I held the steering wheel with my hands. And I saw that my hands were tiny. And then I remembered how you held your steering wheel. Kind of with one hand at the top. And your hand looked very big against the steering wheel when you held it like that. I imagined my hand was your big hand. My hand was on top of my steering wheel this time, and yours was not.. 

I imagined my hand was big.

You had big hands. 

Facts I Want to Change : Beauty

I think I would change how I don’t think I am beautiful. I would like to change the fact that I’ve accepted I’m not very pretty at all.  To change the fact that I truly feel this way. To change the fact that I don’t mind this thought making a stay in my mind. I would like to change the fact that a lot of girls don’t think they are beautiful. I would like to change the fact that I believe I am an exception to beauty. I want my bestfriend to see how pretty she is. I like how her tummy looks even when she calls herself fat. I would like to change the fact that she thinks she’s fat. I want to change the fact that beautiful is a limited word. I want to change the fact that beautiful sounds like a femine adjective. I will keep the fact that I am in love with a beautiful man. Men are beautiful. It’s okay love, I know you’re reading this, and your acne scars add characteristic. I wouldn’t change a fact about anyone. I wouldn’t change the fact that I see beauty come easily, but I would change the fact that I always exclude mine. 

Beautiful Flower

#OneWord

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I think I chose the word, “Flourish” over any of the other words I could think of, because it is something I needed to do, after being repressed for two years under a negative relationship. This word is important to me. I want everyone to have the ability to flourish. I don’t think I will ever be the same. I wish I never met that person. Sometimes it feels like I have been stripped of the qualities I used to have. Something is missing that used to be with me. It’s been 6 months, and I talk about this too much. But 6 months later, and I feel the effects like yesterday.
Flourish. This word will cause me to grow. Whether its from tainted soil, or not, I can still reach the sun with my beautiful mind. I was a flower before I met you. When I was with you, all I wanted was to be a beautiful flower. My petals withered with each blow. You’ve left me potted, right next to you. And here I am wanting to be a beautiful flower, trying so hard, even after I am far past you. I want to channel my feelings of bitterness, not into anger, but into feelings of growth and knowledge. I want to move on. I don’t hate you. I hate what you’ve done.
Dear 2017,
         I hope I flourish like a flower.

Sadness is a Thief

 

Traveling down a dark empty shaft, I fall. And as I fall, I can see where I had fell from. And the only thought in my mind is to get back to that place. But the more time goes on, the further the start of my fall gets. It recedes, and it gets dimmer. And sadness is a thief. I sit up and I taste, and I smell, and I see. But it all feels done so artificially. I don’t know where my energy or desire was put. I can’t remember where I lost myself. Perhaps, if I think hard enough at night, my already tired mind could remember why I left myself behind.

Sadness is a Thief.

I am not mad at you, my Dear Ex-Boyfriend

 

 

 

domestic-violence1_t580-1

 

  • One in every four women will experience domestic violence in her lifetime.
  • Women ages 16 to 24 experience the highest per capita rates of intimate violence.
  • More than 1 in 4 teenage girls in a relationship (26%) report enduring repeated verbal abuse.

Why did my guidance counselor warn me about the signs of an abusive relationship in the 6th grade, when I knew I would never come close to one?

Because I did.

 

Today, I am thinking about how good it felt to be madly in love with you. How good it felt to see you smile and laugh. I loved how we could be with each other, and leave a whole other world behind. I am thinking about that one time when we were out really late, and we just walked under streetlights, stirring ourselves up a future of hopes and ambitions. Today I am thinking about you.  I remember how I loved to talk about the future. It’s strange though.. We never talked about the present.

For two years, I felt like I needed the approval and acceptance of you. And that was the biggest mistake I could have ever made. But it was my only mistake. It struck me that you were older than I was. My parents knew this too. Blue eyes that lit up your face, and a beautiful smile. Both were an illusion, though I was already blinded by what I thought was love, I could not see. You wanted to idolize me, and you strived to make me feel as important as possible, like a queen. There was no way I could ever see someone like you ever hurting anyone in any way. And that was your very first step in manipulation- to make me believe you were perfect.

I think about it now, and it was all ingenious, really. As if he made an elaborate plan before he even knew he was going to meet me. It feels like everything he did, had the purpose of manipulation. A year into the relationship, and he led me to believe I could not be any happier. A year into the relationship, he had led me to believe I was head over heels. A year into the relationship, and he led me to believe that a life without him, was no life at all. He knew I needed him. He loved that I needed him. He fed off of it for two,  short, dreadfully interminable years.

Soon, after one year, I noticed changes. Changes in temper and mood, which I was led to believe were my fault. I knew he had self image issues, and I tried to comfort him with this. He told me he struggled with bullies when he was little. We both knew that he really did not like himself. It hurt him to see his best friend leave for college while he was stuck at home with his minimum wage paying job and mother, because he had no motivation to make himself feel or do better. And with time, these insecurities grew. And with time, so did his rage. And with the time of only one short year, I was a victim of his own personal demons. As though hurting me was going to put him through college and make him king of the world. I’m sure it felt like that to him. But the worst part was that I really wanted him to love himself.

I always wanted him to know that I thought I was so beautiful before I met him. I wanted to scream in his face, “Look what you’ve done to me!”. This achy body and restless mind is not my fault. I thought I was smart, and pretty, and my quirks were an okay thing. I loved myself so much, and he was absolutely disgusted that he didn’t love himself like I loved me. He was repulsed that I was not as sad as he was. He was nauseated that I would bypass him with my future of potential, while he stayed stationary, like a broken down car, on the side of a highway with others going 70mph. He made it his number one goal to bring me down as much as he had been. I slaved over trying to make things better for him, all while getting forced into a corner. I never knew why I was “disgusting”, when all I had did was knocked utensils off of a restaurant table. I wanted to know why I was so “ugly” when I spent my hour and a half putting on makeup and doing my hair, just for him? Why was I “worthless” when I hung out with my friends, and not him? Did it hurt him at all to see me cry as hard as I did? Or did it make him feel like he was becoming bigger than me? I knew that if I cried, he would patronize me, because “only babies cry”. But. When I cried hard enough, with hiccuping sobs, he would make half hearted attempts at apologies while flattening my hair with his hand against my head. I thought it was my fault that he was this angry. I thought it was my fault he was this sad. I thought everyday, “maybe if I were better”, “Oh why!? Why can I not be better?”. I wanted his acceptance, and his love. His love, especially.  Something  I never truly got. Something I do not ever want, now. He would bring me to the edge of my breaking point, balance me there, and pull me back, with apologies, all while bringing me down to his level. A place where I would meet and greet each and everyone of his demons.

It’s okay though. I promise. I am not mad at you at all, my dear ex boyfriend. I actually want to thank you so graciously. I do not want to tell you to “go to hell”, when you have been struggling with yourself there, for such a long time. I want to tell you, that I hope you make it out of that dark hole, like I found the light at the end of our relationship after being in that hole with you for so long. The world is here for you, but it will not stop for you. And neither will I. I have places to go, and places to see, and it was not there. I have grown as a person. I have met somebody new. Somebody that wants to see my potential flourish, rather than rot. I have told my mom about you, she has become my greatest friend. And I have learned so much more about myself since you’ve been gone. I just want the world to know, that you can make it out alive, and you can be better than before. Because every person in your life has a purpose. And you will grow with experiences, dark places, and light places. Never would I let you be a burden to me. I left your weight far behind. I let you lift me. I let you revive me. Because I am learning again, that I am beautiful, and I am worth something, just like you are too, who is reading. and just like you are too, my dear ex boyfriend. In the end, it is not me who needs true healing, all along it was you.

 

(Listen to your guidance counselor in the 6th grade. She was right ☺

I’m Not A Suburban White Chick Cheerleader

 

By TFTNW

 

A single story that not only I encounter, but everyone else that goes to a high school, is the stereotypes of the kind of kids you encounter at a place like high school. From jocks, to cheerleaders, to geeks and nerds. The titles range from broad to specific. But, that’s the thing, the titles are endless, and the titles don’t stop.

Going through highschool I was never part of a stereotype, I was a fortunate one who went about things, with people, but not with a titled group. Eventually I felt left out. I started to feel lonely and different when I wasn’t part of a stereotype. And that was ironic, because I was different, for being myself. But I thought other’s were different from me, when they were part of things that I was not, and I wanted that.

I’ve been going through high school embracing my differences, and being proud of who I am, and being proud of how I’m not like others. Not everyone in highschool, is part of a stereotype. Not every white girl is a suburban cheerleader chick. People are different, and should not be classified. Everyone is unique and special. I’ve found that I am very different from any title. And if it takes after high school to meet another person who realizes we are more than a jock or a weirdo and that it’s okay to be different, then I can’t wait to be their friend.