All your secret wishes, could right now, be coming true.

The ex I saw a few weeks ago while on his leave, his mother passed away on Monday. I feel terrible for him. I can't imagine what it must be to get news like that while you're away-- at least he isn't underway and still on base for the time being. But I also found out that he's in a military hospital for an injury he received sometime after his mom passed.

I felt hesitant about texting him. Which, in the almost ten years that I've known him, I've never experienced concerning him. And I suppose in that way, I feel terrible that careless intimacy can ruin or damage or hinder, otherwise good and healthy relationships.

This isn't the first time it's happened; this weird, alienation or disconnect from someone I've been intimate with. At this point, it actually feels fairly normal. I'm so used to giving myself and being with people who have no interest past what my body can do for them, that eventually I just shut myself off from them. First mentally, then emotionally, and of course, physically. It's easier that way, to pretend that it never happened and creating enough space between two bodies, two minds, two hearts, what have you, to perpetuate that sort of thinking and fucntioning.

When I think about it, it's always the people who are just outside of my grasp for whatever reason, that mean the most to me. I almost had you, could have had you, wanted you; but not enough. And I suppose the fact that these are people who want me just enough, but not quite, fans that flame.

Thinking of the past the ten years, I have no doubt that this person and I could have made something work if we had really wanted to at some point. But the push and the pull, the effortless and all possessing ebb and flow of our on and off again, sort of there but not at all, relationship was more exciting. And in some ways, more fulfilling.

That says a lot about the type of girl I am.

I know that, and it's something I'm working on. For as much as I want romance and pinks and reds and comfort and beautiful love, I get bored easily. Which why such a thing as the "five month" rule exists in my world. Five months of whatever our relationship may be. Steady five months of dedication or sex, passion or commitment, or some combination of the two. And at the five monh mark, give or take a few days, I've let the experience run its course for me.

The hard part isn't getting me, though let's be honest, that all in itself is an art and wonderfully exciting. The hard part isn't making me fall in love, either. I don't fall in love easily, but I'm a pro at unrequited-somethings-almost-a-lot-like-love.

Keeping me, making me want to stay, is the hard part. I've never met anyone who could honestly keep my interest past five months. And the breaks are breaks, If I get bored enough, or life becomes tedious enough, I'll backspace and go for another few months. But the truth is, once you've lost my interest, you've lost it.

No matter how hard you try, you won't be getting it back. Only two people have ever managed to keep me occupied/fascinated past the five month mark.

One I met when I was 16 and wanted until I had turned 21. And it wasn't until after an incredible lull, both of us dating other people and him coming back, kissing me and offering to give me everything I had always wanted, that I realized I had absolutely no feelings for him left.

The other, I met while I was with Ron. I've written about him before. He's the only person who could come back into my life, no questions asked, and I would want him as much as I always have.

I'm trying to figure out where this ex stands. I have these weird nostaglic longings for him, unique enough in themselves for me not to class him with every other guy I've come across. But not special enough for me to put him among those two mentioned above. I know that if I purused him actively, I could probably get him. But at the core of who I am, I know that I don't really want him.

The attention, the intimate moments, the belonging to someone other than myself are reasons enough to try, I suppose. But I don't want that.

I go back and forth constantly between being sure of what I want, and not having a clue. For a while there, I thought I had it figured out. But all of the good sex and passion and chemistry in the world aren't enough to make me stay. Life would be much better if it were that simple, though. But unfortunately it isn't.

A friend brought up last night that I've had a quite a few guys (especially lately) express their feelings for me. I've heard a few tell me that they've always loved me or wanted to be with me, that they've always had feelings for me. I've had a few tell me that they're falling for me. And another handful who are interested in the way I look and all of that physical, non-commital stuff.

And even though I don't know what it is I want the majority of the time, none of these things from those people are it.

All I really know is that I'm saddened at myself, the situation, and for my long-time friend who lost his mother.

Expelling anger.

Everyone knows that I've been having a hard time lately, so I'm not entirely sure why people want to add to that discomfort. God, I know I must sound incredible selfish, but I'm having a hell of a time not losing my mind, and people act like I'm doing some sort of disservice to them by focusing on myself. I'm sorry, but the best thing I can do right now is focus on myself; put the attention where I need it and hope for the best. I don't understand why this concept is so hard for some people to understand. And then "anonymously" sending me messages that tell me I'm not paying enough attention to them, or that I'm purposely excluding them from plans? Honestly? The "anonymity" makes it that much more of a bother. Talk to me like a man, like a woman, get the courage and tell me I'm being a shit friend straight up.

Otherwise, I don't want to hear it.

And frankly, I'm not sorry.

I'm in the middle of one of the biggest upheavals in my life, and considering what I've been through in the last 21years? That's saying something.

I feel like I haven't had a chance to breathe since before Ronnie died. And at times, it feels like I'll never be able to catch my breath again for the simple fact that life doesn't stop or slow down, even when you think it should, even for a second.

My best friend died. He died. He was killed. Every day my heart hangs heavy in my chest for him. Every day I wake up and I have to remind myself that he's gone. Every day I miss him and still can't process his death. The words don't make it real, the funeral, the days and the counting and the hurting, nothing has cemented the truth of it for me.

My parents are going through a nasty divorce and every day the peace I try and feel is disrupted by anger at my father for being who he is and for doing what he's doing-- for forgetting that he's divorcing my mom, but not me or Jon, and he's still convinced that screwing everyone over is the best and most obvious plan of action.

We have to find a new place to live on no income. No income. None. I'm trying to find a job, but it's a little hard when we have no idea where we'll be in a month. I can't apply for FAFSA because my parents aren't settled, because I have no address to provide, because I might have to drop my classes anyway. Soon I won't have a cellphone or a home or any money, whatsoever.

The idea of all the uncertainity ahead of me scares the ever-living shit out of me. I have no never been so scared or unsure in my life.

But I really am trying to stay positive. Krista helps immensely; she's even let me know that I can stay at her place with her during the week when I have school, and that she'll do anything she can to make sure I don't have to drop my classes. We talk every day, even though it's mostly light-hearted bitching. But even so, it doesn't feel superficial or shallow, and we laigh the entire time through.

She doesn't pressure me to pay attention to her. She doesn't get upset if I cancel plans or change them or fall asleep on her in the middle of a text-conversation. She understands everything I'm feeling right now, and not once has she said, "what about me?"

I said something to my mom earlier about how it's been a rough few months and that things will settle down soon. Because when I stay positive, she's more likely to do the same. And she said, "Molly, it's been more than a few months. It's been years. I'm so sorry you've never had a break from feeling this sad, or this old."

She's right. No breaks.

But I'm trying not to let it break me.

I go out once a week and let off steam. The rest of the time I'm sleeping, at school, or doing school work. I'm not purposely excluding anyone from anything, but I don't have the money to go out constantly to the malls or fancy dinners or to disneyland. I don't have the time or energy. Even if people think it's good for me. Trust me, I know what is good for and what isn't.

What I need is more people in my life who aren't going to pressure me into feeling or being the way they want me to, because it suits them. I'm sorry that my unhappiness or stress or whatever is inconvinent for you, my apologies.

Just try for once second, just imagine for one minute, what I'm feeling every single second, of every single day. That discomfort I bring you, that niggles annoyingly in the back of your mind? That's what I feel every day, every second, every minute; and it's more than a simple annoyance, it's roaring in my ears and threatening to take me under. But shit, sorry that my current situation in life is fucking your day up.
My bad.

Truly trying to stay positive and I succeed most of the time.

Except for moments like this. Support me or don't, but don't make my life all about you. I guarantee you in the fight between my well-being and my peace of mind vs. your need to be validated by my presence and attention, I will win every single fucking time.

Thanks.

Tomorrow is a new day and I promise I'll feel better in the morning. I'll feel better once I click post and exit the tab. I just needed to get this off my chest.

Whatever stress I can get rid of, by god, I'm going to as quickly as possible.

Sorry.

/Rant

I got away from you, I never thought I would.

My father never hit me growing up. If you want to know about my childhood before the age of eight, it was pretty normal. I had a loving mother, a charming father, two older siblings and one younger than me. I wasn't a great student, I didn't have the confidence to be a great student; but I was always respectful and quiet and demure, as if by constantly pleasing everyone around me, I could avoid conflict. At the end of the day, this basically made me the pet of my teachers, and the almost invisible child at home. To get attention at home, at that age, I would perform. It's one of those things that has stuck with me, sort of moulded with who I am as a person. But I would tell elaborate and fanciful stories, I would draw and write my own books, I would sing as loud as my little body would allow me, dance and pretend I was a comedian.

I wasn't the smart one, I wasn't the athletic one (though lord knows I tried hard to be), I wasn't the oldest (not really), and I didn't enjoy video games. I liked to read and play with my dolls; sing along to my cassettes and play dress up. Your typical princess want-to-be. I never thought there was anything wrong with me, until one of my parents pointed out that I wasn't the smart one, or the athletic one, or anything else they wanted me to be. I had tried really hard to always please those around me.

As a child, you're supposed to run and play and be carefree, but I don't remember ever being that way. I remember walking on egg shells, constantly staying out of peoples ways, or entertaining them to the best of my ability. I never wanted anyone to tire of me, I never wanted anyone to be offended by my presence. I spent my time cultivating this exterior of goodly indifference, to the point where it penetrated every inch of who I was at home, at school, with my few friends, at sporting events, you name it. I wanted to be good, I was good. But I wasn't good enough.

My dad was sick my entire life, I just never realized it. Every so often he'd raise his voice, to what we called his "work voice." He swore he wasn't yelling, but at eight, the difference is little. And they both had the same reaction: instant fear. He was depressed, bi-polar, and I've come to the conclusion that he's probably also somewhat schnizophrenic. It wasn't until I was eight or so, that I realized there was anything wrong with him. It wasn't until he was diagnosed with RA that I had any idea. The degenerative muscle disease compounded by his declining mental state change the dynamic in my household. Not over night, not drastically, but there was a collective understanding that things were different.

It was the constant sadness, the negativity, the constant pain that seemed to radiate from him. Now I know that it was more than the physical hurt, it was everything. I remember running out of rooms so my mom could give him shots of pain medication for his RA that never seemed to work. I hated the idea that my dad was sick. I couldn't understand at that age what was going on really, just that it wasn't good.

We had been fairly close up until that point. I wasn't what he wanted; he wanted a smarter little girl, he wanted me to be more like my brother, I can remember that distinctly. Those types of things stick with you, even when you're not old enough to understand why they hurt so badly. But we were close. Where my little brother disliked sports, I ate them up to please my dad; where Jonathan wanted no one but my mom, I always vied for my dad's attention.

After that though, things changed. While I still wanted to please everyone around me, I gravitated towards my own genuine interests and left behind sports, letting my dad know that he came second, though mostly third to my friends and my mom.

When I started developing my own personality, and rebelling against everything I had been up until that point, that's when the fighting started. I constantly wanted to push his buttons. I remember the fights and how I would cry in my room, until I pulled up enough courage to write him an apology letter. I was perpetually in the wrong. Nothing I did or said was right by his standards. He didn't want a dumb daugther, but up until that point it had only been an annoyance; I had still been obediant, good, quiet, entertaining.

When I was eleven, I had to be put in therapy because loud noises would send me into hysterics. There's a connection there-- my father yelling and my body literally crumpling in on itself everytime it happened. I missed classes because one of my teachers had this ridiculously booming loud voice. Eventually I warmed up to him and he became my favorite teacher, but sometimes I would miss his class because I couldn't help but tear up at the sound of it.

About two years later, I was sexually assualted which sort of prefaced this.... slew of bad behavior. I was depressed, and my depression battled my father's for domiance every turn. I wanted the attention, I needed to know that I was still okay, and alive and loved. I fought constantly with my mother. Everything at home had to be about me. I hated him because he was a man, because of what had happened to me, and how I couldn't tell anyone.

That stage of my life is the most prominent, the most heavy, the one I have the hardest time remembering, but have no problem feeling it. I think it was that time, the ages between 11 and 16, that killed our relationship. By the time I could see outside of myself again, I saw my broken-hearted mother, my stoic little brother, and my sick father.

I could see him for what he really was at that point. Ragged, haggard, cruel-- and always hoping that his little girl would go back to wanting to constantly please everyone. I wish I could do the justice of his face in front of mine, red with rage and spittle flying out of his mouth because I had done something he didn't approve of. Those images don't go away.

And it seemed to only get worse.

It did only get worse.

This is pretty painful for me to write, for me to share, and I think it's probably the most personal thing I've ever shared on here. But I was constantly afraid. I stopped coming out of my room when he was home; the moment the clock even got close to nine, I was in my room, doors locked, and ready to stay in there the rest of the night. There would be weekends, or days, that I would stay holed up like that because I was never sure what I would be coming out to. There were nights I cried myself to sleep, sort of wishing I could just die, so I wouldn't have to deal with him anymore. And when I would finally emerge again, from whatever hell I had been internalizing because of him or our interactions or his words, I would find a happy man who would hug me and pretend like whatever had happened, never took place.

Like I said, my father has never hit me. But for every harsh word, for everytime he has called me worthless, stupid, a bitch, a fucker;has brought me down with his words or actions, he might as well have. My dad has never hit me, but he has forced me to the ground to look for his phone charger, berating me the entire time; letting me know just how worthless and stupid I am, that I can't function because I'm retarded. That he's never met someone as stupid or as incompetant as me. And not to stand up until I've found the damn thing, because I'm a goddamned fucker.

My father has never hit me, but he has threatened to breakdown my 'god damned door' if I stop everything I was doing to talk to him. He's slammed himself against my door, banged on it, stood outside of my room yelling and insulting me until I have no choice but to come out.

I've listened to him call my mother a whore, a bitch; I've heard him accuse her of trying to kill him, of turning me and my little brother against him... he's threatened to throw us out into the street because it's his "god damned house, and we'd be out, begging on the street, before he was".

I've watched him chase my mother out of the house on Halloween, yelling at her and scaring the neighborhood kids. I've seen him almost physically attack my aunt. He's broken my heart more than anyone will ever know, more than any other man ever could.

Every day, I try to tell myself that he doesn't mean these things-- that it's his sickness stacked upon sickness, but even then, I can't find it in myself to forgive him for everything he's taken away from me, for everything I feel like he's broken irrevocably in my being.

Since he's been out of the house, I keep contact to a minimum. I love my father, for the simple fact that he is my father; but I don't like the man my father is. All of his friends think he's this real stand-up guy and when they shower praise on him, I want to scream and tell them every horrible thing he's subjected myself, my brother, and my mother to. The divorce is driving me crazy.... he's trying to get out of doing right by my mother. And for all of the years of emotional abuse he put her through, she's asking too little. But he doesn't think of anyone but himself, going as far as cutting Jon and I off, unless we beg for his help.

I love my father, but I don't think I'll ever forgive him. Ever. It sounds petty, it sounds horrible, but there are things so inhumane, so vile, that to do them to another person is beyond comphrehension; to do those things to your family, to say those things, to hurt them so deeply, when you have been tasked to protect them? There is no redemption for that.

I'm just tired. I'm tired of being so beaten down by him, even when he's not here, even when we barely speak. He is still this opressive force to be in awe of.

My father isn't a good person. And I know that he's sick. And that someday after I've lived more life, I'll be able to see past all the bad... but for right now, I can't be the bigger person.

I can't.

I will testify in court if I have to, if it helps my mother.

At this moment in my life, I'm done being the victim of my father's rage and intolerance and cruelty. And if it encourages my mother to be stronger for and in herself, all the better.

It's funny that way, you can get used



To the tears and the pain


What a child will believe


You never loved me






[Chorus:]






You can't hurt me now


I got away from you, I never thought I would


You can't make me cry, you once had the power


I never felt so good about myself






Seems like yesterday


I lay down next to your boots and I prayed


For your anger to end


Oh Father I have sinned






[chorus]






Oh Father you never wanted to live that way


You never wanted to hurt me


Why am I running away


[repeat]






Maybe someday


When I look back I'll be able to say


You didn't mean to be cruel


Somebody hurt you too






[chorus]

Head full of doubt/Road full of promise

Lately I've sort of decided that I just want to live inspired and be constantly in awe of my surroundings, the situations I find myself in/make for myself, and by the people I have in my life. Thinking about it, I don't think it's too much to ask, honestly. I'm not exactly sure what this means, but I feel like I might be on the right path. A slow path, but with the way life is so uncertain is right now, it isn't surprising. But seeing certain people and spending time with certain people, it makes me happy.

And I should always allow myself to be that happy. I shouldn't have to guard myself constantly, afraid that other people will see me-- really see me. And I shouldn't be afraid that the real me isn't good enough, because I am good enough, in abudance. I'm realizing the people who understand that, who love me for me, aren't waiting for me to mess up or fall down, they understand me better than I understand myself.

A lot of this has to do with coming into my own. And knowing those things about myself, without needing the extra validaion from the people I choose to spend my time with.

If you look through my text messages with Krista, the last few weeks, you can sort of see this slowly emerging happiness and confidence on both of our parts. Not only that, but this wonderful mutual acceptance and comfort-- when I said we really bonded this last weekend, it was true. But more than that, vowing to spend more time together after Ronnie passed away, not just twice a week in class, but outside of it, on top of all of our history, it sort of seems inevitable that we'd be this close now. I just really appreciate her friendship, who she is as a person, and what our friendship does for both of us.

It's sort of the same way with Ronny. I feel more myself with him than I do with most people. It makes me sad knowing that after this summer, he won't be right around the corner. And that if one of us is bored in the middle of the night, we won't be able to drive to Corky's to have something to do.

In a lot of ways, last weekend felt right.

The right people, the right mind set, the right amount of stresses from the past week and the right amount of heart we all had. I need more right in my life, and less awkward, "this is okay, but I'm forcing a role onto myself that I don't naturally fill or innately want to be, but really... this is good enough."
I should never have to settle for good enough, no matter the situation. I'm better than that, and living constantly inspired sort of conflicts with that state of mind.

So let's get on it, Molly. Lots of right, less this is sort of good enough, and continue coming into my own.

Midterm tomorrow morning.

Maybe doing something with Ronny tomorrow night.

This weekend, Krista, Anna, and I are going to reunite with Nikki; find a place to hang out and unwind. Just embrace this life and live the hardest and best ways possible. We owe that to ourselves.