Babel

Do you ever wonder why I write so much?  Do you ever wonder why everything I write is so long and superfluous?  Do you ever wonder why I keep writing about the same things over and over again?  It’s because I am trying to figure out myself at the same time you are.  It might interest you to know that you are finding out about me at the same time I am.  I learn about myself by writing.  I am trying to figure myself out with each entry.  And oftentimes, I don’t get it right the first time around.  I can’t just write about being fat once and find peace with my findings.  No, there’s so much more to explore than just overeating.  I can’t just write about being lonely once.  It's not just because I’ve never had a girlfriend.  It’s more complicated than that.  I can’t just write about being disjointed because things haven’t gone my way.  My depression branches off into different directions of disillusionment.  Thoughts and feelings and actions are all so complex.  I think most of the things we do and think and say come from a variety of factors, not just one.  Our past influences our present and our past coupled with our present influences our future.  We are driven by years of experience and emotions.  Every action and thought adds to our collective consciousness.  And it’s been my goal to break down each one of my issues little by little.  As I grow older and become more mature and experienced in life, it brings a new perspective on things, a perspective that I will then explore.  For me, it's going to take a lot of growth to get to where I want to be with myself.  

I often find it frustrating when people don’t seem to understand where I am coming from in my writing.  I don’t want to be a “whiner” again but I sometimes feel like people don’t understand what I’m trying to convey through my writing and they take things the wrong way.  Don’t misunderstand, I am basically talking about an online journal I keep on another site.  I get a good bit of feedback from fellow bloggers on this site but people’s comments on my other blog are so off the mark that I wonder if they even bothered to read everything I wrote.  Like I said, I understand some of my entries are ridiculously long but those are the entries that are the most important, the ones where I feel I have explored every aspect of a particular issue to the best of my current ability.  Those are the ones in which I dig deepest.  And those are the ones that are often the most misunderstood.  I have to wonder if people feel daunted by the length and instead decided to skim.  Skimming is only acceptable when it comes to milk.  Skimming when it comes to reading, however, it not acceptable.  You’ll miss a lot of information that way.
   
It's really frustrating when people bring up something in a comment that I've already explored in what I've written.  They might give me a piece of advice or a few words of wisdom but it's something I've already covered.  Or they'll offer me an opposing viewpoint on what I've written, something that, once again, I've already covered.  I do try to see things in a variety of ways and tackle certain topics from various points of view and I often bring them up in my writing and say why I do or do not agree with that particular perspective.  Yet, some people feel the need to bring it up anyway, as if I haven't already thought of it.  Other times, people just miss the mark completely.  They'll take a certain paragraph and focus on that, even if it's not particularly relevant to the main point of the entry.  

Some people think I’m a crybaby but I don’t really see it that way.  I see myself as venting.  Venting comes with expressing yourself.  Not everybody is happy all of the time and therefore, sometimes sad stuff is going to come out.  And sure, sometimes even I seem pathetic even to myself but the difference is I keep writing, keep trying to discover who I am and change the parts I don’t like.  I think I could only be classified as a crybaby if I did nothing to help myself out, if I didn’t try to change.  And sure, there are times when I feel like things are hopeless and I write about that because I am expressive person and I express how I feel.  If I felt any happiness, I would express that as well.  It just so happens that at this point in my afterlife, things aren’t too happy.

It’s just kind of frustrating because I feel like people make these comments and judge me based on such a small portion of information.  They don’t know my history or background and yet they feel they are informed enough to call me out as a complainer or pathetic and maybe they are right but they shouldn't make such assumptions based on one or two pieces of writing.  And even more than that, maybe they should try to understand why I feel the way I do before dismissing me as a depressive mess. 

The truth is, life sucks.  It’s hard and unfair and complaining is one of the many ways in which humans cope.  Complaining is helpful.  In fact, if I didn't have writing as a way of expressing my feelings, as a way of purging all the pain and madness inside me, I would probably have gone "carnival freak" crazy a long time ago.  If I didn't have writing, I would have gone postal at a post office or playground (disclaimer: I'm just kidding.  I won't even kill a spider, much less a snot-nosed four-year-old in a chocolate milk stained Dora the Explorer shirt).  Everyone complains.  Complaining is healthy.  People just do it in different ways.  Some people are fuming and some people are funny.  As for me, my writing can be dark and depressing at times while other people choose to go the humorous route, turning their everyday disasters into side-splitting monologues.  But the sentiment is all the same: dissatisfaction.  Comedy is complaining as well, just a type of complaining that makes you snicker instead of slit your wrists.

Perhaps there’s a fine line between venting and whining and I think that line is subjective.  What some people see as a deeply introspective look at one’s self, someone else will see as weakness or whining.  And here's where I will admit that I probably cross that fine line and quite often.  But that doesn't mean that my complaining encompasses my entire existence.  It's not as if I walk around with a thunderstorm over my head.  In fact, in real life, I'm quite pleasant.  Darn it, I'm even funny sometimes.  And I think that's what gets me the most.  The ones who don't know me in real life only get a glimpse of who I am.  I am a multi-faceted person.  Sometimes I laugh, sometimes I cry and mostly I'm just weird (in a good way) and so when people just write me off as a Danny Downer, it's kind of disappointing to me.  Writing just happens to be my medium for expression and if I come across as being pathetic, then I guess I can't help that.

It's almost like I'm speaking a foreign language or talking in code.  I write for myself but I also write to connect with other people.  Although my state of being can feel lonely at times, I know that I am not alone in how I think and feel and I know that other people who are going through this are not alone, either, even if they feel like they are.  And I'm here to say, "Hey, emo kid, I'm right there with you!"  But it's hard to make that connection when people don't get it.  Maybe that's my fault.  Maybe my writing isn't clear or concise enough.  But, I do what I can.  And this is the only way I know how at the moment.  I mean, I can only do so much within my capacity for clarity.  We are dealing with complex human emotions after all.  It's not as simple as "I'm sad today" or "today was a good day."  It's confusing.  It's frustrating.  And some people just don't understand.  But as long as some people do, that's okay with me.

Oh, Septicemia

If there ever were a disease that lived on long after the body has died, I think that disease would be depression.  It’s been about eight months since I perished and my sadness hasn’t let up yet.  For whatever reason, I haven’t crossed over to the other side and so you’d think I’d have some sort of purpose.  You would think that purpose would make itself known.  And yet I am emptier than ever.  And it’s perplexing to me.  Why am I here?  What am I supposed to be doing?  Life doesn’t come with a manual and apparently death does not, either.  I guess I just thought maybe I’d gain some perspective, that maybe I’d see the world through blood-tinted glasses, that something would finally make sense but I am simply more and more confused each day.  It’s as if depression is a parasite that has latched on to not only my body but my mind and everything that encompasses who I am.  It has dug its claws so deep into who I am that it goes beyond the physical.  It has even followed me into death.  And, well, that blows.

I feel very uncomfortable even using the world “depression.”  It’s one of those words that’s flung around without much consideration, much like “love” and “baby.”  Do we really realize the weight of these words?  I think not.  People get depressed when they miss this week’s episode of Grey’s Anatomy.  That’s not depression.  That’s inconvenience.  People get depressed when they find a severed finger in their soup.  That’s not depression.  That’s just nasty.  People get depressed when they have to park at the end of a parking lot, have chapped lips, can’t zip up their jeans anymore, spill their coffee, etc.  These are not situations in which depression is a proper emotional reaction.  Obviously, if you’re truly depressed, any one of these situations would send you spiraling into a coma underneath your bed sheets.  Then again, so would anything else, even things most people would consider to be good.  But to say, “Well, I’m depressed because McDonald’s ran out of fries today” is not valid.  And I have to admit that I am guilty of using the word “depressed” over things that aren’t really depressing.  And I think a lot of other people do as well.  And when you overuse a word, it loses it’s power.  And depression is too powerful to play around with like that.

I don’t know if I’m really depressed.  I mean, as long as I have a Keeping up with Kardashians marathon on and a plate of pasta, I can make it through the day.  There are people who can’t get out of bed, who can’t stop crying, who can’t find any joy in any thing.  And I actually often feel that way myself but I suppose I’m not depressed enough to not be able to fight those kinds of feelings.  I can still function.  So maybe I’m not absolutely depressed but just incredibly sad.  Or maybe I’m just mildly depressed.  I think we all have feelings of depression but when do those feelings turn into something more substantial?  How do differentiate between a feeling and an absolute state of being?  What if I’m not depressed at all but just a big whiner?  Or what if my whining is justified because I am depressed?  How do I find out which is which?  I’m really not trying to be one of those people who cops out and blames his emotions and behaviors on depression.  It’s like, “Well, don’t blame me.  I’m depressed.  I can’t help it.”  I know I should take responsibility for my actions and my miseries.  But what if I really can’t help it?  Maybe I’m not to blame.  Maybe I’ve been unnecessesarily hard on myself for far too long over something that I can't really control. 

It’s just so frustrating not knowing who I am and why I am.  What causes people to be susceptible to depression?  Chemicals?  Hormones?  Weakness?  Is it some sort of mental disorder or some kind of deformity?  Is it just more proof that I’m defective, damaged?  If so, what does that mean for me?  Will things ever change on their own or will things always stay the same.  Will they progressively get worse?  Is medication my only answer or do I need some sort of divine intervention?  And how would that be possible when depression is the devil that makes me doubt and deny? 

I do often wonder what the world would be like medicated.  I’ve heard some good (it calms you), some bad (it makes you manic) but I’ve mostly heard it just numbs you.  I guess that could be good or bad, depending on your desired result.  As much as I say I’m numb already, I’m really not.  In fact, I feel things as if I don’t have any skin or protective barrier, as if every single word and person and image and sensation goes straight to my nerves.  And I don’t want to be so sensitive but I’m not really trying to be numb, either.  We say we’d rather be numb than feel the pain we are in but I think that is only said out of a response to that pain.  We say a lot of things when we are hurting that we might not necessarily mean otherwise.  We’ll squirm and squeal to get away from a negative feeling, to escape a sucky situation, to release ourselves from catching fire.  But, really, if we all had a choice, we wouldn’t want to feel numb at all.  We all want to feel happiness, peace and satisfaction. 

All I really know is that I've been miserable for a long time.  Throughout the majority of my life, I’ve been pretty unhappy, as if some kind of sadness set in like an infection and I simply haven’t been able to sweat out the fever, to shake the symptoms of melancholy.  I can't truly define it but I know that something is definitely wrong.  I’ve missed out on a lot of vital human experiences and I believe that’s why I not only feel so sad, but so disconnected from other people.  I can’t comprehend relationships.  I can’t fathom love.  I don’t understand connections but I know they are necessary.  And now it’s an uphill climb to try to attain them with simultaneously trying to overcome my disdain for my circumstances, my location and myself.

The first step is to purge this parasite, to rid myself of the regret.

Maybe I should try to vomit.

The Billets-Doux

I read The Perks of Being a Wallflower again in January.  I can’t remember the first time I read it but I don’t think I was quite in the right frame of mind to appreciate the book as much as I did the second time around.  It seemed to capture that period of adolescence that I miss so much, that I always want to go back and experience over and over.  It was the time when all things were new and everything set your skin on fire.  Reading it made me long for those days of discovery again, of that transition from innocence to maturity, that strange mix of realizing everything is imperfect and yet amazing at the same time.  And of course, the various song compilations that play through the speakers of a car while driving all night long.

In The Perks of Being a Wallflower, a boy named Charlie writes letters to a person that we don't know.  The funny thing is, the person who receives these letters doesn't know Charlie, either.  His identity to them is just as much a mystery as their identity is to us.  I found this aspect of the book pretty intriguing.  And it made me think about doing something like that.

I've always wanted to do a writing project.  I've tinkered with the idea of creating a fictional blog with made up characters and a story that would progress in real time.  I quickly realized it's hard enough writing about myself and the sticky situations I find myself in, i.e., death, so making up an entire world of characters, their baggage and their unfolding dramas is probably beyond my scope as a writer.  At least for now.

So, I thought maybe I'd just write a nice little letter and then send to it someone random.  Maybe I'd pick an address from the phone book or stick it in a mailbox somewhere.  And if I decided to do this, what would I write about?  Would I reveal my deepest, darkest secrets?  Things I wouldn't even blog about?  Or should I keep it light and breezy and just tell them what's going on with me?  Would I send different letters to different people or focus all my letters on one particular individual.  Would this be considered harassment?  Would they read these letters or ignore them?  Would they find it strange or intriguing?  Would I somehow make a connection with this random stranger just by exposing the same kind of thoughts and feelings we all experience?  Maybe they would see themselves in me.  Maybe my catharsis would be their own.

I'd have no way of knowing if they would read my letters.  The only way to do that would be to ask them to write back and I'm not sure if I should do that.  Might mess up the mystique of the experiment.  Of course, I could have them send a response to an unnamed mailbox or something.  They'd never have to know who I was.  I don't know.  It could be interesting!

I was looking for an anniversary card for my sister and brother-in-law today and saw a lot of awesome cards.  I wondered if, instead of writing letters, I should send random cards to people.  You know, one of those non-specific cards like "just because" or "thinking of you."  I could write a note telling them to hang in there or let them know that someone thinks they are special.  Or maybe I could write love letters, nothing sexual or too specific, just something telling them that they are loved or will find love eventually.  I could write them love poems.  You know, 'cause you humans like that kind of stuff, right?  Then, I trembled.  I shocked myself, wondering why I'd even care to do something that strangely kind.  I'm not about that anymore.  Maybe when I was alive and younger but it doesn't fit my pale persona anymore.  Eh, who cares, maybe I'm responding to a higher calling that is beyond me and my bitterness.  To perk someone up and possibly make their day better?  Isn't it just the right thing to do?

I ask you, if a stranger sent you a letter or a card, how would that make you feel?  If it was a letter of introspection or a card of positivity, would you feel warmed or weirded out?  If they continued to send these letters, would you continue to read them or feel like your life was being intruded upon?  Personally, I don't know how I'd react.  I think it would all depend on the content.  Naturally, if some psychopath sent me letters detailing his deadly exploits, including rape, torture and murder...I'd read on.  But if someone wanted to send letters chronicling their love lives, well I'd have to put a stop to that.  I don't need to be exposed to that kind of smut.  But, that's just me.

Really, I think it would just be a good excuse to start hand writing again.  I rarely use my journal anymore.  My brain works faster than my penmanship so it's easier for me to type out my thoughts rather than write them down.  Yet, I really, really enjoy hand writing.  That might sound strange but I look at writing as just another form of art and I surely enjoy a beautifully written letter, both aesthetically and content wise.  Ah, whatever happened to the glory days of pen pals?

I need to find myself a Charlie so we can start a correspondence.  

Bran's Guide to Getting Laid

Well, getting laid off.

I haven’t mentioned this before because of the controversial nature of what happened with my job but it's a pretty big shift going from full-time work to unemployed again so I guess I'd better mention it.  I've avoided the topic because things were kind of up in the air for a while as far as whether things would pick back up again or not and plus it is kind of hard to talk about because a lot of what happened went over my head.  It's all about politics and politics make me vomit so I don’t pay attention to that garbage.  I’ll just try to simplify it to the best of my abilities.

The company I worked for offered electronic bingo machines to our customers.  This raised some eyebrows because gambling in Alabama is illegal and many people thought these machines were slot machines.  Slot machines=gambling=illegal.  But, they weren't.  The machines were evaluated and deemed to be legal according to the standards set forth for what was and wasn't acceptable.  No big deal, eh?  Well, the governor of Alabama didn't see it that way.  He thinks the machines are illegal and assembled a task force to come in and raid the building.  He did this twice.  The first time, the building was shut down for a few hours before opening back up.  The building didn't open up after the second time.

The governor says he's just upholding the law but he didn't start "upholding the law" until my company opened up in December.  There were at least two other facilities that offered electronic bingo machines in this state and he never took any action against them.  There are accusations that the governor accepted money from another casino in another state.  In exchange for the money, he'd keep electronic bingo machines out of Alabama so that people would have to flock to that other state and bring them business and money.  I don't know for sure that this is true but honestly it doesn't surprise me.  It's all about money and power when it comes to politics and that's what makes me furious about it.  No one really cares for the people they are supposedly representing or in charge of.  They care about what's best for them, what's going to give them the most money and the most power and they do not care if the lesser people go jobless and homeless in the process.  Obviously, that's a blanket statement and doesn't apply to every politician but I'd venture to guess this applies to about 99% of them.  So, in reality, this dude doesn't care about the law.  He's only trying to uphold a deal he made with some casino owners in another state. 

It's a shame because this company employed well over a thousand people, a thousand people now without work, unable to support their families.  It's also a shame because jobs here are virtually nonexistent.  That is no exaggeration.  You know of my struggles to find a job after graduating from college.  And my supervisor said he was unemployed for a year before this job came along.  One of my coworkers said she was one step away from welfare before she got this job.  And as for me, well, I was trying to save up for animation software and equipment so I could continue working on my art and eventually get a good job.  Can't do that now.  And after my company closed, the other companies that housed electronic bingo machines also closed down in fear of being raided.  So, that's another couple of thousand people without jobs.

Another sucky part about the whole situation was how much money the company was bringing to the town.  It was supposed to benefit everyone but now no one is going to benefit except for the governor.  Like I said, those were just allegations but I'm sure they aren't incorrect.  When you think of all these politicians involved in gay sex scandals and illegitimate children and George Dubya, is it such a stretch to think that this man isn't looking out for his own best interests?

And the crap cake wouldn't be complete without the Christians sticking their holier than thou noses where they don't belong.  They decided to join the party and protest against the electronic bingo machines because, according to them, the machines would "bring corruption and drug use to the area."  News flash, it's already here!  I mean, honestly, what a stupid argument.  They want to carry on about corruption and yet I pass by not one, but two titty bars on the way to that job and no one wants to speak out against that?  And they want to say that these machines encourage gambling addictions and to keep the machines away will keep people from gambling.  I mean, if they want to use that kind of logic, why haven't we banned the sale of alcohol because having alcohol available obviously encourages people to drink, right?  If just having these machines around are going to cause everyone to turn into compulsive gamblers, this alcohol surely must cause everyone to turn into alcoholics.  No, it won't.  Keeping these machines out of the state will not keep people from gambling.  I can't tell you how many times customers came to me and said this was more convenient than going to Mississippi but that they would still go to Mississippi if this place ever closed down.  I think everyone is underestimating the destructive nature of human beings.  If people want to gamble, they will find a way.  If they want to drink, they will find a way.  If they want to have sex, they will find a way.  If they want to kill themselves, they will find a way.  You cannot stop someone from getting their jollies. 

I have to be honest.  I wasn't too broken up about the whole situation because I hated that job.  Still, I feel bad for everyone who is without work and are really struggling to support their families.  I don't know.  I'm conflicted.  In a perfect world, everyone would get their jobs back and I'd find something better.  I came to find out, however, that some people have found other jobs.  Remember that get together I had at the restaurant with a group of people from my job, the one where I was served a lukewarm pasta with an entire chopped up pig on it?  Yeah.  The girl who almost went on welfare found another job so that was good to hear.  A few other people said they've also taken on other jobs but would drop them to go back to the company if they ever opened back up again.  First of all, if I found another job I wouldn't even consider going back there.  Secondly, how are these people finding jobs so easily?  I suppose they do live in a bigger area than I do and there's slightly more work to find.  Plus, they can take jobs that pay crap.  I can't.  Remember, I had to drive nearly two hours into that town where the job was located.  The only reason I did that was because it paid well enough to cover my gas.  I can't do that on minimum wage because my entire paycheck would go into gas.  So, I'm stuck again.

The funny thing is I left that stupid technical support job to come to this job.  A week after I quit, everyone on my team was laid off.  It made me feel not so bad for quitting and I really thought I had dodged a bullet there.  Turns out I had dodged one bullet only to step into another.  And during the group get together at the restaurant, the lady sitting next to me said she was probably going to go back to her old job at Movie Gallery.  I had just applied to work there so I was interested in asking her if she enjoyed working there.  She said she did but she wasn't sure if it would work out.  I asked why and she said Movie Gallery was filing for bankruptcy.  Well, crap.  It seems everywhere I turned, jobs were folding all around me.  From the technical support job to the electronic bingo job and it's even spread to jobs that I was interested in pursuing!  I even got an e-mail from the head of the website I was writing for saying they were going on a hiatus and he didn't know if they'd be returning.  Heck, I'm even getting laid off from my volunteer work!  Wtf.

This whole situation just really motivates me to get out of here.  It's very obvious to me that this place is definitely caving in and things won't get any better.  Any time there's progress, people like religious zealots and greedy politicians stick their fingers in and screw it up.  Either that, or I mess it up myself.  I just hope that I don't bring my trend of taking down companies with me wherever I go.

I'm gonna move away for sure.  All I need is two supportive parents, a couple of thousand dollars and the bravery needed to step out past this backwoods bubble.

Someone come save me? 

The Crazies (2010) Review

Fear Thy Neighbor.

Warning:  This review might contain slight spoilers, although I'm not really giving too much away that would affect your viewing experience.

Things get a little less boring in the sleepy town of Ogden Marsh when a certain nasty something swims its way into the population's drinking water, turning everyone into raving lunatics.  Then, the military pops in to clean up their mess but it only complicates things for the uninfected who try to escape.

Another case of a trailer misleading the audience into thinking a movie is going to be something it's not.  My impression was that it was going to be another 2004’s Dawn of the Dead/28 Days/Weeks Later type of movie with crazy people running around ripping everyone apart.  Not so much.  Instead, we have a small group of people whose main rivalry erupts between them and the military coming that’s barged in and trying to fix the situation.  The crazies really just act as a backdrop to the government shenanigans taking place.

The film starts out with a small town baseball game.  Things are going along fine until a presumably intoxicated man storms the baseball field with a shotgun.  Sheriff David confronts the man, resulting in his death.  While definitely an odd occurrence, everyone writes off the man’s actions as a drunken incident.  That is, until another family is attacked.  And then all communication is cut off.  And that is about the extent of the madness before the military come, round everyone up and split them into two groups:  infected and uninfected.  David is deemed safe while his wife, Judith, is put into the sick bunch.  From there, David makes his way through the military and the madness to find his wife, picking up various uninfected and escapees during his trip.  Does he find his wife or has she gone crazy?  Will he even survive the journey?  And in the end, what will David and the survivors do in a town full of crazies and a ruthless army of troops whose sole mission is to take out the entire population?

I have not seen the original nor do I plan to.  The trailer for the original looks absolutely abysmal and therefore I’m not interested.  And I call myself a hardcore horror fan?  Ha!  So, I’m judging this baby based on this film alone…and I guess the expectations I had after viewing the trailer.  I have to admit I was slightly disappointed by the lack of actual crazies and crazy chase sequences that went down.  Now, that’s not to say there aren’t interactions with some of the crazy inhabitants of the town but these get downs only consisted of about two to three crazies at a time.  The action is intimate and in your face and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that but I was hoping for something a bit more epic and wider in scope.  For example, in the trailer, you see a horde of people smashing down a gate and running free.  That image captured that epic scope that I hoped would carry throughout the film.  While I was hoping those people would smash through the gate and then run amok among the townspeople, unfortunately those people were only suspected of being infected and were just trying to escape their imprisonment to find their love ones.  Not exactly the blood quenching scene I was expecting it to be.  And when the town is overrun with the crazies, we are only given the carnage after the fact in the form of empty streets and burned cars.

If you’ve seen Dawn of the Dead or the 28 movies, then you’ve seen The Crazies.  Humanity goes down the drain, the government intervenes, the government fails, a small group of people try to find refuge, they pick up a few survivors along the way, someone gets bit/gets sick, one dimensional characters die after having about fifteen minutes of screen time and then the end leaves enough room for fifteen more sequels, each one worse than the other.  That’s not to say that the action wasn’t tense because it was.  That’s not to say that the deaths weren’t gritty and gruesome because they were (although not explicitly gory).  That’s not to say that the film was boring because it wasn’t.  I guess I just feel like the action was more between David and the military rather than him against the crazies, although he does run into quite a few. 

I liked the film.  I probably say that as a hardcore zombie/mass murder movie junkie.  I'll pretty much enjoy anything resembling a zombie-themed genocide.  At the same time, that’s where my slight disappointment comes in.  My main beef with the film was the lack of crazies, the lack of people going insane and taking out their families, friends and neighbors in gruesome ways.  I guess it's just that the setup was great but never thoroughly explored.  I guess when the film is called The Crazies, you expect to see some!  Well, more than the two to three that appeared at a time.  On top of that, there were a few plot holes that came to mind after some reflection.  Other than that, I think it was a solid movie.

3 out of 5.

Southern Snow

Holy crap, it snowed last month!  This is unheard of in my town and I think it hasn't snowed here since 1993!  And even then it was light and wimpy snow.  This stuff was legit, although there wasn't too much of it.  It was still a nice sight to see!  Let me share with you my backyard, y'all:

Give to Charity, A-Holes!

I thought I would start this month off right by trying to do something good.  As you all know, we've had some epic disasters in the world lately, the most recent ones being the earthquakes that struck Haiti and Chile.  I'm going to provide some links that you can use to donate to help fund the relief efforts there.

Red Cross

World Vision

Doctors Without Borders

Unicef

The Salvation Army

And while you've got your wallet out, how about taking a look at these great causes:

Love Harder
Multiple Myeloma is a cancer of the white blood cells and it's a nasty beast.  Donating will help fund research and hopefully a future cure.  I learned about Love Harder from the wonderful and talented Stacie.  This one is pretty cool because, to the best of my understanding, this was set up within the blogging community.  Correct me if I'm wrong, Stacie!

ASPCA
Come on!  It's aminals.  Your monies will help make sure they don't get get beaten up by bad, bad people.

Self-Injury Support
Because today is Self-Injury Awareness Day, it's only appropriate that I include a wonderful girl named Christie and her advocacy of self-injury and mental health awareness.  I know her personally and am always impressed by her outspoken nature and passion for debunking the myths and stigma of self-injury.  Most of us know of at least someone who battles self-injury and yet I think it's something that's often either kept secret or not taken seriously.  Because of this, there are a lot of misconceptions and speculations about people who self-injury and that's the beauty of Christie.  She educates those who don't understand and supports those that do.  She brings together everyone, from those that deal with self-injury to those who have friends or family that to do those who don't get it at all and she informs, educates and inspires.  I've provided a link to her very successful YouTube channel, which is her main platform for speaking out about self-injury.  From there, you can find helpful links, including her up and coming self-injury support website!

During these economic times, no one expects you to give much.  Your little bit and my little bit creates a large bit.  I'm sure you can find a five dollar bill on the pocket of those pants you haven't worn in a few months or a couple of coins between the cushions of your couch.  Also, it wouldn't hurt you to give up your Starbucks for one day and use that money for a better cause.  Plus, think of all that sugar you'll be skipping out on.  Everyone benefits!

I've made my donations and I'm not even human!  But you are and that means you have a heart so use it, dang it.  Spread that love that you all keep yapping on about.

Do it!!

Excuse Me, Sir! There's a Corpse in My Lunch

Yesterday afternoon, I was invited to go to lunch with a few of my coworkers.  We met at a restaurant and all ordered like normal.  Looking over the menu, I realized there weren’t very many choices for me that didn’t include meat.  My eye caught a delicious sounding Gourmet Mac N’ Five Cheese.  The only problem was it came with a chicken breast and topped with bacon.  When the server got to me, I told him I just wanted the mac n’ cheese without the bacon or chicken.  Seemed simple enough, right?  Well, not so much.

Several minutes later, he came up to me and said, “Hey man, about your mac n’ cheese.  They put the chicken with it and I told them to take it off.  They also put the bacon on there but I took that off as well but there’s still a little bit left in the dish.  Is that cool?”

Um, no. That's not how I ordered it, rendering that not cool at all.

I made a face of hesitation and said, “Well, um, I’m sorry but no.”

The server responded by sucking in his teeth and looking up at the ceiling, saying, “Aw, man,” as if making the dish again was going to be this huge ordeal.

“You know what,” I said.  “It’s okay.  Don’t worry about it.  I’ll take it like that.  It’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I don’t want to cause a problem.  It’s fine, it’s fine.”  I mean, he did say there was only a little bit of bacon, after all.  I suppose I could just pick around it.

“Okay, cool.”

“Alright.”

Several minutes more later, he brings me this dinky dish with a handful of penne pasta covered in a watery white sauce.  And it was filled with bacon.  Not the little bit he had described earlier.  There was more bacon than there was pasta.  There was more bacon than there are days in the year.  There was an entire chopped up pig mingling in my freagin' mac n’ cheese.  Ugggh.

Instead of saying anything, I just tried to scrape off what bacon I could from each noodle and then ate it.  It wasn’t even that warm.  It wasn’t even that cheesy.  I mean, the description was gourmet and five cheese, fancy and delicious sounding cheeses, cheeses that I have never even heard of, and yet it tasted like a canned alfredo sauce.  Needless to say, the entire thing was a huge disappointment.  When the server first plopped the plate down in front of me, a coworker sitting across from me asked, “Is that your appetizer?”

“No,” I said flatly.  “This is the main dish.”

He then stuck his nose up in the air and said, “Oh.  Man, I’d be pissed.”

Yeah.  I would be as well, if I weren't such a nice fella.

The lady sitting next to me said, "Why don't you tell them to take it back?"

"Cause I don't want to be difficult," I responded as I attempted to choke down the pig and penne.

And it's true.  I really don't.  And I know that I wouldn't have been difficult but that dude's teeth sucking suggested to me that I would be difficult if I had requested that I just get my food the way I ordered it in the first place.  I know that I'm a picky eater but frankly, I've always felt my picky nature benefited everyone that ever served me food.  I know that when I would go to Subway and ask for a chicken sub (before I became a vegeterian), I always wanted chicken and cheese and that was all.  The sub maker would always drop their jaw and look at me in disbelief.

"That's all?!" they'd ask.

Yes.  That is all.  And heck, I'm making your job easier.  I'm not asking you to put every ingredient available on the sub like some customers do.  I'm not asking you to put mayo on one side of the sandwich and two quarters of a squirt of mustard on the left side of the turkey right between the tomato and soggy lettuce, like some customers do.  Chicken and cheese and that's it!

Same with this order.  I was saving the cook from preparing any chicken or bacon.  It's not like the chicken is mixed in with the cheese sauce or anything.  I wasn't asking anyone to extract every little piece of meat from the dish.  I basically just wanted a big plate of macaroni and five cheeses.  Seemed simple enough to me but apparently it wasn't and apparently created another dish of just macaroni and five cheeses was also too difficult so screw it.  I'll take the dish.  I won't complain.  I also won't be satisfied.  Oh yeah, and the dish that was only slightly larger than my fist was seven bucks.

It just sucks being a vegetarian living in a carnivorous world.  Meat is everywhere and it's hard to avoid.  I feel like an outsider looking in.  And I feel very much like a leper when I tell people I don't eat meat.  The first question is always a resounding "WHY?"  as people's faces seize up in shock and horror.  Explaining it doesn't help matters because they always respond with, "Well, I love steak too much" or "meat is too delicious."  Why yes, yes it is.  I, too, had a fondness for chicken so don't think I don't understand where you are coming from.  I just wish you'd understand where I was coming from.  I know a lot of people don't mean to but sometimes they make me feel silly for my beliefs.  And that's why I didn't make a fuss over my bacon-laden lunch.  I could just imagine that server going in the back and saying to the cook, "It's just bacon.  What's the big deal?"  I hear that question a lot.  And I also get a lot of "Well, just take the meat off and it'll be fine."  That especially bothers me.   No, it's not fine.  When I hear that or get the impression that people are thinking that, I always say, "Well, what if I put a dead baby's arm on your pizza.  You know, just let those dead baby juices sink into the cheese and the sauce.  Now, peel that arm off and eat the pizza.  It's fine!"  Just as you probably wouldn't eat a pizza that had a dead baby arm on it, I won't eat a pizza, and except for this instance, won't eat pasta that has any meat in it because I feel the same way about the pig or cow or chicken as you do about the dead baby.  It's really just a matter of preference and no matter how common or uncommon those preferences might be, they should be respected.

Some parts of me feel like I should have been more assertive.  I wouldn't have been out of line by asking them to redo my food because, well, it was their mistake for getting it wrong in the first place.  And mistakes happen!  It's no big deal.  I should have just said that I would prefer not to have any meat in my dish and if it wasn't any trouble, I would like a meat-free plate.  I wouldn't have been rude or peturbed.  I wouldn't have gone on a tirade like some customers do.  I know how it is to deal with a-hole customers so I always tell myself that I won't be like that.  Plus, it's just common decency not to be rude to people, even if they did make a mistake.  Still, I felt like I would have been a problem if I had spoken up so I didn't.

Just another example of the hardships of being a herbivore.  Yet, I endure.  I just hope my efforts are paying off in some way.  Although I stopped losing weight, feel like crap, can't eat anything healthy and face the awkward judgments of others, I'm still going....strong?  Well, I'm still going, anyway.  That's gotta count for something.

The Liberation of Being Ugly

"Never could see past the skin
They make you believe
Beauty's from within
Don't know why
'Cause it's just not true..."

-Idiot Pilot

I used to feel so much pressure to be handsome.

I have struggled with my image for as long as I can recall.  My first memory of feeling bad about myself occurred during the first week of third or fourth grade.  A boy in my class came up to me and said, “You got fat over the summer.”  Ah, don’t you just love children and their unabashed (and mostly unnecessary) honesty?  Although that was many years ago and my memory is overall rubbish, I can recall that moment like it was ten minutes ago.  I remember being outside in the halls between classrooms.  I remember the day was bright and sunny and I remember the boy coming right up to me and not even saying hello before calling me fat.  I remember the surprise in his brown eyes as he scanned me up and down, almost as if I had turned into a different person in those few months since he last saw me.  That is when I first became aware of my body.  I suppose I had gotten pudgy, as I did nothing that summer but eat and watch television.  That particular time was when my definition of fun shifted from outdoor play to indoor laziness.  Yet, I wasn’t aware of what my time on the couch had done to my once slender frame.  At least, not until my corpulence was called out by that boy.  His comment created the concrete that would eventually lead me down a path of inadequacy and depression.  From those first few words on, things got worse.

Puberty sucked.  Well, we all say that but my body really took a beating during my maturation phase.  It seems like something went wrong with me both physically and emotionally from the point the boy called me fat to the point of puberty.  Instead of not caring what that boy said, I took it to heart.  And instead of doing something about it, like cutting back on sweets and exercising, I was sad and found comfort in food and wallowed in my laziness.  I realize now that I wasn’t truly fat but I did have a bit of a belly.  I remember telling myself that I was capable of losing the weight.  I didn’t even have that much to lose.  A little more physical activity, a little less candy, and I’d be fine.  But, I only kept eating more and played less and instead of taking care of the problem at the onset, I only made it worse.  I remember shopping for jeans before every new school year and my mother going straight to the husky sizes.  I hate that word.  Husky.  It was embarrassing having to wear a fat label on my fat butt all year round.  And every year I had to go up one more pant size.  It’s not that I didn’t diet.  I did.  And exercised.  I just never stuck with anything.  As soon as I’d lose ten pounds or so, I’d stop, gain the weight back plus five or ten more pounds.  Although I never beat the bloat, I did start to become preoccupied with food, exercise and my weight. 

This was around the time when all the kids in my class started getting braces.  This made me aware of how bad my teeth were, something I had never thought much about before.  Even though I didn’t get braces, I became obsessed with whitening my teeth.  If I couldn't straighten them, I thought I'd try to at least make them presentable in some way.  And not to be outdone, my skin decided to turn against me as well and broke out something terrible.  This wasn’t just a case of regular teenage breakouts.  This was serious crater creating acne.  While the other kids got over their acne after a while, if some of them even broke out at all, mine only got worse.  I was made painfully aware of this one day when I was joking around with a girl in my class.  We were playfully poking each other when she gently bumped my forehead with her palm.  She pulled her hand back with a look of minor disgust on her face.

“Your face is so greasy,” she said as she wiped her palm on her jeans.  The joking was over at that point.  I felt my face get hot and I’m sure it would have reddened if the acne hadn’t already done a good job of that.  That’s when I became aware of how bad my skin was and from then on, I became obsessed with keeping my face clean and oil-free.

More examples of my flaws being called out includes me minding my own business in my computer applications class, typing away and working on building my very first website when a girl to my left said to a girl to my right, "Look at Brannon's arms."  The girl to my right looked over and said, "Mm hm, they're hairy."  I never thought much of it until they spoke up and pointed out yet something else wrong with me.  Ever since then, I've been trimming them.  And while at lunch one day, I was telling a story to a group of people.  A good friend at the time turned to me and said loudly, "Ugh, here's some gum.  You're breath is kicking like Jackie Chan!"  I accepted the gum, embarrassed.  I didn't speak for the rest of lunch.  Now, I always carry gum or mints with me because I don't want to have to experience that kind of shame again.  Sure, it could have just been a one time deal, especially considering I had just ate because we were at lunch, after all.  Of course my breath wasn't going to be minty fresh but she planted a bad breath complex in my head and now I believe I have habitual halitosis.     

Everything came together during those years of physical transition.  Not only was I becoming more aware of myself, thanks to the unintentionally hurtful remarks of others, but I was also becoming aware of the other guys and girls surrounding me.  Girls became more than platonic playmates.  I was noticing these girls turning into women.  I was developing interests.  And I noticed the guys developing into men and I became jealous of their short-lived awkward phases.  For everyone else, they came into their own.  Braces came off, boobs and Adam’s apples popped out, skin cleared up, muscles and curves were shaped as well as a sense of independence and confidence.  Style.  Maturity.  Progression.  And I felt like I was falling faster and faster behind everyone.  For me, everything was getting worse.  My skin, my hair, my ever expanding waistline all took turns tearing away at the confidence that should have been building within me, the confidence that everyone else was experiencing.  I saw how everyone else was becoming beautiful and I was deteriorating.  The destruction of my self-esteem led the way for inadequacy and jealousy.  Why couldn’t I be thin like him?  Why couldn’t I have good hair like that guy?  Sure, that chap is chubby but at least he has a good personality.  And even that was lacking for me.  I was fat on the outside and on the inside, so many things were going on.  I think the typical teenage hormone surge took a toll on my mental health, coupled with my declining self-esteem.

And I hate to say this because I think a lot of people say this but I think I might have been depressed as well.  Obviously, we all go through a storm of emotions during puberty as everything is changing and I think some sort of mild depression comes with that.  So, maybe it was just being a teenager or maybe I honestly had a real form of depression but whatever the case was, it added to my awkwardness and silence in social situations.

I think my early years were devastating in ways I’m only starting to comprehend.  And just as I’ve always said, nothing traumatic ever happened to me.  It was mostly an internal conflict that only escalated over time, that depression/typical teenage-itis that gnawed away at every part of me mentally, emotionally and as a response to the swirling hurt inside, physically as well.  It was a snowball effect.  As things became worse physically for me, getting fatter and breaking out more and more, I withdrew from people and became more introverted.  That isolation caused me to form bad habits like seeking comfort in food instead of friends.  I just felt like friends wouldn’t understand.  They were either ending their ugly duckling stage or were long past it.  My descent into a sickening pool of negativity didn’t help matters.  It wasn’t until years later when I realized that I turned every conversation I ever had with anyone into a giant pity party for myself.  I see now how off putting that was but at the time I guess I was just drowning in something dark and epic and I was crying out for help.  Not only did I withdraw from society but unintentionally managed to push people away with my destructive attitude.  I missed out on something vital, something necessary.  I missed out on those years when young people communicate in more adult ways, with flirting and seriousness.  People were coming together and starting to spread themselves into previously unknown territory.  Romantic relationships.  Deep friendships.  All the while, I pulled myself inward.  And I ate.

My physical appearance crippled me.  I allowed society’s idea of physical beauty cripple me.  And because I was weak, I allowed my own mind to cripple me.

It’s funny how none of my flaws really bothered me until someone else pointed them out.  The skin, the teeth, the hair, the body.  None of these were any thing I gave much thought to until someone told me these qualities were bad or ugly.  That is what caused me to become so insecure and preoccupied with what was wrong with me.  I suppose I felt I had to beat people to the punch, to point out my flaws before anyone else could.  And a part of that process was trying to correct my flaws before anyone noticed them.  I became incredibly self-conscious about every little thing.  When I was younger, I never gave much thought to my appearance and all of these years later, I was making up for that lack of acknowledgment to my looks with an unhealthy obsession with my image.  And it’s sad how I couldn’t just be okay with myself, despite those people who pointed out all the things wrong with me.  There are times when I think it couldn’t have been helped.  I was too young, too impressionable to shrug off such criticisms.  And then there are times when I beat myself up because I think I shouldn’t have cared what other people thought.  If I could have went through life okay with how I looked, things would have been so much easier for me.  And now my definition of physical beauty is skewed because I’ve allowed other people’s opinions to be drilled so far into my head that I cannot form my own.  For example,  I say that I want to be thin for myself, not for anyone else.  I am the one who doesn’t like being fat.  Yet, if I delve deeper into that thought, I wonder why I don’t like being fat, why I personally find it to be unattractive.  Is it truly a matter of personal taste or is it because other people  impressed upon me their own standards of beauty?

Despite my decline in appearance and lack of social skills, I managed to pull together enough willpower to try to make a change.  The most perplexing part of my personality is the gamut in which it operates.  There are days when I feel I'm an irrevocable mess and other times I believe I have the capacity to take over the world.  And the most frustrating part is that I can't control it.  Something inside my head clicks on and off and I am a slave to the resulting mood shifts and changes in perspective.  And one day, like a baseball bat to the brain, my whole perspective on everything shifted.  I was determined to lose weight and get myself together.  And that's what I did.  I started taking a prescription for my face and started dieting and exercising for my body.  It was hard.  I was hungry and tired.  It was mentally exhausting resisting those urges to eat poorly.  It was mentally exhausting forcing myself to exercise.  And at times, I decided it wasn’t worth it and I’d just stay fat forever.  Yet, I kept going.  That on switch in my head pushed me to continue.  And I started seeing progress.  My face began to clear up after a frustrating few months with no results.  Same with my body.  And I started dressing better.  And I let my hair grow out.  And things were changing.  And people were noticing.  And I started to feel good and the positive attention felt good.  It was motivating.  And I think that’s what pushed me to go as far as I did.  When it got tough, I just remembered how good it felt to be thinner, how nice it was when people would compliment me.  Things were looking up.

For a while.

As that mechanism inside my head tends to do, something clicked off and all the willpower and positive energy I was feeling slowly depleted.  Eventually, I was taken off the medication and my face worsened again.  I was at my thinnest when I went to college and the stress of leaving friends and family behind, along with having a roommate from hell caused me to gain a lot of weight.  Then my hair started falling out.  I also suffered a severe culture shock.  Dealing with people outside of my hillbilly bubble opened my eyes, battered my brain and hollowed out this old heart of mine.  I also had to come to terms with my limited talents.  Being surrounded by such creative minds only highlighted my shortcomings.  I went from being the most artistic in my high school to being the embarrassingly bad kid in my college classes.  You know how no matter how badly you do on a test or book report or oral presentation, there's always that one kid who you know will do worse than you and so it makes you feel better?  Well, I was that kid.  The lack of confidence in my looks, social skills and talent caused me to withdraw just like I did when I was younger.  It was sad because I felt like college was my opportunity to start fresh, to experience everything again for the first time through a new body and mind.  I was ready to bloom.  Yet, everything fell apart faster than I could salvage and I wilted instead.  It was like I was reverting back to that middle school outcast, fat and shiny and shunned.  It didn’t help matters that I believed college to be my salvation.  I don't think people understand the high hopes I had for that place.  It wasn't just my education I was excited about.  It wasn't just the people, the place.  It was the experience.  It was the whole package, a total renewal of myself.  Instead, it was more like my undoing.  The fact that everything went so wrong so fast coupled with the unfathomable disappointment spiraled me into a depression that I hadn’t felt since I was that pubescent and pockmarked kid.  Oh, how the hope for happiness was so within my grasp, only to be pulled away at the last possible moment.  And if that wasn’t bad enough, I developed that throat lump around this time.  The little bit of confidence I had worked so hard on building up over the years had fallen fast.

I went into college a relatively attractive young man, full of hope for a better life for myself.  I left overweight and sullen.  It’s funny because I was bigger than I had been in years yet I was empty at the same time.  Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to recover.  I still can’t get my weight under control and the lump is there and I feel ugly.  I feel alone.  I feel defeated by my own mind and body.  It’s not easy to walk around feeling like you’ve betrayed yourself.  The weird part is those moments of complete low, the times when I feel I’m at my worst, often make way for short-lived periods of indifference, even fragments of acceptance.  I just think to myself that I’ve worked so hard all of my life and the results have never been more than average at best.  I put a lot of time, money and effort into my appearance but you can’t tell it.  And that realization makes me want to give up, to embrace who I am and what I look like.  It’s obvious to me that no matter what I do, no matter what pill I take or lotion I use, I’ll never be good-looking, at least not in my eyes, at least not the way I feel good-looking people should look.  So, why try anymore?  I often think I should just make peace with my face, my body and my mind because it most likely won’t change any time soon, if it changes at all.  And look what happens when things do change!  The changes don’t last because I am not strong enough to maintain the upkeep.  I’m too tempted by indulgences and I’m too weak to resist bad habits and negative thoughts.  And the weakness and the negativity is insurmountable.  I have days when I look in the mirror and realize that this is all I have, all I’ve been given and I’d better make the best of it.  I walk out of the door knowing I’m clean and clothed and isn’t that all that should be expected of me?  I can’t control the way I look physically but I can at least take care of what I've been given. 

There are certain parts about myself that can be fixed.  I can get braces.  I can get a nose job.  I can get a hair transplant.  But these corrections are extreme in nature and unlikely to happen.  There are certain parts about myself that I can temporarily correct.  As long as I keep using these products, I can keep the acne at bay.  As long as I diet and exercise, I can look a few pounds.  And then there are parts of myself that will never change.  I’ll always have these stretch marks.  I’ll never have a strong jaw line.  My eyes will always be uneven.  And I suppose it’s all about fixing what I can and accepting what I cannot.  Naturally, that is easier said than done because what I want to see will never happen, what I’ve pictured as the physical standard of attractiveness for myself will never be achieved and it’s difficult to discard a long-held desire so quickly.  Sometimes, I think I come close.  Yet, that negativity and that weakness, those insurmountable demons, always find a way to infiltrate that flicker of peace and manage to put it out pronto. 

This all came about with an epiphany I had while I was still in college.  I was at the mall and this gorgeous girl walked past me.  The old me would have stumbled.  My face would have gone scarlet and the wicked thoughts would rush into my head like a blast of cold air to the brain:  she’d never be with me, she’s way too good for me, she didn’t even give me a second glance, I’ll never be good enough for someone like her, she probably thought I was fat and disgusting.  But this time around, I didn’t think those things.  I took her for what she was, which was a pretty girl.  Nothing more.  Nothing less.  I didn’t wonder if I was handsome enough for her or if she thought about me the way I thought about her.  I simply carried on.  It felt good.  It felt good to realize that no, she probably didn’t find me attractive but I didn’t beat myself up over it because in that moment, I knew exactly who I was and what I was.  In that moment, I accepted that I simply wasn’t good-looking, at least not by her high standards, assuming I knew what her high standards were.  I felt ugly.  But instead of feeling bound by such a thought, it was actually quite liberating.  It was nice to realize I didn’t have to put up a pretense.  I felt like I had let go of all that pressure, all those struggles to cover up a pimple or whiten my crooked teeth.  I was there and I was me, fat, pale and balding and I was fine with that.

For a while.

While I left the mall confident in my new found awareness, it didn’t take long for that euphoric feeling to fade into a mild depression once again.  I think maybe I’d be okay if I didn’t have to be surrounded by these image of better looking people.  It only serves as a reminder of what I am not, what I realized I would never be able to achieve despite the creams and clothes.  I suspect I will always struggle with this for the rest of my days, just like I will with my weight.  It’s no giant leap to say that my weight and self-image are closely tied.  Perhaps one day will come when that mall walking epiphany hits me again and will possibly stick but I doubt it.  It's just like the clicking inside my head.  Sometimes positivity penetrates and other times I'm destroyed by depression and at this moment, I have no way to control it.  And it’s sad to know that I will struggle over something that I don’t have much control over.  Physical fixes are hard enough but the emotional and mental defects are the hardest of all to heal.  And what started out as a mission to fix the flaws that other people had proposed has turned into a journey of self-loathing.

Just like how I struggle with people's negative opinions of my appearance, I also struggle with compliments.  As few and far between as they are, they do make me feel good.  Mostly.  Depending on the person, a compliment can make my day or not affect me at all.  It's as if compliments are like the marshmallow fluff of statements to a terribly insecure person.  It's sugary and sweet and it tastes good for a while but at the end of the day, I'm still pretty empty.  It's crazy because as much as I feel people's opinions still matter to me, they almost don't at the same time.  As much as I want to hear the words, I can't help but not believe them.  And I want more than anything to believe them. 

I post a lot of pictures on Myspace and Facebook and I have even joined the social networking site Dailybooth.  I know this might seem hypocritcal considering how awful I feel about myself.  All I have to say about that is, "Thank goodness for technology!"  One of the only good aspects of growing up ugly in this day and age is the access to photo editing software.  And this software is the only reason I allow my image to be put on the Internet.  I can cover up, crop or virtually erase the parts of myself that I don't like.  I can control exactly how I want to look.  And this might sound odd, but taking photographs of myself and editing them creates a security blanket of sorts for me.  It's photographic confidence.  It's snapshots of self-esteem.  It's my way of seeing myself rid of my shortcomings.  It's the ideal image of what I feel I might be able to look like one day.  It's not like I completely rearrange my face.  It's still me, only refined.  And sometimes I like the way the pictures come out and it makes me feel better about myself.  Sure, they are edited but it's still me and the fact that I can take a good picture and it's still me underneath the airbrushing gives me a small dose of confidence.  It's like, "Yeah, hey, that's me and I look pretty good there."  It might be silly and shallow but it's one of the only things that works so I stick with it for the time being.

I don't really know where to go from here.  I believe I have somewhat identified my problems yet I don't know how to go about fixing them.  How can I undo approximately fifteen years of insecurity?  How can I overcome my own skewed perceptions of  what is acceptable and attractive?  They say everything takes time.  And maybe it's not so much time, but what time provides.  Time gives way to exposure, to discovering different perspectives.  I didn't turn into a troll simply from the passage of those fifteen years.  It was the things I saw and downfalls I went through that accumulated over that period of time and caused me to end up this way.  Time is nothing more than a vehicle for change.  Time provides the opportunity for growth, stagnancy or regression.  And I've walked a tightrope between stagnancy and regression for far too long.  I think the first step in reaching growth is the decision to want to be happy with who I am.  For so long, I never gave my own happiness consideration.  I thought happiness came from the opinions of others.  Now, I see that was wrong.  I want to be at peace with my face and my body and I not be as restricted by other people's standards.  Now, it's just overcoming those standards that have been so heavily embedded into my brain.  Perhaps time will provide the ability to mature and find priority in things that matter more than my looks.  I already feel like I've made some progress.  I know now that I am not conventionally handsome and I never will be.  That doesn't mean that I'm hideous.  It just means I am who I am and I'm going to have to accept that because this face is going to stick with me for a long time.  Perhaps my insecurities will fade when I fully realize what I am and just embrace the flawed face and bloated body.  Then, maybe change will follow.  And maybe, just maybe, that liberation will last.

You thought it was tough being dead?  Try being dead and ugly.

Now, that's a killer.

Actually, No I Don't

"Oh will you ever know
That the bitterness and anger left me long ago
Only sadness remains
And it will pass..."
-Sia, You Have Been Loved

Forgiveness is the hardest thing in the world.  People are not easily forgiven in my world because it almost feels like when they are forgiven, they win.  They've hurt me and yet I forgive them and they need not feel any remorse.  They can carry on like nothing ever happened.  Yet, I still keep their harsh words, their neglectful actions bound tight within me.  Why should I be the only one to suffer for what they did?  Keeping forgiveness dangling over their heads feels like my only way of properly punishing them.  It's not that I want them to hurt like they've hurt me.  It's not that it feels good.  It just feels right.

It doesn't help matters that I can't let things go.  If I could, then maybe I could forgive easily.  It just doesn't seem fair to hold onto the hurt while the one who inflicted the damage can frolick around absolved of their actions.  That's pretty selfish of me.  Should someone be tied to their transgressions for eternity?  Of course not.  Everyone makes mistakes and no one is perfect.  I, myself, have offended many people but that doesn't mean I should feel guilty for the rest of my life.  So, why should these people who have offended me?  They shouldn't.  I just need to get over myself so I can get over them.

Forgiveness isn't impossible.  As far as I can tell, I've forgiven my former roommate, the one who made my life hell for close to a year.  It's definitely taken a long time and some days I'm still sore from what happened but I think, overall, I'm okay.  Forgiveness is just going to take a lot of time, patience and maturity.  As a Christian, I have to forgive those who have hurt me.  As a fallible human being, I don't think they deserve it.  But this is where I have to wander outside of myself and do the right thing.  I have to let go of my personal protests and forgive as God does.  Harboring hurt isn't good for the soul.

I think a lot of times the anger dissipates quicker than I've realized.  What I mistake for anger is actually a sadness, a confusion as to what just happened.  The confusion turns into frustration which leads to anger.  I'm not angry at the person so much as I am at the situation.  How could they have said that, done that?  The angry slowly drips away but the sadness remains.  I suspect that's what takes the longest to get over.  I suspect that's what keeps me from so easily forgiving.  But, I will.  I always do.  It's just the right thing to do.