I hate this feeling.
That I need to do something, but I have no clue what.
So, I write.
Is this what being a teenager is? Or maybe being a poet?
This wanting to do everything at once, but not being able to?
Yesterday, my parents decided I was going to IC. In Jacksonville. 30 minutes away from here. This wasteland.
I love my friends here in Springpatch, but I miss the ocean. I miss the coffee shops, Pike Place, the rain, the evergreens and I guess I miss the memories.
Even though most of what I remember is the hurtful stuff. . . the beginning to the real madness.
I wanted to go to UW. I wanted to go there because there are cool little streets and funny people and all those random people playing their instruments on the sidewalk downtown.
Maybe that's why I wanted to go back "home".
Rachel said there was nothing there for me. No one. Not anymore.
I've been hoping she is wrong. That time will rewind, that I will unravel the past and things will be kittens and butterflies again.
Or maybe I just want to figure my brain out. I hate this feeling. . . I want to go back to the safety I felt during my last months in Seattle. It holds my best memories.
And my worst.
But now I can't figure out my past, not the way I wanted to. I will be living close to my parents.
I hate being me. I wish I could love myself the way I strive to love others.
I may be the TWLOHA Girl, but is it more than just cool t-shirts and my favorite story in the world? Does change really start with the individual, because I cannot love myself.
This is the dumbest blog in the world, and here I thought I was inspired.
Maybe I'll take a walk in the park tonight, after my parents have stopped stirring and have started snorring. Maybe I'll take a long walk and maybe I'll cry, if I can remember how. Maybe I'll even scream. I feel like screaming. . . but most of all I feel like melting into a puddle and letting Jesus hug me.
Which is pathetic.
Because He's a spirit now, or something like that, and His "hands and feet" (here goes the soap box again, geez, will I ever stop?) have dissipated into religiosity and judgementalism. If that's even a word, that is.
Will this totally childish longing ever cease? Seriously? Being held. . . having a father. . . I'm 17. I'm in college. I'm supposed to have myself half-way together, yet I'm crying over wanting someone to hold me. Pathetic.
But I can't stop.
It's like. . the cry of my heart, or whatever that cliche is.
Yes, I am taking a walk tonight, if I can escape. Maybe I will find Jesus sitting under a tree. Or maybe I'll just sit under the tree by myself and wonder what it's like to be loved.