and now for our regularly scheduled programming

So, I've had a hard time writing lately because there's so much that I don't feel 100% comfortable sharing on this blog. Not because of my readers, but because of family or acquaintances from my past who may be judgmental or gossipy. I worry a lot about what would happen if someone were to find this blog and tell my parents about it.

I mean, I've told them about it. At some point, before I started sharing personal stuff that went against their beliefs, I even gave my dad the link. But, clueless as he can oftentimes be, he lost it, and my secrets have been safe.

That said, I have relatives who are friends with me on Facebook, and my blog used to feed directly onto my Facebook. My greatest fear is that someone will decide that it's their business to gossip to my parents.

This used to happen to me all the time as a kid. Obviously, it made more sense then. But, if you knew me, it didn't. See, telling my parents just drove me to hide things more. They were the worst people to tell. Now, it really doesn't matter what they know or how they'll react because I can leave. I have a safe place. I should own up to everything I don't want to tell them because it would make me stronger. . 

But I'd rather not. I'm a pussy. I don't want judgement, or tears, or talks, or having to get mad at them, or having to try to reason with them, or getting up and exercising my right to leave. It makes things messy.

I am my mother's lifeline. I hate it. But, I can honestly say that she very well might die with out me. Like, if I were to say, "hey, mom, you kind of fucked my life up a lot and I hate how you excuse it by saying that everyone makes mistakes", and then I left, she'd curl up on the couch and probably never move. I hope I'm exaggerating. I might be making this up. But I have seen her fall apart and I have heard her tell me that I will be the death of her, and that I will cause her heart to stop and her mind to break too many times to dismiss her words. 

So, to recap, I am terrified of my parents finding out about my blog and "you like girls?" "you smoke weed?" "you hate us?". . But, that said, it's really hard for me to not say what's on my heart. And there's a lot on my heart.

This blog is sort of my sounding board. I love it when people read it but I would keep writing if no one saw it but me. This is how I straighten my ideas out. This is how the clusterfuck tumbleweed that is my brain starts unraveling. I get stuck when I can't blog about things. 

So, for my own sort of peace of mind, I'm going to offer a disclaimer here: If you don't want to read about my fuckedupness, leave. If you're related to me, you do not want to be reading this. Why would you even be here in the first place? This is the corner of Bad Childhood and WTF Boulevard. If you decide this makes good gossip and I hear about it, then karma. Don't fuck with it. Also, I might just fucking decide to go all Kali witchy on you and if I do, it will not be pretty. 

I've been debating writing this blog for about a year and a half. Forgive me if I stall or repeat myself.

Lately I've been feeling broken. Abnormal. Even unfixable. I see the world and how it reacts to things and I feel so far removed. I don't/can't enjoy sex. 

Let me pause a moment and elaborate on how fucking embarrassed this makes me feel. As I mentioned, it makes me feel broken, but to make matters worse it's not a normal type of broken. When I was depressed or suicidal or had an eating disorder I guess I subconsciously took some sort of solace in the fact that this was normal. . At least for people my age. It wasn't that wierd. But this is. 

I sat on the exam table at my gynecologist and tried and tried to figure out some way to mention it offhandedly or even grow the balls to mention it straight up, but instead I just made small talk and told her that next time she should take me out to dinner first.

I pride myself in being an open book to pretty much anyone but my parents, people who tell my parents things, and my relatives. Anything. Seriously. Rape? Cutting? The shame I felt while binging? I find that the less secrets I have the less complicated life is. I also find that it opens people up to me and allows them to feel more comfortable asking for help or relating their own horror, or not horror, stories.

But this is haaaaaard. This is the first time I've really had to force myself to share. 

I'm not going to get into the details, because that's fucking weird, but it's forced JP and I to take a step back. Before we even started talking about marriage, we knew that we had backed ourselves up into a corner, and the only steps were to take the exit door or fight the Orc with the bulging forehead veins. So, we're at this point where we're fighting for our relationship. We're either going to fix our problems and start fucking like bunnies and get married, or we're going to take a step back in our relationship, at least for a period of time.

This has caused me a lot of anxiety. I realize that there's really no way out of this. I also realize that it isn't either of our faults. But it breaks my heart because my romantic, air balloon dreams of the pre-engagement, engagement and wedding period of my life have turned into this weird, awkward ultimatum. 

Sometimes I think we're being too intense. I've had people tell me that sex isn't everything, and I wholeheartedly agree! But, promising to be with someone for 80 years without an orgasm is daunting. There are greater women than me out there, obviously, because I couldn't do it. I would try, and I would, but after a few years I would get bitter and frustrated and we'd end up leaving each other anyways. 

We're young. And though we're each others best friends, partners, confidantes, and are always there for each other, there has to be more than that. At least for me. . .

I've struggled a lot about why I don't enjoy sex. I started going back to counseling, and ultimately have been dragging JP with me every week. There has been some talk of going from a regular ole grad-student-in-psych-interning-at-the-local-health-department to a full fledged sex therapist. 

There have been theories tossed around, from plain jane trust issues to remnants of sexual abuse to the weird way my parents raised me and how they completely refused to tell me that humans are sexual beings. Who knows what caused it? All I know it sucks really, really huge balls.

Now, the fact that this makes me feel abnormal and broken does not mean I'm depressed. I mean, yes, I am depressed about this certain topic, but for the first time in my life I am dealing with a major problem and not letting it control my entire view and way of life. 

I am fine. I enjoy life. I'm happy. I laugh, and play with Willow, and absolutely annihilate JP at Mario Kart on the '64. There are nights when I feel really, really sad and really, really broken. But overall, it's just a bump in the road. I finally feel like I know myself well enough that I am confident that I will beat the living shit out of this problem. I've been through worse. 

So, now that that's over, enjoy this not depressing picture:

You're welcome.

happy birthday bastard

Hello Bastard,

This is your birthday note. Happy 29th birthday. I hope you have a blast. I hope you remember all the good times.

I hope you remember your youth group. Your devoted followers. How we looked up at you like you were the center of the universe.

I hope you remember the first time I called you daddy. You were caulking the bathtub. Hell, even that was an omen, huh?

I hope you shrug on your worn leather jacket that reeks of you and remember that I used to wear it. I wore it home every time I'd leave school after lunch. Remember?

You came to find me once. I had locked the door. Locked and bolted, because my goal had to be accomplished. I had to be clean. I couldn't let you find me with red eyes and smelling of puke.

When I walked out to the enclosed porch I could smell you. Aftershave.

You came to save me. Or something like that.

Big strong youth pastor to the rescue. Taking care of the flock. Nurturing the sheep. Loving the unlovable. Planting seeds (what kind of seed?).

Remember your daughters birthday? She was one. Her face had just been mostly cleared of chocolate cake and I said I'd take her to bed while your wife was talking to my parents and your other two were playing downstairs. She was being so good. You weren't. Helping me, huh?

How could you do that stuff while your daughter was in the room? She wasn't old enough to understand, but it felt like she was.

How about your wife? She is beautiful. But she wasn't enough. She was insecure. . . so you found a girl who puked her guts up for self-esteem.

She was a faerie, your wife. She was my best friend.

And you were a vampire. What are you now?

Have you repented, like you told the judge? Forgotten your sins; let Jesus clean your heart? Psalm 51.

Happy birthday.

Do you remember the night I came over to figure out a plan to stop my cutting and purging? You showed me all the pictures you could find on Google images of deathly looking people. You read me the symptoms. Heart attack. Death. Infertility.

And then you put a condom in your pocket, just in case you got lucky with a 15 year old girl.

Bastard.

And the thing is I don't hate you. I feel sorry for you.

I feel sorry for you because you wore holey briefs and you stunk of sweat and cheap hair gel. I felt sorry for you because your phone kept vibrating as your wife called. I felt sorry for you when you finally got done because you were ruining what you said was everything to you.

Everyone reminds me of you.

Everyone with funny fingers, funny faces, funny noses. Everyone who cares.

What really hurts is that I haven't been able to move past you.

Everyone who touches me has your deformed hands and your glassy eyes. They all fake love.

When you carried me home in your arms after I'd OD'd, was that because you didn't want to see a girl die, or because you liked the way a vulnerable, quaking little girl felt in your arms? When you endured smelling like puke as you waited in the emergency room, was it because you really wanted to make sure I would make it, or because you wanted to know that I felt like I owed you something?

I question everything, you should know that.

I also say I'm sorry too much.

Did you choose me because I was someone who you wanted to get to know, or because I was the most vulnerable? Did my writing really intrigue you, or was it just another way to gain my trust?

You were the best and the worst thing that ever happened to me, Joseph Aaron.

I hate you.
But I can't hate a soul.

You must be tormented. At least, I hope you are, or else there's no hope for you.

How can you look at your children and not feel pain? You deprived them of their father for years. They don't know what happened now, but sometime in the future they're going to ask why daddy has a criminal record and why they can't have their friends spend the night. What will you say?

Are you going to tell them that there was a girl named Annie who wrote sad stories. Are you going to tell them that I loved them more than anything? Or are you going to tell them that there was someone; there was a mistake, and she's gone now?

Was I the mistake, or were you?

Life's unfair.

But you know, I'm happy.

You taught me that no matter what happens, even the worst thing I could dream up, it all has a purpose. People become stronger when they're faced with challenges, and when you break, you eventually heal.

I think.

And now, PJ, I can smile when I think of that year, because it was also my best. I met friends in the weirdest places and it's all thanks to you.

Really. Who knew loony bins were so darn cool?

Who knew I'd learn who I wanted to be?

Or that I'd finally fly?

Screw you.

And thank you.

And I'm sorry.


Happy birthday.

-Mistake.


P.S. The kids from Bethel still talk about you. You're a legend. They will never trust again, and half of them don't want to step into a church. They've lost the faith because the one who showed it to them lost himself.

I found myself through your breaking me.

I hope you've found yourself, or something.

Say "Hi" to Trish and the kids. I think of them constantly.

broken

Sometimes time pauses, turns around and looks you straight in the eye- demanding an explanation.

But no, I am sorry, I do not know why you were broken.

Sadder still, I do not know how to piece you together again.

You are a clay pot, made to the Creator's specifications, fashioned by His hands. Painstakingly, meticulously, perfectly you were made; just right. A masterpiece.

But sometimes even masterpieces can be loved too much, if that was your downfall. Or, if you insist that the darkness took you, you were loved too little, struggling on your own two feet; fighting to be brave.

Who knew that time would take you? Who knew that even the best one's fall? We were all too young and inexperienced; naive, if you will. We didn't know anything about rape, or heartache, or breaking, and we hoped we'd never have to learn.

But life is a funny thing, and it grabs us by the neck and doesn't let go, even when we think it's all over.

You fought- didn't you?
Is fighting enough?

Yeah, you're right. Fighting gets you nowhere if you're fighting against time, and life and lessons. Stopping the seconds that tick by or the sand as it trickles down the hourglass is impossible unless you are God.

And God. Where was He, I know you ask, even though it is forbidden that you utter it. A sin, they say. Sacrilegious.

The only sin that was committed was that of the holy man, showing his plumage like a peacock, proud of his accomplishments.
Holy.

I don't know why you were broken, or why anyone is broken.
I don't know how to put you together again; whether superglue or glue guns will work.
I don't know if anyone could have stopped it-
cold hands on warm skin,
the smell of sweat and sperm,
the moonlight pouring in through the windows- like a jail cell, barred,
the coarse carpet underneath your back,
the smell of hair gel,
his gnarled; malformed hands groping; hoping; finding.
I don't know.

I don't know why you were broken.

I am sorry.
I know what it's like.


I am you.

call me mashed potato girl.

I am sitting in front of a brightly lit screen with a pot of mashed potatoes, garlicky mashed potatoes, cheesy and garlicky mashed potatoes off to one side of the screen.

There is a wooden spoon in the mashed potatoes, and also a smaller metal one.

Just a second ago I was staring at this screen, with the smaller metal spoon in front of my face. I was licking it, thinking I could star in a porno about mashed potatoes. I laughed at myself.

It was all about fun, and I really don't have any weird fetishes about mashed potatoes.

Viva la Vida was playing, and I turned it way up. I love Coldplay, and I especially love Viva la Vida.

I finished a book today. It is called "The Perks of being a Wallflower".

I was shocked at the ending, but as I thought about it, it all made sense.That's why he was scared to have sex with Sam. Yeah. Makes sense.

But he loved his Aunt Helen.

Just like I still love Joe. But Joe killed me.

I wasn't exactly scared of sex. (Pokerface, by Lady Ga Ga is on now. How do you wake Lady Ga Ga up? Poke her face.)

Maybe it would have been good if I had been scared of sex.

Then it maybe wouldn't have happened. Especially without a condom. Who does that?

Seriously?!?

That's not even that bad. But knowing the sperm donor for only 6 days before settling yourself down on the piano practise room floor. Wrong. Wrong. Me.

(Let's face it. When it's come to size, there is one thing that really does matter. I'm talking about diamonds of course. Be Iced Jewelers.) What?

Oh yeah, and I thought I was pregnant. Because that would be convenient. And just my luck. I kind of wanted it though. Rachel and I went to Walmart, and I grabbed a liquor bottle. . and pretended to drink, and then I thought I couldn't, because it could cause birth defects.

Then I made her promise she'd never, ever let me wear sweats during the whole 9 months, that she'd make me dress cute, no matter how much I didn't feel like it.

That got me thinking about clothes, so I begged her to go to the maternity section with me. No go. I looked at it longingly though.

I wasn't.

Pregnant, that is. I was so relieved, when I found out. Right before Art class, I went to the bathroom, and there it was. The woman's plague. I was like "Geez, I wish I was pregnant. This sucks." But I was only half-wishing. Half.

I don't know why I am saying all of this. I was actually going to talk about something way different. I was going to talk about Curtis, but I started talking about Charley in the book, and Aunt Helen.

So, here I go, talking about I was originally going to talk about.

I went to prom this Friday. I also went to after-prom on Saturday, with Rachel. We drank way too much coffee, and stayed up longer than Rachel had ever stayed up. We went to Denny's, which is my favorite restaurant place of all time, because they have the best Bocca burgers ever. I said that, and then started laughing. There was all these random girls I'd never seen, and we sat with them, and I couldn't stop laughing. I've never done that before. It was great. I felt so high. It was ridiculous. I got coffee. And mozzarella sticks. (Mozzarella is a really weird word.)

But, on Friday, at prom. . well, it wasn't actually prom. It was like, fake prom. Or. . Modest prom. Or Mormon Prom. Choose one, it works.

We had to wear sleeves, because Mormon's are OCD about all girls having sleeves on. I looked ridiculous. Curtis took me. He looked at me as I opened the door and told me I looked weird. And then he said he should say I look beautiful, but he's really tired. 44 hours of no sleep, because he was thinking about marijuana.

Well, he was writing about marijuana. For a research paper, he wasn't just randomly thinking about it.

But he was honest, and out of it, so I decided that that night was the perfect night to ask him what he thought of me. I mean, if he liked me.

He said: "Yeah, sort of."

For a poet, he sure knows how to not say things poetically. Maybe it was because he was tired, because he always says things perfect, except for then. He amazes me.

I told him that I liked him because his writing gave me shivers. I wanted to write like him, but I never could. I wished I could have ran my fingers through his hair.

He was scared he had hat hair. Because he wore a hat. A pin stripped one from Walmart. It cost $10. He told me.

I wore it alot of the night. At one point, we both wore the same hat, because someone else had the same one.

We danced.

He twirled me.

And I was terrible.

At one point, he did this dance move that he really wasn't supposed to, because he was Mormon, and all these older Mormon psychiatrists and psychologists and presidents and business dudes were watching.

He twirled me so that I landed with my back right next to his chest. I said "I can see why this isn't allowed", but what I really meant was I could feel why this wasn't allowed.

I think Mormons aren't allowed to kiss.

Shame.

Maybe some day, because I'm willing to wait. And wear sleeves. And not swear, and not kiss him. Or even, if I have to, not run my fingers through his hair, even if it's just to convince him that he doesn't have hat hair.

And I don't love him just because he's a nice guy, but because he's honest, and he has silky arm hair and funny fingers. But I love it. I love all of it.

*Sigh*

<3