A Family, Separated

I used to think my family was inseparable. Now, I know I'm wrong. No one in this world is immune to heartbreak and conflicts of the heart, and me and my family...well, we're no exception.

My dad's off in Maine, and the problem with that is that he isn't HERE, my bitchy sister just told my mother she's terrible at parenting and that she's always yelling at us (speak for yourself, Emily!!), and my mom is sitting in the car, crying, while I watch it all fall apart. I can't do it. I almost cried myself. Why is everyone in my family so intent on breaking us apart?

I kind of feel like my stomach's been ripped open and someone's carefully removing my heart and in its place putting in a mechanical, robotic heart, just so I can keep on going without the pain, go through life effectively numb.

God knows feeling nothing is better than feeling...this.

You've Got A Shitty Personality!!

I hate myself. No, I amend that statement. I hate myself for hating myself. I hate that I get mad at others and make them feel upset just to help myself feel better. I hate that through my depression I'm pushing others away by...not wanting them to get hurt. Which is ultimately pointless, since by my trying to keep them from getting hurt, I'm ultimately driving the knife in deeper.

I've been depressed before, and it's never been like this. Ever. It's always been just depressed, depressed, depressed, non-stop...or at least until something came along to fix it. But now I'm happy then furious then excited to bawling my eyes out, then overjoyed...and it leaves me wondering--how am I actually feeling? Because it can't be normal to be this up and down all the time.

Right?

And honestly, I'm not sure whether hoping for confirmation of my non-normalcy is hurting, or helping.

And every single time I drive someone else away from me, I can hear that voice from AOL Mail going: "You've Got...A Shitty Personality!!"

And truthfully, maybe I do. Maybe I'll be entirely alone before I ultimately hear the truth. Who knows? I sure don't.

One thing I do know is, I want to get better. I don't want to hurt anyone anymore. I want the inner ache to go away.

Bottom line: I'll do whatever it takes. And if there's a God up there, I'll never use your name in vain again. Seriously. I swear.

I've Never Felt So Alone

There are some days that I wish had a do-over button. For instance, tonight. After the wickedly-hurtful/wickedly-awkward dinner conversation:

Sam: Good salad. Nice, light, healthy meal.
Mom: Mm.
Emily: (makes snarky comment)
Mom: So, Em, when are you going to stop being mad at me?
Sam: I think Em thought YOU were mad at HER!
Mom: Oh.
*Conversation automatically drifts to my best friend Brian*

Mom: So, is Brian always that lazy? That...disinterested?
Me: No! You just don't know him well enough yet. He's really a great guy, I promise--
Mom: Yeah, and he sat at dinner for, like, four minutes and then up and left.
Me: NO! I gave him a choice. Besides, he was sick, and I didn't want him getting sick germs all over you guys!
Mom: Well, he seemed pretty rude to me.
Me (head in hands): He's really a nice guy...
Mom: On the bright side, your social skills in comparison to his are outstanding!
Emily: Isn't that kind of a backhanded compliment?
Mom: Know what? I'm done. DONE. I'm going out to the kitchen where I won't bother you.
Me: But it WAS a back-handed compliment!
Dad: Katie, stop it. Just eat your dinner. (Translation: stuff food in your mouth and shut up.)
Me: I'm not doing anything!!
Dad: Don't you raise your voice with me, missy!!
Me: I'm not--
Dad: EAT YOUR DINNER.
Me (staring at dinner plate): Unh.
Me: Okay, I can't do this. (Gets up and leaves)
Dad: GET BACK HERE, RIGHT NOW!! DON'T DO THIS, KATIE!!

And so on and so forth...I feel like such a terrible, terrible, terrible person. It's like I can't stop shooting my fucking mouth off! Sam at one point was like, "Well, she did birth you," and when I said, "Sometimes I wish she hadn't" I meant it.

I feel like everyone would have been so much better off if I'd never been born. No lying, no stubbornness, no smart-alecking, no backtalk, no rudeness, no mean comments...

My family would have been so much happier. Is it too late to just die? Make the world a better place?

I'm sorry, guys. I can't do this anymore. I just can't.

The Sad Truth is, the Truth is Sad.

"A friend is someone who knows all about you and still loves you." ~Elbert Hubbard

Really? Is that really true? Because I've had many 'friends' who turn out to be less than...loving. What I love is that the truth--which this person asked for in the formation of our friendship--is ironically the thing that drove us apart in the end. Isn't that funny?

No, not very funny at all. Another sad truth? I really think it's true, that a *romantic* relationship really does ruin a friendship. Unfortunately, once the truth is out there, the other person's feelings laying there on the table, how do you go back? Is that even possible? And is it better to have the other person pretend that what they said never was vocalized? To have that odd, strenuous tension stretching between you? A quiet abyss of the unsaid, hanging above you, tauntingly out of reach?

I wish that it hadn't happened, I really do. But you know what you could have had the decency to do? You could have told me how you felt about us...after the fact. Not went through our mutual friend because you were too scared of me to say the truth to my face? Really? Am I terrifying? Or am I just a reminder of what you screwed-up and can never get back?

We all make mistakes, you know. In fact, if you don't, you're probably not human. But the fault lies not in the mistake, it lies in the inability to admit to your wrongdoing. It's true...and yes, the truth often hurts, scars deeply, sometimes without ever healing...but what's the harm in trying? Trying to patch things up?

Truthfully, I think we were both screwed from the beginning. I don't know what I was thinking. But I can't do it with you. Not anymore. After these injuries I've acquired from your brashness? Yeah, I'm done. With you. With us. With whatever we had.

I'm done. With. Every. Single. Thing.

Now that it's out in the open, I can breathe again. Can inhale knowing the air I'm taking in isn't tainted with your influence, with your cold distance and unwillingness to talk to me.

Know what? You're not worth it. No friendship is worth it if in order to make it work, one person does everything.

I'm tired of it, and frankly?

I've never felt so fucking free.

My Fist and His Face

"I believe that everything happens for a reason. People change so that you can learn to let go, things go wrong so that you appreciate them when they're right, you believe the lies so you eventually learn to trust no one but yourself, and sometimes good things fall apart so that better things can fall together." ~Marilyn Monroe

Oh, Marilyn, I so hope you're right. Those four words--I told you so--taste so bitter and unappealing on my lips, yet it is screaming for release. The words pummel themselves against the walls blocking them out, kicking and punching and slamming and smacking and using that violent pulse inside to get them what they want.

But, for whatever reason, my resolve--or, better yet, strong will--stops the words before they can fall...especially because if I did let them out, I don't know if there's anything that will help put them back in.

I've spent days and days and days, up and wandering and thinking and pondering and devouring and KILLING myself by thinking about him. His name, his clothes, his hair, his smile...the smile he gave me sister right before he not only took the smile away, he stole her heart, too.

I'm not talking any Romeo & Juliet, either. My sister might be the most resilient, most intelligent, most beautiful and kind and understanding and all-around fantastic person I know, but...well, even my sister can't handle what he dished out. Just seeing her expression and the tears in her eyes that always linger, like ghosts of a happier time, a time we want back...it tears me apart. It makes me want to go up to him and jab my thumb in his eye. Lord only knows he deserves it. I am not a violent person--truly, I'm not--but I can't stand people doing harm to those I love.

You want to mess with them? You're messing with me. So I'm protective. Sue me. It's not just a one-time thing, either. Three times this has happened. THREE TIMES!! I ask you, how can my sister not understand her worth? Has time spent with him weakened her to a point that she feels like...like she's nothing? How anyone could be so cruel as to reduce a star as bright as my sister to nothing...I can't fathom it.

Because my sister is far, far, FAR from nothing. No, I don't even want to jab my thumb in his eye. I want to MURDER him. I'm actually crying as I write this. You don't mess with my family and my friends if you want to live. Okay, so I'm a pacifist, but whatever. Leave people I love alone!

The way he treats her now...he's pouring fifty pounds of salt in her gaping wound.

Really, can you get any crueler?

(My) Mother Appreciation Day

"Men may be manly and brawn and macho, but when it comes down to it, women rule the world. More intelligent, more insightful, kinder, and all-around more kickass. Especially my mother." ~Me, just a second ago

I realized something really important. My mom is awesome. Amazing. Totally fabulous. Unparalleled in her job. I've always loved her and always will, but sometimes when you stop to think about it, not only do you love those who have grown with you just as much as you've grown with them, but you respect them.

My mother is my role model. Does she drive me nuts sometimes? Yes. Does she make me want to pull out my hair and cut it into tiny pieces? Absolutely. But I'll bet you anything I make her feel the exact same way (and she doesn't have much hair to spare).

But at the end of the day, she's the one standing there when I need a hug. When my six hours at school SUCKED and I just need someone to vent to who will actually listen and not interrupt (cough Meghan cough). So that leaves...my mom. What would I do without her? I'd probably die. I'd WANT to die, anyhow.

I love how whenever I am struggling with body-image issues, my mom's always the one there who tells me I'm beautiful. Even if I'll never believe her, she will always say it. When at the end of the day I want to curl in a ball and stay there, she coaxes me out using gentle words and the allure of a cuddle.

Let's be honest. I've never met a cuddle I didn't like.

My mom rocks, and I really haven't said that enough. So, mom? Wherever the heck you are out there, I love you. I always have, and I always will. Stubborn, beautiful, courageous, selfless, wise, and always giving, you are my role model, and will continue to do be so, even after you are gone.

I love you so much, mom. And I cannot say how sorry I am that I simply haven't said it enough. But from now on, I'll say it everyday. Just so you can always know how special and amazing you are to me.

Here's to you, mom. Here's looking at you.

The Good Old Days

Some people say that the "good old days" are stupid. Why? Perhaps because looking back at the history of the US, America today is better than ever. Less racism, less cruelty against certain groups of people, a more stable economy (Ha! Funny!) etcetera, etcetera...but really, I'm talking about MY good old days. The days when I wasn't so outgoing and social. I miss the days when I suffered in silence and I miss the days when every school day sucked and was just another marking point in my miserable life, because back then, I wasn't a bitchy, obnoxious, hormonal, mean, selfish fifteen-year-old. I could blame any number of things for my behavior, like stressful work at school, or tense relationships with friends, or even just exhaustion from a long week. But after three or four or five months of the same excuse, it begins to sound like a lie, even to my own ears. I don't miss the collective sighs I get from my parents, and I certainly don't blame them. I can't even blame my every meltdown, every tear shed, every door slammed as just an onset of hormones, because when it comes down to it, most of it is just because I can't get a handle on my emotions. I use my family as a punching bag, as an outlet for my stress, fury, sadness, and confusion. And they don't deserve it. Heck, I wish they could just snap and say, "TO HELL WITH IT! I AM DONE! DONE!!" But no, instead they just take it and deal. I can't control this monster inside me, and I'm not sure where the ten-year-old Katie went. I don't know when her extended vacation is over, but I'm just about ready to call someone to snatch her and replace this monstrous, practically demonic teenager. I would readily take a couple slaps to the face, some verbal and emotional torture, and even some mortifyingly embarrassing mistakes over this. Anything but this. Absolutely anything. I can't take living inside my own skin. I don't hate myself, not quite, but I certainly don't like me, either. I'm debating whether to say "Fuck off" or say "Kick your shoes off and hang around" and apparently my body was already decided the latter is best for me. I don't agree. I want the good old days again. My heart aches for it; my eyes stream with unshed tears knowing I can be so much more genial, so much warmer, so much kinder, and yet simply can't. It kills me. I don't like myself; heck, I HATE myself. I want to rip my skin, and hope to holy hell there's something besides bones underneath it. I wish I could tear my flesh, piece by piece, and see ten year old Katie lying there, under it, and I'll be all like, "Hey! There you are! I've been looking for you for forever, man! Glad to have finally found you!" And then peace will be restored to the universe and yay everything's great. Unfortunately, it doesn't work out that way. Unfortunately, in the *real world* life isn't fair. Life brings ups and downs and more often that not gifts me with the downs rather than the ups. Still, I carry on, because what good is mourning that which you don't have? It doesn't do anything for you, certainly. But that's what I get, I guess, for being such a brat. Payback's a bitch, isn't it?