When it happens/the way we were

I must be an utter masochist. I should be wearing a mask. One would think when I told my first serious boyfriend I loved him for the first time and the response I get is pretty abysmal, I would not be a fool to reiterate the act again for a second... and third... and fourth time only to stand in awkward silence in continuous self-loathing for being such an idiot once again. I dated this person for over two years and he never told me he loved me, or anything good about me, for that matter. In the later years of my life, I realized my utter ignorance and stupidity of my emotions. I never really loved him at all. I couldn’t. I wanted to; maybe not because he was the right person, but because I liked what that word symbolized, it was something I have always wanted. It is something I have never known. Writing this seems like a sort of catharsis, finally digging the ditch to settle where my mind had wandered for so long.

            I could never fully love a person who wished me to be someone different. Someone better, prettier, wittier, philosophical, intelligent, and analytical. It was he who sparked the insufferable insecurities that still ravage my brain, guts, and that special beating thing. I never loved him. I am a girl with fingers and toes worth of regrets. At times, I wish I had never spoken those words to someone who didn’t value me at all. I knew these things, deep, deep inside; and I said it anyway. Why?

                                                                                    I’m still waiting to understand.

foreward/forewarned

Who was she? What did she do?  She was herself. She did it all.

I have found throughout the last four years of my life, I have experienced more than the average human. Love, hate, revulsion, compassion, intrigue, they have all come to me through many graces. Boys and friends have always been here and there and I believe these instances from the last four years have shaped me into the subtly awkward girl that I am. I have written this memoir in order to justify my world. The life I have led is based on one personal conviction- I refuse to be boring.

Four years to now, I have answered that decree.

My life has had its spouts of ups and downs, ins and outs, and what-have-you. I want to be remembered and what I want out of life is the absolute refusal of any aspect of my life to be considered typical. Being ordinary arouses no curiosity. No appeal. No motivation. I will be remembered throughout my life, among people, places, events, thoughts, and letters! There is no defining moment that has made me into the woman that I am, none at the beginning or at the end. Who I am comes from a collection of moments in the middle. These moments are anything but ordinary; more so unusual- these moments are ones to remember, to empathize with, to feel saddened, frustrated, or happiness. My life is filled with interesting, but useless facts.