100 days

11/1/2015 – Day Thirty – Four.

I am not a cook. I can say that without flinching or getting an anxiety attack. I am not. I can do a variety of things; cooking however is not one of them. A lot of my cooking is based on watching other people cook, learning from the experts as I like to say. I can’t give you a recipe to make salsa, but I can show you. “I can show you”, is a motto that I have been taught on numerous occasions. No one taught me how to cook, I just learned by watching others. I can get by with simple step by step recipes, but I cannot cook for the life of me. Part of it has to do with lack of patience, and other half has to do with pure laziness. Do not ask me for the perfect recipe for the greatest salsa because I do not have one. I don’t have the best chocolate chip cookie recipe. I don’t even know how to make pie crust from scratch. I consider a lot of family and friends, the bakers, the chefs, the experts that can cook, etc. They can whip up a pie at a moments notice. They can make a variety of different meals that would put some minute meals to shame. To say that I am a bit jealous, I will admit to it. I would love to be able to make something without a recipe, or just be able to make something from nothing.

For the past couple of years I have grown an interest of knowing more about my culture. Whether it be stories about my family or knowing more about my culture itself. Being of Mexican descent, I want to know everything.  Everything in my culture is a story, with a purpose and place, which I find absolutely fascinating. Cooking is a big part of my culture, especially in my family. Every one in my family cooks; from my Abuelita (grandma) to my Tios (Uncles), Tias (Aunts), and primos (cousins). I am always fascinated by how simple ingredients can be transformed into epic feasts. My Mom has often stated “There is no reason to go hungry. If you have rice, beans, and tortillas, you are set”. She’s right. A lot of our meals have consisted of simple ingredients that make up these amazing meals. Most of the times we do not need a special holiday to make these delicious feasts, but on the day that there is a holiday they become these emotional and elaborate works of art. When I was growing up I always had a fascination with Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead). I loved the idea of having a day to celebrate with your ancestors that have passed on. Eating all the things they loved, celebrating life, discussing stories of the past, and my personal favorite eating “Pan de Muerto” (bread of the dead). It sounds a little morbid, “Pan de Muerto”, but I assure you it’s absolutely delicious.

While I love all aspects of pan dulce (sweet bread), Pan de Muerto has a different meaning on this day.  While breaking bread with your family members you would share a piece with your ancestors and continue this celebration of life and death. Pan de muerto would be the center piece that adorned your alter, the bread you would break and share with each family member. We have usually purchased a large pan de muerto (to share) or bought tiny individual ones to place on our alters to consume. This year I wanted to do something different. I have always depended on going to a panaderia (bakery) to purchase bread, but what if I made the bread myself? What if I put together all the ingredients and made it myself? People thought I was crazy. Honestly, I thought I was crazy. I’ve never cooked with yeast. I couldn’t tell you about kneading anything of that matter. Making pan de muerto, when I could very well just go to the local panaderia and buy it? Like are you crazy?!?

Considering that all my baking consisted of following a box recipe, I knew I had my work cut out for me. I mean, I wasn’t expecting perfection. Edible, yes. Perfection, no. I wanted to see if I could honestly pull this off. I can follow basic instructions. I can follow directions. After scouring the internet, I stubbled upon a recipe by Dariela of Mami Talks (www.mamitalks.com). Something about her recipe sounded like I was talking to a relative who was giving me instruction. I have the disadvantage of having a majority of my family members living in Mexico, so asking them for a recipe is harder with translating, language barriers, measurement differences, temperature changes, etc. Or sometimes they’ve never made it themselves, which is why the internet is amazing! After gathering the ingredients in the recipe, I started the grueling process of making the bread. Let me just state, it was not an easy process. Its a process that takes a lot of patience, which I often times do not have. A lot of waiting around for dough to rise, then kneading, letting dough rest, etc.

Whew!

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I give props to every baker I know. Especially the bakers in panaderias. There were times in the process, I would get frustrated. Was all this work, really worth it? Do they not have little canisters of pan de muerto that I can pop in the oven? WHAT IS THE MEANING OF LIFE!?!?! You know all my little dramatics rolled into one bread. When the bread was ready to pop in the oven, I did the sign of the cross and prayed it didn’t burn. I could have taken the easy way out. I could have complained about driving 3 minutes to the local panaderia. I could have picked the perfect pan and went on to do my alter. But I didn’t feel close to my culture that way. If I had done that, I wouldn’t feel the flour in my hands, watch the dough rising from the bowl. All these processes I would have missed by doing what I normally do, depending on someone else to do something for me. I have been so dependent of everyone to save me from myself. Even simple cooking, I would rather have someone else do.

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It may not have been the prettiest pan de muerto, but it sure was yummy. All that anxiety, all that complaining, proved that I could do it. It may not have been a recipe passed down from generation to generation; I may not have perfected the art of pan dulce. After making this recipe, I felt like I could cook anything. More importantly, I didn’t feel dependent of having someone else clean up my mistakes.

I made this and it was delicious!

Shout Out to Dariela of Mami Talks for your amazing recipe of Pan de Muerto. I cannot wait to make this next year and share this with my family.

 

 

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10/31/2015 – Day Thirty – Three.

I am just going to straight up say this, I don’t care about my birthday. I don’t. Past experiences have caused me to have such a bitterness about my birthday, that I wish I could skip the day completely. This isn’t some cry for help, not some sort of dramatic situation. Some time between childhood and early adulthood, I just stopped caring. I’ve tried doing elaborate birthday parties, tried doing fancy dinners, but everything didn’t seem right with me. I get really bad anxiety, which caused me to think of every bad scenario that could happen. I’ve had selfish friendships that have caused me to change my plans multiple times to the extent that I cancel everything.

If I had it my way, I would sit in a museum all day staring at art and people watching. I would sit at my favorite restaurant and eat everything I am afraid to eat. Take a solo trip somewhere and not answer to anyone, until the next day.  Whatever the reason, I usually keep my birthday extremely low key. In the past couple of months, I’ve seen my emotions come from the lowest of the low to an extreme high. Its my insecurities on overdrive, its my anxiety, depression, and everything in-between. I don’t know how to explain it to anyone. Birthdays are an excuse for people to pick me apart, when I should really feel they are celebrating the greatness that is me. I can’t help but think what could you celebrate me for? I haven’t done anything right in years. I haven’t been able to keep myself together in months. Why would you? Those are all my insecurities, paranoias, etc. I don’t know where I got the idea to do anything for my birthday, but after years I wanted to do something.

On 10/31/2015, I turned 33. Something inside of me considered it an accomplishment. I wanted to do something. Not something big, just something simple surrounded by people I cared the most about. I didn’t want to go on some extravagant trip. I didn’t want to get all fussed about in some stuffy restaurant. I didn’t want to go to a bar and get completely shit faced (which I have done countless times). I wanted to feel comfortable in a place I sometimes don’t feel comfortable in. I guess to an average person doing a dinner at home, isn’t some big deal. But when you don’t do anything for your birthday, it means the world to someone. Even if that someone happens to be me. I didn’t expect much, just a few of my close friends, in a small intimate setting, eating, drinking and having a good time. I just wanted to celebrate life surrounded by the people I cared about the most. I wanted to do everything myself. I wanted to decorate, plan, have a menu, have drinks, everything. I wanted to prove to myself that my emotions will not get the best of me and that I can do things. I realized that cooking has a very soothing effect on me. That having myself following a task that I set myself, challenges all my insecurities. Of course I wanted people to have fun, to enjoy themselves, but I wanted to make sure I could do things. That I could host a magnitude of people and still feel okay.

I keep myself guarded after years of being let down by prior friendships. I have a hard time admitting to close friends when I am upset or hurt or sad. I don’t let people in, when I should be trusting with people. Most of my friends have never been to my home. I don’t like inviting people over because this doesn’t feel like my house. Because it isn’t, I didn’t earn this home. Something always caught my attention that at a certain age we are suppose to leave and make our own ways. Which has been a huge insecurity of mine. I realized now that, I needed to be home. I needed to heal and grow, and get stronger. I needed to realize my past mistakes were all growing experiences. People may consider it weird that a person my age still lives at home, but I realized I can’t let people dictate how I feel. I came home to get better because living every where was making me sick. I had been sick for a long time and never told anyone. Then life happened. My mom got sick and I choose to stay. Its hard for me to admit its been hard, because it has. Now I am just piecing everything together and can finally start doing things on my own. I am okay, my mom is okay, and soon I will go on my own way. I shouldn’t feel embarrassed by my experiences but sometimes when the wind gets knocked out of you, you can’t help but feel that way.

It has nothing to do with my birthday but then it has everything. We are expected to be a brand new person every year that hits our birthday. Feel grown from the birthday prior. The past few years, I’ve just grown more sick in a downward spiral. 33, is important to me that, I wasn’t going to put up with my own bullshit. I wasn’t going to let my sickness dictate my life, I wasn’t going to let the past come back and haunt me. For me to be honest about this, makes me realize that I know I am going to be okay. Its taken me a long time to realize that I am not just passing through this home, this place is home. Having people I cared about over to my home, meant the world to me. Its silly to say that it meant the absolute world to me. I didn’t expect much, I drove myself crazy days prior to my birthday. Then I realized that the people I see before me are the people that have helped me in more ways then they can imagine. They have loved me unconditionally when I haven’t been the best person to them or myself. I have had people cut me out of their life, I have cut people out of my life, and still standing before me are the people that stayed no matter what. I knew it would take years to work up the courage to ever do this again, but for 6 hours, I truly felt love, light, and every mushy positivity vibe shine through. I realized that I may not be everyone’s favorite person. On average, I could be the worst person. I say things without thinking of the consequences. I haven’t been kind to people who only deserve my kindness. But I am not the same person I was a year ago. I am not the same person I was 3 months ago. Sometimes it takes something to scare you, to help you grow into who you need to be. I am still growing up, whether I want to or not.

Sometimes it’s the things that scare you the most, are the things you have to do for yourself.

10/17/2015 – Day Thirty – Two

I cried when I made french toast today. Cried like the damn world was conspiring against me. Feeling like I had nothing left to give. Buckets upon buckets of stupid tears that meant absolutely nothing. I wish I could fully explain how things like this happen. How a wave of uncertainty can just paralyze your insides and make you feel a variety of different emotions. I have made french toast multiple times in my youth and adult life. Its the one thing I can make that becomes like I am conducting a symphony. Today, I just couldn’t fucking get it together.

I felt off today. Something wasn’t right in my head. I went to bed with anger, woke up feeling hurt and distraught. I hate those days. Days were you can’t seem to pinpoint where the anger comes from anymore. Lately, I just wake up with this feeling of being the worst person in the world. I know I am not a terrible person but some days I wake up thinking I am the absolute worst. This is not me coming in here to ask for sympathy of any sort. Some days I feel like I can’t get it together and other days I can do just about anything I want to. This is where I feel like I am driving myself crazy. Who honestly thinks this about themselves? Who feels like they are the worst person in the world? Because, that’s how I feel all the time. At this point, I am not sure if this is my anxiety or my depression, getting the best of me. When you wake up in a weird funk it clouds over you the whole day. Simple tasks seem harder than usual. I found my hands shaking more and my stomach more upset than normal. I cracked an egg too hard and watched how the fragile tiny pieces of the shell, sat in the egg whites. Later, I put too much cinnamon, too much vanilla, and so on. I didn’t have enough batter on one side of the bread. I burnt the other side of the bread. Simple tasks that made me more anxious than anything. My hands continued to shake, which made my heart beat faster. Before I knew it, the tears started forming and I just started to cry. What I hate the most is when you’re in your own personal bubble everything is a trigger. From the tiny fragments of egg shells in the egg whites, to burning the bread on one side. I felt like the worst person on the planet and I could feel everyone watching me. I hate when people notice and exclaim “If you can’t or don’t want to do the task, I will do it”.

No.

I don’t need someone to clean up my mess. I don’t need anyone to finish my tasks. I don’t need anyone to make me feel worse than I already feel. So I cried. I cried in the batter, I cried in the butter, I cried in the french toast that burnt on one side. All I can manage to think was this probably tastes like garbage but its my garbage that I made. I just want to cry in silence and finish what I started.

10/6/2015 – Day Thirty – One.

I keep thinking I am writing things down, when I am really just thinking things through. I have so many things to say and find myself just keeping everything inside. Even when I am thinking I am saying everything I feel inside, I find myself keeping everything inside. I don’t know why. I am not afraid of what people think of me, and yet I find myself afraid of everything. I am in a position in my life where I find myself trusting again. Finding myself falling in love with a variety of different people. However, I still find myself keeping things inside. Today, I lost it getting into my car.

You know how we have those days where maybe we shouldn’t have gone outside. We should have stayed home with the covers completely over every inch of our bodies. Thats how I felt today. That anything could break my heart into a million pieces. Even a slight change in the weather would drive a chill down my spine and break me into pieces. It could have been the wind that touched my skin, that would make me crazy. It could have been someone looking at a person beside me, that would have driven me insane. Here I was walking toward my car, already breaking my own heart. For no good fucking reason.

I was parked in a private parking lot, I knew very well that I was. Walking up to my car, I noticed something on my windshield. Thinking I had a ticket and then realizing it was a note stating I was parking on private property. My blood started boiling and all I really wanted to do was scream at the person who wrote the note. Scream at them like a fucking crazy person. I clutched the note in my hands, until my hands became a fist. I couldn’t stop shaking, I couldn’t stop this feeling. I wanted to lose it on someone else, knowing very well that it was my fault. I wanted to blame someone for something I did. Because I was upset about my own stupidity. Embarrassed by my own actions. I wanted someone to feel my hurt and my pain.  Someone, anyone, someone that doesn’t even exist.

Instead I ripped the paper into tiny shreds and threw it on the street. That would show them. Those tiny shreds of paper represented everything I was feeling. It would mean I am screaming back at them, when I am not even sure who “them” is. I keep thinking I am saying things out loud when I am really keepings to myself. I think of all these elaborate posts. How the words flow so freely in my mind and I can’t seem to get a grasp of them on paper. Then I feel like such an idiot, a complete fool of a person. Who reads this? Who is listening and do they even fucking care? My heart beats so fast when all I want to do is scream out every obscenity I can think of and I don’t know why.

I can’t explain all this aggression. Some days I want to blame a variety of different things. I want to blame my depression, I want to blame my anxiety, I want to blame it on everything and everyone. Blame it on the past. Blame it on my present surroundings. Blame it on myself and my inability to keep it together. Some days it’s just easier to break my own heart. Easier to be the villain because thats how everyone treats me. Because even when you say nothing, everyone believes you’re hiding everything. I get those moments where I want to hurt people as they have done to me. Maybe my heart will stop breaking for once, maybe it won’t hurt as bad to be so honest. Maybe I will be able to rid myself of these feelings once and for all.

But at the end of the day, I am the one crying in my car in empty parking lots on private property. I am the crazy one. I am the one that can’t keep it together. I am the absolute worst and everyone knows it.

10/2/2015 – Day Thirty.

I have a hard time letting things go. Letting go is hard when its all you have left to hold on too. It’s in my nature to keep everything. Packed away until I am ready to let go. Things I should have thrown away ages ago. Ticket stubs, receipts, letters from people I haven’t talked to in years. Little mementos, relics of the past that seem like absolute clutter and trash to the naked eye, but mean everything to me. I put so much power behind these items that they become characters themselves. Its almost as if these memories manifest themselves into these mementos, that throwing them away throws away those feelings and sentiments.

My life seems so invested in things I felt happened days ago, when in reality its been years. This power I put behind memories, I can’t help but hold on to things hoping to find that magic again. I look at these relics spilled on to the floor, falling out of books/notebooks, and wonder whats missing in my present that can’t help me shake the past. The past wasn’t perfect, I am no where near the person I was back then, and yet I can’t help but be in love with the past. I loved so many things, so many people and as years go by, I watch things fray and fall apart. I find myself romanticizing this nostalgia and everything that came with it.  Seems like only yesterday I was there. Only yesterday my heart was beating faster and I couldn’t shake this feeling in my soul. Even the bad has a beautiful memory, wrapped with a melodramatic soundtrack of my favorite band, and a filter only I could come up with.

Throwing these things away throws away the magic these memories hold. I just want to hold on a little bit longer. I want to hold on to every single word, every single moment, every single memory. Everything. Until I can’t remember a face, a lyric, a name, and a song. Until the band plays it’s last encore and we are left with nothing but the dust of the afterglow. This nostalgia will only break my heart but I can’t help it. I can’t help pretending that everything was once beautiful, even when everything was hurting. I want to be locked in these memories until I have nothing left inside anymore. Holding on to these ticket stubs and holding on to feelings that meant the absolute world to me.

I know this will all disappear. One day I will have to let go of everything that is holding me back. But can I stay here before letters turn to dust and photographs begin to fade. Before we all grow old and completely disappear.

Please?

9/26/2015 – Day Twenty – Nine.

I thought about her for the first time in years. It was bound to happen. When you stop being friends with someone, you pretend they don’t exist. You wish them well and go on with your life. Maybe it was the reconnecting with my favorite band, but for the first time I could say her name without negativity attached behind it. Without feeling any aspect of animosity toward her. Where I didn’t feel any hatred, I felt nothing. Dare I say, I felt a hint of sadness? I don’t know.  I get these moments in my life where I believe for a second I can be friends with people from my past. Retain that sense of friendship if only for nostalgic purposes. I have to be honest, I miss people. However, I don’t miss the drama, I don’t miss the lies, etc.

For the first time I felt no animosity toward the past. Where I wanted to let bygones be bygones and sit and talk about everything and in-between. Growing up is harder than it looks. Some of us grow up and change, while others can’t help but remain the same. Here I thought I was the grown up that I had been the one growing up, when in reality I am the one struggling to change. Growing up means letting go of all the hatred and animosity of the past, but I couldn’t do it. Its like I remember why it started, why it happened, and I can’t change the past. I can’t go back and change words or reactions. In the past I had this desperation to be someone else and it never happened. Instead I stayed the same person I had always been. I don’t remember where this desperation to be someone happened. Somewhere between here and there, I forgot what it felt like to be myself. I find the guilt of my own problems seep into this nostalgia, and sometimes I wish I still had someone to talk about the past with.

We were those crazy kids. Those crazy kids that would run at every chance to be in a big city. Small town girls with big city dreams. One of us stayed a dreamer and the other grew up in reality. I am surrounded by reality but it’s the dreaming that still haunts me. The older I get the more I wish I could just ask you a million different things. I wonder if certain things still bother you that did back then. Little things, big things, stupid insignificant things.  I wonder if it bothers you that people are married that probably shouldn’t be. I wonder if it bothers you that the same people are having kids who said they wouldn’t. Who said they only wanted to with you. Because sometimes it bothers me, and I guess I just wonder if it bothers you too.

I know we grow up and become even less of our former selves, but I can’t help but wonder. Nostalgia has a funny way of letting you down. Making you remember things and people as they were, only in memory. Some days I wonder what I would do if I saw you again. I know I wouldn’t do a thing. If I saw you on the street, I would forget you just the same. We are not those crazy kids anymore. If we were still friends after all these years, we would have found a way to drift apart.  Sometimes I miss you and I know I shouldn’t. But sometimes when I hear a song, or hear a funny story, or see someone from our past, I can’t help but laugh. We grew up and I finally understand now. In order to grow up we have to let go of our nostalgia to make way for our reality. We had to drift apart to be who we need to be. I am still searching and you’ve already found yourself.

I understand now, just sometimes I miss you and I don’t know why.

 

9/25/2015 – Day Twenty – Eight

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If I don’t write this down, I will forget something. All I want is to remember everything exactly how it happened, how it felt. Not miss any single piece of it. Either way posting feelings in my head and down on paper, I am bound to forget something. I will forget feelings, placement, settings, smells, every little detail that make up moments that I am desperately trying to remember.

It’s hard to explain it to people. To people that didn’t live the life I did. That didn’t follow a band or a piece of music because they loved it. Nobody will understand that. How it felt to stomp your feet, clap your hands, and sing every line from your favorite song out loud for all to hear. You start remembering basement venues in sketchy parts of towns, filled with cigarette smoke. Remembering salutations and how fearless you felt at 17. Night thats went on forever, until the lights came on. I can’t talk to a single soul about it. I can’t ask someone how it felt to meet people or see places or conversations I kept in my head. Every day I want to forget but the melody brings it all back. It’s never how far I’ve come but it’s where I’ve been. How I got this far and why I keep coming back for more.

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Going on airplanes in route to home, brings back memories of things that have happened briefly, but really was just yesterday. You can’t go back, you can only move forward. Yet things that happened so recently tend to come back like a distant memory. You think about everything and everyone. Moments, feelings, and how perfectly they wrap themselves up in a soundtrack of songs I used to love. A different variety of things but as you grow up, your heart forgets, moves on and dies just a little. I don’t remember why I hate the things of my past but yet I can’t help but succumb to the nostalgia of it all. I hated this band, I hated the people, I hated the music, because they brought back with these memories of a person I don’t recognize anymore. I get it. We all have to grow up sometimes. We all have to get jobs, pay bills and grow up from the fucked up kid from yesterday. But can’t we just pretend we are back there? Back to the 18 year olds wearing dark eyeliner and black hoodies. Back to this notion that we can stay 18 forever?

Peter Pan has his Neverland, where he stays childlike forever. Where do I go to be with the feelings of my younger self, with the wisdom of my adult self? I miss that. I can sing loud and along with the best of them. But still I miss that even as we get older we lose track of who we used to be. I don’t want to be 18 forever, but I want the feeling of pretending I want to. If I could take it all back I would. Take back the sounds, the wounds, the life in the memories. How easily melodies become soundtracks pierced together in our lives. How feelings go as season leave and yet we can’t forget them. Was I missing out or always there? The fear of missing something that wasn’t always there. The photographs you take and the feelings trapped inside of them. Am I missing out?

Stay 18 forever, so we can stay like this forever.

9/14/2015 – Day Twenty – Six

I don’t know what hurts more anymore, my head or my heart. I am moving in slow motion. My body is moving, I am making all the motions, but I can’t seem to get it together. I wish I could explain it. That I could explain every single little thing.  I am breathing out all this negativity and breathing in possibility. Some days just hurt more than the rest.

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I keep thinking that being some place else would cure this insanity I am feeling. That being surrounded by sights, sounds, and people, would turn this all around. Maybe that’s why I crave human interaction. I crave this crash into a variety of different people, but its those same people that I fear. I fear them knowing how my brain works, how I tick, and all of my different vulnerabilities. Isn’t that the whole point of human interaction, to open yourself completely to someone else? At least that’s what I’ve heard. Trust people until they give you a reason not to. The past few years I’ve opened myself up to the possibility that people can be trusted. That I can open these layers of vulnerability and not have the fear of rejection. Not have the fear of being mocked for who I am and what I believe in. No longer fear my secrets and struggles, in the hopes of truly healing. If I have to be honest, keeping everything inside never did me any good. Its in those days that I want to express exactly what I am feeling to everyone. Then there are days I just don’t want to say anything. I don’t want to express how I feel. I don’t want to keep explaining how much things hurt, or why I feel the way I do. Some days I just want to be completely still and watch the world pass me by. Not because I am hurting, not because I am sad, but because its the only way I can truly be myself. I have gotten to the point that I have hiding places to keep myself away from people. To hide myself away until I feel capable to be associated with people again.

Paralyzed by thoughts, and they just keep on coming. It’s as nothing I do matters. Everything I am doing is wrong. I can’t find the words to make up how I feel, and I feel that I am failing again. I don’t know where I am going. I don’t know how I will get there. I just don’t know anything, and maybe I never did. Its laying in this silence and watching the world go by. Watching as shadows change shape through the blinds. The sun illuminates brightly, then disappears to nothing. Hearing the commotion outside and yearn to be included. I don’t move, I stay here surrounded by thoughts and silence. I miss people. I miss faces. I miss simple conversations and every day things. I can’t reach people no matter how hard I try. I can’t comfort this feeling that everything I do is wrong. I’ve learned that through being alone, you want to be surrounded by people. Different types of people, people you don’t normally associate with. You want to be drawn to their positivity, their light, and all the possibilities of life. Everyone I have once shut out, I want to return to me. Because maybe all this loneliness, would feel differently from a different perspective. I am so used to people lying to me, pretending to be my friend. Pretending to spare my feelings, only to make me the villain in the end. I know to be vulnerable you have to trust people. Trust that anyone can disappoint you and to be okay with the consequences. I have so many things I want to say, so many things I want do, but I am crippled with fear and doubt.

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I am afraid people will hurt me. I am afraid of being completely alone. I am afraid to trust people for fear of disappointment. I fear that the same people that call me their friend, will walk out of my life without any emotion. Sometimes instead of confronting my fears and doubts, I stay completely still. I stay quiet and don’t make a sound. Lay in this stillness and watch the world disappear. I know I can’t stop people from leaving. I can’t stop them from lying, or hurting me. I just know that in the end people have a funny way of surprising you. Good or bad. I just have to learn to live with that.

 

9/13/2015 – Day Twenty – Five.

I have a problem with follow through. I get excited over a variety of different ideas and then because of my own laziness, I become dissatisfied with finishing. I hated school, so I became terrible at it. I hated my peers, so I avoid them every chance I get. I start things with intentions of being creative and watch things fall through the cracks of my life.

There is nothing wrong in having ideas. The sad reality of executing them is where the problems lie.  I always feel like I am on the verge of the next big idea. I write about it, I talk about it, obsessed over it and before long, I grow tired of it. Tired to the point of no return. Its gotten to the point that I don’t think people believe in my ideas anymore. I’ve talked about things, overhyped ideas and before long I just stop talking about it. There’s something inside that always stops me and then I completely stop the whole process. I never finish what I start. I have blogs that have been forgotten. I have books that have been read but never finished. A million things I’ve started and slowly haven’t been finish for what ever emotional reason. I find myself trying to find distractions, instead of finishing what I started.

All these distractions become clutter in my life. Objects, places and things that I just want to get rid of. I watch time go through the hour glass, and know at any moment all of this could be over. I don’t have much time anymore. Everyone around me is finding their place in life, and I am still stuck here with my ideas. I am still stuck trying to figure out what the hell I really want. I made this mistake in thinking that I had all this time. This belief that I would be young forever and eventually everything would fall in to place. No one tells you how hard everything really is once you get older. Maybe I should stop being distracted and start fucking doing something with my life. Maybe instead of keeping all these ideas, I should start doing something about it.

Who knows.

I’ll just wait for the next distraction.

9/10/2015 – Day Twenty – Four

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The weather has been changing. Before you know it, it’ll go from sunny days to overcasts skies. From summer skin to winter coats and layers. I hate the summer and it’s over exposure of skin, that I never feel comfortable showing. I am in no way a prude but my insecurities seem to make me more conservative. It’s a piece of myself I never like to show. Its this never ending process of learning to love your body, when you’re still in the process of accepting this skin.

I could lose all the weight and still feel self conscious of my skin, and the abnormalities of my body. I’ve watched my body go from big to medium to large again. I’ve watched my skin stretch and rest on different parts of my body. And all I’ve wanted is to cover up never show the world. Hide under layers of clothes to distract myself from what’s underneath. I wonder if I will ever get over this feeling. If being so body conscious changes over the years. They say it changes when you get older, but what if it doesn’t. I have to pretend to be comfortable and accepting, when I just want to rip my skin off. Take this image I see of myself that I know no one else can see, and pretend it doesn’t exist. I want to hide behind trees and behind overcast skies. Where shadows can mask my body and its abnormalities. We are praised for our bones and our skin that stretches over our skeletons. Sometimes when the weather changes you can’t help but remember this is a process. Bodies have this ability to change but I don’t feel like that.

I have become so comfortable with hiding at home and avoiding the outside world. Avoiding a million different emotions, in favor of hiding in this misery and self pity. It’s the heat that drives me crazy. That makes me believe I can’t be myself.  I can’t hide from the heat, I only expose myself more to keep from being hot. But in the cold, I hide behind layers of fabric to hide what I don’t love about myself.  I’ll never be perfect and I’ll never be pretty. I’ll be stuck under this skin that stretches for as long as I can see. One day I’ll be more accepting, but in this unforgiving heat, I can’t see myself pretending.