sweaters & swears

I’ve been alone for too long right now: a tirade about e-mail, communication, and human interaction

After a week of being surrounded by exceptional people, I have succumbed to yet another bout of isolation and a tiny bit of sadness.

While I was in an environment of positivity, I have come to realize that those surroundings aren’t sustainable. I tried to emulate the same attitude. I tried to continue to promote positive change. I e-mailed everyone I was supposed to. I followed up with every single person, individually. I have not heard back from anyone and it’s been a week. It’s so frustrating when you’re trying to make a difference and you’re bogged down in people who won’t take the two minutes to respond to your e-mail.

E-mail and the internet have been my only forms of social interaction lately. It’s been a passive form of socialization, but I live far away from most of my friends, and I need to be focused and studying for my exam. However, I’m just getting depressed and I am not enjoying the present company of my very (and increasingly) conservative family who also do not subscribe to fostering a positive environment.

I’ve become dependent on e-mail for friendships. It’s the one of  reasons why I got rid of Facebook; I didn’t want to rely on technology to continue my friendships. However, these e-mails have come to be the bright spot in my usually monotonous day. And so many of my friends are really, really shitty at responding. I had been e-mailing one of my freelancer friends (hem hem unemployed). Although I was chaotically busy at the time, I still took the time to make a response and when I saw something that reminded me of him, I sent an additional e-mail, unprompted. When he still didn’t respond days later so I called him out. He replied in a snippy, condescending manner, suggesting that I had gotten too used to instant gratification and I needed to be patient with him. It’s now been over a week, and I still haven’t heard a response. If I ask him again, it will be the third time I ask him to continue our correspondence. As much as I crave the interaction, my dignity is not worth that much.

The people I love are busy. They always have been. I have come to realize that people won’t often make time for me. It’s a simple fact. It’s why I have a difficult time, a very difficult time, saying no when people ask me to hang out. It’s because I am not a person who is thought of. This is not a “woe is me” realization, but just a point of fact. I jump at those brief moments of interaction because I do spend most of my time alone. I am perfectly fine with this, though. I am very comfortable with myself and I really enjoy my own company.

While I have learned to love myself and relish my own existence, I still need that other human element. But this is really difficult for me. Through this past year I have learned to lower my expectations. It’s been one of the most important and most difficult lessons I’ve learned and I still haven’t mastered it. It has been a struggle because it seems to contradict the altruistic values that I desire. By refusing to have expectations for others, to me, seems like I view them so low, I refuse to even set a minimal goal for them. I hate that feeling, but I know without these boundaries, I will never be disappointed.

It’s the kind of attitude I need to continue to adopt more fully. When my ex texted me the other day, not completely out of the blue, but a little bit randomly, claiming he would e-mail me in the near future, all I could tell myself was that he would not e-mail me. He still hasn’t, and I am going to continue that mindset. This is an example of where the boundary is working, because now this guy isn’t going to have the opportunity to mindfuck me.

Even so, I hate that I spend the time attempting to write out these e-mails and scarcely getting a response. Although I am supposed to have no expectations, it still hurts my feelings. I have even extended beyond my normal scope and I have attempted to start dialogues with people outside of my normal social sphere. 

I know that this isn’t the most personal kind of interaction, but for me, this is the closet personal boundary I can handle right now. I would ideally love to make phone calls and develop more personal interaction with individuals, but I have come to realize I can’t. The phone is too personal for me and I get too attached. It’s strange, but I feel this comfort with the screen. Maybe it’s because even though I know the people I am writing to, I still feel strangely anonymous. It makes me feel safe and less judged. I also enjoy the fact that through e-mail, as opposed to phone calls or even instant messaging, you have to actually think before you compose your words; you have to have something to say. At times, I struggle to find words and I grasp for conversation. While I am quite comfortable in silence, I hate feeling forced to fill that gap. Dead air in phone calls rarely works. Empty space in instant messaging feels rude. Through e-mails, I feel like I can successfully interact while following social norms, while still maintaining my boundaries.

Ultimately it doesn’t take very long to let a person know their thoughts and actions have been reciprocated. But rarely to people actually do this.

I know I need to get out more, but again, none of the people I e-mailed about volunteering have e-mailed me back. It’s all a conundrum.

The Person Who Loves Sigur Ros

The person who loves Sigur Ros owns a healthy collection of fisher men’s sweaters. Their wardrobe reflects how much they love and appreciate the outdoors in a whimsical sense of adoration. Their chunky hats and creative tights demonstrate their personality in the best kind of way while reflecting the elfish spirit of the country they aspire to visit one day.

The person who loves Sigur Ros believes in the power of collective creativity. However, when in the collaborative process, they are always the person at the center of the madness. They are the idea creator, the innovator, and the inventor. This person is usually some kind of wizard of inventiveness and has crazy thoughts. The rest of the group will always go along with these experimental ideas without question and follow along blindly. The results will always be great.

The fan of Sigur Ros is a great listener. They love to sit down and really hear what others have to say. They will gladly pay attention to the intricacies of your problems and issues, no matter how mundane they may seem. Because of this, the fan of Sigur Ros, always seems to be a closer friend to you than they actually are. The fan of Sigur Ros is just a good listener, but they are actually very selective in their friends.

The person who loves Sigur Ros has lovely therapeutic qualities about them. They are often complimented on how they could be a mediator or a psychologist.  At parties they are often surrounded by crying people. They just have a comforting air about them that force those with any problems to go to them.

While the fan of Sigur Ros is a great comfort and a great listener, they are not without their problems. While they are at ease listening to the dilemmas of others, they cannot share their issues with others. When sharing their own emotions with others, they tend to choke. This is because the fan of Sigur Ros hates talking about themselves above all else. It might seem as though the person who loves Sigur Ros is always emoting, really, they are mimicking what those around them are doing.  This is because their mirror neurons are on hyper-drive. It isn’t because the fan of Sigur Ros is a mocking kind of person, but it is because the person who loves Sigur Ros is very sensitive. So when a fan of Sigur Ros actually opens up and is able to tell what is weighing on their hearts and minds, it is very important to pay attention.

Getting the book “He’s Just Not That into You”

“You need to read this.” She told me.

I was lying on her bedroom floor while Sex in the City played. I told her that I didn’t watch that show and didn’t know what was going on. She kept on stopping it so I could comment on the clothes. I had to continue to lie to her and mirror the opinions she wanted to hear.

“What is it?” I asked her, flipping on my back so I could look at her.

“He’s Just Not that into You”

I stared at her. I didn’t even read Cosmo. I couldn’t stand getting advice from paper. I couldn’t stand taking most advice period.

“Um. What?”

“So I know it seems really stupid, but it’s so good and it’s like, you know, really straight forward and it cuts through all the bullshit. That’s just something that you need to hear, you know? I’m not going to tell you that it’s going to get better, so you just need to move on and get over it.”

I had been broken up with a few weeks prior. I was waiting for a miraculous sign that he still wanted me back. I figured that the signs were his frequent phone calls and occasional text messages.

“I don’t think that’s something I would be interested in.”

“I mean, there’s only so much I can handle. You need to pick yourself up and move on.” Sex in the City ended and she switched the television off.

I took the book from her and left. I skimmed through it, reading every anecdote trying to figure out what was making me so undesirable. I tried to relate it to my life, but I couldn’t see it. I had never been one of those desperate women trying to search for love in pages of books or in movies. Even though I was broken-hearted, that attitude was not going to change, so I continued to look for a sign and ignored everything my friend and the book said.

A Note to the Kids of the 2010s

Dear children of the 2010s,

As a millennial victim, a 90s kid, and a lover of culture and human life in general, I come to you with a plea. Please do not fall prey to the narcissistic nostalgia that has engulfed my generation.

Right now, everyone in my generation is obsessed with their childhood. This love manifests itself into atrocities such as 90s parties, retro television fads, and mountains of lists with titles such as “You know you’re a 90s kid if…” and “Why the 90s were the best”. We have devoted our time and effort to create websites devoted to the pop culture symbols of our era and petitions begging corporations to bring back popular foods from twenty years ago. We are stuck in our recent history.

This might be because the economy is so bad right now that we’re afraid to grow up. We are so terrified of reality, we try to dig ourselves into a time capsule of childhood simplicity. We can’t allow our tastes to mature because that would force us to find a role and purpose in the actual world. Right now none of us can do this because our surrounding world is really that awful that being an eight year old is preferable to  being a recent college graduate.

So kids of the 2010s, please allow yourselves to grow up. Please start to like actual things that adults like. Don’t be like us. We are unemployable 20 year olds who long for Lunchables and Dunkaroos more than a home-cooked meal. We are college students who want to watch Rugrats more than Thursday night comedies on NBC. We are adults to spend time weaving friendship bracelets instead of working at a real job. We are idiots working to restore Furbys instead of fixing the world. We are maddeningly helpless. So please, use your superpowers of being nostalgia free to help save us.

Plus,  let’s face it, we’re pathetic because we are all lusting after the days when Backstreet Boys were popular. But do you want to know what’s even worse? Wishing for the harlequin days when Justin Bieber ruled the charts. That is way more embarrassing.

So kids of the 2010s, please, become adults. But seriously, can  you please turn down this Justin Bieber stuff? I can hardly hear Hanson over this nonsense!

The Journey of My Questionable Sexual Orientation (Not that it’s any of your business)

I was a late bloomer. I probably still am a late bloomer, I think that is a life-long label. Because of this, my sexuality has constantly been under scrutiny.

In high school, I just wasn’t very interested in boys. Mostly it was because they were boys. They were grossly skinny, stupid, and weren’t always comforting or fascinating. I didn’t actively flirt or attempt relationships with any of the guys in my high school.

“How come you don’t, you know, get with someone?” One of my friends asked me.

“I don’t know,” I responded, “I’m just not very interested.”

“What do you mean, you’re not interested?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t find very many of the guys here cute.”

“Are you like asexual or something?”

I didn’t know how to respond. So I told her no. She went on to tell me that I probably would never marry, and only get into a serious relationship once I got into the office, in my 30s. She got married later that year as a beautiful, perky, teenaged bride. Sadly, her rude statement, stripping my life of any possible partnership was not the last one I would hear.

I didn’t know if I was asexual or not. I hadn’t really thought about it. I honestly just didn’t find very many boys attractive. Those I found attractive were boring. I just wasn’t interested.

A few of my friends observed my disinterest in men. My nosier friends would ask me if I was a lesbian. I always shut my mouth, refusing to answer. In my high school, it was not popular to be a lesbian. Lesbians were feared. This was not in a cool, tough way, but in a way that suggested some kind of contact disease. They hung out together, and only with each other.  I was not a popular kid. I only had a few friends.  I didn’t not want to limit my already awful social status by only associating people with similar gender-attraction.

Tired of being called a lesbian or abnormal, my freshmen year of college I finally got wild. This meant that in one day I hooked up with my exes’ roommate, my exes’ roommate’s best friend, my exes’ other roommate’s best friend all within 24 hours. Everyone stopped calling me a lesbian. All of my guy friends instead branded me with another title intended to take away my power as a woman.

I got sick of being identified by and through my sexual relationships with men. I wanted to find my own form of self-expression. I wanted to relax into myself and my personality, free of the pressures of fulfilling my biological destiny. So for a year  (possibly spurred by some jackass cheating on me) I completely ignored any and all urges.

At this time, I began to analyze my orientation again. During this period, I latched onto the idea of sexual fluidity. I loved that who you are attracted to can freely change. Sexuality is not on a black and white grid of gay or straight, but rather shift based on mood, status, attraction, or any one of the numerous facets of each individual’s personality. I love that I could be more attracted to women one moment and more attracted to men another. It was liberating. And it was finally a non-labeled sexual orientation I felt comfortable with.

I talked about this concept incessantly with all of my friends. I actively researched sexual fluidity. I watched films and documentaries about the subject. I wrote about it. I urged classes to discuss it. I brought up the idea on first dates and during initial meetings. In fact, just as all of my friends were getting sick of listening to me spew on about sexual fluidity, I met a guy who was interested in what I was saying, a guy who ended up being my next ( and latest and now ex) boyfriend.

Even though I was in a more traditional straight relationship, it did not discourage my sexually fluid nature.

After that traditional relationship ended, I once again began to analyze my sexual orientation. Most of my female friends tried to force me to identify as bisexual or as a lesbian. I refuted those titles. It was not how I viewed myself. If I did not view myself that way, I figured there was no purpose in adopting those labels. However, during this time (and still now) I wanted to explore my sexuality through those who were same-sexed.

Now I am in a happy place. I do not (usually) obsess about my sexual orientation. Not like I used to, anyways. I am pretty happy with my non-identification. I think that this makes many people feel very uncomfortable. We like schema and titles so we can easily sort through things. I just don’t like the limitations this places on me. Plus, I don’t feel like I can say with confidence that I am on either end of the spectrum, so I don’t need to bother. It has taken many people questioning my sexual orientation, myself included, in order to reach this point.

But my ultimate conclusion is that this was my own journey. And although I like discussing this process, truly it is no one’s business but my own. My identification is not interesting enough to require inquiry. Rather, it’s something that is a piece of myself that I do not actively think about. It’s like my right arm. I appreciate my arm, but I am not always thinking about my right arm, or analyze what it is doing. Rather, I let it do what I need it to do and I don’t really question it.

At this point, I am very happy with all of this and hopefully I can keep up with this healthy view of my label refusal.

Don’t Believe in Everything

Tonight I listened to a story about a woman who stopped believing in god even though she had been very religious before one of her good friends died. She cried on the air as she earnestly pleaded  her desires of wanting to believe, as if that would give her some comfort.

My nose began to sniffle because I heard tears on the radio.

Even though this woman was ardently searching for answers of acceptance, I love not believing in things. I love realizing that  no abstract concept is going to dramatically change the world. Little random acts of kindness is not going to alter the trajectory of my life’s purpose. Goodness is not going to alter how I react to other people’s behavior. The idea of death will not change how I study for my exams. A cheery outlook will never alter the ways in which I deal with my sometimes debilitating depression.

Believing in something represents an unchanging, stubborn nature.

I am stubborn. I am so stubborn that my mother likes to tell me that I will live until I am 110 because I will not want to leave my body. I tell her that I will probably kill myself by the time I am 40. My mother doesn’t laugh at this.

Even though I might be obdurate, I still move for change. I like when things move and shift dramatically. I can’t imagine waking up in the same mood day after day. I can’t stand the idea of my holding on to the same tenants of supposed truths for the rest of my life.

Not believing in things forces me to research and confirm my disbelief. It makes me confirm my suspicions. This educations allows me to be a stronger debater and requires me to seriously analyze my thoughts.

It lets me say no freely. I am able to be free of the slovenly “yes” that slips through lips when a dissenting opinion will cause so much more stress. I am able to stay active in my actions of disbelief.

We should refuse to believe in something. We should whistle into the nothingness of the things that aren’t tangible. We shouldn’t fall for the sloppy sympathy that emotions can stir up, forcing us to blindly follow. We should stick to our disbelief, that is not incomprehension or even denial, but rather simple rejection.

Stick to the idiom of, “Don’t believe everything you hear”. It will lead you in a much more exciting direction.

Why I don’t always get to calls and texts right away

When I get home from class I do not place my mobile device on a pedestal, plugged in and turned up to high. I leave it in my backpack or phone pocket rather sacrilegiously. I try to be involved in whatever I am doing. When I read my books I try to get lost in the text. When I listen to the radio or podcasts I get filled up with notes and voices. I forget that anyone else anywhere in the world has a life and a purpose. I get drunk on my activities and fall down on my bed, immobile.

I don’t want to grow in envy or jealousy. I want to completely appreciate what I am doing at that moment. When I get messages slinging fun times and revelry I usually smile and am happy. Then I get sad that I am not an active participant in those same activities. Then I stop whatever I am doing and imagine what I could have been doing instead.

I like being disconnected. I enjoy being able to discover my interests outside of the media and technology. I like being able to think independently (I think I have mentioned this in previous posts). Without my phone, I am able to do this so much easier.

So I am sorry that I do not text you back. Even if you are my cousin. I am sorry that I forget that you’ve texted me. Sometimes I don’t have anything interesting to say. Sometimes I just don’t want to communicate over those limiting characters. Most often, though, I kind of just want to be alone. In my room. Not moving.

On being called a lesbian

When most women go out during the weekend, they get called “whore” or “slut” or some other hateful term. I detest these terms. I believe that they are used to gain control and power through degradation. Luckily, I manage to avoid these specific labels. This is because I am called “lesbian” instead.

For the record, I am not really a lesbian. For the record, I am not really straight. For the record, I am not really bisexual. For the record, I am not confused.

Although I know who I am, being called a lesbian so frequently bothers me. This is not because I think that being called a lesbian is a bad thing, rather it is because of the reasoning behind others branding me with this title. I get called a lesbian because I am independent to a fault.

When I am out and about, I think it is apparent that I don’t really need anyone, specifically a man. When others observe this behavior, they come threatened. This is because as humans, we have this desire to be needed and wanted. When someone denies these social norms, people become threatened. People no longer have a role to play in others lives, thus their purpose is almost meaningless and significantly more hollow.

In order to ostracize the deviants who defy these norms, they are given a title that still has a less appealing connotation. The words “whore” and “slut” are almost frivolous. These labels imply the opposite of what “lesbian” does. Slut and whore convey the connotation of needing an opposite sexed person in order to have an identity.

The word “bitch” occasionally works. However, this term creates an image of cruelty. A bitch is a woman who defies norms in order to get what she needs or wants.

A “lesbian” does not use people to get what she wants. A lesbian is so independent, the trait is a flaw.

Why can’t women simply be independent? I am so tired of this being negative. This is the reason I reject being called a lesbian.

I feel like I am a character in a movie but I am really not important enough to be

I laid on the bed and told him that I feel like a character from a television show. I told him that I was terrified of not being viewed seriously and that sometimes I don’t feel like my life is my own. I told him that I view myself as a detached sidekick that skewer the novels I love to read.

I couldn’t tell him that sometimes I have a wheel of narration that flows through my head. I clean up my room as I act like an interviewer is asking me questions. I show the audience my room and guide them through my boring activities.

Here is where I store my dresses in rainbow-order. Here is where I toss all of my clothing. This is where I eat the majority of my meals. This is where I am all the time. This is where I write. This is how I grip my pen between my teeth.

Whenever I interview myself I feel like a try-hard celebrity who tosses themselves on the cover of tabloids. I try to make myself feel important. It’s because I know that I am pretty insignificant. I have to prove to my mind that I am at least worth a little thought and some effort.

I think that I am just going through the motions in order to fulfill my roles. I don’t think that I am very interesting and I am terrified of being boring. I think I am a bric-a-brac pastiche of other’s influences and that I am as unoriginal as water. I get in my head that I am so unimportant that I can’t even decide my own identity.

I worried about all of these things. I felt vulnerable. I tried to spill my fears. He told me that I should sleep, so I laid there, running through the voiceover and trying to think of how my life is a movie.

Worst Pop Culture Date - I read this idea on the AV Club and had to share my shitty experience

He was my first boyfriend. Sort of. I had boyfriends before him, but none of them had cars, so I don’t think they count. I don’t really count them in my toll of exes, anyways.

I wanted to go to the My Morning Jacket concert in a city not too far away. I, however, had two accidents within the previous two years, and I was too nervous to drive the mere half hour it took to reach the venue. So my date drove. However, he also had never driven that far. This might seem difficult to believe, especially because we were both seniors in high school, but we really didn’t have the need to extend beyond the 10 mile radius that captured our high school and the mall.

In order to make sure we didn’t have any problems on our long journey, my parents followed. This was all okay, though because they took us out to dinner and it was adorable and shit.

Then we went to the My Morning Jacket concert. Things started badly when I realized I had accidentally bought tickets as “will call” so I had to have my father run in with his ID so we could pick them up, as his name was printed on the tickets. Then we ended up behind some very tall people. Luckily, we bumped into someone who was in our AP English class the year before and he allowed us to slip through to the front.

We finally got an okay spot. Then we waited. For an hour. We were there on time, but it took an hour for the only artist to make it to the stage. There was no opener, just My Morning Jacket. We got bored. Well we were just happy to be with one another, but really, we were a little peeved. We had to go to school at 7:30 the next morning and really we couldn’t stay out too much later because of a diva rock star.

Finally they made it on stage. They played a few songs. They were awesome. Then, the lead singer fell of the stage and the lights went off. We thought it was part of the act. We just stood there, waiting for them to come back on stage. An hour later a man came out saying that the lead singer had been taken to the hospital and that the concert was cancelled. He said that they would try to come back again.

The kids from our English class invited us out afterwards, but we said no. We had journeyed too far and had been too disappointed. So to Taco Bell then journeyed home.

They never came back.

In fact, Jim James, the lead singer, shattered his pelvis and had to cancel the tour up until the New Years Eve Madison Square Gardens date.

It was the worst concert I have ever been to.

Luckily the date wasn’t bad. It was just the whole situation.

Also right now  I might be a tad tipsy. I’ll come back and edit this later.

I told everyone that I was a mess. They all believed me when I drank.

     Every so often, each person is allowed to transform into a disaster. Emotions grow too much in a brief time and shift into a cyclone that overtakes life. The friction experienced in all of this causes rash decision-making, poor judgment, and alcoholic tendencies.

     I fell into a hurricane with a ten-minute phone call. I spiraled into a mess. I had cried in public before, but usually the tears were accompanied by laughs and mixed drinks bought by many men. This time was different. My face smashed together and turned orange as my lips met my nose. I could barely feel my eyes, but I was sure that my cheekbones had absorbed them.

     After a public meltdown like that, you are no longer ashamed to sob in public.

     I cried everywhere. I hiccupped words to order my drinks. My eyes welled as I flirted. I sobbed as I was brought into strange places to sleep. It was great. And by great, I actually mean awful.

            The only way I could combat the emotional swells of tears was with the use of copious amounts of alcohol. I viewed each day as an opportunity to get hammered. Every evening was a new chance to forget my life with shots and wine.

            I really don’t remember too much of this time. I know that I had “fun”, but I was never really present. My activities acted more as a concealer than as a solution. However, it was what I needed.

Every person in my life tried to grab me underneath my armpits in order to pull me out of the hurricane. They did so by inviting me to farmer’s markets, movie nights, club meetings, and parties. While I appreciated each invitation, I knew that I had to wait for the storm to pass in order to become my regular self.

            It took several months for the storm to crawl through my lungs and veins. When it finally passed, I was not back to my regular self. I had been twisted by the hurricane. While I could still look similar to the person I was before, I was marked.

            For another month, I attempted to smooth over these scars with shallow friendships and unsatisfying hookups, but each indent clearly showed. I became upset when I realized that I could never go back.

            Then I started to embrace my marks. They were signs that I had survived the storm. They demonstrated that I made it through the worst period of my life. The scars were signals that I was becoming the person I wanted to be.

            You can never dip your toes into the lip of a storm. You can rarely hear the warning sirens, urging you to evacuate. It will just overtake you.  You will try to duck and cover, curl yourself in a ball and deny the existence of rain. But it will pour until you recognize it. It will look like it is destroying your life, but it is not. It’s just molding you into the self you need to become.