Some say that "we're all going to die someday" and use this as a way to live their life however they feel like living it. They use this as an excuse to do drugs, to hurt people, to hurt themselves, to eat poorly, to not vote, to not care, to do whatever floats their boat for the next day, the next hour, the next minute.
Even if I'm going to die at the age of twenty three, I'm still going to eat healthy, I still won't party, I still won't hurt other people, I'll still vote in the election, I'll still be kind to my family and myself, I'll still write, I'll still love and make love, I'll still draw and create, create, create.
It's not how long you live, but how you live. And to me, the most important parts of living are love, respect, health and creation. And I can't live my life without all four of those, and it's pretty hard to live without pride too.
Let everyone else drink soda, eat cake, white bread, ice cream, margarine, and smoke cigarettes. Let everyone else drink and drive, and drink at all for that matter. Let everyone else beat their wives, feed their children junk food, work a job with no pride, put other people down to make themselves feel better, neglect voting the same way they neglect their mind and body and loved ones. Let everyone else put money before self satisfaction, creation and love.
Hopefully if I write it all down, and dance my heart out, write my heart out, and give my heart away as often and as much as possible, then hopefully I won't slide into apathy. Hopefully I won't become old and bitter and uncaring. Hopefully I'll always care about my health, and my art. If I start to slide, then hopefully my readers will save me. Won't you?
I keep thinking that if I create some perfect system for things that everything will run smoothly. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it) we’re organic beings and so our lives and relationships and actions. We’re not robots. Oddly, my boyfriend has difficulty following a system (or at least a compromise he agrees to) but aspires to be a robot. That’s a hard chunk of hypocrisy to swallow.
Latest compromise was so much for me to give. So far from once a month, I’ve backpedaled all the way to twice a week, as long as he doesn’t drink. How could that be too much to ask? I love him as the person, and I love his hobbies, and our morals match, and he’s fun to talk to, and he’s fun to be around, and our sex is like magic, and he’s the most affectionate man I’ve ever met, and he can learn anything he puts his mind to, so why, why, why isn’t this working?
I’m starting to think that it isn’t me who wants too much, it’s him. I think he’s still feeling cheated on the aspect of not fucking other girls. He says that he doesn’t care about fucking other girls, but then why does he bring it up everyday? Why does he write about it? It’s not as though he’s going to find any other girl who wants an open relationship. I stopped being able to handle it because I love him so much, doesn’t he understand that?
Of course fucking other girls is just a drop in the bucket. The major thing is his friends. If twice a week with his friends isn’t enough... Then that leaves me wondering what he really wants for himself. Perhaps all this talking about aspiring to be some great artist is just that... Talk. Then again I don’t see him at work all day drawing and tattooing. I feel so left out of the picture. Sometimes I don’t even feel like I’m a part of his life. I feel like I have no influence on him at all. He always has some realization about his life while he’s at work, never while he’s with me...
Surely my love is worth what I’m asking for? And if it isn’t to most people, then surely it is to someone. The question is, is it worth it to my boyfrined? I really don’t think it is. I don’t think I’m worth it to him. That’s the real crux of the problem. Who the hell knows why. For goodness sakes, giving up drinking and coming home to me more often than going out is all I’m really asking for here. Everything else would be the same for him or much worse if he was on his own. He wants to get laid more often, but I seriously doubt he could get laid more often from another girl, or while being single.
I don’t understand it. Maybe he just doesn’t really want a relationship. Maybe he’s just looking for sex? He’s also said/written that he wants a companion, but apparently El makes a better companion than me. I feel like meeting me was enough for him. Perhaps meeting me justified his personality, fantasies, wants, and thoughts and now he can move on alone?
How can I be so difficult to deal with? How is that possible? I do woman’s work, I’m inspired in the bed, I’m talkative and I’m quiet, I’ll watch TV, or not, either way is fine. I can be at my computer, I can be on the bed, I can go for a walk. I’m not even that picky about what we do. Sure, I’m picky about what I eat, and what music I listen to, and what I watch on TV, and what I write and read, but none of that really affects Crusifer other than the music. So I can’t stand rap... So what? He’s got an ipod and he’s got twelve hours away from me every single day. Why should I have to listen to it while he’s here? He can’t seriously consider that a disadvantage to being with me, can he?
He says my body is perfect for him. He says I’m the only woman he’d be willing to have kids with. He says he wants to marry me. He says a lot of things, so then why does he write that he’s not sure he wants our relationship to continue? He’s not sure if I’m worth it. And why? Because I ask for affection? Because I don’t want him to drink? This is just plain ridiculous.
I’m not going to give in anymore. I’m already crunching my feelings to offer all that I have. I’m not going any further. Dealing with his work hours is enough. I’m not going to let him drink. I will not marry a drinker, and if that means not marrying my boyfriend than that’s that. It makes me sick to my stomach, and it makes me angry, and it makes me sad, and it makes me depressed. Christ it makes me feel worthless! A goddamned bottle of fermented crap with sugar thrown in is better than a whole goddamned person!
How can he continue to choose drugs and partying over me? What the fuck am I thinking? A year and four months... No, a year and five months and he still hasn’t quit? I’ve got to be stupid! I should... I should have just broken up with him the first time I said I’d do it if he kept drinking. Why am I so blasted forgiving? At this rate I’ll be married and have kids to a drunk. Aha, that’s why it’s gone on so long, because I keep giving him credit for not getting drunk. Well hell with being drunk, why can’t he quit cold turkey? Why can’t he just be done with it? He can’t be serious about marrying me. He can’t be.
I can’t believe this. I’m so stunned. But little by little over the last month it’s starting to hit me. Between the lies I’ve caught him in, and the drinking that hasn’t ended, the broken compromises, the meaningless arguments, the repetitive conversations, his avoidance of important topics, his coldness, his quickness to accuse me, his lack of trust of me... It’s really starting to occur to me that this isn’t working out, and I want to deny it, but that would be foolish, and getting myself into this was foolish enough...
No, I haven’t given up, but I don’t know what my next move is. If I was a different woman I’d just dump him today. I’m not that sort of woman though. I’m the type that’s too stupid to realize that men don’t really change. I’d like to believe that they do, but maybe they don’t. Or at least, men don’t change for someone unless than someone is themselves.
I feel like I should go puke. I also feel like I should jump out the window. I also feel like I should forget everything I just wrote. I feel like I should call him, and scream at him, and bribe him, and placate him, and treat him like a king, and tell him he’s a piece of shit who doesn’t deserve me...
Everything bubbled to the surface last night. All the pent up worry and fear and emotions smoothed out into a stream of liquid words.
“I feel worthless when you chose to drink over being with me. I feel like I am less than a mere bottle of alcohol,” I told him.
“I need to you to prove to me that you really want me long before we get married. And I’m not going to wait for years while you get yourself together,” I told him.
“My father paid less and less attention to me from the cusp of my puberty. He started drinking more and more often around the same time after having quit for years. I don’t want to see my children neglected in the same way,” I told him.
Crusifer doesn’t actually cry, but he goes into a state where his voice changes in pitch, and his cheek muscles rearrange, and his chin pushes up. He looks miserable wearing this expression, especially because I know that’s about as miserable as he ever allows himself to look.
“There is no point in making more promises, that I may or may not keep, so I could either quit and things may then work out, or I could not quit, and we may break up. Let’s just leave it at that,” he said.
“There is no point in me consoling you with my words,” he said.
“I can do it right this time. Are we done talking about breaking up now?” he said.
“I won’t drink any more. I promise. Really, I won’t,” he said.
I go mad as he touches me, verging on tears, grasping him, afraid, nervous, partly relieved, partly comforted, and simply mad with love and lust and fear. We kiss each other, hold each other, talk and go quiet, and talk again, and go quiet again.
“Do you have anything you wish to say to all of this?” I ask.
“I’m thinking,” he replies.
And we’re quiet again.
I scratch him, I groom him, I rub his back, I clean his nails. I give him soft kisses all over, and he touches the back of my head tenderly, the way he knows I like, the way he knows comforts me.
“All of this time,” I say, “I’ve trusted you one hundred percent. I’ve put faith in us getting married one hundred percent. I’ve held nothing back. I’ve given you everything. I haven’t doubted you, and I’ve forgiven you, and I’ve given you second chances. From the beginning of our relationship I’ve given and given and given, and shrugged my shoulders thinking that you’d pay me back. I’m still waiting for my payback. Sure, a laptop is a huge sign of commitment. Buying me things is nice, but when I think about the most romantic thing you’ve ever done for me I think of the letter you wrote me, the one like a poem with a porcupine on it. I think of the two drawings you drew for me. I think of the time you made me cereale with too much milk in a large bowl with way more than I could really eat.”
“But you still doubt me,” I say, “You haven’t invested in one hundred percent. You don’t fully trust me. You still think I lie to you. You still believe I could make fun of you. You still believe you need your backup plans, your friends, your drinking. And it’s making me stop feeling like I should put my one hundred percent in. I feel like I’m a fool to continue trusting you, to continue loving you and believing in you.”
And so we try again to start again. And so we make love. This whole discussion took place by candlelight. The entire time I rubbed him, soothed him, stroked him, groomed him, and then we made love. It was like the first time I slept with him, only much, much, much better. Every worry was banished. I came twice, then he did. Then we cuddled, made chicken wings, and he ate me out to another orgasm even better than the first two. We ate chicken and I had lima beans too. We drew together, and we smiled again, and laughed again, with no TV, the way things should be.
So I wash my hair in the sink downstairs, after dealing with soot covered boxes for over an hour. I decided to wash my hair because I had washed and washed and washed my hands and arms, only to discover that they were still discolored. Perhaps washing my hair (the shampoo, the longer exposure to water) would clean them further, and also, get my hair clean. The lack of having a bathtub and fully functional bathroom in general makes the discovery of having clean hair like a miracle. The silky smoothness of it against my face is incredible after being so dirty.
So I say to my fiancé, “Look at my hair, it’s so silky. Touch it. Touch it!” I offer it to my fiancé, getting my head close to his hands as he sits as his computer.
“It’s just hair,” he says. I frown as he doesn’t touch me. Am I silly for wanting to appreciate this small miracle or he being cynical (or mean? or neglectful?) for not appeasing me by touching it and appreciating it with me?
He sits there downloading porn, and I sit here working on “our” game design. I say “our” because many of the ideas are his, I put “our” in quotations because I’ve most certainly done more work on this design than him. I feel so smart when I work on the game design. I’m amazed at my own wealth of ideas over and over again. I’m amazed at how much I know, the vastness of my own vocabulary, the numerous resources at my disposal with my gaming experience, the internet and the synonyms that my word processor has to offer. I amaze myself at the efficiency at which I can make use of these resources and put them together.
Him and I overuse the word “genius” and so I say, “I’m such a genius” looking at my own charts. All my work, which I can’t make use of because I don’t have a degree, because I don’t have the requisite experience, because you have to work from the bottom up, because everyone has ideas, and so on and so forth. I want someone to appreciate it. I want someone to work on it with. Who better than my love? So I say to him, “Aren’t I genius? Isn’t this nifty? Isn’t it cool how I thought about that? Babe, come on,” I say giggling, “pat me on the head,” I offer him my head, obviously being a goof-ball, “pat me on the head and say I’m a genius.”
“You’re being annoying,” he says.
And with that statement I’m dumbstruck. My ideas are not genius, they are annoying. It takes me several minutes to realize that of course it’s not my ideas that are annoying, obviously is constantly asking him to look, look, look at me, my ideas, and me again. I’m such an attention whore that I disgust myself. But what’s wrong with wanting his attention? Am I such an alien?
On a totally different topic I saw Tre for the first time in over a year yesterday. I expected to feel odd, displaced, upset, or possibly turned on, but surprisingly I felt utterly nothing. Just amused that he does exist, amused that I was with him in the past, amused that he’s married to Danya. I should have asked to see his ring, I never noticed. I was too busy talking and looking at his car. He’s got a nice car now, unlike the hunk of junk he was driving when we were together. He’s almost got his associates degree now. He’s doing well, but I’m still glad I’m not with him. Oh the multitude of problems I had with him, and it still makes my relationship with...
Now I’m a retard. All the way from genius to annoying to retard in less than half an hour. I have to lock my journal now, because Crusifer doesn’t want “his shit on Broadway.” For years I’ve been told I can’t write about this stuff. For years I’ve been slapping everyone in the face with the raw truth about myself and my life, and now, I lock it up for him. I hope I’m not wasting my time on this nigga, because I’m sick of feeling the way over him, waiting for the “good times” when they come... For shorter and shorter periods of time, less and less often.
(These are real quotes between Crusifer and I, but bear in mind that in all three of them we’re kidding more than we are serious... Well, okay, about as serious as we are kidding.)
“In your pictures you look so young. Now you’re old and wrinkly with titties flapping in the wind,” he said to me.
“Denial is key,” he says.
“Sure is sweetie,” I reply, “Denial is key to breakups.”
“You could just stay here and draw,” he says.
“No, I can’t,” I reply. “You see there is this little voice in my head, and it says ‘don’t you want to go be with Crusifer? Don’t you want his prescience? His smell? Don’t you want to be near him and hear every sound he makes?’ and I reply to that voice passionately; I do, I do, I do!”
Letter to a girl with a blog,
I bet you everything I own, every cent to my name, and my body, flesh, health and love that if you changed your diet, your entire life would change.
You are what you eat, literally.
It's not about how much you eat, it's about what you eat, plain and simple. And if you only eat things that are truly good for you then you will never become over weight, and you'd never fall underweight either.
How do I know? I was 155lbs, and I was depressed, and I was miserable, and I hated myself and my life. I was lazy, and I started smoking pot on top of it. My memory went to hell, my self respect went to hell. I was losing myself and everything, including my health and my body. I had muscle cramps, head aches, and then I started getting terrible stomach aches, I started burping, and the burping became painful. This went on for over a year of my life.
I knew I had to do something, but what? The first thing I did was dump my abusive boyfriend. That was a good start, but it wasn’t enough. I was less depressed, and I was less moody, and my memory improved, but I was still depressed, moody and my memory was still terrible, it was just better than it had been. But the most concerning was the pain in my stomach when I woke up every morning. The painful burping that went on all day everyday.
I read an article about what sugar does to the body by Dr. Mark Hyman, and that was the beginning of my path to a whole different life. I started by eliminating High Fructose Corn Syrup from my diet. I lost five pounds, I started sleeping better, and I found that I had much more energy. Though the stomach aches and burps continued. Because Dr. Mark Hyman’s article helped me, I read more of his work. He said to try eliminating all sugar, all bread, all meat and all dairy for one week, and also to take long relaxing baths, and to reflect everyday in a journal.
I tried it. It was hard to figure out what to eat at first. I ate lima beans, potatoes, tortilla chips, and fresh fruit at first, because I didn’t know about all the organic options out there. I lost another ten pounds, gained a boost of energy, and the stomach aches went away completely, and the burps reduced dramatically. I slept through the nights, my depression receded, the health of my skin and hair improved. I felt like a new woman, and I became more confident.
I fell in love again with a wonderful man, one who isn’t abusive. I was 140lbs then, and I still wasn’t in the best of shape, but I was doing so much better that I felt on top of the world. I stopped eating out. I stopped smoking pot, which made me able to remember so many things that I couldn’t believe what good memory I actually do have! I quit eating white bread and pasta for good. I replaced milk with rice milk and almond milk and added organic granola to my diet. I added long-grain brown rice to my white rice with organic chicken dinner. I added orange juice and water to my fridge and drank as much fluid as I can. I started taking two-hour long baths where I meditated and reflected on my life, often by candle light. I quit drinking as well.
I lost another ten pounds, gained another boost of energy, and began to start seeing life as a challenge that I could handle. I became a person that I loved. I became more creative and got back into my artwork. I was more interested in being active, and less lazy.
I’m 125lbs now, and I eat all day as much as I want. I eat salads, potatoes, yams, lima beans, chickpeas, carrots, peppers, organic granola with rice milk or almond milk, tortilla chips, rice crisps, other organic chips (with no added sugars), all kinds of fresh fruits, all kinds of teas, home-made popcorn, corn-based spaghetti, grass-fed organic meat, grass-fed organic yogurt, and the list of wonderful foods goes on. And I will tell you personally, what you eat makes all the difference in how you feel and look. It changes everything.
Try one week, like I did. If you’re not impressed, then go back to life the way it is now.
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