This is gonna be a little depressing, and not profound-depressing, I mean more along the lines of childish-whining-depressing. I'm not in a good mood today, and I don't really want to go into why, but I'll blame it on my period. I used to get really emotional in the few days before my period, but now it happens during my period. Why the hell am I talking about my period? Moving on.
I was thinking today about something that happened a long, long time ago. Sixth grade. I was thinking about how I learned the word "lesbian." I'd heard the word before, and though I didn't really know what it meant, I could figure out that it was something bad that you weren't supposed to mention in public. Anyway, I was playing on the playground one day at recess--by myself, of course--when a kid told me to come look at something. I couldn't figure out what it was at first, although I got the basic idea that it was letters painted on the playground equipment in green nail polish. I don't remember now exactly what it said, but it was something about me being a lesbian. Once it was pointed out, a group of kids gathered around it and started laughing and asking me if I really was. I had no fucking clue. I ran away and sat with the teachers for the rest of recess.
You know you're at the bottom of the social totem pole when the one bit of playground graffiti that shows up all year is designed to ridicule you, specifically.
I went home that night and asked my mom what the word "lesbian" meant and how to spell it. Spelling words is very important to me, plus I wanted to know if whoever wrote it on the playground had gotten the spelling right. Mom wondered why on earth I wanted to know that. I don't remember if I told her about the graffiti. I was probably too embarrassed, but then again I probably needed a valid reason for wanting to know what the word meant. So who knows.
It was another year, at least, before I started realising that I actually was a lesbian, and two and a half more years after that before I dared to tell anyone about it. And still, I can't shake that first impression of the word.
So, there's that. Also, it's been four and a half months since Brittany has answered one of my phone calls. She calls me occasionally--maybe once a month or so--and we talk, but it's always on her time, when she feels like it. It's not like I haven't thought about it before. I've been thinking about it constantly for over a year. I have no clue why it's on my mind so much today. Actually, no. That's not quite true. I went to Blockbuster today with Farz and Tim. I was already in a bad mood for things I'm not going to talk about now, so I was kind of wandering around by myself, looking at movie titles. I came across "Under the Tuscan Sun." I've seen...most of that movie. Brittany and I watched it together. At her house, after a sleepover party. I felt so special because she wanted me to stay late in the morning to watch a movie with her. We didn't finish the whole movie because my mom came to pick me up, and I wasn't paying much attention to the parts we did watch. Brittany and I always said that one of these days we'd finish the movie. She's seen the entire thing by now, and I never went back to it.
So once my memory sprang into action upon seeing that movie title, it just kept going and going and going. All these stupid little memories of things she did that hurt me, things she did that delighted me, things I overlooked or things I read too much into. Then for the first time I calculated just how long it'd been since she'd answered a single fucking one of my phone calls. 4 1/2 months. I call her, I leave voicemail messages, she calls me back in a few weeks when she feels like it. She says she's "busy." Not ten spare minutes to call someone you apparently consider a friend?
I am not at ease with the thought of her not being a part of my life. It hurts and it's fucking weird. What am I supposed to do with all the things I see and think and hear and feel every day that remind me of her? What am I supposed to do with our inside jokes that I still find hilarious? What am I supposed to do with the music that she and I both love? What am I supposed to do about the fact that my mother loves having her around? What am I supposed to do about the fact that I love having her around? On one hand I feel like I should just forget about her, come to terms with the fact that she probably doesn't give a damn about me, and move on with my life without her. On the other hand, she's tied to every single tiny facet of my life and I can't just forget about it all.
Yeah, sure, I was in love with her, if you can call it that. I felt like I was in love, anyway, even if I always knew it was pointless. But I don't think I'm even talking about that right now. I think all these feelings and all this confusion is because I'm losing a friend and it sucks. I trusted her. Before I knew what that really meant, I trusted her with everything. And she didn't give a shit. Still doesn't. She has always presented herself as a genuinely good person, friendly, warm, caring, Christian (and in a palatable way, too!)...and I just cannot make myself believe that that's all fake. Maybe I'm still holding onto the hope that there's some explanation for everything that I just haven't figured out yet. I'm still holding onto the hope that she really is a good person and I wasn't wrong to trust her.
Oh man. What a night.
I just got back from a late-night walk in the Freezing!Ass!Cold!...I had intended to stay out for awhile but obviously I wasn't thinking too clearly. I've had a cold lately, there are a lot of creepy drunk people out, I'm extremely upset, and it was 2 in the fucking morning. All very good reasons to not be a dumbass, and thank you Kate for pointing those out to me. Still, nothing quite like visiting my favourite willow tree when I need to calm the fuck down. When I was a kid, Grandma and I used to make wreaths from willow branches when Grandpa was trimming the trees. I'd run out to collect all the fallen branches, and then Grandma and I would sit at the picnic table and strip the leaves and weave the branches into circles. Sometimes she'd get out ribbons and stuff for decorations. My wreaths were pathetic little fuckers, but hers were majestic.
That was, of course, before I knew what the word "lesbian" meant. It was also before I developed my "social self." Until I was about 12, my world was mine and mine only. I mean, there were people in my life, but nobody ever knew what I thought about. Life was a lot more manageable then. I didn't have to worry about giving people my trust only to find them chucking it in the dumpster.
I try not to worry about that so much anymore, but once it's happened, it's kind of intuitive to be guarded. There are people I trust now, not all on the same level, but it's there.
I'm just confused as hell as to whether I should trust Brittany at all, even a tiny bit. I want it to be easy: I want to sit down with her and tell her everything I'm feeling about her and see how she reacts. I want her to tell me either "Oh my gosh, no, I'm so sorry!" or "You're right, I don't care." I don't want her standard answer. Her standard answer is "You're being paranoid again; stop blowing things out of proportion." Like it's my fault I feel like this.
One of these days I'm going to write something that isn't depressing, angsty, or pathetic.
Here's something: I went to a real college party tonight and actually had fun. I had fun in my own way, of course--not by dancing or drinking or screaming over the crowds--but I sat back and watched. I watched people interact. I watched what people do in that setting. How they move, what they wear, how they talk. It probably isn't your idea of fun. To me, it's fascinating.
And shut the fuck up if you want to tell me that's depressing. It's not depressing, it's me. I'm introverted and awkward and analytical and I'm okay with that. Don't fucking tell me that the things I love are depressing because they're low-key. Don't fucking tell me that the music I love is depressing because it's intricate and soothing and evocative. Don't fucking tell me that my idea of fun is depressing because it's calm.
That was my angry moment. The people at whom that was directed probably don't read my blog. I just needed to get that out there, somewhere.
I should probably sleep. I can't believe it's almost 3:30am already. I can't believe I used to stay up until 7am on a regular basis. That was a strange way to live. It made me feel like a more interesting person.