Why can't I just fucking forget anything ever happened.

Reading over my ridiculous amount of blogs, I realize that I have often fallen so in love with an idea or ideas of something and how it should be. School. Family. Growing up. Life.

Love.

When I was a little girl, I used to pretend that I would marry Barbie one day. And Skipper. And Ariel. Sometimes Belle, too. Not all at the same time, of course, but at different stages. As I grew older, I realized that Belle had the Beast, Ariel had Eric, and Barbie had Ken. Girls loving boys, not loving girls. But I loved them. I wanted to be Kimberly, the Pink Ranger. I wanted to love Tommy, the Green Ranger, then the White Ranger, but I mostly just loved his ponytail.

There was a Hispanic family down the street from my mom's house. We knew their family because my mom's husband, the man who made me call him Papa, knew them. The family separated, and the girls who lived there moved away with their mother. I missed the girl so much, but she came back sometimes on the weekends. There was a play area in their basement where we liked to play house together. Her name was Ellie. She was beautiful. She was my husband, and sometimes I was her husband. I held her hand, and after we put the kids to sleep, we would crawl in our tent and she would kiss me.

Life was easier back then, even though it really wasn't. I spent a lot of my childhood and even most of my adulthood hating myself for being so attracted to women. Love, as my father so adamantly reminded me during every election, was between a woman and a man. Marriage, he told me, is only between a man and a woman. Do what you want, but I better not see or hear about it. That was his motto. Somewhere along the way, I decided to stop arguing and just hate his political views on everything. If my father liked it, then I obviously couldn't.

One awful, cold winter day, in the middle of a writing assignment on Metamorphosis, it hit me. It was a smack in the face, even though I had been flirting with the idea for as long as I could remember. Love isn't a cut and dry definition, nor is anything that really matters.

Over the years, and even until that awful, beautiful winter day, I forced myself to look only at boys. I had no problem with gay people. In fact, I liked them more--probably because they were being who they truly were. But I heard the word love, and I told myself, "Boys, Kat. Fall in love with boys." So I tried. I made up these insane scenerios in my head where I would "love" and marry a boy, and then he would let me see a girl on the side. (Yes, I am insane).

I also feel so very far in love with the idea of this perfect love, that I forgot who I was.

This year has been a year of throwing out old definitions, and building new ones. Not getting caught up in cycles that drag me down, but looking forward to the new cycles that make me think of who I want to be (thanks, Discovery). And the person that I have become as a result is actually someone I like to be around.

My past definitions have held me back for so long. So many ideas, thoughts, feelings; But I am not my past. I am here, now. And I will be someone with a future.

Half past twelve, and yet I'm still tinkering away, fiddling with the keys beneath my fingers. Type a few out, delete them all. Type a few more, backspace until the page is blank again. Words possess no meaning if you don't mean what you write. Words attempt to describe the feelings that are so incomprehensible, almost to the point where they are indescribable. The gut-wrenching, sobs that infiltrate your lowest lows would not be so gut-wrenching if you didn't understand joy. Not just happiness, but joy.

That night when you cried yourself to sleep on the floor of your bedroom, wishing you had somebody there just so you weren't alone. Somebody. Anybody. But Somebody. That night, you understood alone; What the words lonely means. You remembered the pain, the anguish, the loneliness. You felt it hovering for days until it finally fell upon you like a shroud of darkness.

Where does it come from? This darkness. It haunts and tears and rips at your flesh like a lion, hungry for the weak. The vultures have not forgotten to come and nibble at your bones, pecking away each scrap of flesh that might still be stuck to the bones. You lie naked, nothing left but a few bones. Night breaks and you are left alone in the hard floor, shattered. "Hold on," The sun-dried grasses whisper in the night wind. "Almost there," the overhanging cliff tumbles as a few pieces of muddied rock fall off the edge. The air becomes cool, wet with moisture, you can feel it leak into the cracks of your skull. "It's okay to cry," the ominous clouds sweep in. Lighting strikes the tree nearby, and you wish you could curl your bones into a misshapen ball. The rains come next, the ones that often pass over this arid land. The torrential downpour soaks the land, beating it for being so cruel to itself. Beating it with love, begging it to be careful.

The night comes to a close, the crying skies have shed all the tears they can. As the sun comes up, you feel as drained as the clouds that lingered for hours. But the ground is moist, the tears from above sent like a gift to begin anew. Your bones, broken and shattered, lying on the once dry ground are no longer your own. A seed from the tree struck with lightning has managed to take root right where you lie. Though the seed takes time to grow, it will. It will flourish and become a new piece of you that was once ravished by starving animals.

Sometimes it helps to know that when those moments of emptiness invade your soul, there is an end to the empty. The bad, the darkness, it kills. Haunts. Or shrouds. But it is after these moments when you know that without them, and without the rain, there would be no sun, no smiles, no concept of joy.

That night, that awful, dark, empty night on the bedroom floor you never would have guessed that your face might later attempt to fall off from smiling so much. And you never would have heard it then, either. And another shroud of darkness is sure to find you in another way, or maybe even in the same way.

But there is always, always a seed.

ASDFGHJKJHGFDSYTIUIGFHFSUJDTU

Today was your wedding, B & S. And while I am happy for you both for finding happiness, I am not sorry for going to the wedding and sharing in festivities. I am, however, sorry for not being mature enough to decline your invitation in writing or via telephone. Here is my lame list of reasons for not going:

1) I wouldn't have been very festive. There's not many times when I am that festive these days. No, I lied. I am never that festive anymore.

2) I am selfish. While I am happy that you both are happy, I am also still very angry at the situation.

3) Why can't gay people get married? Simply for this reason, weddings infuriate me.

4) I am selfish and didn't want to go.

5) When the two of you started dating, I lost my friend. B and I have not spoken longer than a five minute "hello" since the day you two started seeing one another.

6) S, we were never friends. We were acquaintances who hung out occasionally in groups of other people. I tried to like you. I went to your house, I met your family. But in the end, I think I just envied you too much to like you. I don't hate you, but I hate that you have the life that I never had as a child and never will have as an adult.

7) Again, I am a selfish bitch.


This has been a post.

When is it my turn?

why am I so afraid to tell people that I'm gay?

why am I so afraid that it's the truth?

Hmm. I met Sandra Cisneros. It was amazing. Yet now I want to write the things I want to write, and not the things I need to be writing. I love Shakespeare, don't get me wrong. I just have a paper due in an hour that I could care less about. I'll turn in some writing. But why can't it be something I actually want to write?

My head is exploding, and I want to let it. Let me out of my cage.

please.

I wrote so much more when I cared.

I don't know if I've stopped, but I've stopped caring about the same things.
Sometimes I just want to scream, rip my hair out, yelling profanities about how God cannot exist. Therefore I do not care, and I can do what ever the fuck I want to do at all times. Except not. Because once my medicine is back in my system, I care again. Maybe not as much as before. But, in some ways, I still care.

Things. Why must we all focus on things? Tangible. Unobtainable. Is that why we want them so badly? Probably.

Things. Items. Ultimately, I like them, I suppose. I want them anyhow. Not expensive, ridiculous things with "names" attached to them. Not the kind that everyone starts wanting because other people have it. I like things that I can feel. Things I can remember. Things I can create.

I like journeys. And trips. And adventures. And maybe even small or inexpensive keepsakes that will help me remember the memories. Other things, I just don't want. I don't even desire them. People tear themselves up over things. Why though?

Maybe I just rant because I don't understand it. I won't ever understand, I don't think. The most expensive things I have paid for are concert tickets, plane tickets to new places, two tattoos designed by me in order to help me when I get off track, and school related things. Oh, and probably my contributions to my friend, MJ. But those things create memories. Or help me help myself.

I just don't know why I get so angry about it. I don't think I ever will understand it, and therefore can't find meaning in it.

Anxiety.
I have it.
A lot. More than a lot.
It's getting worse.
I can't sleep. I'm up all hours, thinking someone is going to break into the house. Or kill me. Or worse. My brain, it won't shut off. All of these things which couldn't possibly happen. Well, maybe they could, but not probably. And all of the lights--they better be on.

Gram thinks I keep leaving the lights on on accident.
It's not an accident.
I'm just scared out of my mind for no real reason.