At age 17, low self esteem was something that made me interesting and in a strange way, beautiful. At age 21 (nearly 22), low self esteem is something that makes me pathetic, and in the purest of ways, ugly.
Aint that a bitch.
Let There Be Love
I think sometimes it is hard for people to understand that just because someone is always funny, it doesn’t mean they’re always happy.
True story.
Did you know I don’t sleep? I don’t.
Oh to laugh and be free. That used to be me.
Last night, I laid in Mike’s arms and cried. It was a strange thing. My rabbit had bitten me and I felt this rush of guilt for not paying more attention to her in the last couple of days, and with that guilt came some extreme emotion and with that came so much more.
I am a self-alienating kind of person. I’ve always been one to suffer the woes of life silently and singularly. I am an outgoing person in many ways, but at the same time, since coming to the University I haven’t really put myself out there in ways to actively gain friends and foster relationships. Instead, I make excuses for myself. I’m too busy. I have little in common with people. I don’t drink. I’m broke. Blah blah blah. The list goes on. I think in some ways, I’m clinging to home and Virginia and family. I have incredible relationships with the people back home and my family here, but I use them as a crutch to keep myself sequestered when I’m at school.
I’m a lonely person. It is a hard thing to grapple with. Some days, I’m happy for my solitary existence but other days it hits me hard. Last night and today it hit me hard. I miss interaction. I miss spontaneity. I miss the way I feel when I’m at home in Virginia and I can make a call and be with a friend in less than 20 minutes. As a transfer student who couldn’t afford to live in Ann Arbor last year, I missed out on so many chances to meet people and make friends, and now I feel like it is so late in the game, why the hell even bother. So many of the friends I have made since moving to Michigan have dissapointed me in one way or another, sinking into alcoholism, drug abuse, shallowness, or inconsistency. I think in some ways, I would rather be dissapointed by myself and my inaction in making friends than have to continue to deal with the dissapointment of friendship turned sour and energy wasted.
This is just a long way of saying that I’m lonely but I don’t know that I’m willing to do anything about that.
There are intangible things that most people will never know about me, part of my identity that I sequester and silence for the world at large. I am not ashamed of them. I am not embarrassed by them. I am in love with these parts of myself. It is who I am when I’m in the car by myself, the photos I take when I’m alone, the expression of my face when I listen to Sigur Ros, and the way I feel when I get bad news about a loved one. These things are secretive in their very nature.
I love the parts of me that people know and see. I love that I’m loud and that I
normally think I’m funnier than everyone else thinks I am. I love that I wear dresses every day. I love that I have a tattoo of something that has given me so much. I love that I love.
I’m an advice giver (and unfortunately not an advice taker). I have nerdy indulgences, especially the TV show Heroes and movies based on comic books. I am straight edge, but that hasn’t kept me from loving my drunk-ass friends. I am a photographer and a scholar, but unfortunately have not yet found a way to marry the two. I love almost every food except spicy stuff and seafood. I like to think I can read people very well, but they always surprise me. My faith is more important to me than I let on. I have a freakish love for the music of the 90s. I procrastinate. I have trouble telling the people I admire that I admire them. I wish I could take portraits like Richard Avedon, that tell the truth about the people in them. And lastly, in the words of Oasis, I need more time just to make things right.
