Monday, April 28, 2008

Tribute to an Asshole

Archives. Archives of this blog in reference to C.R. I really don't know what to say right now. I am truly befuddled. I don't understand. I don't understand why or how he did it. I don't understand why God is taking all these people away from me. I don't understand why some people have to die so young, and why some people want to die so young. I don't understand why this occurrence is affecting me so much after what he did to me, both while we were dating, and while we were friends. Maybe it's because B.L. told me that it's because he was drinking and smoking pot too much, and that M.T. is headed down the same road, because the only time you drink and smoke pot is when you want to forget something (which, by the way, isn't true. People do those things for many reasons.. wanting to forget is only one of them). We all knew about how he got out of the Marines: as K.H. likes to put it "We saw his discharge papers. The Marines knew his suicide attempt was fake. They knew he was full of shit." Bet they didn't know he was bipolar. Bet they didn't know he had a kid. Bet they didn't know that the attempt was serious, that he needed a lot of psychiatric help that he couldn't afford because he spent all his money on drugs and alcohol, and that the next time he tried, he would succeed. He needed hospitalization. He needed friends, and I just blew him off because of the way he acted towards my later boyfriends. The way he treated me wasn't enough to make me stop talking to him. No, it had to be poor treatment of someone I knew, someone who was close to me, someone I loved, for me to stop giving him chances. I don't understand. He had so many friends (or so it seemed) who were there for him when things got tough, even if I wasn't one of them. I don't understand how none of them could see what was going on, and stop him from doing it, or at least call the fucking suicide hotline. People aren't supposed to die when they're 20. They aren't supposed to die when they're 17. They aren't supposed to die when they're 56. People die when they're old, when they're in their 80's or 90's. It's like a moving snapshot. When someone disappears, the things they had affected in the shot stay the same. You know that person was there, you can see it in the pictures she pinned to the walls in her room, or the little baby boy he fathered. Nothing changes. They just disappear. And what you see in the picture is what was behind them. The background.

Sunday, April 20, 2008

Random Things That Have Been Bothering Me Recently

Rapidly approaching finals. Sorority-obsessed friends. Sardines with an ex. Trying to move on. Sometimes it feels so difficult, I feel like I can't do it. It's been two weeks now, since that night he broke my heart, that night he told me he just didn't feel the way he used to, that night I left him standing in the hall after he said what he did, that night he went back upstairs and took five shots, one right after the other, for God knows what reason. Two weeks, and I still breakdown. I still cry. I still look back and wish he loved me, wish I hadn't screwed things up by making him angry after that night, wish, as I'm flirting with all the guys around, that we could get back together, that, because of those five shots, he was upset about that night. I think my problem is that I'm stressed. I might have failed my physics exam on Friday, through no fault of my own. Rotational acceleration vectors point where? How do you find angular velocity? Why are you writing things on the board, then not explaining them, or changing them and not telling us that you did, after we already have the wrong thing written in our notes? Molly tells me I don't need him, tells me that I'm beautiful and sexy, and that there's someone better for me. Suzanne tells me I'm talented, that not many people can take the classes that I'm taking, and work as hard as I do. I see through it though. Everyone at Willamette (besides the ones whose parents can pay for their schooling out-of-pocket) is working just as hard as me, taking the same classes that I am, passing those classes. I came here dreaming math dreams, dreaming science dreams, and in taking one, two, three classes, those dreams are dashed. I can't do multi-variable calculus, or proof theory, or physics. I'm not interested in chemistry, linear algebra, or biology. No. I pick the two majors that my parents think have the fewest job options, the majors that I get the most crap for. I don't care if everyone's worried about me! I'll make it through, and I don't understand why you don't trust that that's the case! All I'm asking for is a little support, moral, not financial. This whole year, you've lent me twenty-five dollars. Twenty-five. I will make it. If there's one think my mother has taught me, it's determination. I can major in anything anywhere. All of Willamette's majors are offered at places like Western, or any other liberal arts college. I chose Willamette for a reason, and I'm going to stay for a reason. I finally feel like I belong somewhere, even if I only belong here for three more years. And I'm not "just like [my] father". If you want to say that to me again, remember how you reacted that summer day on the way to work when I said those exact words. Remember how much it hurt you to hear it, how much you cried. Then take that pain, and multiply it by, oh, maybe ten, maybe one-hundred, and know that that is how much you hurt me every time you tell me that (and you have on more than one occasion). It hurts because that is my legitimate fear, my worst phobia. Either that I will end up like him, or I'll end up with someone like him. I want you to know that I'm not, and I won't. My friends, even though they haven't met him, know that I'm not just like him. How can you even see a similarity? He asked me on the phone the other day to come see him after finals were done, even for a few days. I told him no, that I didn't have time because I would be busy working. Working for next semester's tuition. He asked what a few days would hurt, and that's when I ended the conversation, because I wanted to tell him so badly that I didn't want to come. But I was in a line, waiting to get lunch. I think you would agree, that isn't the most appropriate place to tell someone something like that. Then there's L.B. The sorority girl. She's beginning to abandon us for her "sisters" and new friends. I can understand how she feels, as I've found my family in the theatre here. But that doesn't mean I don't miss her. We were never the closest, but I guess she feels that M.Z. and I are drifting away as well. We are all acquiring different interests, yet the A's still talk to all of us. We still have dinner together. Dinners that I'm beginning to dread, because I can't get a word in edge-wise when L.B. and M.Z. are talking. Fucking girls. I am one, so that's kind of hypocritical, but when you are so self-absorbed that you can't see that one of your friends is in just as much pain as you, you deserve to lose touch with her. But I guess it isn't fair to call you self-absorbed because I didn't know that you were suffering too. If you ask me, it's your own fault. You're the one who takes on so many activities, the one who can't say no. Well, on second thought, maybe I can call you self-absorbed, because that's all you ever talk about. You. And maybe the reason why I didn't know how you were feeling is because you aren't talking to M.Z. or me truthfully anymore. But, as I said before, things change. People change. I guess you get used to it. Or you should, anyway.