I have cut so many people out of my life that my phone is starting to feel like a graveyard of dead friendships and abandoned conversations. But I’m not sorry. I’ll never be sorry. From the burial mounds I’ve sprouted flowers, and from the silence I’ve curated peace.
Tag Archives: Travel
I’m a little less superlunary.
I saw this coming. Didn’t you? From the minute you kissed me- hands on my waist, eyes slightly open; trying to count my freckles- I knew. I knew it was going to end with me sobbing into your t shirt at a train station, trying to conjure up the last bit of strength I had to stop smelling you, stop kissing you and to get out of your car.
Fuck.
Every step I took away from your stupid bittersweet little smile felt like ice. I never want to feel like that again. Saying an almost permanent, definite good bye to you was scarier than being locked inside a room and screamed at, scarier than traveling alone, scarier than walking home in the dark. At least in those situations I had an end goal – break down the door, find terminal A, sprint to safety. The outcome of being left behind by you is “try to be happy”- try desperately not to spill tears all over my keyboard, find the few upbeat songs I own, don’t cry on the train, don’t cry on the train, don’t cry on the train.Walking away from you was like hacking off parts of myself to leave behind, I swear I left a piece of my being on your front seat.
The thought of kissing anybody else goodbye makes me sick. I couldn’t possibly share dinosaur daydreams or Halloween kisses or tubs of ice cream with anybody else. But when I stepped out of that car, I accepted the possibility that I’d have to.
Maybe we fit right?
Maybe we don’t. Maybe our little love affair- our dalliance with miscommunication and morning giggles- is doomed to remain strictly digital. Maybe you’ll get busy and write your masters and forget to come home and I’ll go back to kissing strangers in bars, trying to find some parts of you in the wreckage.
Maybe we’re both not as great as we thought we were.
Maybe I’m doing that thing I do where I’m over-dramatic and you laugh and kiss my cheek and tell me it’s one of your favourite things about me- how much I feel, how desperate I am for genuine human connection.
There’s a lot of maybe when it comes to us-yet I’ve never felt so definite, so attached, so willing to use superlatives.
This is a mess. I’m a mess. A rubbed raw, icy footed, miscommunicated mess. But if the mess was caused by us, and that last kiss goodbye caused this type of carnage in my life, then I can live with it.
I can get up in the morning. I can write paragraphs that don’t mean anything in an attempt to stay numb. I can lie when people ask me where I’d rather be, because the answer of “next to you, holding your hand” isn’t a plausible answer.
I knew this was coming. I’m still in denial that it has, I still expect that you’ll come back and pick me up in a spirit shirt and brown corduroys. I’m desperately clinging on to the notion of July and December visits, like a child in the middle of a custody agreement. I’m prepared to feed myself fantasies until it doesn’t hurt to walk, until my eyes dry up, until I’m okay.
Fuck.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
Filed under Romance or something like it
Too Much or Not Enough? An Existential Tragedy.
I’ve been going through the motions of having an existential crisis for several months now. I think it started when I was ejected from my mother’s house at the end of my incredibly sheltered high school career and dumped in the middle of what can only be referred to as “The Ghetto” for the start of my new life as a fresh-faced, relatively experimental student.
After at least 18 years of having morals stronger than Dwayne Johnson’s pecks and crying whenever I came in contact with a drunk person (okay, once, it was one time), I found myself wanting to style my hair into dreadlocks, date guys who wear spiked collars (it was a 2 week phase, I don’t want to talk about it) and became immediately “one with the universe”. My dabble with accepting everyone and anyone into my “Island of Misfit Toys” ended with me dating a complete lunatic (minus the spiked collar) who liked trying to communicate with ghosts in graveyards, tears and a lot of angsty poetry.
Now, a year later: my hair is a normal colour, I’ve stopped believing that crack-heads should be “accepted into society”, and I’m actually using my brain. I’m still in the middle of a crisis regarding my place in the universe but at a much more toned down level (thank fuck). I’ve become myself again with the added bonus of keeping myself awake at night trying to fit pieces of my existence together. This constant state of acatalepsy has led to some sound conclusions on how shit works around here.
It all started with him, the way he makes me feel and how desperately I clutch to any thought that doesn’t involve at least a sliver of his presence in my life. My brain embodies a quote favoured by white girls “my thoughts can not move an inch without bumping into some piece of you” and it’s excruciating. I miss having my conscience all to myself, but that’s the risk that comes with suppressing years of unspoken feelings; they eventually burst out of their constraints and run havoc in your mind. Unrequited inadequacy can make you crazy.
It’s also made me consider the fact that the world is very much divided into two kinds of people: Too Much and Not Enough.
I am Too Much. We’re the people who engulf our souls in an excess of light and life. We’re too wild, too loud, too emotional, too impulsive. If we’re doing a Meyers-Briggs assessment we’d be more “F” than “T”. Society percieves us as over-the-top and eccentric, we just consider ourselves ablaze with whatever passion sets our spirits on fire. In terms of relationships we often try to make ourselves smaller to fit the other person’s idea as to how we’re supposed to be. Alternatively, we end up with a Not Enough: someone who doesn’t fill the burning void we have inside of us. They don’t talk enough, or feel enough, or read enough books. For the same reasons that we’re Too Much, they’re simply not enough.
I’ve started involuntarily placing the people in my life into these kinds of categories. In their relationships with other people are they more likely to be too much or not enough? My November fling is Not Enough, I was Too Much for my old friend from High School, the guy in French class who tried to attack kiss me is Not Enough, the bat-shit crazy ex-boyfriend is Too Much for everyone. It’s depressing to think that we, as members of the human race, who are sold dreams of being heterogeneous entities, unique just like everybody else, can be classified into 2 personality categories.
I’ve found a paradox in the theory. As it turns out you could be the most Too Much person on the entire planet, you could smother yourself to sleep from all the emotions in your over-exerted heart, you could burst into people’s lives with passion and drive and start singing randomly like you’re mother-flipping Ferris Bueller, you could feel insane and half-drunk on how much you are as a person. You could be Too Much, and yet, when someone worms their way under your skin, kisses you and then leaves you outside to deal with the starlight and the cosmos by yourself, they can make you feel like you’re Not Enough.
That’s my existential tragedy. I can read all the right books, watch all the good shows and show interest in all the right things; I can start gyming and doing my hair nicely in the mornings and stop wearing sweat pants to lectures. I can try to be more than Too Much as much as I want, and I’ll still never be enough.
So I’ll have a shower, put my sweat pants back on, get under the covers and pretend like I don’t notice how incredibly inadequate he makes me feel. I’ll wake up and I’ll be gentle with myself and hold onto the notion that I am white hot and consumed with being Too Much for everything and everyone.
And hopefully one day he’ll wake up and realise that he was simply Not Enough.
Filed under Sometimes I Rant
Saying Goodbye To A Truly Crappy Year
I have half an hour left to say goodbye to the worst year of my life.
What a statement. The fact that I’ve taken into consideration the year my parents got divorced, the year I was bullied and ostracised to the point where I didn’t want to go to school and last year when I was so broken by the end it felt like my heart was about to fall out of my chest, the fact that I can still say this has been the worst year is significant. I hated 2014.
I don’t want to make this post a reflection on everything that has been thrown at me these past 12 months. Damages have been done and friendships have been destroyed, I’ve been stupid and humanity has lost my faith a little, but at least I have come out of this year kicking like crazy trying to break the surface.
It’s stupid to think that at midnight I’ll magically punch through the crappy year barrier into the slightly-less crappy one, but at least for now I can write about how much better I hope 2015 might be.
We’re already off to a nice start in terms of how I’m spending New Years: sitting in my aunt and uncle’s warm kitchen in Cambridgeshire, writing this post. Last year I spent my night third wheeling for my best friend at my ex boyfriend’s best friend’s house.
“Happy 2014 Harriet, here, have a dose of loneliness and inadequacy, the universe loves you!”
In comparison, I welcome 2015’s sober kitchen table.
I’m spending New Years Morning on a plane to Spain, seeing my Dad is another positive change 2015 has to offer. It’s also a lot more comfortable than a raging hangover.
That should probably be one of my resolutions: a lot less hangovers and a lot less junk food to go with the hangovers, especially hot wings- that’s a good example of a bad decision to be left behind with last year.
Resolution number 2 is to post more onto this here website. Even if I think it’s crap, someone might love what I’ve written-probably my mom. I have too many drafts clogging up my dashboard because I’ve written the post halfway and hated where it was going. I also want to write more about what makes me feel uncomfortable, or more about scenarios where I’m not the hero of my own story, where I make mistakes and judgements and act foolishly- I have a problem with portraying my side of the story as unfavourable.
I also have to stay single until July this year. I made a pact.
I want to learn to play the guitar and sing, I want to be the guitar douchebag at parties, plus if I write about it I’ll complete my “not being the hero” resolution because no one likes a guitar douche.
This year I also want to learn to say “no” and how to yell and be angry. I think most of 2014’s mistakes were made because I wasn’t angry enough.
Lastly I want to keep all of my friends, only the worthwhile ones who won’t judge me once I’ve tried out my whole “being angry” thing.
In a nutshell I hope 2015 has a lot less headaches, more music, less drama, solid friendships and happiness.
My New Years resolution is to be happy.
Happy 2015 to you, readers of this little blog in the corner of the Internet, I hope this next year is psycho-free and filled with endorphins.
I hate this post, so I’m putting it out to the world.
Filed under Brain Poetry
I Want To Be Alive
I don’t want to start living like an adult as soon as I stop studying. I don’t want to get a steady job or find the person to spend my life with right away. I think people care about that too much, mediocre stability. I want to travel, I want to feel poor, I want to live in youth hostels and suitcases. I want to see the world, and be a spectator for a little while longer before I’m forced to be an active participant.
That’s where all the unhappiness of the world stems from, I think. People doing what they’re meant to be doing and not dancing through life trying to find what they want to be doing.
I want to be alive. I want to be different.
Stop Seeing Through Tunnels.
I can’t help but feel like there should be something more to my life. I don’t want to spend the next four years working my butt off for a piece of paper that informs the world that I am of value, only to get stuck behind the desk of a company that adds no sustainable value to the world anyway.
To be honest, if I could make a living out of volunteer work I would put down my degree and help humanity immediately. Unfortunately economics aren’t very forgiving if you do such a thing.
Since high school I’ve been involved in community outreach. I spent every Wednesday in shacks that were meant to be pre-schools teaching children cognitive skills they were meant to have developed already, I went on a mission trip to Mozambique to do the exact same thing but with children who lived in reed huts and whose parents decided drinking while pregnant would be a good idea.
I never really thought anything I did would change someone’s life. I gave myself up for service because it felt good to help. This all changed in Mozambique when I met two of the most precious little boys on this planet.
The first one smelled almost as dirty as he looked. He obviously hadn’t been clean in weeks and I was told the children often only have 2 sets of clothes. I can’t remember how we became friends or why I took such a shining to him but every day I went to the village he would run up to me and hold onto me until I left and every day his grandmother would sit against the side of the reed school house, drink cheap booze and glare at our fun. She probably hated me, I didn’t care. I decided to teach the little one about music, at least the good stuff like Aerosmith, so I sat him down in the dust and belted out “Don’t Want to Miss A Thing” to this squirming sponge for learning. I wanted him to atleast learn to keep music in his life and not to let his grandmother get him down. I don’t know if I succeeded, I just know that we both cried when I left.
The second one had the Measles and no one would play with him or touch him for fear of infection. He was isolated, snotty, tired and in the sun the whole day. The other volunteers couldn’t hold him, they hadn’t had the vaccine, I’d been vaccinated so I held him, that little untouchable kid, until he fell asleep.
I stopped community service in my last year of highschool. I figured studying, being a prefect and playing volleyball was more important than helping little kids. Since then I’ve had no passion in my life, no source of joy, I have my studies and my writing. The writing part comes with difficulty, there’s nothing to write about, I’m tired of 1st world people with 1st world problems like being “victimised” or not knowing whether to do the ALS Ice Bucket challenge in a bath tub or outside; I’m tired of Tweets and stressing about getting 11 likes on an Instagram post, I hate relationship issues and reading dumb Thought Catalog articles on “11 signs he’s a cheater.” I don’t like dealing with stupid ceremonies like SRC elections that will only benefit people who are already studying towards a future, who already have more opportunities than my two little boys could ever dream of.
“Vote for me and I’ll make sure the clubhouses stay open longer and the booze will be cheaper.”
“Vote for me and we’ll create more jobs in the Humanities department.”
“Vote for me so I can have something that looks good on my resume.”
Is it so hard to have goals outside of our own little bubbles? Why can’t we stop talking about the theme for the next party and start talking about the refugee crisis in Syria? I don’t want to hear about Solange hitting Jay-Z in an elevator or how funny that “21” Vine is.
It feels like the state of humanity is getting worse because our brains are getting smaller, we’ve started seeing everything in tunnel vision and only think about wifi passwords and becoming “YouTube Famous.” We’ve become empty people living shallow lives only helping ourselves.
I feel like we as a generation of capable, open-minded, thinking people can find more ways to help people beyond taking no-make up selfies and pouring a bucket of ice water over our heads.
The only thing I want to do with my life is help people and then write about it along the way.
So I think I’m going to do just that.
Filed under Adventures, Sometimes I Rant