Tag: depressed

Undercover Martyn

One Act had state competition yesterday morning, and before I complain incessantly about us LOSING MISERABLY, let me just say that I’ve actually had a pretty good weekend. I got close to a lot of my cast mates that I didn’t know all that well before, and I actually reconnected with one of my best friends.

We left school at about 1:20 on Friday to drive over to [insert town name that I’m not going to tell you], and drove right to our hotel to drop our stuff off. The bus ride was ridiculously fun; we played Screw Marry Kill and Never Have I Ever.

Monica (our director/sponsor) had picked the rooms kind of randomly and originally I was worried about my room because one of the girls in the room hated my guts for drama between the two of us and her boyfriend over the summer (long story), but we ended up having a pretty good time. More on that later.

After we dropped all our crap off, we went to Little Tokyo, a hibachi grill in [insert town name that I’m not going to tell you] that was really cool. I got edamame, steak, and fried rice and pretty much died of deliciousness. Dinner was fun; we took a bunch of goofy panoramas and just generally messed around. I ended up taking a to-go box back to the hotel and ate the rest of my dinner at 9:45-ish.

When we got back to the hotel, we had a little while to relax in our rooms then we all gathered in the pool room and Dorian gave us a pep talk then we went over some notes/changed some scenes. They released us to go hang out upstairs and Luke (he played Mark Twain) and his mom, Shannon, brought around goodie bags for each room. She also gave me Trolli Sour Trees, which was funny because I’m the Tree of Knowledge in our play. The entire cast met in Luke’s room for thirty minutes to read something Shannon put together (“How You Know You’re a Drama Kid”), then dispersed amongst different rooms. The room I was in played Never Have I Ever again, as well as got Treavor (a savagely gay kid in ninth grade) to put makeup on.

You know, typical drama student shit.

We had to be in our rooms around 10:30 or so and I talked on the phone with Garrett and joked around with my roommates. There actually wasn’t that much tension between Courtney and I, which was an enormous relief considering all of the crap that happened. We fell asleep about 11:40.

Saturday morning, everyone ran downstairs to gorge on breakfast, then hurried to throw on some makeup and do something with our hair before rushing over to the school where the performance was to be held and getting dressed. Surprisingly, everyone managed to more or less hold back tears as we discussed our favorite parts of One Act this year and as we warmed up for the last time before 11, when we performed.

We performed. Most people cried. I thought I was going to puke. Etc.

There were still six plays after us (eight in total), so we had to wait until 7:30 to get results. Lunch was Little Caesar’s Pizza, and during all of the plays we lounged together in the audience and basically enjoyed being together. We were nervous, but the fact that we were all so tight-knit made everything a little bit better.

Awards scared the hell out of everybody. Luke won best actor again [insert broad smile], but we ended up getting fifth place- which didn’t even get mentioned AT ALL. We lost to three musicals and a comedy, all of which we felt weren’t THAT great. Especially our directors.

Maybe it was silly (as Mom keeps telling me it was), but we all cried very, very hard. We were so sure we would get second, if not first, and it hurt to be told that we were worse than plays that didn’t evoke real emotion. It sucked. A lot. And because this was BY FAR not my finest performance, I cried harder than most other people, because I felt as though I could have done something more to ensure we didn’t fail so horribly.

Dinner was Chile’s, and I was sniffly the whole time. Besides the fact that we’d completely bombed ten minutes before, it was still fun. Everyone was close in their collective failure.

[Insert gagging noise]

We drove home directly after, and I sat next to Noah, who has been one of my best friends since seventh grade. I actually fell asleep on him a couple times, but it was freezing on the bus and a few people around us were super loud so that didn’t really last. I called Garrett again, and he did his best to cheer me up.

We got back to the Fine Arts Center at 1:30, and I fell asleep around 2 last night/this morning.

So, yes, I had fun this weekend, but it was also hell so I don’t know whether to count it as a positive or negative couple of days.

[Insert shrug]

Light Me Up

This was written for Writing 101

I’m not very good at expressing my emotions. For one, I’m just not capable of comprehending them. I am every stereotype of an overly emotional teenage girl. On top of that, I’m not big on the whole “sharing” thing. If I tell someone something, I’m going to OVERshare, and this is one of my least favorite things about myself.

Hence my chosen word for today’s writing prompt: regret.

I’ve had about a million problems with my relationships with other people, be they friends or family or romantic entanglements. As a girl who relies heavily on having people I can trust with every little thing, this sucks a big one.

It’s actually ironic, really. I put on this show of being untouchable, being this hard creature with no emotional needs, when in actuality I need so much. I think this surprises people, because when we get close I just dump a whole shitload on them and they get overwhelmed.

So I’ve just stopped getting close to people.

Which also sucks a big one.

Seriously, I can’t express how much it hurts to need someone to just be with, then push everybody away because I don’t think they want that with me. It’s messed up my relationship with my boyfriend a few times, which is frustrating. I always regret pushing him away (it’s one of those things that keeps me up at night), but I can’t help myself. It’s almost as though I care so damned much, I have to stop myself caring or I’m going to shatter.

Maybe that doesn’t make sense. Maybe it doesn’t follow the prompt. Oh well. I needed to say it.

Hush, Be Still

He wraps his warm arms

Around my shaking shoulders,

Sharing his heat with me

As we hide together

Under a quilt sewn

By someone long dead.

I can just make out

The bright glittering

Of his dark blue eyes,

Can barely see the curve of his lips

Just before they descend

Upon my creased brow.

“Hush,” he mutters,

“Hush, be still.

Horrors felt shall soon disperse

Amongst those who deserve

Our terror more than us.”

Unable to calm myself,

I curl closer to his chest

And let the steady rhythm

Of his thumping heart

Lull me into a fitful sleep

Made sweeter by his presence.

Save the Man

Darkness

Darkness so absolute

The sun strains to break free

Of the black bonds that hold it.

Darkness so complete,

So consuming,

We hide beneath our blankets

And hope we’ll be saved.

We won’t.

For who can save themselves

From a foe with no fears.

No regrets.

No sorrows.

A foe so indifferent

The evilest of men

Cowers in its sight.

A foe so disgusted by us,

The stain of humanity,

It picks us off

One.

By.

One.

The darkness slips into us,

Tainting our souls,

Creating monsters,

Shadows,

Black reflections of what we once were.

There’s something about darkness

That wears us to the bone,

Stripping away years

Of carefully constructed walls

And allowing the poison to seep in.

Seep into our dreams,

Our nightmares.

There’s something about darkness

That draws us in.

Who can save us from the evil?

And the burning

Of a soldier who just wasn’t quick enough;

Of a baby who just wasn’t ready.

The burning of past, present, and future:

Because somewhere, everywhere,

There’s always something burning.

Burning.

Drowning.

Drowning in a sea of iniquities.

Save the man

The man who told his ailing wife

That to die would not be such a terrible thing

If they were to do so together.

So that night,

Under the stars they danced to,

They do.

The next morning,

With the daylight dew;

Three bullets-

Two bodies-

One love.

Policed declared it suicide,

But those of us who know

(Who know the darkness)

We called it beautiful.

Gives You Hell

If there’s one thing I despise, it’s when people slut-shame others, be they male or female- though I’ll admit it’s more likely for the shamed to be female and the shamer to be male, at least in my experience.

I’m speaking specifically of one boy at my school, who will go unnamed for my own sake (just thinking about his stupid name makes me want to punch something inanimate; actually typing it might cause my computer to burst into flames). This boy, this child, calls me a slut and a whore every time he sees me. He makes snide, sexual comments, and if he isn’t alluding to sex than he’s insulting me, whether it’s physically (i.e. “ugly hoe”), mentally (“dumb blonde”), or socially (“friendless whore”).

I’m sick of it.

Yes, in the very beginning of this shit (about a year ago?) I was fairly calm about everything; I tried to just joke around, roll my eyes, etc. I’m not a ridiculously kind person, and I just figured I’d said something that made him angry and he was slowly getting revenge. I felt I deserved it either way. (I was in a darker place than I am today.) Besides, we occasionally hung out during class, and I trade petty insults with some of my friends so I thought perhaps he’d picked up on that.

Now it’s pissing me off.

This boy and I do not associate with each other aside from a few chance meetings in the hallways, and our shared lunch period. We do not move in the same social circles (though I despise cliques, I’ll admit that there are certain groups I do not want to hang out with), and we do not have any shared classes.

Yet every damned day it’s “hey, whore” or “*cough* slut” or any one of the million ways he manages to work in an insult as we pass each other. I’m not one to stand down when somebody talks shit about me, but I’m at the point where I can’t even muster up a good “fuck off, asshole.” any longer. Hell, I don’t even bother flicking him off. What’s the point? Nothing I say or do will make him stop.

I am not a slut.

I am not a whore.

I am, however, a bitch. Keep fucking with me, and I’ll make sure it’s anatomically impossible for you to procreate.

Bite My Tongue

There are teardrops dripping

Over my ever-smiling lips;

Their salty sweetness

Is so familiar a taste

I could almost describe it

In my deepest sleep-

That is, I could

If only I ever slept.

My cheeks ache

With the echoes of a million

Fake grins and hollow laughter.

Nothing holds my attention;

How could it, when I am so empty

That even the warmth

Of his strongest hugs

Can’t fight away the darkness

Eating away at my heart,

The way they used to

When my eyes were dry.

Unsteady

I plan on complaining right now. Go figure, right?

So, for those who don’t know (and none of you do), I have an absolutely shitty relationship with my mom. I suppose that there have been a couple pretty big mistakes I’ve made that lended to this, but all in all I’m not honestly that bad of a kid, in comparison to some of the crap people I know do. I mean, I spend 80% of my free time writing. There’s not much trouble to get into just writing all the time (unless you’re somebody like E. L. James, who I am most certainly not).

And, seriously, I’m fifteen. I’m supposed to make stupid mistakes and fall in love and ignore authority and figure out who the hell I am as an individual.

There’s a lot done in my house that severely undermines my ability to figure that out. First of all, the laptop I’m working right now is sitting in my kitchen. In my kitchen. You try enjoying some (occasionally naughty) fanfiction while you’re sitting in your goddamn kitchen with your parents and two siblings walking past constantly. Second, my mom has some spy software on the computer that gives her access to everything I do online. I don’t know the extent of what she can and cannot see, but let me just point out that she’s made an account on almost every single website I’m on just to keep up with what I’m doing. Third, I’m not allowed to go anywhere. It takes a million years of begging and pleading to do anything, and even then I often have to pull out of whatever the plans were at the last minute. I haven’t gone anywhere with friends, just me and friends, since January. I haven’t had a sleepover since December of 2012. Fourth, I have no privacy. My parents come into my room at all hours of the night and occasionally decide to ransack my belongings. These are seriously a few grains of salt to the dozens of other examples I could give.

But I seriously think I’ve reached the end of my rope.

I’ve known for a while that Mom gets a notification whenever I text or get a text. She uses it to make sure I’m not texting during school, which I guess I sort of understand but at the same time, if my teachers don’t care then I personally don’t think she should, either.

However, it has recently come to my attention that Mom also has the ability to read every. single. one. of my text messages.

Of course, my first thought was an enormous Oh. Fuck. My second thought was a garbled mess. My third: Garrett’s going to panic.

See, I’m a teenager. I like to flirt with my boyfriend and complain to my best friends and discuss sex and tattoos and moving out and college and I curse. A lot. More than all that, though, I like to have a little bit of fucking privacy.

I’m not perfect. Nor have I ever pretended to be. But this… this crosses a line. When my thoughts and my emotions can’t be private, I’m ready to fuck over everything and just leave.

Vanilla Planifolia

This was written for Writing 201: Poetry

Little yellow bottle,

Yield to me your fumes,

Speak of my triumphs,

My failures,

My joy,

My sorrow.

Speak of the man

I once hoped to woo;

Speak of sleepless nights

Spent buried under a million quilts,

My face shoved into

A pillow spritzed

With the soft scent of your perfume.

Speak of me,

Of my wrists and my chest,

Of my hair and my thighs.

Speak of every goddamned thing

I did to hide myself

When vanilla just made me

Into a scented whore.

Back to My Roots

This was written for Writing 201: Poetry

Cracked sidewalk,

Running beside overgrown bushes

That moan under the weight

Of immense unknown blossoms.

It leads me to my own home,

Where he waits alone

Under the stone archway.

His hipbone protrudes;

I can see it through his shirt,

Which I’m sure he’s sprayed

With his sweet cologne.

I can almost hear his deep groan,

Muttered into my ear as I attone

For having flown away from our safe zone.