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That's how I feel when I really need to write but I don't have the words. 

This is what fucking high school does to me. 

And I really want to start using the word fuck more in my writing because it's such a strong word, to me. It fills up the space with feeling. When somebody says "fuck", your heart stops. You skip a beat. You pause. I want to make people pause, look at me, see me as meaner. I want to write mean. I don't want to sugar coat and be nice and play games. Fuck, writing isn't for games it's for truth. It's for expression. It's not meant to sit there and skirt around the point, it's meant to hit the point right on the head and make it scream. Writing is supposed to make others hear us scream. It's supposed to make you fucking listen. And it's supposed to let people like me, people that are writers, it's supposed to let us fucking talk for once. That's what writing is supposed to do. I want people to feel the need to respond to my writing. Because if people want to talk to you about something you wrote then you wrote something good. If people want to have a fucking conversation with you then you've done your goddamn job. 

So I guess...

and I was just going to write a sentence with "So I guess..." but I fucking hate when I say that, because I say that all the time, in my writing. Like how the fuck is that supposed to make a fucking point? 

It's not. "So I guess" doesn't make a point. And I'm trying to make a point here with all my fucks and damns. So I'm not saying "So I guess" I'm saying, I'm fucking saying that I'm saying. 

And so: I'm saying I hope you all want to talk to me. 

There. 

Wha-la. 

Fuck this. 

And I swear to God I'm not even mad right now I just made myself mad by writing this so now I guess I'm mad. 

And now I'm even more mad because I just said "I guess". 

I refuse to guess. 

And the problem with school and writing is that my best work only comes out of me when I'm inspired and when I'm not inspired it's all shit. Like this. My stuff is so all over the place. 

Also, like question for the world right now, who the hell decided I was good at this? Seriously, were you joking? 

I'm worried about me and I'm worried people worry about me and I'm worried about other people who never worry about me and I'm worried nobody ever worries about me and I'm worried I'm not worth worrying about and I'm worried nobody thinks all seriously like I do and I'm worried everybody thinks all seriously like I do. 

And I always wonder when I see strangers with brown hair and big noses if it's her. And my breath catches in my throat and I wait for them to say their name because fuck if it's her...

I've been waiting for this. I've been playing what I would say over and over again in my head but the problem with that is that you never say anything you imagine yourself saying and you always sound dumber than you are and I always, always sound dumber than I am so I definitely would in that situation but that situation would never happen. 

Melissa, it is never going to happen. 

You're fine, you're fine, you're fine. 

And I remember when those guys walked in on you cleaning the men's bathroom and just pulled their fucking dicks out anyways like is that a fucking joke? 

The universe has got one hell of a fucking sense of humor. 

That's for sure. 

And I don't know what the hell that dog has got to do with anything. 

Maybe my serious thinking thing. 

There, it's justified. 

Now I've got some shitty writing for school to go do. 

And in that moment, it no longer mattered that I was a republican.

Or that my mother only cared about small things.

Like whether the dishes were dry or if

the rosy pink paint looked better than the olive.

Because maybe her small things were just a distraction from her big things.

And maybe my big things were just a distraction from my small things.

Like whether I was pretty enough to get married

Or which college I should attend in the fall

Or if I should be a journalist or

a poet

Or if it was the democrats or the republicans

that were wrong.

I've taken a lot of people for granted. And the funny thing is- they are all the people that stayed. The people that stuck around for the long run. The people who didn't demand the gory details out of me, who didn't come to me for a good time, who didn't ask of me anything but myself. The very people I did the greatest demoting of taking for granted to are the ones who really have been my greatest friends through this funny life. Because the people that stayed, the people I took for granted and failed to care if they stayed or went, are the ones who sat with me, and continue to sit with me, in the pain. They sit there and they don't ask questions and they let me be who I need to be around them. They never demanded this other person that people normally demand from me, the fun, excited, interesting me. But the ones I took for granted- they wanted and accepted the pain filled me- the me who needed so desperately to talk about her body, the me who just wanted to talk music and college because everything else was too hard. And they understood. They sat right across from me, looked me in the eyes, and got it. They loved me through my rediculousness, my irrationality, my dramatic reactions, my pain filled expressions. They loved me, and they stood next to me. 
Yet I took them for granted. 
I expected them to be there. 
And while they should have been the ones I loved and cared for and made a priority, I continued to fall helplessly for the leavers. For the ones who demanded this new and improved me, the me who was full of happiness and fun and always willing to give. I let the leavers break me into pieces and tear me apart and tell me how worthless I was and the sad thing is I stuck around for it to happen. I gave the most to the people who only demanded more and gave the least to the ones who never demanded anything, and who gave to me all they could. 
And now that I'm looking back, and noticing exactly who these people were, and are, in my life story, I can honestly say they deserve so much love. And that's what I plan on giving them. Love. Because they need it too. The people you take for granted need love too. They need your support, and your ears, and your fun and your heart and your recognation of their worth. The people you tossed aside as friends for a rainy day, deserve the reminder of worth just as much (if not more) than the ones you focused in on with the most percise of cameras. So give them that. Give them your love and your support and your recognition. Give them the acceptance of themselves. Because that is the very gift that I have been given by the people I so often forgot to thank. 
So, to the ones I took for granted- thank you from my callused toes to the split ends of my curly hair. You have been my greatest support, and your loyalty and love and consistency has been the very thing that has kept me together. You have been the ones to glue me back together when I had no idea where I even left the pieces. 
Thank you for my life. 

Tonight, I don't have a revelation. I don't have some big statement about the universe, or some huge idea that will blow all your minds away. I'm just coming as me. And right now, me isn't all so philosophical. Right now, me is a little distressed. Right now, me doesn't know what to do or where she is coming from. Right now, me is done living. Done. Right now, me is lost. Because there are so many people. So many people. People I have loved, people I have hurt, people I have hated. And I kind of just want all of them to shut up. I want everybody to shut up for a second and let me talk. Let me breathe. Stop making me feel something, stop telling me what to do. Just love me. Stop putting me in corners. Just love me. Just look at me and support me and love me and stop. Stop talking, stop making this your problem. Stop thinking you have any say. Stop. And if you're going to stay in my life, don't twist the knife. Because I have enough people twisting their fucking knifes in me. People just keep on using me. Stop using me. Stop. Everybody needs to stop. Because I'm about done. Im about ready to call it quits. Im so ready. And I don't want to be ready. And I wish I could stop all the pain in the world from rushing in on me all at once. And I wish I had somebody to go to when it does.
But nobody wants to hear me.
Everybody is just a little fed up.
I just want somebody.
And I have so much to be thankful for, and so much potential and I just have so much. But it's like, I'm missing something. There is this huge hole in me and it just feels like every problem every issue every everything that brought anybody in this world any sort of pain rushes into it all at once and overflows it and I just drown. I just drown in all of this and I want somebody that I can call and that will just love me.
That won't tell me anything. That will just love me. But I can't make somebody do that. I can't make anybody do that and I'm done trying to do the impossible.
I'm done.
Everybody just stop.

“I’m in love with you, and I know that love is just a shout into the void, and that oblivion is inevitable, and that we’re all doomed and that there will come a day when all our labor has been returned to dust, and I know the sun will swallow the only earth we’ll ever have, and I am in love with you.”

-Augustus Waters (The Fault in Our Stars by John Green)

The bright lights rushed through the ceilling and landed right on your scars, right on your left wrist. And I looked. It was one of those looks you didn't think about, you just looked there and you saw something you shouldn't of seen. Like when your roomate is undressing and you turn around and accidentily get a glimpse and you just feel so bad because some things, really, should just be private. But then you get that glimpse. Of the parts they have only seen themselves, and maybe you even get a glimpse of the parts they don't even show themselves. But you saw, you looked. And I saw. Those deep, almost faded scars and it told me everything that I needed to know: you are damaged goods. But then everything felt right, because then I showed you me too, all the dirty laundry, all the damaged goods. And thats why, that's why all this happened. That's why I'm marrying you tomorrow, and that's why I let you meet my family, even though you're not what they want for me, and thats why every tuesday night we go get doughnuts and thats why I haven't sacrificed anything for you. Because I didn't need to. You wouldn't let me.

And that- and this- is why.


Side note: I started looking through some of my drafts and found this and thought it was beautiful and its fiction but its me and I wrote this and this is something I tried to say so I should let myself say it. 

I feel like, sometimes, life starts to come full circle. And now that I'm approaching my senior year of high school, and in a little less than a year I will be forced to move on from 18 years of my life, everything has started to spin. Who I was back then, who I am now and the path between those two people. I've fucked up. I have. These past few years- this blog- has been my sincere documentation of that fuck up. And thats why I love this blog so much. Because every time my heart is just bursting- I blog. I write it out as eloquently as I can. Because I want somebody to look at it and read it and I want their heart to burst in ways they would never normally let it. And then I want them to squeeze the heart-bursting emotion right up close to their chest and feel its breath. I want to make the world come alive within the deepness. I want everybody to feel the tradgedy and the glory and the movement of life. I want people to observe as much as they live. I want people to feel. Because we all get so cold. We get bitter and our breaking hearts freeze into place and we stop trying to put the pieces back together. And then we go on autopilot. And I have struggled everyday of my life to continue to feel. To get mad. To be joyful. To breathe in fresh air. And everyday, as I continue to feel, my heart breaks even more. And maybe thats all life is, our hearts breaking more and more fully everyday in empathy for the world and its people. Atleast thats how I feel. I feel broken and incomplete. Rejected and failed. Sad and anxious and mad as hell. I am mad as hell. I'm mad he left so freely. I'm mad she let herself go so far. I'm mad I lost my sense of myself. I'm mad I'm never good enough. 

I'm so mad. And sometimes, anger comes out differently. Anger is not all fists and screams. Anger is insane empathy and tight hugs and gained weight. Anger is overslept teenagers and gentle kisses and full laughter. Anger is our life. Anger is life. We are angry at God and angry at humanity and angry that we aren't perfect. We are angry we are the problem instead of the solution. And at the core of ourselves, we are angry that we can't ever control that. 

A List of Beauty: 

Gmeiner Road

 perfect downward dogs

the Chicago skyline 

fudge

inclusion 

Grand Central Station

my dog sleeping in my room while i read

the perfect cup of coffee

watching the sunset as I work in the McDonald's "drive thru" 

financial security 

dinner at Five Guys

sex

the baseball diamonds at Palisade's Park

a mutual "crush" 

libraries 

curly hair 

a drive down the coast of Claifornia 

autumn 

the mall at Christmas time

falling asleep the night of my birthday 

a really good television episode

people that don't wear makeup 

passion

the sound of tennis balls

a family that gets along

my dog listening to me play piano 

Door County 

So last night a freshman girl at my high school committed suicide. And it's an eerie feeling. Because I've been there. And we've all been there. But she actually did it, you know? I've thought about it and planned for it and it was very, very real to me- but I didn't do it. I didn't commit suicide. And even though I didn't know the girl personally, it still feels very, very raw. And all day I couldn't help but thinking, is this what my friends would feel like? Is this what would happen if I had done it? Because I was so close, so many times. So close it hurts. This whole thing really, really hurts. And the problem is, I don't feel justification in this hurt. I don't feel like I'm allowed to hurt because I didn't know her personally. And that's so wrong. Because if I'm feeling something, I should be allowed to feel it. And really, that's why people commit suicide. Because they don't feel like they are allowed to feel. They are forced into thinking that they aren't allowed to feel what they are feeling and so then it all builds up, this terrible great big amount of sadness and anger and joy and frustration and life gets really, really hard to live. So hard, that there is no choice but to take the easy route. And I know this because I've been there. I've been told over and over I'm not allowed to feel unhappy. I'm not allowed to be pessimistic. I'm not allowed to feel anything but happy. Nothing. But the fact is, life is not all happy. Life is sadness and anger and hurt and frustration and passion and compassion. Life is more than one overrated, socially acceptable mood. And from this whole suicide, and this whole rebirthing of my own personal darkness, I've grown thankful. I am so thankful. Because about two summers ago, there was this one night that I was at my best friend's house. And we were laying on her bed reading magazines and eating oreos and she was going through a rough patch with her boyfriend. (Very teenage girl-esque, I know.) And we started talking about me, and I was talking about how hopeless I felt and lost and confused and wrong and all about the molesting and the anorexia and I said to her, "To be honest, I'm really not sure I'm going to make it through high school. I'm betting on 20 max." And she looked at me and said, "What do you mean?" And I told her about the suicidal thoughts I had been having and all this stuff and blah blah blah. And she said back to me, "Last night, when we were on the phone having that huge fight, well, afterwards, I wanted to kill myself." That was the best thing she could have ever said. Because it gave me justification. She, in that one statement, allowed me to feel the way I felt. Miranda let me feel lost and sad and happy and angry and courageous and beautiful and ugly and all these things. She let me feel them. She didn't tell me to fix them, or throw them away or look on the bright side. She would look me square in the face and allow me to feel the way I did. My one wish for that girl is that she would have had a friend like that. Because my friend saved my life. She gave me two years. And I'm still not through high school. But I've made it this far. And it's been really, really hard. And all I can really say is I wish I had known that girl personally so I could have looked her square in the eyes and say that she can feel however she wants to and that she can do it, she can make it, she can get out. 

I'm so tired. And not in the whole, I haven't slept for the last three weeks kind. But in pure, and utter exhaustion with life. My life. It has been so terribly long and untrustworthy and unhappy. And now my only goal is to survive it. My only goal is to find some way of life, some path, that happiness can actually sprout from. The only thing I care about is the feeling that life is worth it. But I'm tricky. Because I have to believe it, and fully and it can't be based off of anything except myself and my beliefs and my goals and my cares and my needs. My life has just got to start being about me. And that's hard, making your life about yourself. That is the most incredibly difficult thing to do because you have to give up everything and everyone else in order to do it. In order to fill yourself up, you've got to empty everybody else out. You have to depend on yourself. A responsibility to life that is beyond any other. I have depended and lived off so many other people throughout my 17 years. Their values, goals, humors, tragedies. I have eaten them up, choked them down and breathed them deep. But now, I'm vomiting them back up. Because within that whole process, I've forgotten the most nourishment I can possibly feel is from myself. Life, itself, is the most outward experience one can encounter and in turn be forced to have. But then life goes up a level and whispers the secret of the inner, of the soul. It crawls up on your shoulder, and then, only if you listen very, very carefully, it will tell you that the key to life in its most purest form, is to live for yourself and develop your own, values, beliefs, goals, disappointments and then to love all of them and accept them so fully that it doesn't matter in the slightest what anybody else thinks about them, thinks about you. But thats all so hard to do. Life is so hard to live.

Watch out for the people who come and leave your life quickly. Watch for the fleeting, the ones who don't last. It's too easy and meaningless for a person to stick around forever. Because its the ones who come and go quickly, not always quietly, but without an outward care that teach the lives they move though the greatest lessons, give the greatest reasons, and share the greatest blessings of themselves. These people, they will never give you everything. But they will give something even greater than that- they will give you a piece. The exact piece you need at the exact moment you need it in order to greater complete the puzzle of our life. And while the people that stick around forever help you complete that puzzle, the ones that come and go give you a piece in which to complete it. And while you could complete the puzzle without help, you will always and forever need the pieces to do it.

You need the people that leave. You want the people that stay.

i was standing next to a rose bush, and you said "I don't even really believe in God." and my little six year old self was shocked. And I stared at you and said, "You don't believe in God?" And you shook your head and looked down at your feet and went "No, not really. I don't go to church." And I just couldn't believe it. My little six year old self could not even fathom the idea that there may not be a God, there may not be a heaven. I was a little six year old girl who every day of her six years of life did everything she possibly could to be good for God. Sure, I hated church, sure, I didn't pray every night, and sure, every time I tried to pray the rosary and follow my little packet I got bored. But I believed, without a doubt, that God was up there, and God loved me and how could not everybody else in this whole entire earth not believe he was there? Because in my world, everybody did. In my world, everybody was Catholic. I have home videos of my grandpa teaching me how to say "Peace" and shake hands while I was still learning to talk. I even had little candy hosts and would make everybody bow and say Amen to me after I said "The body of Christ."

And now that I'm 17, and all these beliefs are catching up to me, I can't help but question if my catholic faith was a product of my environment or is actually the belief system coated in truth and hope that it claims to be? Because some girl, between the ages of six and seventeen, got a little lost. And I'm trying so hard to pick the spot. To dive into my past and find the turning point where things fucked up. Perhaps, the wrong "right" turn I made. And the funny thing is, that while my brain is enveloped in utter confusion, I'm really, really grateful. And am, in a twisted around way, in utter awe of the way "God" perhaps, could've, if i believed, worked in my life.

But in the mean time, God, thanks for the car rides. For being egotistical and self-possessed, you really are a good listener. And maybe Maggie was right, you might be full of it, but you sure aren't a jerk.