At this point, I'm not really sure how I am going to make myself happy. I'm not really sure where I'm going to get the guts to get my life together. And truthfully, I'm not really sure my life is ever going to have been gotten together. I will always be in conflict. With myself, with the world, with the way things are and the changes that come. I will always fight. I will fight, fight, fight, fight, fight. I am absolutely relentless and I don't know how to stop. I don't know how to stop fighting. I don't know when or how to just let another person win. Let another thought win. Let everything win, and then go. I don't know how to just let it all go. I don't know how not to hate.

I don't know how to look at somebody I absolutely, positively despise in every sense of the matter, and not just get so fucking pissed off that they exist. I don't know how to just say to myself, "They are here. They are a certain way. That's the facts of it. No amount of dirty looks and rude comments is going to change that. So forgive them. Forgive them for being who they are. Forgive them for pissing you off. Forgive them for being disgusting and rude, for hurting people you love, for being annoying. Forgive them. Because they can't help it just as much as you can't help hating them for all of the above."

The way to combat hate is not with love. It is not with acceptance of hate. It is with forgiveness. It is with each and every person that exists on this much-to-tiny, annoying-to-be-alive-on planet trying their god damn hardest to forgive. This is how we stop racism, and poverty, and sexism, and homophobia, and every type of general everyday hatred that seeps out of us so freely and without control.

Forgiveness. We stop all the hatred with forgiveness.

I forgive you for living in my home. I forgive you for looking like a midget/beast. I forgive you for being so immature my internal organs begin to bleed every time you're around. I forgive you for eating all the good food that minimally exists in my house. I forgive you for causing fights in my family. I forgive you for trashing our house. I forgive you for costing my parents money. I forgive you for being the catalyst of my hate. I forgive you for bringing out the worst parts of me. I forgive you for never talking. I forgive you for causing trouble. I forgive you for being naïve.

There is nothing I do not forgive you for.

You are free from me and my hatred, free from my dirty looks and my eye rolls, free from the never ending critical comments. You are absolutely free.

And now, so am I.

I can never quite trust myself. I can never trust that the decisions I make are the right ones. And the thing is, I make each decision so cautiously, so aware, so researched, yet it comes down to my speculative emotions, time and time again. And so I can’t trust myself. I can’t trust that my gut isn’t lying. I guess I’m just not sure if what I’m feeling is my own real-life gut, screaming as my brain tries to decipher it, or some made-up gut that exists only in the flashing neurons of my imagination. I still am not sure which is which. Which is my brain, my stream of never ending thoughts that together have made up an entire other world separate from reality, or my pure reality itself, outside of flashing neurons? It seems as though I’ve created two separate worlds I must choose between- the world of who I am, and the world of who I want to be. And I’m not really sure which world I should be catering to- the ever reaching dream of who I want to be, or the everyday existence and factual reality of who I am. And really, I believe that that is one of the most pressing questions of societal existence: Do we strive to be something better, although it may stray from “who we are”? Or do we becoming fully “who we are” and accept our faults and weaknesses and discomforts thus failing to strive for something better, because it might really just be more fantasy than reality?

And the thing is, I feel that even in how I worded those two questions, the answer has been made painstakingly clear. But the other thing is, I don’t always agree with that position. I don’t always agree with myself. I’m flakey, I move back and forth between opinions and ideals and hopes. I move around and through and jump over various hoops of burning fire. One day I’m this, the next I’m that. And so where do I fit? How do I make these grotesque decisions- like where to go to college, or exactly how I want to define my own sexuality, when every day I hold a different ideal for my life? And perhaps that is where the problem lies, as I expect to mesh myself into an ideal of life- a series of events and circumstances, instead of allowing a series of events and circumstances to mesh into myself. I expect for myself to enter a world that I have predetermined, instead of predetermining myself, and allowing a world to form around me.

These are the questions I grapple with. The questions that sting me in the dark hours of the night, while my parents sit out in the mosquito infested backyard with vaguely familiar strangers who grapple privately their own unique and equally valid questions less than ten feet from where we rest our heads and conceive our children.

 

I haven't felt like this in over a year. I've felt many things within that year, but not this. Not this numbness, this complete misunderstanding I hold with myself. I've gotten very good at lying. I've gotten very good at putting on a face that even I can't notice I'm wearing. I have gotten so very good at forgetting myself.

But then, all of a sudden, those masks come off. The walls I had so sturdily built can no longer keep myself out. I creep into my façade. My struggles, like a tidal wave, flood the city I had built. The city of everyday. The city of routine, the city of happy. The fucking city of happy that stands at the border of myself, just like the fake city of North Korea stands at the border of South- a shining face of the world it pretends to be.

That's me. I'm a North Korea in a world of South Koreas. Everyday I trick myself into believing I'm this power. I'm this mecca of okayness. Of prosperity. But I'm not. My people are starving. My people are falling around me. And the rest of the world is against me. And I have neither the resources nor the strength nor the intelligence to stop them from ironing me flat. Some days I know I am a writer. Some days I know that the fucking city is fake. And I realize that only my writing can expose it. Only what I write down in letters that have printed themselves on a page can expose the fakeness of the city, the fakeness of that which I built to show.

And the thing about North Korea is, I think they built that city for themselves as much as they did South Korea. I think they had to prove to themselves that there was a city that could fit in with what they sought to match. That they could build something that would make the rest of the world think they were just fine. And they were fucked up enough to think that that would work. And I'm fucked up enough to think that building a fake fucking city of everyday life to show the rest of the world I'm just as goddamn normal as the rest of you would work.

I sill feel that I'm not a good writer. Because I'm not. My words are sweaty on the page. They feel sweaty in my head. They drip with the exertion it took to form them. They don't feel clean- they don't feel like they were taking a jog through the park- an easy and effortless jog. They feel like a 300 pound man walking 10 feet from his bedroom to his bathroom to take a piss, red and out of breath.

My words feel out of breath. They feel bad. They feel laughable.
My words feel laughable.

My First Title Ever: Life doesn't drown, it saves.

Even the Worst People have
likes, dislikes,
Gods they answer to.
They’ve gotten their heart broken.
They’ve been in tears on the floor,
felt trapped in their bodies,
kissed the wrong person.
They’ve felt bad.

And the very Best People-
they’ve ostracized a person they used to hold
Close.
They’ve cut somebody off in traffic.
They’ve broken up with somebody who was still
Very Much
in love with them.
Maybe they even did it on Valentine’s Day.
They’ve stopped praying.
Good People, Bad People, Worst People, Best People,
People, People, People.
We are all People.
People who fail and succeed and hurt and heal.
And sometimes all this in one day.

And sometimes people choose to defend the wrong side and sometimes people stop loving when somebody else just started and sometimes people fail their classes.
Sometimes people don’t wear very put together outfits and sometimes people judge us before they know us and sometimes they don’t.
Sometimes people spit on us and tell us we aren’t deserving of rights and sometimes people stand up and scream about things they know nothing about.
 Sometimes people stop caring when they should continue, even if just for one more day.
 Sometimes people kill themselves and blame it on society.
 Sometimes people forget about God and sometimes people remember her all too well.
 Sometimes people step on other people to get to the top and sometimes somebody really needs to start stepping on some toes to get what they deserve.
Sometimes people think too much about what other people think and forget to live.
Sometimes people forget they are here and pretend they are somewhere else.
Sometimes people put on faces that don’t reflect their feelings and sometimes people wear their feelings on their face.
Sometimes people have bad hair or bad names or bad nails or bad breath.
Sometimes people wear too much of the wrong perfume and sometimes people don’t remember to wear deodorant.
And sometimes people do both- at the same time.
Sometimes people have sex and sometimes people make love.
Sometimes people want God to exist and sometimes people want God to stop showing up. Sometimes people wish they were something else and sometimes people feel fortunate to be who they are. Sometimes people remember the best parts and forget the worst and sometimes it’s the other way around.
Sometimes people clean their houses explicitly even when nobody is coming over and sometimes people show up at the worst times and you haven’t had time to clean the house.
 Sometimes people make friends and sometimes people sit alone.
Sometimes people can’t make it to the party and sometimes people’s lives are so full of nothing that they always do.
Sometimes people stop talking to each other and sometimes they start.
Sometimes people move and sometimes people stay. Sometimes people don’t stop to think about how their actions will affect somebody else until it’s too late.
Sometimes people celebrate Christmas and sometimes they celebrate Hanukah and again, sometimes it’s both.
Sometimes people grow up in New York City and sometimes people grow up in Kentucky. Sometimes people eat healthy and sometimes they eat like shit.
Sometimes people ridicule everyone except themselves and sometimes people will only look at themselves in the mirror and fail to realize that everybody makes mistakes.
Sometimes people learn their lessons late and sometimes people learn their lessons early and sometimes people don’t learn their lessons at all.
Or sometimes people simply fail to acknowledge that everything, really, in the end is just another lesson that they had to learn at some point- and that life will go on, and get better, and change form, and right wrongs, and breed love, and give people hope. Life will go on and it will give us all a reason to hold on- to continue to hope.
Life doesn't drown it saves.

a;lskdjfg;aslgjhasg

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.