Mid-Life Crisis? I should hope I'll last longer than that...
I'm not really sure what's happening to my life right about now. As the new year hit, I found myself improving many aspects of my life. I've developed a nice morning schedule (which has led to improving my timeliness as well, at least for school) and I've maintained a much neater room. I'm managing and saving my money more successfully, as well as keeping up on keeping in touch with my relatives. I've kept up with a long-term schedule, eaten less and exercised (a little) more. Everything in terms of basic goals has improved.
However, the more pressing issues as a high school student and as a genuine person have deteriorated, though I can't say this has begun happening at the new year.
First off, my life as a high school senior. I've nearly quit doing any and all homework that's been assigned (though I've put more effort into band), leading to abysmal grades. Well, not abysmal by "average" standards, but I've been held to the standards of an A student for so long that B's are equivalent to torture. The visual representation of my grades aside, my actual dedication to school has waned to nearly nothing. I have no need for my classes at this point... I'll pass my AP Psych and AP Lit tests without a worry and I'll fail my AP Euro test without a doubt; this I already know, based on all of the practice tests and my capabilities in both remembering and writing about the information I have or haven't learned. I've retained nearly everything ever mentioned in both Psych and Lit, while retaining absolutely nothing in Euro. I have a passion and a desire for the curriculum in Psych and Lit, while I fervent desire to sleep in Euro. It's not that European history is snooze-worthy, it's that the way my teacher presents the information and the assignments demonstrates how useless lectures and reviews may become if not used in conjunction with actual teaching methods. Anyone can read from a book or present review sheets; it takes a true teacher to pull the student beyond the basic, printed information and show them what this information can truly mean in the realm of our present and our society. My GPA doesn't matter to me right now, but it will absolutely matter in a year, when I actually head off to college. Right now, however, I cannot truly make myself realize that.
...Funny, I can score a 31 on my ACT but can't make myself read a book for school. What does that say about me as a person?
This leads to my process of self-realization and esteem-building. I've heard several phrases in the past month or so that have implied I'm generally not a happy, friendly, or connected individual. During the "Micah Incident," as my friends have begun calling it, my dear friend Hannah told me that the reason I wouldn't even consider liking Micah or doing anything about my past or future crushes is that I wouldn't let anyone that close to me. She, of all people, would be an authority on that front; she's the only person I've ever truly cried with and the one person that has been fighting for my friendship the longest. Today, while we watched a video on Romanticism in Euro, the speaker claimed that "the Romantics were a group of lonely, self-conscious geniuses." Immediately upon hearing this, Hannah leans over and says, "Heather, that's you!" Earlier this weekend, another friend Alli said that should couldn't imagine me horseback riding because it was "too happy and girly" an activity for me.
These are only moments shared by others and they're relatively inconsequential, except when I combine them with my own personal experiences. This weekend, I was left alone in a bus seat while Hannah and Alli shifted around everyone to sit next to each other so that they could cuddle and lean against each other while they slept on the long bus ride home. Hannah had tried the same thing with me a little earlier and I refused, because I didn't want her to be that close to me. It wasn't the actual proximity of her body, but the implicit trust in sharing personal space with another. I love cuddling, but only if it's on silly, meaningless terms. I can cuddle as a joke, or hug when it's freezing, but I cannot sleep while intentionally touching or being connected to another. It allows them into a space of my mind and my life into which I refuse to allow anyone.
I find myself hating what I've become more and more, and this is only a physical representation of everything I feel. I cannot allow anyone to get close to me, I rarely find myself just enjoying moments of happiness, and I'm always reminded of how much I separate myself from opportunities and the people I love. I can honestly say that I am incredibly unhappy and lonely, and yet, know about nothing that may bring me away from that. I cannot convince myself to burden my friends with these feelings, because 1) they can do nothing for me, so I'll not bother them with my petty, pathetic issues; 2) what if they truly don't care or don't see the immensity with which I feel these painful ideas? I told Alli the other night, after she mentioned that she hated whining and complaining about her problems to others, that venting about something over which you have no control isn't whining; it's absolutely necessary for every person in order to maintain sanity (well, this is what I meant... at 3:30 am, I'm not really in control of what I actually say). Why can I always sound so reasonable, and yet, not believe a single word that leaves my mouth if it could apply to me? I believe that phrase wholeheartedly, but not if I'm the one venting. Venting like this truly is complaining, for these problems are personal and I should be able to alter them myself. I have control over my own life, I just don't seem to be doing anything to change it.
I don't understand how I began feeling this way, but I don't remember a time at which I didn't. Even as a kid, I shied away from close contact and forming relationships with others; I learned quickly not to tell secrets to anyone, not to stay at anybodys house, not to have a best friend or even a good friend... I was the one always trying to fit in without ever truly wanting to be there at all. I stopped giving my family kisses very early on, stopped confiding to my parents or sister, stopped joining the family for dinner or TV time... But really, there were few opportunities for me to do so to begin with. As soon as I turned seven years old, my parents began leaving me alone to care for myself; I learned how to cook hot dogs, ramen noodles, mac and cheese... all the basic meals. I learned how to wash clothes and operate the household machines. My sister spent all of her time with her friends, so I was pretty much on my own. I walked the 1.5 miles to my bus stop by myself every morning, and did the same walk back home every afternoon. I only got to see my mom as she headed out the door for work after her afternoon nap, between her morning and her night jobs. I got to see my dad around 9 at night, after his meetings and his training for the fire department. I spent most of my time in my bedroom, sharing my life with my book characters and my stuffed animals. I didn't have anyone to care for me and I learned very easily how to not need anyone to care for me. I packed my own lunches, did my homework entirely on my own, and went to bed at night with my own hug.
Somehow, as I got older, my parents began to be around more often, and I forgot the survival techniques I learned as a kid. I began to trust my parents to be home for dinner, to watch TV with me, to attend my concerts and listen about my day. Finally, at 16, I was getting what I should have gotten at 9. But, to my great surprise, everything reverted to its natural state after my parents' divorce. I stayed at my mom's house while she went out drinking with her friends, working two (occasionally three) jobs and disregarding my calls and pleas. My dad bounced from place to place, spending every moment at the fire department, and no moment with me. I didn't see him (other than an occasional dinner) until I moved into my grandma's, at which time he moved into our old house. At my Grandma's, I didn't see either of them unless I traveled to see them and fit into their schedules. I had to do all the work to see my parents, and finally, I stopped working. It crushed me more than anything else to be given just a simple taste of normal parental care, just to have it totally and violently ripped from me when my parents couldn't care enough to see past themselves.
Even still, two years after the divorce, they still are too selfish to see what they've done. My mother, just two nights ago, told me that if I had no other choice but to hold my open house at my dad's, she would absolutely NOT attend. My fucking GRADUATION PARTY, the one thing I've been working towards my ENTIRE LIFE, and SHE wouldn't go, because "it would be too much for her."
Too much for her? Does it not even matter that it's supposed to be about me? About everything I've accomplished and worked for and demonstrated? That it's got nothing to do with her personal feelings about my dad? I don't CARE if she can't stand to be in the same room with him for more than a few minutes; she can tolerate being on the same property for just a little while FOR ME, can't she?
Apparently not.
Maybe I'm not so confused as to why I refuse to form meaningful relationships with anyone. The two prime relationships I thought I had were entirely meaningless when put into perspective. It doesn't matter how much a person loves you, it's how much they care for you... and my parents care very little, if at all, about their daughter. If they can't possibly dredge up enough feeling in their hearts to care about the well-being of the individual they were supposed to raise and watch over, then how can I possibly expect anyone else to do the same and more? If my parents have seen my at my best and worst and can't possibly care about me enough, how will anyone else see the same and feel differently about me?
Maybe that's what it all comes down to. I hate myself so much that I can't possibly imagine anyone else feeling any differently.
And I hate myself more for even typing this out. This makes it sound so dramatic, so depressing, but this is my reality. If I've always lived with it, why haven't I adapted? Why haven't I learned to just suck it up and function, get on with my life? It's pathetic, how I bitch and whine about things that don't matter, because if I were just strong and intelligent enough, I would be able to pick up whatever pieces were chipped off and heal myself. People survive the deaths of those they loved, bouts with terminal cancer, losing everything they have to a fire, paralyzing car accidents, etc. The list goes on. There are so many more events that could debilitate anyone, so what excuse do I have to wallow in my self-hate and self-pity? Those people have reasons to be upset, depressed, despondent. What so-terrible thing has happened to me to allow for my behavior? Absolutely nothing. My parents got a divorce; that doesn't give me license to throw away my life like this.
I'm considering sending this to both Alli and Hannah, so that perhaps, in my own desperate and weak hopes, they may actually care enough about me to do something, anything. I'm falling apart and there's no one hear to make sure that I'm at least not disintegrating. But I'm operating on the idea that they truly don't care enough about me, and that doesn't give them enough credit as friends. If they truly are my friends, they'll do so much for me, to help me and hold me up, but I honestly can't imagine that they could ever care enough about me to waste their time with me and my petty little problems. But honestly, it's all or nothing. I send them this, or I don't ever mention it again.
...I can't do it. I can't let them know how I'm feeling. They'll talk to me about it, they'll either feel pity or anger, they'll actually react. Every time I ever told my mother about a sliver of these feelings, she just walked away and refused to listen to me. In fact, there was one night that after she had picked me up from an overnight band trip to Ann Arbor, I told her that I didn't care about my hobbies or living my life to its full potential; I didn't really have any feelings at all anymore. I told her this as we pulled into the driveway. She got out of the car and slammed the door. She never once reacted every single time I tried to tell her how desperate and lonely and confused I felt, no matter how much I tried to get her to care. She only chalked it up to "depression" and took me the doctor, so that I could "take care" of my feelings with a once-a-day pill. I was 12 years old and on Zoloft. Even then, I knew how wrong it was... without telling her, I stopped taking the pills, instead flushing each day's pill so that she couldn't tell I wasn't using them anymore. Finally, she noticed that I had regained some emotions, instead of the moderately-amused zombie I was while on Zoloft. I was horrified that I could go two months without once feeling sadness or anger or elation; I simply felt content. I reacted the same way to every situation at every moment, and I was sick of being a mere image of my actual self. Zoloft removed all sense of true emotion and personality and it made me sick to realize that my mother would rather do that to me than take two minutes to hear me out and attempt to understand or discuss anything with anyone.
What if my friends think I'm crazy or I'm sick? What if they think I'm normal and simply overreacting? What if they try to help, try to care, try to talk to me about this? What if they tell me they don't want to hear it? What will I do if they even so much as look at me with a strange look? Will I assume disgust, or pity, or anger? Will I see compassion in their actions or a dredging reluctance to do their duty, as a friend, for another? No matter what, they will do something, and I'm not sure if I can handle it. I've been so prepared to do everything myself, without help or compassion or care, that if I do encounter it, will I just try to push them away again? I've tried so many ways so many times, and they haven't gotten the picture. No matter how forcefully I try to get them to believe that I don't want them in my life anymore, they're still here.
I feel like, by confiding these thoughts and emotions, I'll only succeed in pushing away the only people that have stayed around long enough to truly get to know me.
I don't think I can stand losing anyone else.
I need to stop freaking out.