it's been sent to cosmo...
I guess you wouldn't call me pretty, well, not in the conventional sense. Everyone says I have a personality that can light up a room, but I mostly attribute that light to the pale color of my skin. The beauty of being Irish. I was always told my eyes were as big as marbles, but I contest that speed addicts have eyes that size as well. So for all the qualities that people attribute to my beauty, I have a list twice as long of self deprecations. Perhaps that's just because I'm an early twenties female, or maybe I'm just destined to always feel like the ugly duckling, regardless how old or wise I become. It's hard to feel beautiful when all you can think about is the ugliness in this world.
I wasn't always this pessimistic. At age five I was sure that I was the princess of Virginia. I was made to feel that way, with upper class parents whose pet names consisted of "beautiful" and "honey". Common names that don't seem like much but really reinforce to a small girl that she is worth something, with or without a man in her life. If only I could muster up that belief right now. Two months shy of my twentieth birthday, one week apart from my boyfriend of two years, and I get the inkling that the only thing that will be associated with me for the remainder of my life will be "spinster". I realize that seems dramatic, as now many of the middle aged women reading this will roll their eyes and silently mouth "stupid girl, she has the rest of her life". But tell me, what is the rest of my life? How many of you, regardless of age, have reached a time in your life where you have stopped, looked around, and found that this isn't who you wanted to be, that this isn't the life you envisioned at say...nineteen? I've asked my mother several times if there is anything in her life she would change. She looks at me with those tired eyes I have come to love so dearly, those eyes that have spent years watching the world, constantly bracing herself for whatever can come her way, and she says to me, "Kimberly, if it meant having you and your brother, I would go through it all again". Which is reassuring, that you can find something in your life so fulfilling that you would endure every hardship again, feel the pain of loss and suffering, have your heart broken, just to meet the one person who can offer you the one gift that you can't truly buy, your children. But I don't have that reassurance now. I have confusion.
Being only a year and a half from graduating, I woke up a few weeks ago and realized I have the rest of my life in my hands. I'm graduating early, I'm semi-attractive, I have goals that are reachable, and the intelligence to ascertain the means necessary to reach these goals. I have (or had I should say) a boyfriend who loved me more than should be allowed, for how crazy I can be, I'm surprised he didn't carry an arsenic pill like the astronauts for those moments that I'm sure were only reminiscent of Linda Blair. And somehow, having all of this, with nothing holding me back, I felt like I was drowning. I had built the pool with my own bare hands, watched how pristine the water seemed, decided to take a dive, and found that after all of that, I was still sinking to the bottom. It sounds selfish, but I'm still not happy. Which only proved to me that I had to take a step back from something. I certainly can't divorce my parents, or my friends, or my life goals, so the boyfriend had to be held off for awhile. Everyone supported that theory, that something had to change, so why not him? But tell me, how can something that's so right be the most excrusciating pain I've ever felt? The notion that he may be the only person to ever love me, the only person to appreciate the annoying little habits I have, the only person to make me feel sexy in the skin that God gave me, scares the living shit out of me. And with the AA type advice I keep receiving, "one day at a time Kym, it will get better, stay positive", I still feel one step up from sidewalk dog crap.
How do you take it one day at a time, when a day without them feels like it drags on for eternity. Cosmopolitan tells me to not talk to him or see him for sixty days, so where do mutual friends under? After two years, lives begin to merge, whether you like it or not. Give me some guidance, some real advice. Don't tell me "it'll be okay", because it may not be. It could be awful, I could not have a date, or for that matter, have sex for years. I may not here "I love you" other than the pleutonic sense for the next ten years. I want to know how to cope with reality. Where are the advice columns about the hate e-mails you receive from your ex's ex's? The crazy girl who feels the need to reinforce that she had fucked up and lost the best thing to happen to her, and I could only be mentally handicapped for allowing him to get away. Where are the self help groups for living on your couch for a week, barely able to eat anything, with anhedonia so bad that not even marijuana can make you laugh at the slightest joke? I used to be anti-Prozac, but the thought of what lingers for the next few weeks, knowing I won't be able to face anyone without his face on my mind, makes me want to pill-pop for eternity.
I write this not to have a pity-party for myself, only to express that self-help books and tapes with James Earl Jones telling me how to regain a positive outlook on life are not always the best solutions. Where are the real articles about break ups? Where are the people who can sit and say "it may not always be alright, but here are the real reasons to try". When you're depressed, you don't see the end result, how everything will be alright, how life can get better and you will pull out of this alive. It's hard to convince someone like me, who hasn't spent more than a month single in six years, that single life is attractive. I don't know how to date, I don't know the etiquette of a one night stand. I know Valentines scrapbooks, I know anniversarys, I know dirty work socks on my floor. I know the smell of cologne and aftershave on my pillow, I know how the Notebook feels while holding his hand. But I won't know that for awhile. And I don't know where that puts me.
I wasn't always this pessimistic. At age five I was sure that I was the princess of Virginia. I was made to feel that way, with upper class parents whose pet names consisted of "beautiful" and "honey". Common names that don't seem like much but really reinforce to a small girl that she is worth something, with or without a man in her life. If only I could muster up that belief right now. Two months shy of my twentieth birthday, one week apart from my boyfriend of two years, and I get the inkling that the only thing that will be associated with me for the remainder of my life will be "spinster". I realize that seems dramatic, as now many of the middle aged women reading this will roll their eyes and silently mouth "stupid girl, she has the rest of her life". But tell me, what is the rest of my life? How many of you, regardless of age, have reached a time in your life where you have stopped, looked around, and found that this isn't who you wanted to be, that this isn't the life you envisioned at say...nineteen? I've asked my mother several times if there is anything in her life she would change. She looks at me with those tired eyes I have come to love so dearly, those eyes that have spent years watching the world, constantly bracing herself for whatever can come her way, and she says to me, "Kimberly, if it meant having you and your brother, I would go through it all again". Which is reassuring, that you can find something in your life so fulfilling that you would endure every hardship again, feel the pain of loss and suffering, have your heart broken, just to meet the one person who can offer you the one gift that you can't truly buy, your children. But I don't have that reassurance now. I have confusion.
Being only a year and a half from graduating, I woke up a few weeks ago and realized I have the rest of my life in my hands. I'm graduating early, I'm semi-attractive, I have goals that are reachable, and the intelligence to ascertain the means necessary to reach these goals. I have (or had I should say) a boyfriend who loved me more than should be allowed, for how crazy I can be, I'm surprised he didn't carry an arsenic pill like the astronauts for those moments that I'm sure were only reminiscent of Linda Blair. And somehow, having all of this, with nothing holding me back, I felt like I was drowning. I had built the pool with my own bare hands, watched how pristine the water seemed, decided to take a dive, and found that after all of that, I was still sinking to the bottom. It sounds selfish, but I'm still not happy. Which only proved to me that I had to take a step back from something. I certainly can't divorce my parents, or my friends, or my life goals, so the boyfriend had to be held off for awhile. Everyone supported that theory, that something had to change, so why not him? But tell me, how can something that's so right be the most excrusciating pain I've ever felt? The notion that he may be the only person to ever love me, the only person to appreciate the annoying little habits I have, the only person to make me feel sexy in the skin that God gave me, scares the living shit out of me. And with the AA type advice I keep receiving, "one day at a time Kym, it will get better, stay positive", I still feel one step up from sidewalk dog crap.
How do you take it one day at a time, when a day without them feels like it drags on for eternity. Cosmopolitan tells me to not talk to him or see him for sixty days, so where do mutual friends under? After two years, lives begin to merge, whether you like it or not. Give me some guidance, some real advice. Don't tell me "it'll be okay", because it may not be. It could be awful, I could not have a date, or for that matter, have sex for years. I may not here "I love you" other than the pleutonic sense for the next ten years. I want to know how to cope with reality. Where are the advice columns about the hate e-mails you receive from your ex's ex's? The crazy girl who feels the need to reinforce that she had fucked up and lost the best thing to happen to her, and I could only be mentally handicapped for allowing him to get away. Where are the self help groups for living on your couch for a week, barely able to eat anything, with anhedonia so bad that not even marijuana can make you laugh at the slightest joke? I used to be anti-Prozac, but the thought of what lingers for the next few weeks, knowing I won't be able to face anyone without his face on my mind, makes me want to pill-pop for eternity.
I write this not to have a pity-party for myself, only to express that self-help books and tapes with James Earl Jones telling me how to regain a positive outlook on life are not always the best solutions. Where are the real articles about break ups? Where are the people who can sit and say "it may not always be alright, but here are the real reasons to try". When you're depressed, you don't see the end result, how everything will be alright, how life can get better and you will pull out of this alive. It's hard to convince someone like me, who hasn't spent more than a month single in six years, that single life is attractive. I don't know how to date, I don't know the etiquette of a one night stand. I know Valentines scrapbooks, I know anniversarys, I know dirty work socks on my floor. I know the smell of cologne and aftershave on my pillow, I know how the Notebook feels while holding his hand. But I won't know that for awhile. And I don't know where that puts me.