Great American Early-Twenties Short Story, Update 2
More self-defeating, less witty, the next few chapters!
SELF-ESTEEM: OR, GETTING TO HATE YOU.
Some days, I have serious debates with myself over whether or not I’m a narcissist. On those days, I look through my “Vanity” folder, which is specifically designated for my own personal cam-whoring. The folder currently has 55 pictures in it, seven of which are in the even more special “Best Of” sub-folder. I really like to look at myself, apparently.
I’ve noticed something unfortunate about this folder, however. Besides the fact that it’s probably a bit creepy, that is. The pictures are all old. Nothing has been added to that folder since my freshman year of college. And of those photos, none were taken after first semester. In fact, most of them were taken on the same day, or within the same month.
I’ve done a lot of self-hating in my life, for various reasons. Part of that, as loathe as I am to admit to myself, is the fact that I’m overweight. I fucking hate that word. Even typing it makes me want to throw up the 1300-calorie dinner I ate tonight and start taking cold meds again tomorrow morning. It’s a constant source of discomfort, self-loathing and guilt. I think of that word and I feel absolutely disgusting.
So suddenly it comes as no surprise to me that I haven’t dated anyone since the summer after my freshman year of college (and before that, not “seriously” since the eighth grade). Is that unreasonable? You tell me. For the better part of my life, I was one of the smartest, highest-achieving people I knew. Eventually I added a sense of humor on top of that. There was simply no reason that boys had no interest in me. I’m not even being picky here. In high school, only one guy expressed interest in me. He also practically stalked me and expressed interest in shoving his cock down my throat. Oh, and his little brother the carbon copy. I don’t think they count. Because they just make me want to be ill for another reason entirely.
My mom has always told me I have beautiful skin. For the most part, it’s true. I can practically count the number of pimples I’ve had in my life on my fingers and toes; the only rough spots are the soles of my feet and my elbows; my hands don’t crack in winter; I only get greasy right around my nose and I’m fairly certain it’s only even visible to me. So, technically, she’s right. But sometime, maybe a year ago, I was reading/watching/listening to something (and trust me, I’m angry at myself for not being able to remember) and a conversation about looks is occurring. Seems that “you have beautiful skin” is really just the beginning of the sentence. The rest is, “but you have no other likeable physical attributes.”
After I heard whatever that was, I was outrageously angry at my mother. How could she have been pretending all of my life? I wanted her to take back the comments about my skin. I wanted her to take back the “boys are just intimidated of you” comments, because all of it was just a lie, a way not to have to tell her already-fragile daughter that boys were most likely not interested because of her looks.
Today, I still hate comments about my skin. I don’t make them to myself any more, not even in my head. It upsets me to even think this way, because I like to consider myself an independent, likeable woman-girl-person. But as soon as I’m having an off day, when I look in the mirror and my hair isn’t laying right or my arm looks a little flabby, my whole life is thrown off-kilter. No longer am I happy, free and stable without a boyfriend. Suddenly I’m fragile and ugly, unworthy of male attention. Unworthy of any attention at all. And it hurts so badly. I can’t wait for a time in my life when someone will tell me I’m attractive and mean it; not attractive for a fat girl but actually attractive, damnit, because they’re different.
It hurts because it’s nothing that people can say to your face. What friend just up and mentions in casual conversation, “I don’t think you’re very attractive and it’s been difficult being inventive with reasons the guys you’re interested in don’t reciprocate.” I don’t care if there are legitimate grounds, like incompatibility. To me, it all comes down to looks, and I don’t have them. In a group of girls, I have never in my life been the most attractive. That begins to wear on even the sanest person after long enough, I think. Every shortcoming gets tied into this crazy self-perception, and it just perpetuates itself. Sometimes it may just be a nagging feeling, “Oh, someone else is getting the attention today. That’s because I’m in a group and no longer engaging or attractive in comparison to these people. It’s alright, tomorrow I’ll hang out one-on-one and I’ll suddenly become much more interesting.” Other days it’s absolutely crippling. At the moment, I want nothing more than to relive my dinner, backwards.
One semester it drove me to stop eating. That was just the icing on an unfortunate cake. That year, when everything was spiraling out of control, and I felt like my life was falling apart, at least I could stop eating and have control over something, even if it was just my caloric intake. I remember one day buying a cookie from Subway and eating it in addition to an apple. I felt guilty for two days. I can still feel that guilt sometimes. But it was oddly liberating. Instead of feeling sorry for myself, I could get on the pro-anorexia groups on LiveJournal and say to myself “I’m not eating, but at least I’m not one of them.”
The only reason it ended at all was because I thought I was going to faint right before a somewhat important musical audition. And the worst part is I sometimes want desperately to go back to that. Not just sometimes, often. I feel so bad about me that I want to go back to a time when I was anorexic. A truly ringing endorsement for my self-esteem.
CHAPTER NINE
Eagerly awaiting inspiration.
IMPEDIMENTA.
There were few things Severus Snape detested more than incompetence, and impatience and impertinence were high on the list. Such things would get one killed in battle, and years of mental combat against one of the greatest powers in the Wizarding world had schooled him on the importance concentration and patience, though imparting this to the Potter brat, who was currently displaying neither of said qualities, seemed to be nigh on impossible.
“I realize, sir, that you think patience is a virtue, but I think you’d feel a little differently if you were a sitting duck for Voldemort,” scowled the aforementioned brat, his face set in imperious, if not childish, lines, betraying a complete and utter lack of control over his emotions.
If he had not been directly ordered by a surprisingly stern Albus Dumbledore to teach the boy, Severus would surely have lost his prided composure and cast some or other unmentionable curse on the ungrateful little -
“Haven’t anything to say to me? You’re all talk, Snape; when it comes down to it, you don’t know anything about fighting the Dark,” Potter concluded, seeming confident.
“For all we know, you’re still on their side,” he added snidely. Severus had to take a steadying breath to fight off the Unforgivable that was on the tip of his tongue. The idiot boy ought know better than to question his loyalties after the countless times Snape himself had saved the blundering fool, but that didn’t lessen his rage.
His eyes slit, voice set to its deadliest, Snape backed Potter against the desk from which he had so defiantly stood minutes before. When he spoke, he could feel the reverberations of his own voice against his chest, dangerously sinister, “I think you will agree, Potter, that I have considerable experience over you in matters dealing in defense against and, may I remind you, use of, the Dark Arts. The Headmaster may have directed me to teach you to defend against said magic, but he did not,” Snape emphasized the word, “counsel me on how to do so. Next time you insist on speaking about things you do not understand, consider that the Headmaster would be none the wiser if I were to teach you proper defense by way of example. Don’t think I would hesitate to use any manner of Dark curses against the Savior of the Wizarding world.”
“If you please, Professor,” Potter spat, pushing the Potions Master away, wand held steady in front of him, “I don’t think the Headmaster would be too pleased if you offed said Savior.” Despite his anger, it was difficult referring to himself as such, and Harry felt his resolve waver slightly. The only time he’d seen Snape looking quite so murderous was in his third year, after he and Hermione had set Sirius free, and he had no doubt the nasty git still wanted to exact some kind of revenge for that particular offense.
WAITING.
I found that I’d rather sit alone on the Nanzan campus after classes than face the prospect of walking home, slightly chilled, unfulfilled and ultimately still alone.
Sitting on a bench across from the building where the semester began, listening to Rufus Wainwright singing about being broken, I wondered if Japan had stolen something integral part of me while I wasn’t paying attention. When I first walked into D-building at the beginning of orientation, I was physically overwhelmed by people, but mentally isolated. I had started this journey as my own woman, independent of the desires and whims of those around me. Relatively speaking, at least. As green as I think I am, that’s was never entirely in my stars. But sitting on that bench, my independence fell into question.
When did I lose the will to walk home alone? That evening, I was a single dot of human warmth on a campus of concrete and plaster, classes long-ended, but I was no longer alone mentally. There was Phil, who I was fairly certain was still in the gym; Lisa, getting ready to go to Kumamoto for the weekend; Diana, headed back to her beloved homestay. And there I was, getting crazy stares from the lone security guard, one sketchy-looking foreigner in the dark, apparently not waiting for anyone to come to her rescue. But in my mind, I was no longer independent of those around; certainly not free from the Core.
Night is our time, me and any one of them. Lisa on a Tuesday after Foreign Policy; Phil on Wednesday after a Skype date with KT; Diana when she’s been on the computer too long and lost track of time. That’s why I can walk to school, but not back. Morning is for thinking alone, evening is for unwinding with company. But I know that one day our parting will be for good. Even if Lisa is just off-campus, Diana is forty-five minutes away and Phil is in the same country. One day, I’ll see them off at the airport and have to navigate the streets again myself, at least for a few weeks. It’ll be me against the bikes, agitated pedestrians, myself.
So am I more or less alone now than I was before? Does one matter more than the other; physical or mental solitude? Because thoughts of other people can only sustain me so long before I need to be in their presence again, receiving their compassion like a security blanket to which I’ve become far too accustomed. But that security will leave in December, and will stay away from the coldest part of the year. I’ll be here, unsupported in this frightening land of Xmas Festas, lost dreams and forsaken freedoms. Will it somehow make me more Japanese to live alone in a sea of millions?
I found the solitude that evening both dangerous and liberating. Sitting alone was more bearable than watching things pass me by. The thought of walking alone past buildings, in stride with strangers, next to cars, was suddenly terrifying. Was it some sort of ridiculous metaphor for my life? Like, everything moves while I stay stagnant. If so, when will I be able to break out of the pattern? When will I want to?
I could see one star from my vantage point on the bench. It seemed impossibly bright in the dark sky. Had any other stars crowded its space, its intensity would’ve only dimmed, I’m sure. And I wondered if that’s how humans work as well. We’re drawn to interactions and relationships, but do they dull us, make us less than we rightfully should be? Do we shine brightest when we’ve pushed everything away until we’re a solitary dots, burning fiercely, thousands of miles away from everything else?
Is North Star or Orion’s Belt a conscious choice me make? And have I already lost the chance to make that decision? Or is our place chosen, like a single cog in an excessively-intricate clock? What if the clock breaks?
So I sat there, full of poor metaphors, too many adjectives to describe “dark” and not enough nouns to mean “alone,” the human spot on a prematurely dark evening, full moon hovering behind my shoulder and waited.
SELF-ESTEEM: OR, GETTING TO HATE YOU.
Some days, I have serious debates with myself over whether or not I’m a narcissist. On those days, I look through my “Vanity” folder, which is specifically designated for my own personal cam-whoring. The folder currently has 55 pictures in it, seven of which are in the even more special “Best Of” sub-folder. I really like to look at myself, apparently.
I’ve noticed something unfortunate about this folder, however. Besides the fact that it’s probably a bit creepy, that is. The pictures are all old. Nothing has been added to that folder since my freshman year of college. And of those photos, none were taken after first semester. In fact, most of them were taken on the same day, or within the same month.
I’ve done a lot of self-hating in my life, for various reasons. Part of that, as loathe as I am to admit to myself, is the fact that I’m overweight. I fucking hate that word. Even typing it makes me want to throw up the 1300-calorie dinner I ate tonight and start taking cold meds again tomorrow morning. It’s a constant source of discomfort, self-loathing and guilt. I think of that word and I feel absolutely disgusting.
So suddenly it comes as no surprise to me that I haven’t dated anyone since the summer after my freshman year of college (and before that, not “seriously” since the eighth grade). Is that unreasonable? You tell me. For the better part of my life, I was one of the smartest, highest-achieving people I knew. Eventually I added a sense of humor on top of that. There was simply no reason that boys had no interest in me. I’m not even being picky here. In high school, only one guy expressed interest in me. He also practically stalked me and expressed interest in shoving his cock down my throat. Oh, and his little brother the carbon copy. I don’t think they count. Because they just make me want to be ill for another reason entirely.
My mom has always told me I have beautiful skin. For the most part, it’s true. I can practically count the number of pimples I’ve had in my life on my fingers and toes; the only rough spots are the soles of my feet and my elbows; my hands don’t crack in winter; I only get greasy right around my nose and I’m fairly certain it’s only even visible to me. So, technically, she’s right. But sometime, maybe a year ago, I was reading/watching/listening to something (and trust me, I’m angry at myself for not being able to remember) and a conversation about looks is occurring. Seems that “you have beautiful skin” is really just the beginning of the sentence. The rest is, “but you have no other likeable physical attributes.”
After I heard whatever that was, I was outrageously angry at my mother. How could she have been pretending all of my life? I wanted her to take back the comments about my skin. I wanted her to take back the “boys are just intimidated of you” comments, because all of it was just a lie, a way not to have to tell her already-fragile daughter that boys were most likely not interested because of her looks.
Today, I still hate comments about my skin. I don’t make them to myself any more, not even in my head. It upsets me to even think this way, because I like to consider myself an independent, likeable woman-girl-person. But as soon as I’m having an off day, when I look in the mirror and my hair isn’t laying right or my arm looks a little flabby, my whole life is thrown off-kilter. No longer am I happy, free and stable without a boyfriend. Suddenly I’m fragile and ugly, unworthy of male attention. Unworthy of any attention at all. And it hurts so badly. I can’t wait for a time in my life when someone will tell me I’m attractive and mean it; not attractive for a fat girl but actually attractive, damnit, because they’re different.
It hurts because it’s nothing that people can say to your face. What friend just up and mentions in casual conversation, “I don’t think you’re very attractive and it’s been difficult being inventive with reasons the guys you’re interested in don’t reciprocate.” I don’t care if there are legitimate grounds, like incompatibility. To me, it all comes down to looks, and I don’t have them. In a group of girls, I have never in my life been the most attractive. That begins to wear on even the sanest person after long enough, I think. Every shortcoming gets tied into this crazy self-perception, and it just perpetuates itself. Sometimes it may just be a nagging feeling, “Oh, someone else is getting the attention today. That’s because I’m in a group and no longer engaging or attractive in comparison to these people. It’s alright, tomorrow I’ll hang out one-on-one and I’ll suddenly become much more interesting.” Other days it’s absolutely crippling. At the moment, I want nothing more than to relive my dinner, backwards.
One semester it drove me to stop eating. That was just the icing on an unfortunate cake. That year, when everything was spiraling out of control, and I felt like my life was falling apart, at least I could stop eating and have control over something, even if it was just my caloric intake. I remember one day buying a cookie from Subway and eating it in addition to an apple. I felt guilty for two days. I can still feel that guilt sometimes. But it was oddly liberating. Instead of feeling sorry for myself, I could get on the pro-anorexia groups on LiveJournal and say to myself “I’m not eating, but at least I’m not one of them.”
The only reason it ended at all was because I thought I was going to faint right before a somewhat important musical audition. And the worst part is I sometimes want desperately to go back to that. Not just sometimes, often. I feel so bad about me that I want to go back to a time when I was anorexic. A truly ringing endorsement for my self-esteem.
CHAPTER NINE
Eagerly awaiting inspiration.
IMPEDIMENTA.
There were few things Severus Snape detested more than incompetence, and impatience and impertinence were high on the list. Such things would get one killed in battle, and years of mental combat against one of the greatest powers in the Wizarding world had schooled him on the importance concentration and patience, though imparting this to the Potter brat, who was currently displaying neither of said qualities, seemed to be nigh on impossible.
“I realize, sir, that you think patience is a virtue, but I think you’d feel a little differently if you were a sitting duck for Voldemort,” scowled the aforementioned brat, his face set in imperious, if not childish, lines, betraying a complete and utter lack of control over his emotions.
If he had not been directly ordered by a surprisingly stern Albus Dumbledore to teach the boy, Severus would surely have lost his prided composure and cast some or other unmentionable curse on the ungrateful little -
“Haven’t anything to say to me? You’re all talk, Snape; when it comes down to it, you don’t know anything about fighting the Dark,” Potter concluded, seeming confident.
“For all we know, you’re still on their side,” he added snidely. Severus had to take a steadying breath to fight off the Unforgivable that was on the tip of his tongue. The idiot boy ought know better than to question his loyalties after the countless times Snape himself had saved the blundering fool, but that didn’t lessen his rage.
His eyes slit, voice set to its deadliest, Snape backed Potter against the desk from which he had so defiantly stood minutes before. When he spoke, he could feel the reverberations of his own voice against his chest, dangerously sinister, “I think you will agree, Potter, that I have considerable experience over you in matters dealing in defense against and, may I remind you, use of, the Dark Arts. The Headmaster may have directed me to teach you to defend against said magic, but he did not,” Snape emphasized the word, “counsel me on how to do so. Next time you insist on speaking about things you do not understand, consider that the Headmaster would be none the wiser if I were to teach you proper defense by way of example. Don’t think I would hesitate to use any manner of Dark curses against the Savior of the Wizarding world.”
“If you please, Professor,” Potter spat, pushing the Potions Master away, wand held steady in front of him, “I don’t think the Headmaster would be too pleased if you offed said Savior.” Despite his anger, it was difficult referring to himself as such, and Harry felt his resolve waver slightly. The only time he’d seen Snape looking quite so murderous was in his third year, after he and Hermione had set Sirius free, and he had no doubt the nasty git still wanted to exact some kind of revenge for that particular offense.
WAITING.
I found that I’d rather sit alone on the Nanzan campus after classes than face the prospect of walking home, slightly chilled, unfulfilled and ultimately still alone.
Sitting on a bench across from the building where the semester began, listening to Rufus Wainwright singing about being broken, I wondered if Japan had stolen something integral part of me while I wasn’t paying attention. When I first walked into D-building at the beginning of orientation, I was physically overwhelmed by people, but mentally isolated. I had started this journey as my own woman, independent of the desires and whims of those around me. Relatively speaking, at least. As green as I think I am, that’s was never entirely in my stars. But sitting on that bench, my independence fell into question.
When did I lose the will to walk home alone? That evening, I was a single dot of human warmth on a campus of concrete and plaster, classes long-ended, but I was no longer alone mentally. There was Phil, who I was fairly certain was still in the gym; Lisa, getting ready to go to Kumamoto for the weekend; Diana, headed back to her beloved homestay. And there I was, getting crazy stares from the lone security guard, one sketchy-looking foreigner in the dark, apparently not waiting for anyone to come to her rescue. But in my mind, I was no longer independent of those around; certainly not free from the Core.
Night is our time, me and any one of them. Lisa on a Tuesday after Foreign Policy; Phil on Wednesday after a Skype date with KT; Diana when she’s been on the computer too long and lost track of time. That’s why I can walk to school, but not back. Morning is for thinking alone, evening is for unwinding with company. But I know that one day our parting will be for good. Even if Lisa is just off-campus, Diana is forty-five minutes away and Phil is in the same country. One day, I’ll see them off at the airport and have to navigate the streets again myself, at least for a few weeks. It’ll be me against the bikes, agitated pedestrians, myself.
So am I more or less alone now than I was before? Does one matter more than the other; physical or mental solitude? Because thoughts of other people can only sustain me so long before I need to be in their presence again, receiving their compassion like a security blanket to which I’ve become far too accustomed. But that security will leave in December, and will stay away from the coldest part of the year. I’ll be here, unsupported in this frightening land of Xmas Festas, lost dreams and forsaken freedoms. Will it somehow make me more Japanese to live alone in a sea of millions?
I found the solitude that evening both dangerous and liberating. Sitting alone was more bearable than watching things pass me by. The thought of walking alone past buildings, in stride with strangers, next to cars, was suddenly terrifying. Was it some sort of ridiculous metaphor for my life? Like, everything moves while I stay stagnant. If so, when will I be able to break out of the pattern? When will I want to?
I could see one star from my vantage point on the bench. It seemed impossibly bright in the dark sky. Had any other stars crowded its space, its intensity would’ve only dimmed, I’m sure. And I wondered if that’s how humans work as well. We’re drawn to interactions and relationships, but do they dull us, make us less than we rightfully should be? Do we shine brightest when we’ve pushed everything away until we’re a solitary dots, burning fiercely, thousands of miles away from everything else?
Is North Star or Orion’s Belt a conscious choice me make? And have I already lost the chance to make that decision? Or is our place chosen, like a single cog in an excessively-intricate clock? What if the clock breaks?
So I sat there, full of poor metaphors, too many adjectives to describe “dark” and not enough nouns to mean “alone,” the human spot on a prematurely dark evening, full moon hovering behind my shoulder and waited.