Monday, December 22, 2014

Kindred Spirit

It's been quite some time since we've spoken, hasn't it?

Almost three months.

When I last left you, my life was falling apart, everything going wrong. I can't honestly say that things themselves haven't been any different, however, I personally have been doing significantly better.

First things first, I got myself help. I'd been seeing a psychologist for a few months, and nothing seemed to be working so I quit the medication. But after spending a sleepless night wishing my demise, I decided things needed to change. I went onto a new medicine. The change was almost instantaneous.

The hard times still came, but I was able to smile and move past them, rather than having them ruin my day or life.

I still got beat down, but I simply looked life straight in the eye and kept marching forward.

This has been the past three months.

Me, smiling, happy, trying to survive.

Living. For the first time in my life, I feel like I've actually been living the past few months.

I hung out with friends. Went out to parties. Made spontaneous decisions. Enjoyed all that I had and didn't have in life.

Things have been tough, but I've been making a conscious effort to make the best out of everything that happened to me. I no longer see life as a personal attack, but rather a series of events that helps us determine who we are and who we will be.

Chelsea is back. Better than ever. Moving on. Surviving.

Work has been especially rough, and I foresee a lot of changes in the near future for me, hopefully all for the better. The holidays are especially tough for me, especially because Disney requires me to work through them all.

Not that going home would be much better.

As most of you know, my dad passed away in 2011. Ever since then, holidays haven't been the same in my family. That first Thanksgiving was painful, and I couldn't wait to get back to California after the four day weekend. Christmas was even more painful, a pitiful celebration that essentially ended with my entire family crying, hardly any gifts exchanged.

I started working at Disney just a few months after that, a sort of relief because I dreaded future summers and holidays with my family.

My first Christmas without my family was painful. I spent the day alone at home, until my shift started late at night. Both of my roommates at the time were out of town with their families for the holidays, so it was just me in that small, cold apartment. I went to Denny's with a friend for Christmas dinner, because they, too, had no family nearby.

Last year, it seemed like the holidays were going to be wonderful. I had been adopted into the family of my significant other at the time and they brought me into their home, let me celebrate Thanksgiving with them, and let me decorate the Christmas tree with them.

But, honestly, something was off. I was happy because I love Christmas, but there was a hole in my heart that I couldn't place. A feeling of not belonging, feeling like an intruder in someone else's happy life. I didn't know it at the time, but around that time last year is when I found myself slipping back into depression. At the end of the day on Christmas, my adopted family of the time looked at me and said "Aren't you happy? Isn't Christmas wonderful?" And I could only muster up a smile because somewhere 400 miles away, my mother was celebrating by herself, no doubt thinking about our broken family like I was.

The holiday season this year snuck up on me. Christmas is this Thursday, something so remarkably incredible to me, because it seems like October was an hour ago, August was this morning, and June was yesterday. I went "home" to celebrate the holidays with my mom a week ago, kind of. A weekend where I saw her for a total of 10 hours on the last day I was there. It kind of felt like going down a line kissing babies. So mechanical, where I spent my time wishing I was anywhere else.

And then I came home and I was alone. Very alone.

I haven't seen any of my roommates in more than a few weeks, and it seems like I pay a quarter of the rent for an entire house. I spend the majority of my days at work, trying to get as many 12 hour shifts as I possibly can. Then I go home, walk my dog, fall asleep, and do it all over the next day.

Too busy for friends. And my friends are too busy for me.

The question I keep getting is what I want for Christmas. And each time, I answer the same thing: Nothing. And people tell me that that isn't an acceptable answer, so I give some other pithy suggestion. But the truth is, I really don't want anything. At least, nothing that can be provided as a gift.

What do I want for Christmas?

A lot of things.

Peace of mind that I won't be drowning in debt forever.

To be able to remember what exactly my family did together on our last Christmas as a whole, before Stage IV cancer tore us apart.

To have a well behaved dog.

To have someone I can always go to about my problems and won't turn their back on me, talk about me, or say they're too busy.

Someone that makes me feel like I'll never be lonely again.

Now don't get me wrong, I have a lot of wonderful friends that I would kill for and I'm sure they would do the same for me. I know that I am loved unconditionally by many of my friends, and I never have to worry about them leaving me in the dust. But there's a different kind of love that I've been searching for my entire life.

A kindred spirit. Someone who is always there for me. Someone who I can say a word to, and will drop anything to come be with me. Someone to stay up late watching crappy movies on Netflix with. Someone who just gets me, and would kill for me. Someone who would do anything in their power to keep me in their lives.

I want to never be alone on Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, Valentine's Day, or my birthday ever again.

I want someone excited to see me, and who wants to hear about my boring day.

Someone who can hold me on my bad days. Someone who will get in the car and drive with me, when all I feel like doing is running away from life. And eventually we will turn back and go home because that feeling will pass, and we'll both feel more alive than we ever have been.

I want a kindred spirit. Not a soul mate. Not a lover. Not a boyfriend. Not an anything.

Just someone for me.

That's what I want this Christmas.

Tuesday, September 30, 2014


His name was Sterling.

He was a chubby face little baby.

He was sweet and kind. He smiled at everyone who he met, and look down abashed at the pretty ladies.

He loved the color red, and loved his red blanket with a Mickey Mouse pattern more than life itself. He brought it with him everywhere.

He was happy and he was so full of life.

Sterling grew up and remained kind.

He played well with the other children on the school yard. He demanded chivalry and always included the girls in on the fun. He was also brave and would climb to the top of the monkey bars quicker than any of his friends.

His favorite movie was Star Wars (Episode VI).

He loved reading books, adored Harry Potter.

He dreamed of daring sword fights, casting spells, fighting the bad guys, and always coming out on top because of the goodness in his heart. He could do anything he set his heart to.

Sterling loved the color red and he grew up known as the Little Red Boy (despite having light brown hair).

His eyes shown with the vigor of life and attracted others to surround him. He never feared anything in life, not the time he went skydiving, nor the time he fell and broke his foot in three places and had to have surgery to repair it.

Sterling fell in love for the first time at the age of 16, to a girl a little younger than him at his school. He dreamed about her night and day, but never once did he tell her how he felt. He was heartbroken by the time he turned 17 as the girl fell in love with an 18 year old.

Sterling excelled at school, and graduated in the top 20 of his class. He wore honors cords as he walked across the stage at his high school graduation and shook hands with his principal. His parent's eyes gleamed with pride. He had been accepted to a prestigious university on a tremendous scholarship.

Sterling was tall and strong, but his heart was kind and soft. When he moved away for school, he called his mom and dad every day, telling them how much he missed them, tears in his voice.

But his vigor followed him, and soon he excelled at his university. His thirst for life made him irresistible to those around him.

Sterling fell in love again at the age of 20, to a girl he had met in his British Literature class (he had hoped they would read Harry Potter and was upset to have to read Sir Gawain and the Green Knight). He fell in love with this girl and she was so full of life after meeting him that she fell in love with him.

Sterling grew up, and graduated well in his class. His internship that he went to daily, dutifully, and unpaid for 2 years had turned into a career. He took every opportunity given to him, and found himself successful at every turn. Even when Sterling wasn't successful, he considered himself to be just from the experience.

When Sterling was 24 he married the girl he fell in love with in his British Literature class (she had gone on to pursue Shakespearean studies). By age 27, he was a father, and he was widely considered the best father for miles around.

His parents beamed on proudly watching their Little Red Boy holding his own little boy in a red blanket with Mickey Mouse on it. They could not have been happier for this blessing that had come into their lives 27 years earlier.

Today should have been his birth day.

Today should have been the day that he was born, and enabled him to live this full life for the next 27 years.

However, today never came for Sterling.

His parent's were young and unprepared. His mother was sick and went to the doctor, took home antibiotics, not knowing she had Sterling with her. It wasn't until it was too late that his mother realized that it was a bundle of nerves that she lost, nothing yet formed, not even enough to be confirmed.

But a mother knows.

On the day she lost Sterling, she cried, opened a calendar and marked down 9 months from that date, then took out her red blanket with the Mickey Mouse pattern, and laid down to rest.

Sterling would never live to see the day that his son took his first breath.

Sterling would never live to see the day where his own heart pumped for the first time, filling his body with undeniable life.

Sterling would have been so full of life.

Thursday, September 25, 2014

Back to the Streets Where We Belong

I know what you're all thinking.

Another sad post by Chelsea.

Here we go again.

But here's all that I have to say in a nutshell: I'm tired of being unhappy.

Like, really, really, tired of being this way.

And I've been getting a lot of shit for it lately too.

Now I know what some of you are thinking: Why the hell would someone be giving you shit for having depression?

You know, that's a great question.

People tend to think that I have a lot more control over what I say, what I do, and how I feel than I actually do. That's the thing about depression, as well as most other diseases, is that the person that is afflicted has essentially no control over what happens to them. They're forced to live in this body that is killing them from the inside out.

And frankly I'm tired of it.

I'm tired of not wanting to kill myself but not wanting to be alive.

I'm tired of being negative.

I'm tired of feeling like the world is completely against me.

I'm tired of wishing that people would stay or come back into my life.

I'm tired of feeling that people are always leaving me.

I miss the old me. The old, funny, happy, didn't matter what people did because it's not my problem anyway me.

I've been thinking about it a lot lately. It seems that most of my unhappiness stems from the fact that I love people more than they will ever love me--always, as well as the fact that people are constantly leaving.

The more I think about it, the more I guess I realize that there are people in this world who are meant to love more than those around them.

I realize that there are people who when they say the words "I will always be here for you", that they actually mean it.

And I happen to be one of those people.

And part of me thinks that I should change. That I should close off my heart like I said I would a million times before. That I should stop growing connections to those around me.

But then I realize that I can't. No matter what I say or do, I'm always going to be the one that loves more. I'm always going to be the one left behind when others leave me.

So what I'm going to do is accept that. I'm going to accept that if I love someone, they will eventually leave me behind. That's the way that the world works. And I suppose I'm going to have to be okay with that. I will always love more and they will always leave me and that's just the way it is.

And I need to accept that about myself and about the world around me.

I'm trying to make a vow to be happier, in whatever way I can.

Sunday, September 21, 2014

Witch, Witch, You're a Bitch

It was the first day of junior high.

She was dressed in her finest, wearing her only non-screen printed t-shirt and her best fitting pair of jeans. Her hair was in a high pony tail. She was conscious, but she was confident.

It was the first day of junior high and up until that point she had gone to a private school. Up until that point, she had never had more than 14 other kids in her class. And now she had 7 classes of 30 students.

It was the first day of junior high and she was nervous.

It had started off wonderfully. First period math where she only had a little bit of trouble. Second period PE, where she felt glad the teachers hadn't made them change in front of everyone else (maybe she was actually more conscious then confident). Third period was Geography where the teacher was sweet. Fourth period was science where there were three other girls with her name in the class but she met a nice girl that she sat next to. Fifth period was theatre where the teacher was quirky.  And sixth period was English where she felt the most confident.

It was the second day of junior high and she was ready.

But first period she forgot her ID and was forced to sit in on in-class detention.

Second period they made everyone change out, and a girl twice her height called her a "fat ass" to four other girls at the end of the rows of lockers.

She cried in the back of the classroom throughout most of third period because of what that girl had said.

But her parents hadn't loaded money onto her lunch account, so she sat hungry through fourth period.

In fifth period, she brightened up.

But in sixth period, when she was able to answer every single question that the teacher asked, the girl who had called her a fat ass during gym cornered her outside the classroom. "You're a bitch," she said. And walked away.

She had never heard anyone being called that word before. Sure, she had done her fair share of cussing in her day, from saying the word "crap" on the swing set of her private school, to calling a donkey an "ass". But she had never, ever thought that anyone said the word "bitch" to people.

Was she a bitch?

It was the first day of eighth grade. She had lost 40 pounds since that girl called her a fat ass in second period gym. She remembered her ID every single day. She had learned not to be so cocky in classes where she excelled. And she had learned to stick up for herself.

She was called a bitch, though. Time after time after time.

She was a bitch because she was smart.

She was a bitch because she knew the answers.

She was a bitch because she was nice and tried to help those in need.

She was a bitch because she wouldn't take no for an answer.

She was a bitch because she had gotten so used to being called a bitch, that she began to believe it herself.

The word followed her around for years to come.

As a high school senior, she was a bitch for telling her best friend's parents that their daughter wanted to kill herself. She just hadn't wanted to see her die, so instead she lost a friend because she had been such a bitch.

As a college sophomore she was a bitch because two of her friends had broken up, and she only talked to him, mostly because the she-side of the relationship didn't want to discuss it. But she was a bitch for talking to the friend she had known less time, and so she lost the long-term friend. She eventually lost the other one as well.

As a college junior, she was a bitch because she asked the boy she was seeing to be in a relationship, but apparently he wanted nothing to do with it. She was also a bitch for deciding to spend more time for herself to work a job she loved than mindless social interaction at school. And so she not only lost him, but lost a good deal of her friends as well.

As a post-grad she was a bitch because she refused to be nice to people who had treated her so cruelly.

She was the bitch in this case.

She was always the bitch.

And even though she had never wanted to do anything wrong, it seemed as if she were always the one paying the price. She was always the bitch, no matter how much she cared, she was always the bitch for caring too much or knowing too much.

It was in this way that she lost so many of her friends.

Ever since that second day of junior high, she had always envied those who had been able to make friends so easily. She would try and try and try, but it seemed as if no one wanted much to do with her. And even the friends that she did make wouldn't invite her out for any type of social interaction. The older she got, the more she saw her friends going on vacations together, going to Vegas together, going to the mall together, going to dinner together...always, ALWAYS without her.

Not only did she envy those who could make friends, real friends, so easily, but she also envied those who could keep those friends. In the span of 9 years between the first day of junior high and the last day of her senior year of college, she did not have any of the same friends for more than 3 of those years.

It was because she was the bitch. She was always the bitch, no matter what she tried to do.

I've never wanted anything more than to be somebody's friend, anybody's friend. But no matter what I do, those words from the second day of junior high seem to haunt me. Like from a song "witch, witch, you're a bitch".

I feel as if I've gotten so accustomed to hearing those words told to me, that I've started to take on that type of personality. I've proclaimed to be proud of my bitchiness. I live for it. But in reality, that isn't who I actually am. And I hate having to pretend as if it were. In reality, all I want to do is love and care about the people around me. And yeah, maybe I'm a hardass and refuse to take no for an answer, refuse to let people who have hurt me back into my life, but how does that make me a bitch?

Somehow, I've decided that I've heard it said so much, that I've decided to become it.

I am a fat ass.

And I am a bitch.

And that's how everyone I know sees me. As this bitch of a thing that I know that I am not. And so everyone will whisper under their breath, no matter what it is I do, and say "Gosh, what a bitch." And that's what I am, because no one will see me as anything else. Not even my friends or the people who love me after some time. They all see me as the same thing in the end.

And no matter how much weight I lose, no matter how nice I try to be, no matter how much a I care about people, and no matter how hard I try...that is what I will always be. And in the end, people will always leave me because I am the bitch that cared.

Friday, September 19, 2014

Fall in Love with the Colors of Me

Stick with me here.

Here's the thing.

Everyone keeps coming to me to provide love and support.

To which I truly appreciate. Granted, however, I have not given in and I have not talked my issues out with anyone. Admittedly though, no one has forced me into a closed room and forced me to talk. Or let me cry to them. Or simply sit and watch a movie with me.

There's been support. Ish.

The big thing I keep hearing though is, "Chelsea, stick it out. I know it's hard. We all go through tough periods of our life. But soon you'll be back to your old self again."

People seem to have this idea that this "recent" depression has made me forget who I am. Maybe even made me lose who I am.

Here's the thing though: This is who I always have been. I have changed over the years, however, the true core of me has not. You all are just seeing the different colors shining through.

But this color has always been here. This depression goes back 7 years, but before I never used to be so open about it. This idea of me wanting to kill myself is not new: I've probably only had about 100 or so days of the past 7 years (which is well over 2000 days, mind you) where I haven't had this thought cross my mind. Even at my happiest. And it's not like I actually want to kill myself. It's that I just don't want to be alive. To me, there is a difference.

But what I'm trying to say is that I am who I always have been. Still to this day. I think the big problem is that most of you, now clouded by this new color of me, have forgotten who I am instead.

So I'm going to do something kind of strange. I'm going to survey myself, and remind you all who I am behind this specific color. I'm still the Chelsea that you all fell in love with. And I still love me.

What is your name?
Chelsea Cr--- (bleeped for personal security...this part of me hasn't changed)

What do you wish your name was? Why?
Summer. This was supposed to be my name if you go back in the way way back machine, pre-me. However, my parents had second thoughts. But that didn't stop me from wishing it were my name. I used it as my stage name for 4 years of theatre when there were too many other Chelsea's in my class. And if I ever make it big as a writer and decide to use a penname, it's going to be Summer Earl (you heard it here first). I just think it's a pretty name and something that just...fits me in a way that Chelsea doesn't.

What's the most beautiful thing you've ever experienced?
The sunset in Arizona. It's weird to explain, but it happens slow. Real slow. The sun starts going down to the horizon and the Western sky starts burning yellow. The whole sky turns this bright, bright yellow. And then it starts morphing, layers added on. Turning pink, then red, then purple. And finally the sky goes dark blue. It's a million different colors all at once and if you ever see it in it's true glory, you will probably shit your pants. The best part comes next though. When the sky goes dark, and if you're in the right place in the desert, you can look up and see all the stars. And you can literally get lost because it seems like a kaleidoscope in the sky.

When were you most at peace?
There are two times that stick out in particular.
The first was April of last year, and sneaking out to the beach in the middle of the night. It was freezing cold and I had sand up my ass, but literally just sitting in the pitch dark, listening to the waves crash upon the shore in the distance was the most peaceful moment I've ever had. I crave going back to that.
The other is a generalized statement. It sounds cliche, but you know that place that's between awake and sleep? When you're fighting with all your might to stay awake, but it's dark and you're comfortable in bed and in love, and you lose that battle. That moment right before I lose is probably the most peaceful feeling I know.

What's your favorite color?
Purple. But not the regular purple. It's a purple so dark and light at the same time that it's almost gray. Not lavender. Not fuschia. But purple-gray. It's a wonderful sight.

Favorite flower?
I divide this into categories:
Mmmmmm :)

Favorite song?
Again, categories.
Song from a musical: Breathe, In the Heights
Song from a band: Blackbird, Beatles
Song from a music score: Flying, James Newton

Favorite movie?
Categories are
Series (that isn't based on a book): Back to the Future
Film within a series: Star Wars, Episode V
Disney: Hercules
Fairy tale base: Ever After
Movie movie: Princess Bride

Favorite book?
Series: Harry Potter
Classic: Pride and Prejudice
Modern: Before I Die

Favorite musical?
Classic: My Fair Lady
Modern: In the Heights

What would you name your kids?
Boy: Sterling (I've always tried to name my book characters this, but it's never quite right)
Girl: Gemma (Admittedly, only if she were born a ginger cuz how cute is that?)
I'd have to give the name "Earl" to one of the boys as a middle name considering it's a family thing and I have to obey the law. But yeah, I really like Sterling and Gemma.

If you could relive any moment of your life, what would it be?
I wish I could relive the day before my dad died. August 8, 2011. Give him a better hug, consult my feelings more. But mostly to have those extra few hours with him again. He was supposed to have so much more time.

If you could live in any other decade?
Probably the 1980's for the pop culture, the 1940's for the clothing, and the 1890's for the society.

What's your biggest fear?
Being alone.

What's your greatest dream?
To be happy, no matter what.

Favorite holiday?
Christmas when it feels like Christmas. I haven't had a real Christmas in 4 years it seems.

Favorite smell?
It's weird, but if you light a piece of paper on fire, let it burn, and then water it out. The smell that comes from that is one of the greatest things on earth. If I could bottle that, I would.

All of these things, with the exception of some recent memories, have been who I am for the past who knows how many years of my life. I haven't forgotten who I am. I'm still me. I'm still Chelsea Marie. If it seems like you're the ones who've forgotten who I am, please reread this. Remind yourself that I'm still here.

I might be crying out for help, but it's still the same old me.

Don't lost me in the hue of this other color of me.

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Once Upon a Time...

Once upon a time there was a girl. She was an average girl, of regular gait and no surpassing marks of beauty. She thought herself quite plain and quite unimportant.

She was just an average girl.

She was a strange girl.

And she was a broken girl.

She walked the Earth for the early part of her life feeling as if she did not belong. As if she were meant to live in a different era entirely. While the other girls around her talked about boys and makeup and clothing, she sat by herself and read and wrote her thoughts down on paper. She created stories of herself, a beautiful young girl, who lived hundreds of years ago and didn't have a care in the world. She went to balls and danced with men and was able to freely live her life, always with her best friend by her side. The girl told her family of her fictional adventures, and they were delighted with her intelligence, and yet concerned about her obsession.

The feeling of not belonging never went away from this girl's consciousness. It followed her, plagued her even. The older this girl got, the more the feeling changed. Transforming to feeling like she belonged in a different era, to feeling as if she did not belong anywhere at all. The more that she lived, the more that this girl believed that she was nothing special to the world.

She had but one desire: To feel as if she belonged, truly, deeply belonged. To feel as if she had somewhere that she was meant to be, and someone that she was meant to be with. True love and true belonging were her desire. She lusted after fairy tale stories, becoming to attached to heroines such as Cinderella and Rapunzel, so full of life, and so full of joy. She dreamed of a life where she met her true love, and there was nary an issue and they lived on to create happy, full lives. She dreamed of a world where she felt as if she belonged.

She dreamed of a world where she felt wanted.

Her whole life she searched for this feeling.

There were some occasions where she felt like she had found it. But it was not to be. She fell too quickly and too hard, and in the end, she was left, cast off, feeling as if she were not good enough. She felt as if she did not deserve to be wanted, or to be loved.

This followed her for years, and slowly, but surely, tore the spirit from this young girl. She still wanted to believe in fairy tales and true love, but she believed that they were not for her. She was nothing extraordinary, and so why should she be treated as such? This young girl, the older she got, began to lose her spirit. And the one thing that she used to be complimented about, the sparkle of her eyes, slowly died out. The world, in it's vicious cruelties, was killing this young girl of no importance.

However, this girl had a strange power that even she could not explain. She had gone her whole life feeling unwanted, cast aside. However, each time this would happen, something strange would occur.  The very people who cast her aside, made her feel her lowest, would somehow come back to her, begging for her to allow them back into her life.

So hurt by their earlier cruelties, she would not allow them, afraid to be hurt again. But time and time again, they came back to her, saying she was the one thing they could not live without. The one thing they could not get out of their minds no matter how hard they had tried. They apologized for their cruelties, for they had not known any better.

This girl did not understand the gift that she seemed to have.

For it seemed that each person that she came into contact with throughout her life, had been thoroughly changed by her. She spent her life feeling alone and unwanted, but truly she was making a difference to everyone she had ever met.

Slowly, this power of hers drove her mad. How could it be that someone who had spent their life unwanted, was suddenly wanted by the people who made her feel so low?

How could it be that as soon as people drew her in and started to make her feel wanted, they suddenly cast her away as if she were garbage?

How could it be that she, a girl of no importance, somehow had made such an impact on the world around her?

How could it be that after she walked away, head low, so many ran after her, raising their hands for attention?

And how could it be that she still never felt as if she belonged anywhere, even with her own family?

She did not understand this gift, nor did she try. It was beyond her scope. She simply walked through life, feeling unwanted, and knowing as soon as she gave up something that hurt it would come to follow her back. She knew that this would eventually be the fate of all those who left her behind.

She walked through life hoping that maybe, just maybe, someday someone would see her for her gifts, see the princess she dreamed herself to be, and vow to never let her go.

She walked through life praying that maybe, if she wished hard enough, there would finally be someone who did anything to stay with her, no matter how average or broken she was.

I walk through life wishing that someday I will be destined to be happy too.

Saturday, September 13, 2014

Listen to me. Don't hear me.

I don’t know where else the fuck to post this to. But I need to rant about my life because no one is going to listen to me.

It’s almost 2 am. I should’ve been asleep 3 fucking hours ago.

But once again I’m wide awake because of all this pain that I have.

Why is so hard for people to care about people’s problems that aren’t their own? Like, what makes that so fucking difficult?

I don’t fucking get it.

It seems like all I do is care about the people around me.

But I’m not allowed to have problems of my own. Oh, hell no. What’s wrong with you, Chelsea? You’re working your dream job at Disneyland, living in Southern California, and have a room all to yourself. You have so much wonderful stuff, what could possibly be fucking wrong with you, you ungrateful little prick? Nothing. Everyone else’s problems mean more than you ever will. You’re not important. You never will be. Your one purpose in life is for you to take care of everyone else around you and care more about them then anyone else could possibly reciprocate.

What about the fact that right now I feel like it would be easier for me to kill myself then anything else? Maybe I ripple the ocean that is everyone else’s lives too much.

What about the fact that my dream job doesn’t give a fuck that I graduated with a BFA and that I need to make rent. What about the fact that I was told for years to go to school for my dream, and you’ll never be unhappy, and now everyone tells me that I fucked up. I should be proud of my degree, and not have to cover up what I went to school for. Creative Writing, what an incredible waste of 200000$.
What about the fact that because I work my dream job I can’t afford to stay in Southern California much longer? What about the fact that my mom is yelling at me because I have to charge gas on her credit card so I can get back and forth to this dream job because I can’t afford it on my own.

What about the fact that I’m probably going to have to move back to Arizona is a big thought on my mind right now? What about the fact that I know if I’m forced to move back there that I’m actually, literally going to kill myself. Seriously.

It’s not like I want to kill myself. It’s more the fact that I just wish I weren’t alive anymore. Like I genuinely don’t feel like I’m an important enough person. I don’t feel like anyone would care about me either way?

Like, fuck. I just want someone to listen to me for once.

The past few weeks have been me taking care of everyone else’s problems. Roommates fighting over a parking spot that they have to share? oh, don’t worry about me. I’ve been walking back and forth from the Office Depot without a single complaint every single night for four months. But I’m selfish for asking for it on days I’m off at 130am.

Oh you’re struggling under the stress of work? Oh, I’m so sorry. Please tell me what it’s like to be overworked and under appreciated because I sure as hell don’t know after 3 years of this company where I’ve been working my ass off and still don’t seem to be good enough to get scheduled more than 12 hours a week. So much for my hard work.

Your parents are dicks to you? Oh gee, what’s that like? My dad is dead and my mom spent my college tuition money on a new car and then called me selfish for asking for money for food so now I just don’t eat.

Oh, you’re having problems making the small amount of rent that you pay to live in your childhood room with your parents? I’m so sorry. I wish that my mom lived close enough for me to live with her, but instead I share a house with 3 roommates, 2 of which I can’t fucking stand and didn’t chose to live with in the first place because I was forced into this house because my boyfriend broke up with me and I had no other choices. Oh, and I can’t afford to make rent even though it’s the least amount I’ve ever had to pay for a place of my own. 

Oh you’re feeling ostracized from your friend? Wow. That’s sad. I only sit at home alone every single fucking day, wishing I was hanging out with someone, anyone at all. And that every time I make plans with someone, they find their own time to be more important than my own and so they leave me high and dry and alone.

But I’m the selfish one. God, Chelsea. Why are you such a fucking screw up?

I’m so tired of being alone when it doesn’t convenience others to be around me.

I’m taking care of everyone else, and no one wants to hear my own struggle. The fact that I’m losing my battle with my depression. And the fact that I don’t know what to do about it. Medication only made it worse. My insurance doesn’t cover psychologists. I don’t know what to do, and I’m afraid that the bad days are gonna keep going on forever?

And it frustrates me because I was doing so good for so long. I fought through the medication when it made me lower than low. I found my sense of humor again. I made it so that I was able to stand on my own two feet again. I thought I beat it.

And then all of a sudden one day I woke up and I was drowning, and my body was refusing to even try to fight back anymore. And I don’t know what happened. And I don’t know what to do and I’m afraid that things are gonna get worse and I won’t be able to do anything.This disease is trying to kill me. I don’t want to kill myself, but I keep feeling like it would be easier if I weren’t alive.

All i want is for someone to sit and talk with me. And actually make me talk because they want to hear it. Not because they feel obligated to because I sit there and listen to them. Because with all of them I keep myself quiet because they’re only going to turn the conversation to themselves and list why their problems mean more than mine. 

All I want is for someone to sit here while I cry, like I am right now, and hold me. And tell me that everything will be okay until I believe them. I want someone to hold me until I fall asleep from crying and still be there when I wake up in the morning. 

I haven’t felt that way in months. I lost what I needed just when I needed it most. But, no, I was and am selfish for needing that from another person. God it would be nice to have someone to be there for you during your depression. It would be nice to be able to trust another human being.

I can’t explain why my depression came back in the first place. Maybe it was moving so many times. Maybe it was the fact that I realized how much of a screw up I was. Maybe it was because the weather was rainy and the clouds infiltrated that part of my brain that I had packed away so tightly for so long.
I lost everyone I hold deep. I have that problem. I lose everything I ever love right when I need it most.
My depression tells me I have no friends. Tells me that no one will ever love me back because if all these boys could leave you so easily then what would ever make you keepable. That if all my friends can literally say “I don’t want to be your friend anymore” and walk away just like Kristen did in the playground the week after Kindergarten ended, then why should anyone ever want to be around me, ever?

This isn’t me. That’s the thing. I know who I am. I’m a hopeful person, who never gives up. All I’ve ever dreamed of is the day when I will love truly and be loved in return. I dream of a world where everything works out eventually. I’m a funny person, who will always be the first to say something witty and make a joke to brighten someone’s day. That’s who I am.

Not this. Not this person stuck in the rain cloud of depression. But then, maybe, I think, just maybe this is who I actually am. This depressed state could be the real me while the funny, hopeful, loving Chelsea is a figment of my imagination and I will never be able to grasp onto her no matter how hard I try. I don’t deserve that life. Maybe I did something to warrant this sad, depressed state I find myself eternally fighting. 

Maybe no one cares about my problems because they aren’t important.

Maybe no one cares about me because I’m not important. Because I never will be. 

And what sucks is that I know I’ll get an outpouring of love from this post, with people trying to check up on me. And what’s worse, is I know when they ask how I am, and I will answer “Okay” (because that’s all I’ll ever say until they really push and question) and they’ll slowly start to believe me. And I know that in 2 weeks, everyone is going to go back to treating me like the piece of shit I guess I always am.

Because I am Chelsea. And me and my depression are not important. Because a girl with this many problems does not deserve neither love nor someone holding her as she cries.

Because I don’t want to kill myself, but it would be so much easier if I weren’t alive.

Because maybe the real Chelsea will never come back no matter how much I try.

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

Tell Them That You Care

I've been sitting on writing for quite some time.

And then Monday happened.

I guess I'm still not over the shock of it all. Robin Williams has died. And I understand that media is blowing it all up and you're all probably tired of hearing about it. Fuck, I'm tired of hearing about. And usually I don't let what the media focuses on get to me...but this time it's different.

You've probably heard it by now. Robin Williams, classic funny man, killed himself after suffering years of depression. I didn't have even a clue that that was the case until this unsettling news happened. I'm sure most of you didn't. But it is true, and he suffered it for years, just like so many of us do. And now, finally, the news and the world is beginning to realize that even the happiest people can be the saddest.

And all I can think is that it's just plain sad.

It took THIS for it to be put on spotlight? Millions will mourn the loss of Robin Williams, a man who made such a positive impact on everyone in the English speaking world and far beyond that. Millions will mourn the loss of someone who died from a disease of the mind. And because of that, those of us who have been in hiding for years begin to peek their heads out, and say "hey, I'm suffering too, validate me and my feelings."

And that makes me so mad.

Over the course of the last 7 years, and especially the last four months, I have been told time after time again that I just need to be more happy. That I just need to put a smile on my face and everything else will follow suit. And it makes me so angry because that obviously doesn't work. When someone tells me that positive attitude makes all the difference, I want to punch them in the throat because, to me, it seems as if they're saying "Chelsea, your feelings aren't important. And even if they are true, I don't want to deal with your problems. Your problems don't matter. You don't matter. Pretend to be happy and then we can all be happy ignoring your problems."

Here's the thing that most people don't realize. I AM happy. I feel blessed everyday for my friends, for my family, and for all the opportunities that I have. The problem is when you pair that with depression is that there is a disconnect between happy and sad. They don't work on the same emotional level. It's possible to be wonderfully happy and absolutely miserable all at the same time. It's taken me years to realize, and will take me much longer to accept.

Here's the thing, world. Here's the thing, "friends".

I am happy.

But I'm happy in the way that Robin was happy. The way that a new mother with PPD is happy. The way that the artist is happy.

We are all overjoyed at the blessings of our life, but there are times where we become so overwhelmed by emotions that we cannot control that all we can do is sit in bed with the covers over our head and cry, so that the world cannot see the lost sparkle in our eyes. We want the world to see how absolutely happy we are, and keep the emotions from spilling out.

But that isn't healthy. I was told once that no one should have to go through cancer alone. That they need someone to rely on to be there for them. But I was also told by the same person that talking to other people and having them help your depression is called dependence.

Why is one disease ok but the other one isn't? Why is my disease less valid than another? And does that really work? Do you think that things would have been different if Robin had been open about his disease? Do you think there would have been an overwhelming amount of support put out towards him?

I think so.

But that wasn't the case. He kept it in. And he imploded. Just like people of all ages do. From the teenager, to the mother, to the old grandfather. No one's depression, no one's disease is worse than anyone else's. No one deserves to be mourned less because of how they died. No one deserves to be mourned more because of who they were in society.

And now me, and everyone who has been dealing with depression all this time, are finally standing up, shouting. Shouting for someone to listen.

"Listen! Listen to me! Don't let this happen to me! Don't let death be my only escape. Don't make me feel like I am worthless because of something that I cannot control. Don't make me feel guilty for a sadness I cannot control. Do not make me suppress it. Help me. Listen to me. If you say you're there for me, prove it. Prove that you care because in my mind, no one cares."

That's what I'm trying to say. It's what I've been trying to say.

Things have been getting better for me. I took control of my own life about 3 or 4 weeks ago. Pulled myself off the medication that was trying to drown me, trying to make me feel worse. I took a stand and am refusing to let it get me down.

While I just spent the last several hundred words bashing this idea, positive thought does do some good. It won't completely change anything, but being able to fight the demons and having the stability of mind to do so does help. I'm trying to beat my disease into remission, a personal chemo if you will. I am standing strong, but even the strong stumbling. I am stumbling but I am still walking tall.

That's how I make it through the day.

The news of Williams' death struck me at a hard time. Three years ago on Saturday was when my father passed away. It's amazing how it gets both easier and harder as time goes on. It gets easier to treat everyday as life is going on like normal, but harder the more you miss him. And goodness do I miss him. But we march on because that is the only choice we are given.

In wake of all the events of the last week, I would like to remind everyone to hold their loved ones close. I would like for everyone to say exactly what's on their mind, and to tell the people that they care for that they love them.

Life is short, life is precious. You never know when you speak to someone if it will be the last time you'll ever see them.

If you're afraid to lose someone, tell them.

Hold them close, and never let go.

It's easy to walk away from something, but much harder to come back to it. You never know when life is going to throw you a curveball, and you never know when it might be too late.

Wednesday, July 16, 2014


I really don't know what more to say.

I'm tired of trying. Really tired. I just want to give up.

I'm tired of always trying to please the people around me that way they think the best of me. I'm tired of never feeling good enough. Like, ever. I'm tired of people yelling at me because they don't get their way while I'm standing by miserably living each and every moment of my life.

I'm so tired of it all.

Like, fuck man.

I'm tired of having this stupid disease of the mind. I'm tired of having it affect me so much. I'm tired of it whispering evil thoughts into my mind just when it was finally starting to be at peace, like right now. I'm tired of never being good enough and never being wanted. I'm tired of letting other people get to me. 

I'm tired of having no control of it.

I'm tired of being on stupid medication for my stupid fucked up mind. I'm tired of the meds making me worse, making me think more evil thoughts, making me feel the highs super high and the lows super low, making me rather wish I was dead than living this stupid excuse for a life.

I'm tired of thinking I would rather be dead than have to suffer through another day. I'm tired of having as much control over my thoughts and actions as I do over the weather. I'm tired of people not understanding this. I'm tired of having to go to the Internet for my problems because I feel like no one cares about me and my stupid problems.

I'm tired of feeling like my problems are stupid simply because they are different from others. I'm tired of feeling stupid because I am depressed even thought I am a middle age white girl who lives in one of the most beautiful places in the country and works at the Happiest Place on Earth. I'm tired of having people compare my problems to other problems, to their own problems. And I'm tired of having them dumb mine down simply because it is a disease of the mind and not of the body.

At what point does being tired go away?

Does it go away when I finally take enough sleeping pills and pain killers to make everything go away? Does it go away when I fake being happy so that the people around me are happy? Does it go away when I finally give up and give in and let it consume me? Does it go away tomorrow? Does it come back the next day?
Does it ever go away?

I wish I knew. I wish that this feeling would go away just as much as I wish every day was cloudy and rainy and beautiful. I wish this feeling would go away just as much as I wish that I would be in love again. I wish this feeling would go away just as much as I wish that I could bring my dad back from the dead so at least one person would be there to comfort me in just the right way.

I wish all my feelings would completely go away forever.

The feelings of sadness and rage and being tired, yes. But also the feelings of happiness, joy and love. Because if those went away than maybe the negative feelings, or a lack of feelings all together, wouldn't hurt so bad. I wish I didn't feel so many feelings.

All I want is for this all to just end.

Tuesday, July 1, 2014

Reflection Staring Out

Chelsea posts a selfie on Instagram.

Caption: "Feeling pretty today."



Jenny Jennerson posts a selfie on Instagram.

Caption: "Sick in bed today. I'm hideous."


17 comments, 16 of which tell Jenny how beautiful she is, 1 hoping she'd feel better.

This has been my entire existence up until this point. 21 years of only 8 likes whereas those around me seem to be flocked with admiration.

Are you ready for story time?

Growing up, I was the fat kid. Of course, the fat kid never realizes she's the fat kid until someone points it out to her. In the first grade, some kid pulled my seat out from under me at the computer desk. I fell on my butt and he and my class laughed. He called me a beached whale. Kids can be so cruel.

My weight did not decrease as life went on. In seventh grade I changed over from sweat pants ("only fat kids wear sweat pants") to jeans. I thought it was average that I was a size 15 at age 11. In the 7th grade, on a day that I looked especially pretty, trying to impress the boy that I had my eye on, I got nervous and ate all the food I could in the cafeteria. Halfway through the class I sat next to him, I threw up french fries all over the floor and my clothes.

Later that same year, 7th grade, in an effort to keep with government regulated Physical Education, they weighed every girl in the class. At age 12, I weighed in at 179 pounds and a height of five foot, one inch. I ran the slowest mile in the class, clocking in at 15:39, every step aching my legs. Misery found me. The only days I felt better were the days that I was picked up from school by my dad, with a soda and a boxed cherry pie.

Halfway through the summer after that year, I realized I needed to make a change. I cut out soda. I cut out the pies. I cut and cut and cut. I took my dogs for walks.

I returned to school in 8th grade at 160 pounds. But still that year I was not considered pretty enough to be a lead in the school play. I was Pageboy 3. By the time 9th grade rolled around, I was 145 pounds. Things were looking up, I felt healthier. I got two lead roles that year.

In 10th grade, after suffering a year of depression, I was 125 pounds and my mile was 10:54. But despite all this growth, I was still not pretty enough for the guy that I liked to even pay attention to me. No one told me I was pretty. I was Pageboy 2 this time. Misery again.

The end of my senior year found me at 113 pounds. Five foot, one and 113 pounds and a 9:13 minute mile. No one to love me, still. And no one who admired by beauty.

I remember the first time in my life that I ever felt pretty. It was Senior prom. I arrived in my A-line, black and white ball gown, with my hair up high in a $50 hair style. You could see my shoulder blades and my arms didn't jiggle when I walked. I walked into prom and walked around the second floor with my friends, only to have every eye on me. Five people told me I looked beautiful, and just stared at me with awe.

As if they couldn't believe that ugly little Chelsea could actually look like a beautiful woman.

For the first time in my life, I felt pretty.

That feeling is rare in me.

All throughout my first two years of college, I felt anything but pretty. My weight escalated again, eventually finding me at 135 pounds at the beginning of my Junior year. I had decided by this point that beauty was more than skin deep, something I still wholeheartedly believe.

I am beautiful. Even if I'm not always pretty.

At the end of my Junior year, that's when I felt pretty again. It was a more than average day, a wonderful day. At one point, a selfie was taken of me and the person I was with at the pier at the beach. And when I saw that picture, I was blown away by how pretty I looked in it. How pretty I felt. It's amazing how the people you're with can make you feel as if you're the most beautiful girl in the world.

Since then, the feeling was fleeting from now and then. And then a few days ago, having lost some 25 pounds in the last few months, something happened. I went to work, wearing a new eyeliner and put a smile on my face. The first person I saw just looked at me and said "Wow, you look really nice today." I'm brushed them off as if they were making fun of me, something I'm afraid happens more than not. But, here's the weird part: Every single person I worked with that day called me really pretty. Some tried to figure out what was different about me. And the answer was nothing. I am still me.

But I felt pretty. My ego boosted.

And this happened again the next day. And the day after. For three days in a row, every single person that I work with has called me pretty. And I don't know how to take it.

What has changed with me?

I'm the same old Chelsea.

But for some reason the reflection that I've always seen in the mirror seems to be reflecting outwards. More than pretty, lately I feel beautiful.

I still only have 8 likes, but sometimes life is about more than just likes.

it's about self-worth.

Tuesday, June 17, 2014


The title is ironic because I am morally opposed to the World Cup this year. But that's a different story entirely.

This blog actually has some purpose to it right now though.

As we all know, that this recent graduate has absolutely no idea what she wants to do with her life. I have no direction, other than the goal of being a wife and a mother. But I've gotten to thinking lately that that can't be all that's in it for me. For some reason or other, I actually have to do something with my life.

I have to prove myself.

I have to make my daddy proud and be better than my mother before me.

Isn't that every parent's wish? To see their children do better than them. It's already for me--despite not having children yet, or even a person who wishes to procreate with me. I want my children to do better than me, even though I am so young. I want them to have everything that I have not been able to have these past 21 years, including a fighting chance.

But in the mean time, I need to do something for me.

As we all know, I've been misguided for the past few years, having gone through a Creative Writing program that ends with "well, none of my students for XYZ number of years I've been teaching have ever had their works published". Seriously. That's the almost literal words of one of my professors on one of my last classes of 4 years of working towards this goal.

That's such a hard way to end at a school you seemingly wasted $200,000 of student loans on. And then when you graduate, you realize that you have 10 years to pay off all that money plus interest, and seemingly no job options because you definitely chose the wrong major to make any money off of.

I'd be lying if I said I haven't hyperventilated over this idea more than once.

But I'd be lying if I said that writing is truly what I want to do with my life at this point.

It isn't. Not anymore. I had 4 years of being torn down, being told I wasn't good enough by my peers, given little constructive feedback from my professors who would rather watch up grow on our own accord. I've been forced to write, rewrite, and rewrite the rewrite until I'm so fed up with the story becoming different from what I intended it to be. I've given up a piece of me. If anything I need a break. Or to write something for myself other than a blogpost.

Which is one of my new goals. I've decided to start writing at least a page a day of a new story until I finish. I've asked my friends to give me a prompt and I'm just going to start. I will start and then every day I will post it. If I don't, feel free to bust my balls. Feel free to call me out and say "Chelsea, you stupid whore. Write dammit!" I'm going to write a page a day until I finish something. And from there, we'll see where life leads.

But even if I do become a writer, that's not really a career. It can't be right now. I need some sort of goal in order to achieve something.

Which has led me to thinking about my passions. I've always said that I want to make a difference in the world. If only for something small. Then I began to think of all the changes at work that I'd love to see happen. Then I began thinking of all the input I hear from people I work with that rarely make their ways to the tops of the ranks because of a number of different reasons. Then I began thinking that someone needs to listen to these ideas, and maybe Disneyland might be a better place to visit and to work at.

Be the change you wish to see in the world.

I've had this goal before, but I have lost touch with it, in and out, refusing to believe that I'm destined for this type of life. But the more I work, the more I realize that it is inevitable. My goals have solidified themselves today, at some point when I was sitting on the toilet.

I want to be a manager at Disney. More than that, I want to someday be the President of Disneyland.

That's a job. That's a possibility. That's a goal.

This is what I'm setting my sights on. Me and thousands of others. But, someone has to do it. Why not me? I'm strong enough, and I care enough.

There was a quote that I heard yesterday. "If you know what you ultimately want in life then every decision you make from this point on must be in service of that goal."

I'm making this dream my new goal. I'm going to do everything I can in order to achieve it. But I constantly must remind myself, that it is all about the journey, not the destination.

Maybe this will happen, maybe it won't. But I'm sure as hell going to enjoy life up every step of the way. As long as I have a goal, I have something to work towards. Something to fulfill myself with. But I'm not going to get upset if not everything ends up exactly as I plan it. I'm going to say "yes" whenever I can, instead of fighting against it, because you never know what's going to happen. Life is crazy and as soon as you get comfortable it tips you down the stairs and forces you to climb them all over again.

It might happen from where I'm at right now, or it might take time and a new approach. I might have to leave behind what makes me comfortable and start something new.

Who knows?

I certainly don't.

No one does.

And if you do, you should really tell me some things about my life that I'm curious about.

Sunday, June 15, 2014

Emergency Contact: [Blank]

I don't really know where I want to go with this.

The last two weeks have literally been some of the worst two weeks of my life.

Do you ever get the feeling that everything would be better that if just one thing worked out, then everything else would fall into place and seem to suck less (or that you're at least in a better position to take it more positively)? That's where I'm at right now. 

Or how about the feeling that if you were able to just have a hug, a cuddle, and a long cry, you would feel a million times better? That's also where I'm at right now. All I want is to cry. And cry. And cry.

And I guess I have been. Especially the last two days, I have been crying nonstop. When I wake up, as I get ready, during my drive, on my breaks, when I get home, as I lay in the bathtub wanting to drown, and as I go to sleep. That's all I've been able to do.

And I hate that too.

I didn't used to be a sad person. Yes, I've suffered from depression for 7 years, but I haven't been sad. I haven't often thought that giving up on life would be the better alternative. I haven't felt so lost.

I've accomplished so many great things lately. I graduated college. Became a trainer at work. Moved. All wonderful things, and yet they seem to mean nothing to me. And I don't get why. I want them to mean something to them, but when I think of my accomplishments, I think of them as just another action that I'm not able to feel.

I can't feel any of these things no matter how hard I try. They seem to mean nothing to me. All I keep thinking is that I don't have anyone to share these accomplishments with. And what's the point of accomplishing great things if you can't go home and celebrate with people who matter. If you don't have someone to go home and cry to? I was in a car crash the other day and it hit me that I didn't have anyone to help me. What if I had gone to the hospital? No one would have known.

Emergency Contact: [Blank]

Most days lately, I contemplate just moving back home. Giving up on my life here, and moving back home with my mom, the only person in the world I have. But then I scoff at that because I would be miserable at home. I hate home, more than I hate life itself.

I've sacrificed so much over my life time to make it where I am now, and even if it feels like it doesn't matter, I'm not about to just let it go and run home.

Why do bad things happen to good people?

I don't understand that. I am a good person. I've sacrificed so much. I've worked so hard. And yet nothing I work towards seems to work out in my favor. I am always hurt. I am always laughed at. I am always left feeling empty. 

I want to give up.

I just want the pain to stop.

My body has been nonstop killing me the last two weeks. I've had multiple 100* degree fevers, have passed out twice, have thrown up multiple times, suffered three migraines, have literally shit everything in my system out at once, and my spine is committing suicide as we speak. I know I should go to the doctor about this all, but I am too scared, particularly because I have found a lump that I need examined. I don't want to find out the worst. I don't want to know the end is near.

Emergency Contact: [Blank]

Mentality is everything. I'm 100% convinced that cancer only hurts after you find out you have it. Cancer only kills when it's diagnosed and you try to get rid of it. My dad wasn't sick until he found out he had an invader in his lungs. By the end of the summer he was gone.

These are the things I think about on Father's Day at the end of 2 terrible weeks in this life. 
I don't want to die. But living is hard. I don't want to leave behind friends and family, but I wish I had them to enjoy while I'm here.

Emergency Contact: [Blank]

I wish people would stop asking me what I want to do with my life now that I've graduated. Half of the truth is that I don't know. I'm 21 and I'm still young and I have no idea how to take care of myself and make sure I eat breakfast, let alone try and figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life. It's too hard and I can't do it. I have nothing to feel passionate about anymore.

The other half of the truth is that I had a plan. I knew what I was going to do and it was going to make me the happiest person alive. I was going to get married and have kids. That is what would make me happiest. But that's not acceptable from a young woman who earned her BFA in a very short time. It's not like that was all I had planned, but the difference is that nothing else would have mattered as much so long as I had someone in my life to share it with. That was all I cared about. I could've been a writer, or a lawyer, or a librarian or a teacher, or a manager at Disneyland and been perfectly happy, so long as I had someone to love me and stay by my side.

I wish none of this mattered. 

I wish it were easy for me to put a smile on my face, and go on with my day as if nothing else mattered.

But it isn't easy. Nothing good in life comes easy. I know full well that even if that one thing in life did go well all of a sudden, it still wouldn't fix everything else that's wrong with me.

But it certainly would help. 

A hug is all I need. A hug, a cuddle, and a good cry might not fix my problems, but it sure as well would help me feel better.

All I want is someone to fill in that blank beside Emergency Contact and remind me that I am not alone.

Friday, June 6, 2014

Power is Knowledge

I've been on a binge lately.

My problem here is that I'm tired of people with power. This being said, I'm one person with some form of power. But I'm not fed up with me. I'm not fed up with people like me. I'm fed up with the people with power who decide to start believing that they're so much better than everyone else.

I'm sure that there's a statistic out there about the number of people in the world that will go corrupt when they are given power. My guess is that about 90% of people with power will go corrupt at some point, start believing like they are God.

Ok, I Googled it. There is no statistic on the first page. So we're going to go with 90%.

90% of people who are given power will go corrupt.

I tread this ground carefully. I'm in a position of power right now. I've worked extremely hard for a number of years to get to this point. And even if I stand in it, I begin to wonder if it was worth all that hard work.

Do you ever have those moments where you want something so badly, but once you do get that thing, it's not as amazing as you thought it would be? I don't say that I hate what I'm doing. Not in the slightest. I love it.

I love it because I feel like I can actually make a difference. Isn't that what working hard and having power is for? Making a positive difference in the world around you?

But too often today, I see the opposite.

I see the people who should be making the difference still fighting it out, trying to prove their worth by jumping through worthless hoops that will mean nothing. I see people who aren't mature enough for their power, but who want to make a difference, getting their power, but getting too swept up in the game that they had been playing before.

That game ends.

At least it should.

But too many people are still playing that game, or better yet, trying to get others to play the game because they think it's fun. People with power love to be idolized. They love to think of themselves as something greater than the sack of fat, flesh, bone, and water that they actually are. They put themselves on a pedestal and then expect others to do the same.

Remember when the whole Bill Clinton/ Monica Lewinsky thing happened? Cuz I don't. I was a baby at that point. Bill Clinton, a great man, a fearless leader, got too swept up with his power and position as president that he loved the feeling of being idolized. He toyed around, got loyal followers, and was able to watch them perform like circus animals.

I see that happening so much to people I know and care about now.

And all I have to say is that that is bullshit. Absolute bullshit.

There is no need to force people who want to be doing something great to do a meaningless task. If you're someone who's trying to work their way up in the world, my biggest advice is not to let people take advantage of you. It can happen in a variety of different ways. They can tell you that you need to chase your tail round and round in circles and that is the only true way to prove your worth. Sometimes, you might be pressured into uncomfortable situations, physically, sexually, or mentally. GET YOURSELF OUT of that situation. Immediately. If you're feeling pressured and abused, is that really something that you want to be a part of?

But next, I want to talk to the people like me, the people in power. But I want to talk to the other 10% of people.

Do you remember when you were young, before you had your powers? Do you remember all of the changes you wanted to make in the system? Do you remember thinking "man, if I get up there, all of this is going to change"?

Dude, why haven't you fucking changed everything?

If you noticed something needed a change a long time ago, chances are, it still needs to change. If you've jumped through the hoops to prove yourself and become a person of power, but you haven't done a thing to change these situations, then there is something wrong with you. Something so completely wrong. You can preach one thing and practice another.

But more importantly, to those of you who have lost their way, I want you to remember this: YOU ARE NOT GOD. YOU ARE A SACK OF MEAT, COMPROMISED OF FLESH, BONE, AND WATER. THAT'S IT. You are no greater than anyone else within a 100 miles of yourself. In fact, sometimes you are worse.

If you hold a position of power and you decide to make other people jump through hoops for your own enjoyment, you are a disgrace. If you have ever forced someone to physically, mentally, or SEXUALLY please you, telling them that that's the only way up to the top, then fuck you. I've been that person, sexually abused, being told that that is how you make it up with the big boys, and it's the worst. Like, actually. Because you feel like it's a trap.

If you hold a position of power, and you are a sleazebag, then you need to take a step back and reevaluate your life. If you think it's funny to make fun of people for being somehow "less" than you, if you think it's amusing to put people in uncomfortable sexual situations because you have some sort of fetish, then you deserve nothing more than the deepest pit of hell. If you've let the people around you change who you are, you need to fucking remember who the fuck you were. You need to remember the person you were, the person full of hope, and you need to get the hell away from the people around you and become that person again.

I repeat: You are nothing more than a sack of meat compromised of flesh, bone and water.

The person next to you, no matter who they are, no matter who you are, is exactly the same: A sack of meat compromised of flesh, bone and water.

The first step is acceptance.

What I really, REALLY don't get is why we, as the people who are somehow "less" than those of power (again, we're all made up of the same inside stuff) accept this type of treatment. I don't get it. We don't try and do something about it because "that's just the way he is" or "that's the way the world works". We sit idly by while people who are corrupt try to corrupt us. And we let them. All because we remain silent.

Does that make us corrupt in a way? By silence? I'm not sure.

All I know is that with what I have, I am not going to change myself. I absolutely refused to stop fighting for what I believe in and to make the changes that I see fit right now. Because if I noticed them to be a legitimate problem now, then there is no doubt in the world that it actually is.

And I will stop at nothing to get this done. Unlike the other 90%.

#endrant #butnotreally