A Depressing (But Non-Valentine's Day Related!) Post

Oh Blogosphere-

There is so much that I want to say to you, yet so much holds me back. I know that underneath it all, though you seem really friendly and welcoming, you really are an interweb portal to all sorts of unknown people and absolutely anybody in the world could access you at any time. Knowing that keeps me from spilling my guts to you, though I want to. You aren't my diary: I have to remind myself of that often. In fact, I have a diary, or a journal, if you will. I have several of them. I don't need to spill my guts here.

But what can I say, when my life has been spiralling completely out of control, when these past 5 or 6 weeks have been so terribly difficult, when I have spent every day treading water, simply trying to keep my head above the current, and getting splashed over and hit square in the face with another wave of salty sea water every time that I think I've started to make some progress.

Am I drowning?

Is God trying to tell me something?

I feel that usual frustration return to me, the frustration directed at everyone in my life, most especially God, and none of it toward myself, the person that really deserves the brunt of it.

Why are they doing this to me? I ask. Do they mean to be mean? Do they care that they are hurting my feelings? And- why did I do that? It was their fault. They made me do it, by making me feel this way. It's not supposed to feel this way. Why doesn't he like me? I need him to like me, but he'll never like me now, not after what I did. I just want her to be my friend again, my best friend, but the more I hold onto her, the more she starts to slip away. I can't even look at myself in the mirror. I feel sick. If I pass this semester, it will be a miracle. I just want to go home, to get out of here. I need something, something to make me feel okay. I thought I was doing better, I thought I was feeling better. Why, God, when I just walked out of that desert, would you lead me back into yet another one? Will I ever be out of the desert?

It's all falling apart, but when is it not? I feel ashamed, about almost everything about me, everything that I have done, everything that I am. I told a friend Sunday night, "I thought I had more self-respect for myself than this." I really did. But it turns out, I don't.

Why do I feel exactly like I'm fifteen years old again? I'm nearly nineteen; life wasn't supposed to feel this way anymore.

What do I even have? I look down at my hands: they are empty. What do I even have anymore? "It really hits me now/ If this is all I got/ Then I'm alone with nothing."

Monastir said it right. "Life Is Long When You're Lonely."

*I just finished writing this and then realized it was Valentine's Day. I truly didn't mean to be so depressing on V-Day. That's honestly just really hugely coincidental.

*One very good thing about my life recently: one of my most favorite friends came to visit for the weekend, from Buffalo, and I got to see her lots and it was absolutely wonderful.

Mainers

My relatives from Maine are a strange assembly of people. I could do a really long, detailed post about it and analyze exactly how growing up with this bunch of characters affected my father and how that, in turn, affected me. Not gonna do it though. I just want to give you a brief rundown of my family right now:

Conrad: My father. Average-sized man. Full head of hair. White goatee. Tells bad jokes. Drinks coffee with three creams and three sugars. Quotes a lot of Bible verses. Doesn't understand almost any pop culture references, even a little bit.

Tammy: My father's sister. Redneck Ellen DeGeneres.

Roland: Second son. Construction worker. Kills deer, and moose, sometimes. He fell off a roof last February and his left eye still looks smaller to me, like the swelling never went down. Gruff.

Rick: Born Ricky. Legally changed to Jonah. Hairdresser turned banker. Loves his iPhone more than any person should. Flamboyant. Lives in two bedroom apartment with one ex-boyfriend, one fat chihuaha and...well I don't really know what else.

Steve: Unemployed. Divorcing. Beet-red face, from being outside all the time. Beer and cigarettes. Misses his kids. Loves my little white dog. Lives with my Nanna now. Crier.

These are my father and his siblings. They all grew up with an alcoholic lobsterman father and a mother who was probably too young. Now, they are all so very very different from each other. They all live in Maine, except my father, who got religion and went to Gordon College in Massachusetts, became a youth pastor and married the assistant youth leader.

Seeing them all in the same room together is very odd. They get along well enough. My dad is just talkative; he will talk to anybody. Uncle Rick is that gay man we all know: hysterical, probably should use a filter more often. Aunt Tammy makes everyone laugh. Uncle Roland never cracks a smile: he's got that deadpan sense of humor that's kind of scary till you're used to it. Uncle Steve teases everyone, like a child, maybe because he doesn't know how to be a grown up, maybe because it's easier not to take anything seriously. My Nanna bustles around trying to feed everyone and treats them as if they were still little kids, saying things in her backwoods Maine grammar, like, "You gettin' into trouble Connie?" to my father, or "If you wasn't so busy watching that foolish television, maybe your food would still be hot, Steven." They all laugh and joke and fool. To mask the pain, to mask how hard it is, for them all to get together and put aside their issues and their memories and their huge, gaping differences and get along.

I wish I had a conclusion to draw, or even one measly thought to offer up on all I've just written. I don't really. It's just, interesting that's all.