Extending into Infinity

College feels like ages ago.

I have been acting as an adult for almost nine months now. I've been paying my own bills for about six of those months. Well, six months next month. It hasn't really been that long of a time, but the days of hiking around UNT and attending the classes I couldn't wait to be done with feels as if they are years in the past, rather than a few paltry months.

It hit even closer to home recently, I suppose. One of our little group, our close-knit friendship, is moving on. It's weird to think that now we can't just hang out whenever it strikes our fancy. But, this is life. This is growing up, and growing up sucks.

I can't say I regret throwing myself into the world as early on as I did. I am damn proud of myself for getting through college in four years instead of six like so many people I know. I am even prouder that I did it with honors, and then got a job a few weeks after graduation. I busted my ass to be where I am now. To some, I probably am not really far at all, but I like to think I've accomplished a great deal in the past few months.

I am twenty-two years old. I have a job, a car, and a place to live. I live 300 or so miles away from my closest family. There have been times when it has felt like hell. But do I regret the choices I have made? No, not really. I have so much else wrong in my head that there is no room for regret. In this one thing, I am sure of myself.

Lately, in spite of this attitude, life has felt fucked up.

I think I may be destined to self-destruct. There's a switch in there that is wobbling and teetering, tied to an invisible wire that something is tugging at relentlessly. I have been here before. Even in the halcyon days I was here at one time. Even if we could go back to those days, it would be the same. I have to remind myself of this as we all grow and move on with life. There is no perfection that we have ever reached or can reach. Perfection is an illusion of the rosy glasses with which we view our pasts. I am no different now.

If there was a point in any of this, I think I've lost it.

A Peek into the Past

No picture on this one. I can't think of one that would fit, and I really can't be bothered right now. I should be sleeping, but my brain will not stop whirling and diving into self-destroying circles. This blog is for me, and so I will use it and hope it will help me get some sleep.

Part of my personality defects lies in my inability to let the past go. I hold on to things for a long time. It's stupid, but it's not something I have ever been able to control. Things that happened years ago still find a way of snaking around back to me. It drives me utterly batshit.

But, I suppose I am a product of the things that still bother me, and perhaps they still have a hold on my current mental condition. Certainly they are a big part of why I am socially retarded.

To understand, my dear readers (my roommate, and the ginger), a little more about me, let's take a look at specific things that bother me today.

I had a shitty social life as a child

I am not referring to anything my parents did, no. They both loved me and I grew up in a stable home. I had a big brother who did what all big brother's do. My family has nothing to do with this.

I honestly can't remember a time when I wasn't painfully shy. I know there had to have been a point when I was a wee little fat kid (well I still am a fat kid) in elementary school that I still stubbornly held on to the hope that I might be capable of making friends. I had a few off-and-on friends.

I also had entire groups of kids calling me names. I didn't have a thick of enough skin, and it's ruined me for life, I think. I never got the thick skin my parents told me I needed. I grew and we went from name calling to other things.

Shoes thrown at me in gym class. Nails dug into my arm. Someone pushing me down the concrete stairs on the way to the buses--and then so many people laughing when I started to cry. (It's funny when the fat girl falls, right?) Things thrown at me while I was on the bus until I sat in the front. Then things thrown at me from the windows of the bus while it was pulling away.

Kids laughing when I destroyed my left knee.

Boys betting each other to ask the fat chick out as some big joke. The boy I liked in high school agreeing--after I got the courage to ask him--to go to that stupid fucking Winter Dance with me only because he knew my hotter friend was going. The group of kids who took my walker--I have no balance and couldn't use crutches at that point--and threw it into the middle of the cafeteria after I had surgery.

For my entire life, my peers essentially told me I was shit. And I believed it. It is my fault for believing it. It is my fault for still believing it. But please refer to my previous entry about depression. This, too, is like drowning.

I have this bad habit of getting really attached to people who treat me like a human being--especially those of the opposite gender. I think that plays a large part in why I liked the boys I did in high school. It's why I make such a big deal out of something so simple as a guy opening a door for me. It's nice to be looked at as a person, instead of a big steaming sack of shit. Which is how I think the rest of the world sees me.

Hell, I don't even like me. I hate the person I am and the person I'm becoming. I still don't know how to behave around people, and I have a huge disliking for social gatherings. I would rather hide in my car during my lunch break and read than run the risk of having to try to gather what little scraps of social ability I have to jump into a conversation. Large groups of people make me nervous.

I was the type of kid who, at recess, would find a corner to read. My parents would tell me to go outside, and I'd take my book and climb a tree to read out there. Trying to make friends and be active was too much. Far too much.

During my last year of college, I'd hit the gym with my best friend. I couldn't have done it without her, because I couldn't stand the thought of being around so many people like that. The fuck puppets who thought I was disgusting because I'm so fat--and I am disgusting--yet also looked at me like I was a moron for trying to loose weight in front of their delicate eyes.

Honestly, even if I was skinnier, I wouldn't be happier. I would still have this shit personality, and this stupid fucking mental problem. It's a problem that sucks the life out of me and has me dwell on shit that happened long ago. I hate that I can't seem to be happy. Even when I'm having a good time, it's there. Yesterday I was perfectly happy at my friend's house, and then I almost cried over something stupid. It was instant.

I hate myself. I absolutely hate myself. I am twenty-two fucking years old, college educated, and gainfully employed AND I HATE MYSELF.

I always have.

And right now, I feel like I'm losing the fight.

How Nerds Exercise

The picture is kind of dark, but you should be able to guess what it is. Yes, ladies and gentlmen, it is a DDR mat. (For those who might not know, this is Dance Dance Revolution.)

Exercising isn't fun for most people--I say most because there are those out there who do enjoy it--and I, obviously, don't particularity like it myself. When I was still in college I had a glorious rec center to visit, and I did make use of it despite the stigma involved.

When you are fat, people don't want to actually see you working out. Well, I don't know how it is for males, but this is true for fat females. At least, in my experience it is. You are subjected to staring, laughter, disparaging comments from those around you, and shitty treatment at the hands of the gym staff. These are the same people who make comments about fat people needing to exercise--get on the treadmill or something like that.

Granted, I had friendly support for my gym days and learned to ignore the assholes working out around me. I took the general attitude that the females were most likely what Christopher Moore termed as "fuck puppets" in one of his books. I think it might have been A Dirty Job. I'll double check the quote at another time. Point is, these little gym bunnies could very well go screw themselves for all I care.

Now that I have graduated and left my wonderful gym behind, I have nothing more than the little room with the meager offerings at my apartment complex. This gym is a nice thing to have, but when there are only two treadmills (one of which is always busted), one elliptical, a bike, and a modest weight set, it's not exactly the easiest thing to work out in. There are usually people filling the place, and honestly, I have lost what confidence I once had.

So, my roommate and I agreed to do something a little different and a lot more fun. We walk around the complex (me with weights in hand). We can make it around 3 and a half times in 30 minutes. We also decided to break out our DDR mats and follow the arrows to weight loss. It is imminently more fun than going to the gym, and it burns more than the walk.

Tonight was discouraging. Oh, we are both out of shape.

DDR was made for people like us, though. Nerds who want to exercise without leaving their dark little cave. In our case, this is our apartment. Couple the DDR with the laundry I had to do--3 trips up and down 3 flights of stairs--and I figure we had a pretty successful run. Granted, I still cannot do that well at Butterfly. Damn you, smile.dk!!!

Frankly, I don't care how lame it might make me. I like it, and it's fun. It also probably annoys the ever living crap out of my downstairs neighbors.

Photo Unrelated

Depression has been on my mind a lot lately. It's not just because I've been wallowing in it for so long, though that certainly plays a part in considering the subject itself. Today, in particular, I was dwelling on it while trying to get through a rather insipid day of work. A friend of mine called me out on never opening up, and I realized that I really don't. I have one close friend who hears more than she should have to, but even she doesn't ever get the whole story. My parents don't, either. I keep it bottled up inside, because, frankly, I'm rather ashamed of it.

When you go through so much of your life upset for no apparent reason, it gets old for you and the people around you. Sadness without cause is tiresome. It's hard even for me to understand, and I am the one stuck in the rut that is only controlled by prescription medication, and, even then, it feels like it is failing more often than not.

To put this into a little perspective, depression is like drowning. You wake up and it's a gamble on whether or not you're okay and breathing, or you're sinking and suffocating on the dark waters that have you trapped. I wake up and I'm fine, or I wake up and I want to cry. On the most extreme days, I wake up wondering what I am doing breathing in the first place. I can start the day fine and then crash and burn in a particularly bright spray of self-loathing and embarrassing "woe is me" moments that have left physical scars in the past. Yes, this sounds more bi-polar, does it not?

Here's the catch: even when I'm fine, I'm not fine. It's always there, ready to be triggered by something trivial, or ready to jump up without an invitation (okay, well, it doesn't ever have an invitation). Is there a reason for me to feel sad? Most of the time, no.

You can see, my non-existent readers, why I wouldn't want to burden anyone with something as aimless as this. I can't help it, but I still feel like it is my fault. Yes, I probably need to find therapy in addition to the anti-depressants, but I do not have that kind of disposable income. So I have to rely on friends and family to keep me afloat, and, for some reason, I hate doing that. Truthfully, I don't really feel like I'm worth it.

The cycle begins again.

I don't usually apply my life to songs, but if I had to do it at all, Ida Maria's "Oh My God" seems to be a perfect fit as of late. It is highly appropriate that it was the trailer theme for the film It's Kind of a Funny Story, which I related to far more than I'd like to admit.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=naQSB1Ozyds

Oh, and about the photo. Sunrises are new beginnings. Okay, so that is really a load of crap that I can't make myself write. It was pretty, that's all.

This is not a food blog

I spent the entire day in my pajamas, watching The Stand on SyFy. One day I will actually tackle the book, but right now I think I’m more content to stare at Rob Lowe and Gary Sinise and drool my fool head off. Yeah, they don’t like look that now, but like that matters. I can be as bad as most men when it comes to when it comes to the opposite gender. I’m all for equal-opportunity objectification.

That’s not the point, though. No it is not.

This is probably the third or fourth time I’ve tried to blog on the public circuit. The first time…I can’t remember. The last however was called something along the lines of “Project Don’t be Such a Fucking Fatass.” I stopped blogging on that one a long time ago. Probably about when I gained back every last pound I had lost during gym trips when I was still in college (I say this like it’s been more than a mere seven months). That had to have been the most depressing day ever. I got on the scale and look at what being lazy and stuffing my face got me. But I digress.

I got bored of sticking to a theme. I have no aim with this one. I just want to spill my guts a little bit. Maybe family will read it. Maybe friends will read it. Thing is, I don’t really care I suppose. This is more about getting things out that I want to have more visibility than my very private and locked down personal blog does. Maybe you’ll learn something—though probably not. At the very least, you’ll get a perspective from a fat girl who has a healthy dose of anti-depressants to keep her sane.

I need to get back into the habit of writing again—more than just blogs like this—and this is my start.

There will be good days, there will be bad days, and there will be “what the eff” days. Welcome to my world. It should be fun.