stupid people

I always get caught up in relationships, caring about every detail and tripping over every little mistake blaming myself for the petty problems caused by over thinking.

If caring too much was a disease then i’m bed ridden with the infection. I throw around my mental stability as if it were a bowling ball hoping to find someone worth everything I have already put out. Yet somehow I always end up running into a dead end filled with dead beats who blow smoke in and out of their hollow souls, leaving me with nothing but anguish and burnt lungs from the left over taste of their memories and mistakes.

I’ve found that it’s not always my fault, I’m not the only reason it didn’t work out. It was’t my favorite color, and I don’t need to dye my hair, I did brush my teeth that morning and NO she’s not better than me. You’re okay, it’s his fault and her fault it’s your fault and their fault. If life was a puzzle and you were the one piece in the middle, people are going to try and fit with you and maybe it will take four months for you to figure out that they don’t fit there but their is somebody who fits in that spot. Don’t keep pushing the same puzzle piece into the wrong place.

Do not spend your whole life trying to figure out why that one person wasn’t right for you, move on. Find the puzzle pieces that do fit, don’t waste time on the ones that don’t. People are stupid and it’s not always your fault.

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Explanations

I was planning on posting this someday when I had tons of fans and followers and people who really read my posts and admired my blog and took my advice but lately I’ve been asked the same two questions over and over again, so here are my short explanations.

“Why did you title your blog ‘Allaboutbeingalive.’?” I made my blog one night when I was home alone and found out that it is virtually possible to make a blog. I kept asking myself what is it that I will be posting on here? Will I talk only about my past or about all of my exes? Will I make it a daily diary? What if it’s about my best friend? Should it be poetry? Maybe fiction? Then I thought why not all of it. I told myself I’ll disguise the names except mine that way I can show people I know and have proof that it’s mine. It’s going to be all about my life, scratch that, it’s going to be all about being alive.

“Why are there no spaces between the words in the title of your blog?” and here’s my answer to that, When was the last time life gave you space?

Lets never forget the forgotten revelation of death

As we got older and our generation became more and our knowledge became less we forgot that we die. That death is inevitable.

I can still remember the exact day my aunt died. But I try not to, I try to think about the sweet peach tea she would make on hot summer days as me and my cousins ran back an forth between the apartment and the pool, trailing along the water and sweat that would drip from our swimming suits as we tried to beat the heat. I remember the way she smelled like cough drops and my grandmas perfume. The way she held her purse and hugged me as if I was a teddy bear. I can still hear her voice high pitched with happiness as she brought her face close to mine “DON’T WE LOOK JUST ALIKE, SHE’S MY TWINNY TWIN TWIN.” She would say with a drunken laughter. I can still see her huddled in the corner of her bedroom with the thin blue rope tied tightly around her arm and the one needle that poked out of her skin. I remember the smell of smoke that would trail behind her. I remember the way she held her purse closely against her side using my body and existence as a police proof shell.

So I try not to think about her, I try to only remember the things I knew back then. I try to see it the way I saw it back in fifth grade. She loved me I knew that and I still do. But she was hurting and I’m trying to never hurt that badly.

Forgotten thoughts

I once told a friend, “I wish I could give you all my memories, lend you my eyes and let you see the world through my point of view. Because maybe then you would forgive me for not being sorry.” 

The one thought I have most often is the worry that nobody understands me. I will never be able to ask some one for advice and know if this is the correct thing to do because nobody has lived my life. Nobody has sat on the domino’s of my choices, living with the ripple effect of every decision whether I was happy with where I had fallen or not. At first, I found this as a bad thing, a terrifying truth. I would lay in bed thinking; nobody will ever know the painful turn in my stomach that I felt the night you told me I wasn’t yours and you weren’t mine. They will never feel the fear that sat at the bottom of an empty pill bottle and blossomed in the pit of my stomach. They wont remember the night I crawled down the stairs holding my stomach in pain needing nothing more than a bottle of water to help wash down the acid. They can’t say they know how I felt sleeping in an unknown bed miles away from home with a wall between me and the girl who saw my fate. They can’t tell me what it was like falling out of love with you, and the blurs of the high school walls that day are something they will never recall.

Then I woke up, I opened my eyes and I saw my thought in a brighter light. No one will ever remember the excitement and freedom I felt running down the midnight street with your hand clasped tightly around mine. Nobody will remember the sound of pebbles bouncing off your bedroom window. They weren’t there the night my best friend led me down the alley next to her house, holding my hand as I balanced myself onto a log and looked over the fence separating the two neighborhoods and the city lights that would shine through her window late at night. They can never say they know what it’s like to fall in love with you. They don’t remember the day we hid potatoes around the hospital, and they will never recall the time we ran down the hallways passing each class as if it were a blur of wasted time.

So, maybe you are alone. Because I wasn’t there for your first heartbreak, and I won’t be there when your falling onto your floor drowning in your own tears. But I wasn’t there when you fell in love and I won’t be there when you feel the warm happy feeling in your stomach for the first time. It’s all yours, every memory and every forgotten thought; the only thing that can never be stolen.

Meaningful

My biggest fear; Loosing meaning. Laying on my death bed with the realization that I didn’t mean anything. I didn’t build anything or break anything, I just went through life following the rules only to become another head stone in a graveyard of unknown meaningless people with lives that are long forgotten.

But none of this has made me feel any more meaningful. The back of the cop car lacked the since of accomplishment I was seeking. The way you touched me meant nothing to me when that was the only thing we ever seemed to be doing, and the quick exchange of money threw sketchy car windows never brought me any closer to feeling the way I so badly longed to feel. Because the thin lined scars that I was promised would make me feel something never did and for too long I was numb. But the longer I stayed around I realized none of these people had meaning. The scrawny boy in the back just keep telling the same joke over and over while new people walked into his life just to laugh then leave. The girl who wore too many sweaters dyed her hair vibrant colors to hide how meaningless she really felt. And the sketchy kids who lingered in the hallway only felt meaning when popping the new pill on the street.

So I started to wonder if I would ever be meaningful or if I would always be that girl who walked in the room and everybody suddenly knew everything about her. Buts that’s when I found it. Meaning is never hiding, its never something you have to go looking for its right in front of you. Because meaning is your Saturday nights and whether you fall asleep with a smile on your face or surround by doughnuts from the morning before. Meaning is the one thing that separates happy people from sad people. So I found it, not inside of pill bottles or written on the backseat of a cop car, it wasn’t etched on a lighter and I couldn’t steal it from a store.

It was everywhere and no where at the same time. It was the smile after a laugh, and the adrenaline rush of small kisses, it was etched in the bottom of my best friends pool on late summer nights, it was hiding in my dreams, and buried in between the lines of sweet nothings you whispered into my ear. Memory after memory, I realized I had meaning, I had never lost it and I never needed to find it.

What was your name again?

I remember when we sat in your room and you told me you still liked to play dolls I told you I did too. It’s been at least two years since that day and I still haven’t seen you as of then.

last night I got a text from an unmarked number and when I found out it was you the first thing I wondered was if you still played dolls. Have you grown up too or did you stay still and wait for somebody to break your heart and hand you a lighter. I’m never sure how to approach someone I haven’t talked to in a long time. Do I tell you everything that has happened since the day you told me you still played dolls or do I start off with last year when my life really began. Or do I lie and just tell you I’ve missed you.

The countless amounts of play-dates taught me what a real friend was. Who stayed when you felt sick and watched movies they didn’t like. So I remember when you looked at me biting your bottom lip as your eyes gazed over and I could see the wheels in your brain turning as you thought about what to tell me. But I didn’t stay around because I didn’t have time for you to try and get your brain to work and I wasn’t sure I wanted you to tell me whether you still played dolls or not. My life was more interesting than any story you were about to tell me.

That’s when I found out I was a terrible friend. I didn’t want to stay when you were sick, or watch movies I didn’t like. I wanted to keep moving to keep living and when doing that I held you back from the life you truly wanted to live, and for that i’m sorry.

What if okai wasn’t okai

Days, weeks, months, years. Maybe, do I even remember years am I old enough to remember years. No, I remember last year. I don’t remember last week. I remember falling asleep upside down on the small couch outside the room where I had a bed all by myself but was to afraid to sleep in a room. I remember laying there upstairs with the whole house to myself but not wanting to move, not having the energy. I remember thinking maybe if I dye my hair he will pay more attention to me. Maybe if I lie she will think I’m cool. Eventually the dye became permanent and the lie became a truth I still hide.

I think I’m okai. I think I’m better. and don’t ask me if that’s enough because I’m still not sure. I’m still thinking. I think I love you. I think your helping me. Just please don’t leave. I’m sorry I’m still scared. I know its in the past. I know I’m not in the hospital anymore. But during class my phone still vibrates every Thursday at 1:50 pm to remind me to get ready for my counseling appointment. And I still have my room mates name tag taped on the wall above my bed and I know you told me to take it down and to turn off the alarm. But even if I did I promise at 1:50 pm I would still feel the vibration of my phone and at 3am when I can’t sleep I will still see the name tag taped up even though I know its buried deep in the trash along with every memory you ever left me with.

So I guess you could say I’m okai. Because last week I didn’t come back from the hospital and tape up my room mates name tag and today during class I didn’t set an alarm to remind me I had a counseling appointment. But sometimes I still think what if, What if in a week it all comes crashing down again just like it did exactly a year ago? and I wont act like I forgot what you would tell me late at night when what if crept up on my happy thoughts leaving me with a sleep less night and a day of anxiety but its hard to listen to you when your not still here holding my hand like you promised you always would. And what if you were still here would you still even care? But it’s like you said “what if, what if didn’t exist.”

Standing still

Life is a race, I’m not sure what we are racing to, whether its death or something beyond that. All I know is we are all racing towards a final destination. We are given a path to follow the day we are born; some of us stay on the yellow brick road, most of us don’t. 

During our journey to wherever it is that we are going we meet people, people we want to punch in the face and people we want to cuddle up with. I remember when I first met you, running towards the end of adolescents, you made promises you never kept. You walked with me towards the very end and when you left I couldn’t manage to go on without you. I couldn’t see myself continuing without you beside me holding my hand and whispering sweet nothings into my ear to keep me going when I felt like giving up. So I fell down right where I last saw you and dug a hole of ‘safety’.

I filled my escape with memory’s and fears. It took months to find out that just because I was standing still didn’t mean everybody else was. I had mistaken the sound of footsteps above me for friendly voices. The day I realized people were moving and living and continuing their lives while I hid away hoping the hollow ground would keep me safe was when I realized I was hurting myself more than your last words to me ever did.

So don’t stand still. Don’t dig a hole and hide away with fears and memory’s. Keep going, I know its different and a lot more scary once they are gone and I cant promise, you will ever feel the same way again but I can promise you this; hiding away and stopping your life to grieve for somebody who doesn’t even care to be in your life anymore is not a sufficient way to live.

“you don’t understand.”

People are always getting mad at me for telling them “You don’t understand.”

You get so used to me being a dumb bottle blonde whose hair is a little too damaged, to realize that my hair isn’t the only part of me damaged. You start to listen to me, read what I write and look into my eyes when I speak. You cant understand how the girl making you question every life decision you’ve ever made is the same girl who asked what Obama’s’ last name was.

I don’t expect people to pay attention to me. I’m sorry for making you think and for lying about how smart I really am. I’ll let you in on something big; I’ve never wanted to be this way. I write down my thoughts for you hoping to pass them on let them escape and leave me alone. Day and night I lay awake pondering life. Wondering why he left. How did I fall for her lies. Why am I so stupid. Wishing I didn’t get away with everything. Hoping to get caught so I can be stopped. I promise, I don’t want to live this life but when the life you think I’m living is chasing me away I have no where else to go because you locked me out and now my escape plan has been ruined so I run around spilling drinks, catching fire to curtains and crying loudly hoping that you hear.

I’m sorry for hurting you. I’m sorry for hurting myself. I never realized you cared. I never realize anybody cares. and maybe in the high of the night I can convince myself you meant it last time you told me you loved me, but I always wake up knowing that your love has no meaning towards me. So next time I speak to you listen closer and read between the lines because before you label me as stupid try to remember some people hide between the black and white boundary’s of their story.