How to Kiss

I don't know why I'm writing this. Maybe it's because I had Starbucks with Grace Kelly and I wanted to brag about it. #thisisnotametaphor Maybe it's because the sun set and now depression is settling in like a housewife watching reruns of Downtown Abbey on Sunday afternoon. And even though people say I can "call them anytime," I'm too scared to reach out with these arms that want so much more than words words words.

And I'm chilled to the bone. The world looks dark when I finally get out of bed and glance out the window. The headlights are blinding. And I keep telling myself I'm so sad.

And the printer keeps printing on those lazy days. And when it stops, it says "Load printer with plain white paper, then press okay." But why does the paper have to be plain? And why does the paper have to be white? Because when I'm printing those wedding announcements on red paper, red stands for sin sin sin. The color of paper has a hell of a lot of responsibility.

And we all know I had a Britney moment. You can even search that shit on Facebook. But if Britney survived 2007, you can wake up without pressing the snooze button this morning. Or so the story goes.

Depression has strangled you over the years, but he lets go sporadically enough that you're still living. Sometimes you call him "dipshit" for short, just to make yourself feel better. Even though your clever nickname isn't that much shorter than the diagnosis itself. You're trying so hard. You're doing everything Ashleigh tells you to. You're spending hours a day working on all of those therapeutic assignments. You're grabbing at your throat gasping for air. You're writing a book no one's reading. You're singing a song called love love love but you skim over the title like you skim your milk. And you tell yourself the calories aren't worth it. And people tell you to start writing a new book halfway through. Start over your life story. To start singing a new song when you've just started belting out the chorus, shitfaced singing karaoke at the bar. But it isn't that easy. Load the printer, press okay. Press alignment page face down on the copier, press okay. Repeat: It is not that easy.

Shit shit I started to write this about how to kiss. But I got so distracted.

She leans in. You lean in. And you fucking kiss her.

I'm so sorry.

letters never sent.

(Lololololol dying. Whatever the hell you quote, make sure you do it on vintage wallpaper.)

Dear you, you, and you,

I never thought I would send you a letter before I texted you back. Before I called. Before we had another conversation. Note: This is not a conversation. I am doing all the talking, and whether you listen or not, there is no room for any more interruptions. 

What I remember about you: skin skin skin skin. Sweat. I have starved myself. I have cut myself. But I strangled my heart in the chase for your collarbones and it cut deeper than my razor.

And it's one of those days where you listen to the music of the broken dishes. And when you write reminders on your lover's hand, you're caught looking at blurred ink the next day on your throat.. This is what the romance novels call passion, porn calls S&M, and the police call abuse.

I'm not asking you to leave God behind. I'm asking you to purchase a plane ticket. I'm not asking you to stop gambling with death or her sisters. I'm asking you to wear sunscreen. I'm not asking you to swear that you love me. To remember me when you and your old bones' reality is getting out of bed in the morning alone. Regret. That's one thing. Forget. That's another.

I was afraid of my temper. And the day I hit you, you hit me back. And my mind screamed "WRONG," but my mouth threaded itself shut without a needle, and my tongue was stuck with all the heaviness of a lead weight.

They told me I wasn't loud enough. I wasn't crazy enough. I wasn't spontaneous enough. I wasn't funny enough. I wasn't pretty enough. I couldn't keep your attention long enough. I was too annoying. I talked too much. I tried too hard. I was too quiet. I was too nice. I was too easy. I was too much of a doormat. I was too "good." I was too much of a slut. I wouldn't have sex. I would have sex. I was too naive. I was too dark. I was too fat. I was too scarred. I was too broken. I had too many problems. I was too crazy in the bedroom. I was too angry all the time. I was too depressed. I was too much of a feminist. I was too needy. I didn't text enough. I could never hang out enough. I was too opinionated. I was too insecure. I was too much. I was too little. I didn't have enough friends. I didn't wear the right clothes. I didn't do my hair. I didn't "fit in" with his friends. I didn't do this. I didn't do that. I WAS NEVER FUCKING ENOUGH FOR HIM. HIM. OR HIM. OR HIM. HIM. HIM. HIM. HIM. HIM. I'm a fucking contradiction, apparently.

Caution: For God's sake, this is a park. Pick up after your brain. Climb a tree and don't mind how you fell to the top before you reached the bottom.

And when we died, I went to hell and you went to heaven. And no matter how many notes I stuck in the suggestions box, you didn't join me any more than I joined you. Final judgment is real shit, "final" and all that.

I should go to the hospital and deliver speeches. Words of wisdom. To the babes barely hatched from their eggs hours ago, newly delivered from the stork's nest. "You'll hear it's a 'dog eat dog' world out there. But they're preparing you for the wrong shit. It's a 'death eat human eat human' paradise, then perhaps some pretty puppy as a bedtime snack." Perhaps they'll one day realize the metaphorical significance of it all.

And in the end, I was love and I was reckless, and I was against you and the rest of the world. You were lust and I was determined, and no matter how much I wanted the jock or the hipster or the druggie or the _________, you drowned in your superficiality when it was sink or swim. I was the afterthought.

and if you ask me why i swear, i'll tell you i'm one of those "typewriter people." 

P.S. My sister asked me why she didn't get any sugar to help the medicine go down. I told her we had to prepare ourselves for different kinds of medicine.

My mother is a republican: Updates from rehab

Dear dear dear,

I sleep with a ski jacket on, three extra blankets, and I've asked for permission to pull my bed away from the window. I still wake up in the middle of the night with my feet cold.

I sleep with a CPAP mask and I look like an elephant. Accidentally wrap the cord around my neck in my sleep and get woken by the night staff. I once thought that love is someone waking up in the middle of the night to check to see if you're still breathing. Like my mom does when I sleep at home. I decided the keyword is waking up to check. Love is not the night staff.

Yesterday I told my mom I missed her, and you can never love somebody as much as you miss them. And the boys cried wolf for the thousandth time, the lights went out, and I couldn't think of any more excuses. My throat hurts from all the words I should have said, but didn't. The sentences are sliding down my throat like unchewed noodles and the exclamation points are stuck. Like a lump in my throat from all the crying I didn't do in group, but should have. What does it mean to be real?

Because sometimes I miss being able to relate to someone in the "real" world.
"I went to school today."
"Yeah.. Well.. I went to rehab. Celebrated five months today. Someone accused me of purging and I don't think my therapist believes I'm telling the truth. Sometimes I want to cry."
"Congratulations." Like it was my birthday or something.

Confession: I used to be afraid of the word "rehab." Like it was worse than the word "treatment" or something. Like it meant you needed more help than the rest of 'em. Now I'm afraid that I've become rehab. I'm afraid that the puzzle piece that was me no longer fits into the puzzle that was home. That was the world. I'm afraid that I'm better off stuck in a facility. I'm afraid of going home.

Sometimes I get tired of the lesbian girls talking about sex. I get tired of the straight girls talking about sex. I'm tired of telling Johnny to stop making penises out of his play-doh. I'm tired of having to answer the question of whether I'm bisexual or not. I really don't know what it would mean to say yes.

The graffiti in the bathroom is really world class. It says "my ass itches" and "#soberliving" in pen on the wall of the smaller stall. Maybe the sex-obsessed girls forget their pens on their way to the potty.

I wrote on myself and they called it self-harm. I cried and they congratulated me for opening up and feeling emotion. I wanted to throw open the windows. I forgot they don't open. For safety reasons.

Happily Ever After: I used to say that marriage was legalized slavery, but I'm not sure if I said that to get a reaction or because I really believed it. I was scared when girls talked about finding their big hunk and dragging him off to the altar. I was scared of all the cliche chick flicks about finding love and living out the fairy tale. I was scared I wanted the same thing. Look at how broken this porcelain doll is. Look at all these cracks she's had to glue together. She may be a doll, but she sure as hell ain't a Barbie.

This is about pen and pencil, crossing things out, and running out of things to say. This is about saying "I'm fine." Which is no longer an acceptable answer to any question. This is about crying in the bathroom because you feel lonelier surrounded by people than all by yourself. This is about apologies, and how there's either too many or not enough, or they're not sincere, or wanting to cry.

SHIT this is about wanting to make up words like Dr. Seuss but you can't figure out what you want them to rhyme with. This is what it feels like to be stuck on flypaper. This is about swearing when you're not supposed to. And calling it poetic license. This is loneliness. This is bullshit. This is hate. This is love. This is real on a page that is always trying too hard for too long and not thinking of any pretty metaphors. This is about wanting to look up shirts that say "zero is not a size" but getting too triggered by all the pro anna pictures saying "eat less." Not fucking kidding.

I wear my brain on my sleeve, but my heart on my forehead, so I always know what I'm thinking, but I never know what I'm feeling. And everyone else can see my anxiety plastered there above my eyebrows. And when my heart breaks, the blood pools, dripping into my eyes, and I'm blinded.

I ran and ran and ran, but when I turned to look behind me, the knife was still there along with the bottle of pills.

"And how do you feel about that?"

The last time someone left, they wouldn't let me give her a hug.

PS Listen to "Rehab" by Amy Winehouse.

Zero is Not a Size. Zero is Hardly a Number.

And you try on your boyfriend like he is the last pair of jeans in the store. Desperate to walk out of there with a pair of pants in the shopping bag. Desperate to fit like he is the brand you idolize and you don't want to settle for some American Eagle shit. But no matter how hard you try, he's too loose in the thighs and too snug in the hips... And you hold your breath to button him on.

But when he's into rock, you're into indie. And when he wants to go out for Thai, you'd rather stay in and watch reruns of __________, ordering the nearest Domino's Pizza. You want to be the party girl, but secretly you'd rather sit by the train tracks and draw, even though you never were into drawing. Or go to the coffee shop and write in your notebook, using your dark coffee as inspiration. Because you're too hipster for caramel machiatto and too hipster still for Starbucks. You're the queen of misfits.

But you're too scared to try on that kind of boyfriend. Shop in those kind of stores. You'd rather stick to your True Religions and your Big Stars, even when American Society for $40 at Nordstrom is your soul mate. Or the old, worn Levi's you found in the thrift store. The jeans they sell in Wet Seal, God forbid. Or maybe you should model those Hudsons that fit like a second skin. You'd rather pretend you're a size two and skip breakfast and lunch instead of trying on the size four just to see. But your Miss Me's are trying just as hard as you are. Listen up. Stop trying to be something you're not. Stop trying to wear the brand everyone else is. And know that you aren't held back by a number...

_______ (pronounced ___-____) love- I don't have to tell you wearers out there it runs a little small. And you feel exclusive just because you have a skinny ass, but that's all your boyfriend values too. If you were anorexic, he wouldn't tell you to eat. Not because he doesn't care, but because he likes you just the way you are. And you told me that he's the love of your life because he "accepts" you. Just the same way you swear off cheese and nuts, counting fat grams the way others count calories. Although Vogue tells you that's how you earn heaven, you're caught in the hellfire. You taste like disintegration (not the Cure album) and you're digging out your grave with a plastic spoon from the cafeteria where you watched everyone eat but you. You reek of mints and cheap perfume. And even though I don't use hashtags often, you know I'm speaking truth.

Jolt love = Low maintenance love. You watch YouTube videos together all night and can't keep your eyes open in the daylight, but at least he keeps you laughing. There are some people you're meant to fall in love with and some people that push you off the diving board before you were ready to jump for yourself. There are some times that you want chili dogs and some times that you want chili fries. I love you more than I hate you, but Ed is still holding me back. You're the reflection of romance and the reflection of tragedy. I thought I was "letting myself go" but maybe I was letting myself be.

 Let's riot. Let's run away and form our own society. Ever since zero was the new two, I never hated myself more. And I was the size zero. Let's cut out all the sizes and base them on your figure. Size 14 could be called " classic hourglass" instead. Instead of realism, I choose idealism, and don't tell me I am being naive. When I cut just to see myself bleed, I didn't intend for him to judge me as if I was goth Barbie. There are some things you are meant to judge and some things you are meant only to see.

Life doesn't score you like golf. You don't get ahead by wearing a smaller size than par indicates. Than society determines. Life doesn't score you like football. If you wear a size seven, you don't get that touchdown sewn into your stars. And life doesn't score you based on a point system. Ten points for dating the star quarterback. Five points for dating the hippie. Zero if you can't keep a boyfriend and you sleep around. Minus five you haven't lost your virginity by your thirtieth birthday.

Somedays I wonder if I'm being heard. Or if I still have to cut off all my hair for some attention.

I Am

You wouldn't understand this post unless you were listening to "Don't You Evah" by Spoon. To "Float On" by Modest Mouse. "The World at Large." "Runaway." "Resistance." ETC. Just ask me for my playlist.

But it isn't any use. You never understood me anyways. Me or my fur coats. 

I'm a religion. I'm a way of worship. And you belong to PETA with all their fanaticism and bullshit.

I'm a cult. I'm a death sentence. But you still won't find my name in the dictionary or the history books.

Jesus sure knew how to stick it to the man. But I'm not sacrilegious.

Mama always told me that adoration was part of worship, and adore Him I do.

I'm a way of life. I'm a support system. With me, you're allowed to pick the candy off of the gingerbread house. You're allowed to lick your fingers. Forks are for the delicate.

I'm a celebrity. I'm a prophet. And I said "Hello" to Mother Teresa the other day for good measure.

I'm a saint. I'm a sinner. But as long as I'm climbing the staircase to heaven, it's hard to tell the difference.

It's like this.

Just because you celebrate Christmas doesn't make you Christian, but thank God you're trying.

I'm the girl sitting next to you in the computer lab. I'm your imaginary friend.

If you can give me a name, I'll be realler than your hero in the comic book. But even my parents have trouble with my name.

I'm poison. I'm the cure. I'm the boy you never dared to talk to. I'm the girl you kiss behind the bleachers.

I'm a walking contradiction, but at least you're looking for me in the lunchroom like you never used to.

I'm love. I'm rejection. I'm F=ma.
I'm the answer to every question you haven't known how to ask.

And the days will become weeks. And the weeks will become years. 

And I will have to say hello to all the people I would rather say goodbye to.

And you will never be mine.

Heaven is farther away when your feet hurt.

Happy birthday.

The taxi is more expensive when you blast the AC.
Your letters mean more when they're typed up on that vintage typewriter.
Your tears mean more when they're for me.

You always look happier in old photographs.
The cupcake is more fattening when you're counting the calories.
Goodbyes are always sadder in person.
And you swallow them slowly like the painful truths they are.

You mod podged the scrapbook paper like you wanted all the religions of the world to come together. Like you wanted world peace. Like a Miss America contestant. Like you didn't understand differences and you wanted everyone to be treated the same instead of equally. But here is what you don't understand.

I circled I would prefer to leave my ethnicity unknown. Not because I'm a minority but because I'm white.

And when I painted my face to cover all the shame, you still couldn't see me for who I was.

You spoke French like a native even with that accent of yours. And I couldn't fit in with the locals even though I wanted Paris more than you did. I wanted it all. The transvestites, the dweebies, the dickheads. I wanted the memory of my face to ebb and flow with the tide.

I'm tired of hoping, of dreaming, of trying. of capitalizan.

Your lungs fill with water and death is getting off the bus to greet you and it's the last time you saw your girlfriend walk away staring you in the face.

It's the cold love of your Austrian prince. Tasted like frostbite. The pills forgotten on the counter. You shudder against his touch. He's as dead to you as the fish you fried for dinner. He wouldn't scream if you cooked his heart.

It's the unlucky love of the skater boy.
The fear of the breakup.
And the taste of

                           calories.

You said words stayed forever, but I tore up my journal like it was nothing to me.
You can take classes on how to die, but it never gets easier.
And when you told me mermaids weren't real, I told you it was all about your perspective.

Confession Time

And maybe you'll never see this because I'm typing this up on a Saturday night.

The typist came back from the computer lab with no results. The keyboards are jammed.The ink went dry days ago. And the words are stuck. I stole all the words and I have no intention of giving them up. You open and close your mouths and all that comes out is air.

 Like fish gasping for oxygen, flopping around on the deck. Hooked to the pole. Poor fools. #sorrynotsorry

Are you skimming this over? Are you reading this waiting for the big reveal? Or are you telling me that what I have to say is important? Are you validating my emotions like my therapist? The one who doesn't let me alone unless I commit to safety. Eff that.

Let me write you a love poem. But all the words I can think of would cut you like knives and I don't know if that's what you had in mind. And your cuts look too fresh to endure that kind of reopening. I'm not saying you're not strong, I'm just saying you're not strong enough yet. You have to tear the muscle fibers beefore they build up bigger.

Are you listening? Are you reading? Are you waiting to hear why the crazy bald girl had to go away? My hair has grown out, you know. It's almost two inches long. Like the average boy's. And I like it that way.

I tried to peel open my head, you know. Like an onion. #foodtalk The Mad Hatter told me the gears in my head are what need fixing, like a clock. Spread on more butter. Shmear on the jelly. You won't ever get better that way. We're all mad here. Technically this place is called a psych hospital. 

Someone gave me a paintbrush, and I didn't know what to do with it. I told them I wasn't creative and they quoted Van Gogh to me. Someone like that. Ended up with yellow stains on my sleeve and no paint on the paper. And I hate yellow.

Someone gave me a piece of paper. And a pencil. But the pencil didn't represent commitment like I thought it would. And the eraser overpowered my weak apologies.

All those days, those months, and I still haven't figured out how to say it. I tried to tell my eleven year old sister why I had to go away, and she asked me when I'd be back. I didn't know what to tell her. Why meal times were so strict. Why I cried when I had to eat the trailmix. Why I wasn't allowed to have shoelaces. Sharps. Glass containers. Why I couldn't go in my room by myself.

  

Here it is: We're both drowning in the Pacific. Maybe the Antarctic, but the cold would kill us first. I'm a weaker swimmer to begin with. I'm more vulnerable than you are, and I pretend like it's what I want.

Problem: I like drowning. I'm trying to breathe all this water through my lungs. Right now I'm dying, and I'm trying to figure out if I hate dying enough to choose to live instead.

I am in treatment for my eating disorder.  That's for you suckers who didn't read the whole thing.

Now the words are out and my hands are trying to grab them back half heartedly, but they cling to your clothing like campfire smoke. Reputation. Shame. A bad joke. 

I wanted to be real. Real like the media pretends to be.

I tried to pray to God, but I couldn't talk religion in the dining hall. 

The truth is I'm scared to see you all again.

No, I'm not just talking about this class. I'm talking about the school. Lone Peak. 

Scared I'm not going to measure up to that picture you hung up on the wall, to that picture you point to in the yearbook. Scared with all the layers peeled off, I'm not going to look as pretty as you thought. And this is a confession.

I'm scared I can only be this brave on the computer. Behind a pen name, even though you all know the girl behind the mask.

And maybe you'll never see this because I'm writing this up on a Saturday night.

PS Don't tell my therapist because I wasn't supposed to be social networking yet.