Monthly Archives: September 2012

This week’s Circus installment is up.

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30 Days of Truth: Day 30–Self-Love?

Well, the last Day of Truth involves writing a letter to yourself and telling yourself everything you love about yourself. As you may be aware from reading my last two posts, I am far from feeling like I love myself right now. I have some good moments, too, but my moods keep rapidly cycling.

But I promised myself I would finally finish the 30 Days of Truth by the end of September, and dammit, I’m going to keep my word.

Who knows, maybe this will even be helpful.

A Letter To Yourself, Tell Yourself EVERYTHING You Love About Yourself

Dear Me,

As someone who struggles with confidence issues and often feels self-hatred, I don’t really love anything about myself. I’m such a Negative Nancy.

Okay, that’s one thing I love about myself. No, not that I’m a Negative Nancy–the fact that I use random expressions because they amuse me. Like Negative Nancy. They humor me. Even though this is fun to me, though, oftentimes people don’t get it.

What else? Sometimes I like my eyes, but then again sometimes I think they’re cockroach-brown. That’s rather gross. I like my hair–it is generally healthy, and it has different tints if you look at it closely. It’s brown, but occasionally you can see hints of red and blonde in it.

Hmm. Hmm. Hmm.

Oh, here’s one. I like that I’m intelligent. Even when I’m doing badly, I usually trust my intellect. Not always, but usually.

I like that I try to do my best to honor my word. I like that when I commit to something, I am serious about that commitment. This post is an example of that.

I like that, even when I’m doing my worst, usually I can still find things humorous and interesting. Thursday night, I did make myself feel a little better by watching part of an episode of the old Dragnet on YouTube. It amused me.

I like that I often find amusement and intense emotion in the same things. For instance, while watching some of my favorite movies or TV shows, I can find the same parts both amusing and touching. This doesn’t often work to my advantage, though. I mean, sometimes when I’m in a group of people, I’ll laugh at a moment many of them find inappropriate. Or I’ll be emotionally moved by an idea that seems ridiculous to most people.

I like that I don’t compromise when it comes to my life. Well, I do. (Sidenote: I keep feeling like I want to switch between “I” and “you,” but I’ll keep the tone consistent.) What I’m referring to regards what I dedicate my life to. I’m more inclined to pursue my passion than practicality, and there’s a form of integrity in that.

Also, I like that I do generally have integrity. I like that I can usually be tactful and honest at the same time.

I like that I can have deep empathy and that I listen to others.

I hesitate to say I like that I write. Yes, I enjoy it, but it’s a little hard to say I like that I like to write. It sounds like I have this pompous belief that I’m a literary genius or something.

I like that I have more imagination and creativity than my manner would indicate.

I like that I try to be fair.

I like that I can usually be stubborn when I need to be.

I like that I’m often self-aware.

Hmm. Okay. That’s all I’ve got.


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I didn’t want to wake up this morning and face the day. But I kept waking up every thirty minutes, so it was no use.

It’s just immature and wrong of me to worry people, especially when nothing will likely happen.

Plus, I just feel like no one can truly worry about me anyway–not me as I am. It’s an illusion of me. Somehow I fool even myself into thinking I’m a decent human being when I’m not.

By writing about it like this, I probably make a bigger deal of it than it is. Maybe even hold on to it longer.

I should just go. It doesn’t matter.

I’m not talking about suicide. I’m too cowardly for that. I’m talking about accepting my fate that I will always be alone. Stop trying to make connections. It’s selfish of me, and I don’t deserve them.

Yes, it’s selfish. I’m not worth it. There will always be an inordinate amount of reserve with me. I can’t be any different.

I’m pretty good at putting on a mask. I can still find things interesting. If I weren’t so selfish, I could pretend like I was fine now, and I could do a very good job of it.

Although my birthday is coming up. Maybe I can kill myself then.

But no, because I can’t do that to my family. Especially when I think about what they must’ve gone through when I almost died as an infant.

Of course, they didn’t know I would turn into a rotten human being.

Still, they have some regard for me, so I can’t do that to them.

It’s funny, though. My birthday is exactly one month after World Suicide Prevention Day. Wouldn’t that be ironic?

Oh, God, I shouldn’t even be mentioning that. It sounds like a way of trying to make sure people are aware of when my birthday is. That’s not what I’m doing. But aren’t I, by mentioning it?

Am I using the excuse of not doing well to shamelessly tell people when my birthday is?

I probably am. See how rotten I am?

I am cursed with the destiny of always being alone. Because it’s what I deserve.  At the core, I’m unreachable.

Not connectable.

I can still carry on with life at the moment. But it just feels like every activity I do is distraction from the nothingness within. At the end of the day, once the distraction is gone, I’m left alone with my nothingness.

It’s hard to focus right now because the nothingness is too great. I feel glassy.

I’m not sure what it is I’m trying to say.

If I weren’t so selfish, I would abandon this blog. Because I should.

It’s just an exercise in self-indulgence. Like this.

The world is cruel.

But in my heart, where only I can see, I’m crueler.


Filed under Mental Health

Let’s Whine, Shall We?

I wrote this today while I was at work. It’s just a self-indulgent stream of consciousness, really. I think I may be having a mixed episode. I don’t know. It just keeps bouncing around by the minute.

Ultimately, all I have is myself.


The world is a cruel place, and I don’t want to be in it.

I will never belong. No one can ever like me, let alone love me.

If I am liked, it is an illusion of myself, not me myself. Because such a thing is impossible.

What am I running from?

The void, the abyss, the black hole that is me.

For I am nothing.

And I never will be.

Why bother trying?

I am weak, useless, superfluous.

And nothing but hateable





A flea on the world

I’m just so sick of it. All of it. The world is not a friendly place, especially for someone as vile as me. I am bland; my life is bland.

I am nothing.

Time ticks slowly by.

I’m in mental hell.

I will be over the hill soon, and I still don’t know what I want to do, nor am I fully independent.

Everyone predicted I would be by now.

Pitiful me.

I can do nothing. I am nothing.


Maybe I should die or something. Get out a razor. Or my fingernails may do. In fact, they’ve already done.


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Here’s my contribution to this week’s Friday Fictioneers. The photo for the prompt is courtesy of Sandra Cook. At 67 words, this is my shortest offering so far.


He stood on the threshold of the gateway to the temple. This was his last chance to turn back–if he went forward, his fate was sealed.

Behind him lay safety. A life of contentment. Comfort.

And deception.

The path before him would be far from easy. He could expect psychic pain. Physical and mental torture. Heartbreak and loss.

And truth.

He breathed in, breathed out, and chose.

Destiny awaited.


I’m not sure if this is a poem or a story. I guess it’s a poem. The reason I’m unsure is that I originally began with the intention of writing a story. Actually, I’m not much of a poet. When I do happen to write a poem, it usually results from something I originally meant as a story. Then that something somehow comes out closer to a poem than a story.


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30 Days of Truth: Day 29–Fat! Fat! Fat!

I said I was going to finish the 30 Days of Truth by the end of September, and darn it, I will!

The title is a reference to this Wallace Stevens poem, “Bantams in Pine-Woods,” that suddenly popped into my head as I was thinking about this post. It’s a weird poem that has nothing to do with what I’m going to talk about. It seems like it has undertones about masculinity, actually.

Something You Hope to Change About Yourself. And Why.

I’m going for the somewhat superficial here, my weight. I’m ginormous. I weigh a lot, and I’m only 5’2″. (Fun aside: I often have to ask a student to pull down the screen for me when I need to project something. I’m that short. I’m pretty sure I’m shorter than most, if not all, of my students.) According to the BMI, I’m severely obese. I’m not going to say how much I weigh because it will sound disgusting. I will sound hideous. Then you’ll realize that it’s no wonder no one ever finds me attractive. 😦

There are two somewhat practical reasons I need to lose weight: 1) It’s giving me an enlarged liver and 2) If by some miracle I’m called to be on Jeopardy, I don’t want to look like a giant tub of lard on TV.

Weight is a complicated (and even somewhat triggering) issue for me, though. I often don’t care. I wonder why I should conform to society’s standards about what I’m supposed to weigh.

But I’ve often been derided for my weight.

It just feels like it’s so much work to lose weight. And exercise is so boring to me.

But I realized one thing not too long ago. I could be decent-looking (nay, perhaps even pretty) if  I weren’t such a fatass. I feel like this knowledge should motivate me to lose weight, but the whole idea still seems too daunting.

I have problems with eating healthy, though. I don’t cook. Cooking is boring, and I’m not good at it. Plus, it seems like such a waste of time to cook just for me. If I cooked, though, I would eat better food.

I’ve tried exercising, but I have problems with that. In a gym, I’m too self-conscious. First of all, I’m so huge. Second of all, I’m afraid that I look dumb. Like I’m not being rigorous enough or I’m getting tired too easily.

The gym also makes me think of P.E., which is rather triggering. I was always the worst at P.E. I often didn’t dress out for it in middle school because some other students intimidated me. They didn’t want to have me on their teams.

Okay, so I thought I could walk around the neighborhood. I did that the other day. But–and here’s a confession that makes me asinine–dogs make me nervous. Barking dogs in particular. Even when they’re safely behind a fence. There were a couple of dogs who barked at me rather viciously, and they made me nervous. I hurried by so I could go home and get inside. Ever since before I can remember, I’ve been somewhat nervous around barking dogs. It’s an instinctive thing. I’d try to get over it and pretend like that fear didn’t exist because everyone made fun of me for it.

I don’t know what I’m afraid of. That they’ll attack me? (This actually isn’t that far-fetched. My mom was once attacked by a dog while she rode her bike. This happened when I was in college, though, not when I was a kid.)

Maybe I can go walk in a park somewhere. But does walking really burn that many calories?

I suppose losing weight would require a lifestyle change, but I don’t know how to implement it. How to do it without triggering myself or getting discouraged because I don’t seem to be losing weight.


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