Update

I barely posted at all this summer, and I haven't posted anything since moving to DC and starting school at a new institution, so it's time for an update.

I always struggle in a new place. Within a day of moving here, I felt like I was always alone, while others were already spending time with friends, going out, and having fun.  It was the same feeling I had a year ago when starting CU: I spent at least two months crying almost daily and resisting a depressive relapse.  It was the same feeling I had four years ago, my sophomore year of highschool, when I moved to Colorado and struggled with the most severe and longest-lasting episode of adjustment depression of my life. It was the same feeling of loneliness, helplessness, incompetence.  I began to wonder how many times I'd have to feel this way, whether there would ever come a day when I'd be comfortable talking to someone I don't yet know. I began to wonder: "why me?"; what can I do differently, and why does it never work?; no matter how much I try, I'm still alone, and other are not.  I began to get jealous. I felt bitter towards everyone around me. I began to hate humanity, and I began to hate God.

Then, slowly, things began to clear up. I still feel like I don't have quite as many acquaintances as others, I still have nothing to do on weekend nights, and I still eat most of my meals alone, but things are better. My floor is amazing, and I've begun hanging out with the people on my floor. I've met people at the dining hall and in my classes. I've even spent time with people I met on the internet. I initiated conversations with people I don't know and approached people I've already met. I still have a long way to go, I have a long way to go even to catch up to where 90% of people around me are, but I've made a much better start than I did last year, and I feel much better.

I love this school. I couldn't have possibly made a better decision in transferring. There is much more of a sense of community. Half my floor, for example, are people who lived on this floor last year! Everyone on my floor is so nice, and we spend a lot of time together. We have meals together, we study together, we have floor-soccer and other floor events, and not only do people actually come, but almost everyone comes!  The school is smaller, so the sense of community goes beyond just the floor. At lunch today, I ran into someone on the way to the dining hall, I ran into two kids from my floor and two people from my philosophy class while getting food, I ran into three people I know on the way out of the dining room.

The people here are really, really cool.  Everyone has awesome dreams and goals, and it's really inspirational to live in an environment with such amazing people.  Everyone here cares about the world and what's going on.  The lobby has free newspapers which run out because so many people read them.  In the floor lobby, our TV is usually turned to CNN.  We discuss politics, passionately, arguing into the middle of the night.  For fun, we go out to "the mall" and see the monuments.

The classes are much smaller and the professors are very accessible. I'm also thinking of changing my major. Although I love philosophy, without the linguistics minor, it doesn't quiet mean as much to me.  I am going to try to get an interdisciplinary studies major, in which I write my own curriculum. I want to major in oppression, combining women's studies, sociology, international relations, and government.  This will give me an amazing opportunity to learn about everything I care about. By expanding outside women's studies, I will be able to learn about oppression other than sexism(s), and I will be able to take many classes with some of AUs best departments!

Washington DC is so cool. It's such a fun, progressive city. I've found some really cool bookstores and coffee shops, and I've yet to go out clubbing, but when I do, I know it will be great.

Although I know this is perfect, I miss CU.  I miss Gather, I miss QI, I miss my friends, I miss discussing kink in RL, I miss Alex writing sweet things on my whiteboard, I miss the flatirons, I miss the good weather and lack of mosquitoes, I miss Tracks, I miss the parties, I miss so much.

<3

Now no one cares.

"Stand up for what you believe in, even if you're standing alone."

 
While stuck in midday traffic on I-25 North (Who knew lunch hour was so crowded? Maybe 1:30 is the new 5:30), my sister mentioned 7th grade. "That's my best year yet," she told me. Seventh grade. I tried to think that far back, but I can barely remember anything. All that crossed my mind was sitting in science class with a boy, joking and laughing, so that our teacher glared at us from the front of the room, telling us to be quiet. I was a lonely child, and he was the first person to ever make me laugh during class, the first lab partner I ever cared about. Three years later, when we were in 10th grade, Jack Payne committed suicide.

"One at a time suicides are revealed."

I feel like we live in a culture of suicide. I see it everywhere. Everyone knows someone who's killed themselves. A colleague of my mother's lit herself on fire in her parent's garage. Railroad tracks passed behind my high school in California. Multiple deaths per year happened on those tracks. There are signs beside them. "There is hope. Call the suicide helpline". Yet people still die. We're all dying, alone in this world, fading way. Maybe Durkheim has a point. Maybe we live in an anomie.

"One at at a time I watched them all forget."

No one cares. I used to say that all the time. I used to sit alone with a blade, dreaming of slitting my throat and bleeding until I am to weak to keep breathing. I felt sad and isolated. Everyone was too engrossed in themselves to notice anyone else; no one cared enough about their friends or acquaintances to even stop them before they kill themselves. I wanted to hug strangers, to tell them, "I love you, you changed my life, how can I help you?" I used to dream of saving the world, of stopping hate, of making the this beautiful place, a place with no more suicide. No once would care. No one stood with me, or believed in me. No one even cared enough to tell me they love me.

"So please don't wake me 'till someone cares, now no one cares."

I still feel this way. There's so much hate everywhere. Racism, sexism, classism, heterosexism, cissexism, ableism, sizism, -ism, -ism, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate. Stop it, please. It's all I think about anymore. But no one cares. My sister snaps at me, tells me to stop talking about this serious stuff. She tells me she doesn't care. My mother tells me to stop going on about things, an aspie tendency of mine. But this is different! I should be going on and on about it, and you should, too. You think people who don't have good schools to go to have the privilege of not thinking about it, of not talking about it? Why am I standing alone? I shouldn't be. That's why I want to transfer out of CU. I want to go to place where more people care. Where more than "about 100 students" attend an on-campus event for higher education, when every student should have been there. I don't understand how anyone can stand such low diversity: don't you care?

"Will the flood behind me, put out the fire inside me."

If we never care, no one will ever care about us. If we don't save someone's life, no one will save ours. Please, don't wait until it's too late. Care. About someone. About anyone. Ideally, about everyone. Whoever you are: I care about you.

(All quotes but the first are from the song "The Missing Frame" by AFI.)

"The Sorrow is Sacred"

There's one thing about myself I've never understood, a personality trait that never quiet made sense to me. Why is that I get so much pleasure out of being miserable? Whenever something sad happens in my life, I snatch the sadness and hold it close, doing my best not to let go, not to let it squirm free of my fierce grip.  I don't move on, I don't look forward to the future, but I dwell, as long as I possibly can, on whatever most recently broke my heart. I feel so content crying, sobbing, and wearing dark make-up, that I fear that next step: I fear once again facing happiness.

There was a time in my life that I identified solely with my depression. I was never a particularly happy child. I was serious when I was kid, and very realistic. As I began growing up, I developed an affinity for tales of death and sorrow. I loved reading books that made me cry, and I loved reading realistic poetry about suffering.  I began writing poetry when I was in eight grade, and, right away, I focused on sadness. Something about the grimness of life always appealed to me. I wasn't much fond of life in general, and seldom saw past that which was not well with the world. I thought I was a realist who saw the truth clearer than most.

Then, at the age of 15, as I began my sophomore year of highschool, I experienced heartbreak, loneliness, and depression like I never had before. My whole life changed that year as I dove into despair with no way out. I wore only black with thick eyeliner, and each day, I was crying for help, asking for someone to notice me. The only thing that made me me, the one thing I understood about myself was that I was miserable.

After I overcame depression, I was lost. I didn't know where to go. I was no longer in misery, and I was much more optimistic (also, realistic) than I ever was before.  I had no direction on life, no identity, no understanding of who I am or what I think of the world. I had more questions than ever before, and I was very confused. Every once in a while, I'd still dwell on sadness, and I chased after heartbreak. It made me feel complete and human like nothing else could. But, as I grew up, it got more difficult. I cried less often, and fewer things could bring me to tears (thus, I was really surprised recently when Kozol's Savage Inequalities made me weep). I'd become a realist: a real realist, someone who knows good and bad, not the pubescent emo "realist" I once was. As I grew older, I learned that things are transient and impermanent, and that life goes on regardless.  I've begun praying and following the principle of wu-wei, and I've found it easier to get over things, to move on, and to enjoy life.

Then why does this make me feel lost? I am honestly disappointed when I notice myself getting over something or someone. I feel trapped when I can't cry. I feel confused when I am moving on.  What am I supposed to do when logic, instinct, and desire tells me to suffer, yet I feel fine? It would be a lie to say that I enjoy feeling sad. That's an oxymoron.  It's no fun to cry, to suffer, to feel torn, empty, desperate, hopeless. I don't enjoy being weak, unable to move, unable to focus, to study, to get out of bed in the morning. There's nothing pleasant about torture, nothing good about being miserable. Only these are all sensations I understand. But feeling fine, feeling neither optimistic nor pessimistic, neither regretting what happened nor looking forward to what will happen: what is that? This is everything I want, everything I've worked to feel, This is my goal and destination, and I should feel amazing; yet, somehow, I am just not happy. I miss my sacred sorrow.

"I know the sorrow is sacred,

And I'll never break you

I'll softly save you."

-- On the Arrow by AFI

I am frustrated.

I am frustrated because today is one of those days, in every single way.

I am frustrated with the word "bisexual". I am frustrated because I think it goes against everything our community believes in. I am not frustrated with the fact that some people are bisexual, that some people may prefer binary gender identities or gender presentations to non-binary gender identities and gender presentations, but I'm frustrated with people for whom this isn't true that use that term out of convenience without even giving it a second though.

I am frustrated with the trinary of sexualities: L G B, and I'm frustrated because I try to explain "queer", "pan", "fluid" to people around me, and in the end, many simply conclude that I'm bi, erasing my attraction to non-binary individuals, and erasing the existence of non-binary individuals.

I am frustrated with the word "biphobia" because it means practically the same thing as "monosexism", only biphobia refers to phobia of bisexuality, while monosexism refers to phobia of various non-monosexual orientations.

I am frustrated with pansexual people who say that, to them, gender "doesn't matter". That they don't see a person's gender, but just the person "inside". Because, you know what, gender does matter. And, sure, maybe you don't have a preference for a certain gender, but it's an integral part of your partners identity, so you can't just pretend it's not there, and then act like you're somehow more enlightened than others because of your supposed lack of sexuality. And I'm frustrated because this alone is making me shy away from identifying as panromantic, although I feel like it's the term that best fits me.

I am frustrated with the hostility I am facing as a gray-a sexual. I am frustrated with people insisting that this is something that I need to fix, that I haven't met the right person and need to try to, that it's not normal. I've had a healthier sex life than most of the sexual people I know. I am sick and tired of people assuming that they know me better than I know myself, and that I can't be happy without sex.

I am frustrated because my romantic orientation is apparently not as "real" as a sexual person's. Because I recently told a friend that I am, somewhat, polyamorous and curious about polyamory, and she said "well, you're also a romantic asexual", as if that makes me any less polyamorous.

I am frustrated because I do have a somewhat unusual relationship with my body, and that recently, people have been acting like there's something wrong with that. Like, a friend of mine said that I'm "ignoring my vagina", which I'm not, I know my body much, much better than the vast majority of women, and I know very well how I relate to it. My relationship with my body is very healthy, and I don't see why it has to be the same as everyone else assigned female at birth. I am me, I am not everyone else.

I am tired of the biological determinism in the gay and lesbian communities. I am frustrated with gays and lesbians expressing a disgust in "vagina" or "penis" to prove their sexuality.  I am frustrated because it puts the focus on sex, alienating queer romantic asexuals. But mostly, I am frustrated because I think that's very, very transphobic.

I am frustrated with my body. I am frustrated with the way it feels and the way I relate to it. I am annoyed because I have issues with PVI, because it's uncomfortable at best and painful at worst; and I wish I was at least ambivalent to it, and could occasionally enjoy it as I do with oral, anal, and other types of sex. I am frustrated with the fact that no one else seems to have a sex identity quiet like mine, and I honestly don't think there's even a word to describe how I feel about my physical sex.

I am exhausted from questioning. I've been questioning my sexuality since I knew it was possible for a girl to like girls. I've been questioning my gender identity since I was a child. I've been questioning my (a)sexuality since before I had sex. And I'm still questioning it all. And, you know what, "fluid" is the perfect word to describe me in all respects, but somehow, it isn't enough. As I'm experiencing an ardent phase, I'm beginning to wonder: what if I'm not asexual? As I lean towards men, I'm beginning to wonder: what if I'm straight? And I'm so. fucking. tired of it.

I am frustrated because I feel like people have been disrespecting me lately, because I think I'm being much too patient with a few friends.

I am frustrated and I feel lonely.

Last night, I had a dream that someone drugged us all, and we talked and talked about the deepest things, and then we cried. But, when we woke up, we couldn't remember any of it. We were safe: safe from the danger of intimacy, safe from others knowing who we are, safe from anyone seeing us cry. Yet we felt so much better after the drugs had worn off, so much closer, so much lighter. We talked about everything. When I woke up in the morning, I was back to this silent world.

Can we please talk?

Valentine's Day

Secretly, I love Valentine's Day. Pretty strange, huh, to enjoy a holiday devoted entirely to the commercialization of love. Still, I love it: not because of what Valentine's Day is about, not even because of the chocolate, really, but all because the time of year. Right around February 14th my winter blues begin to turn into spring fever.

Valentine's Day 2006 was the last and only time I had an actual Valentine. The boy who would later become my boyfriend brought me a rose, a card, and chocolate. To tell you the truth, I've always been rather uncomfortable with such expressions of affection, but, on the other hand, that was the first time someone had honestly admitted their feelings for me, so I always smile when I remember that.

Valentine's Day 2007 was another life-changing day. I was in a deep bout of depression and self-harm that year, and February 13th, reminiscing on the previous year and the boy that was no longer mine, I had the worst episode of cutting in my entire life. It was that night, as I was recovering from my fit, that it hit me. I was being ridiculous. Now, it's not that I magically turned around and was happy after that moment (some of my saddest poetry was written that year after that day), but it was then that I realized that I need to recover, and I set my intention in the right direction. Thus, I'm especially happy that To Write Love On Her Arms Day always comes right before Valentines Day (February 12th and 13th this year).

I'm expecting a similar turn-around this year. It has been a tough winter, but I can see spring right over the horizon. To my surprise, I'm expecting this to be an amazing weekend, and am in a very optimistic mood.

Relapse

I have a history of adjustment depression, and I feared college would cause me to relapse. To tell you the truth, it didn't. Last time I suffered from a long-term episode of depression, not only had I just moved, but I was also going through a major heartbreak, and I still lived with my family. Living away from home has definitely made adjusting to college easier than any adjustments in the past, and my self image has been better this last semester than ever before in my life. I love my family, but I had long been ready to live on my own.

While overall my mood has been positive, I have had a few relapses, at nights, alone in my dorm. Sometime in November, I had my worst episode of self-harm since February 13, 2007. Still, that was the only one, and I tend to relapse into cutting about once or twice a year, so it's not so bad.

This break has not treated me well. Boredom is the worst, because it only leads to more boredom. My motivation has plummeted, and so has my mood. All my life, I've hated break, because, somehow, being away from school has always tortured me, and this break is no exception (though Thanksgiving break was). I would definitely consider this a relapse, but I'm optimistic enough to know that I'll get over it soon enough, I'm going back HOME on Friday, and tomorrow, I'm hoping I'll go skiing, which I know will help my mood.

I know writing would help, but I don't have the motivation to do so - I haven't written in weeks! Maybe I'll make myself write, maybe tomorrow. Instead, I re-read my old poetry just now. I wrote the best poems when I was at my worst, here's one that particularly struck a chord:

Butterkinves flashing screaming attention
plastic erasers paperclips bark
safety scissor’s new purpose mirrors childhood lost
after hallways and lockers and muffling cries
the closet door locks for the deadliest chore
red pen dances: art not on paper
but nothing a three dollar wristband can’t fix
behind the smiles and tears the make-up and blood
lies a heart that has never been bruised
selfishly wishing blood for his pleasure
designer panties plead tear me apart
the clock strikes a new day, she prays Good Night
-- 03.02.2007

First Semester

Today, I finished my last final, and survived my first semester of college.

I had those nights that I feared, those evenings where I shut the door and cried, feeling like I'd never make friends, that I'd always be alone. Sometimes, I would sit alone in my room, my door open, inviting others in, hoping others would come in, but instead, only their voices entered my room, their distant conversations about drugs and love and the world, and I would shut the door and cry. Why can they make friends and not me, I wondered? At times I was desperate, hopeless, refreshing facebook, looking at who was online, hoping that someone - anyone - would talk to me. At times, I slipped back into depression, not sleeping or eating for days, wondering when I would ever find a friend.

But those nights didn't happen all that often. I was surprised by how few of those there were, compared to the times I spent with others, talking for hours on end in the dining halls or on the grass or at Starbucks. I exchanged secrets with dear friends while spooning on the floor and intoxicated. I stayed up late with friends by my side. I began getting texts, phone calls, facebook messages, connexion testimonials. We had sleepovers, study sessions, and a lot of stripping. I began getting hugs and kisses, I began flirting and being flirted with, and my heart began to soar. This is college, I realized, and I am surviving - really, really surviving.

There are a few people/places/things/ideas I would like to thank for making this an amazing semester:

1. God. I prayed a lot this semester. I prayed in bed, on the floor, and in trees. (On another note, I've befriended many trees, Boulder has many great trees for climbing.) God helped me through by helping me understand what was amazing about my life, and how much hope I really had. Without unconditional faith, I couldn't have done it. Having completely given myself to Hir, I stayed on the right path, and found my way here.

2. The LGBTQA community. I quickly found my place within the LGBTQA community. I met so many amazing people through GSA, QI, Gather, and the trip to Washington DC for the National Equality March. Even when I met people outside queer clubs, many still ended up coming to the RC eventually. Even before I was queer, I always felt in place in the LGBTQA community, and college is no exception.

3. Colorado. Even when I thought that I could never belong at CU, that Boulder just wasn't my place, I looked at the flatirons, and everything seemed a little better. I love Colorado, and I couldn't imagine living anywhere but here, at foot of the most beautiful mountains, in such an amazing, beautiful town.

4. Education. My classes made everything worth while. I learned more this semester than ever before in my life, and my entire worldview has changed. Every single lecture I attended, every single article I read, every single paper I wrote absolutely blew my mind. Without being able to look forward to class, I would have never made it.

I finished my first semester of college. I am a sophomore standing. I turn 19 in five days. I'm growing up, and I'm terrified, but I'm glad there are things out there to help me through.