On Dependence

"Whenever you talk about happiness," says my therapist, "you talk about other people."

I bite my lip, dig my fingers into my thigh. He is right, so I am planning my retort carefully. How could I not, I think? They all say that. That you have to depend on yourself, but what does that even mean? Try depending on yourself when you are alone. They don't know what it's like.

***


The morning after, I woke up at 5:30 with a void that felt as large as the darkness outside my window. At 6, I got in my car and broke through it with my headlights. Between tears, I tried counting what I missed about yesterday. It all came back to orgasms.

and sometimes kisses.

***


"I'm happy"

That's what I think every time I drive home. Happiness is a feeling as foreign to me as the voiced uvular fricative. Pink, in my google calendar, stands for fun events. Parties and hang-outs. My calendar looks pink these days. I have friends.

"I am happy"

***

I don't think I realized how much I depended on hir.

That's what the mountain roads told me as the sun rose over the horizon.

It was a lie.

I did know. I knew just how much happiness I found in hir orgasms. I knew just how stable they kept me as I once more battled a life transition. I knew just how they kept me in check, kept me looking forward. I depended. And dependence, dependence is scary.

"We can't be sleeping together forever," I told myself after the first time.

"Forever," I repeated. That's the scariest word I ever thought.

***

"I'm happy," I thought driving home, less than a week after. There was still a void in my throat, but I was still happy, which felt odd. I didn't know why.

"Whenever you talk about happiness, you talk about other people." I don't remember my defense, or what he said next. All I remember is those words. How can I not depends on others when loneliness is what has made me the saddest in my life?

***

"MY HAPPINESS," I am shouting over the whiskey to my reflection, "CANNOT BE MEASURED IN SOMEONE ELSE'S ORGASMS."

But I don't believe me. And I wonder. Who else do I depend on?

Other people. Happiness.

Born For Leaving

I just realized that this year I am barely anything more than a glorified freshman, and next year I will be a senior. Like, I am legitimately graduating in the Spring of 2014. Pretty impressive, if I say so myself, that I am graduating in just five years with credits from five different schools.

I get jealous of people who stay in one place. I remember during the drag show, when the MC was asking how many shows people had gone to, and my friends K and H held up six fingers. SIX. Can you imagine doing something six years in a row??? Being near one place for six years?

I guess I have that with camp, so I can't really complain. But I do sometimes wish I had more of that in the real world, as well. I mean, I've been in the CU Boulder queer community since 2009, and I only held up two. a mere two. and 2009 was a long time ago.

I continue to have this torn relationship with the idea of "home". I moved for the first time when I was seven. Funny thing is, that's actually not that early in life. I mean, so many people move at two and four and stuff, and my first time was at seven. Yet, even before then, I am not sure I called Khabarovsk "home". I know when I was just a toddler, whenever a plane would pass overhead, I would point to it and say "someday, you will take me to America". I always knew I was going to leave. and when i was watching the election i still took everything that happened in washington state personally because that's "one of my homes".

Yes, I guess I was born for change. I was born for leaving. I get so restless, so bored with stillness, but then I wonder how much of it is actually fear of the unknown. Stillness is such an unknown for me.

I guess I am lonely. Lonely because I have so few close friendships at this age. Lonely because those i do are far away, or sporadic. Lonely because the ones i have close by are still developing. and maybe lonely, too, because i am jealous, because people have closer friends then me.

and i am scared because i finally learned how to make friends in college, and i graduate in 18 months.

i need to prepare. i need to get ready for that big change. and sometimes this process is hard.

it's not always easy or fun, but i was born for leaving.

Nightmares

Have you ever had nightmares? Nightmares that repeat over and over again? Nightmares not of monsters but of real life at its worst? I didn't used to have nightmares until just over a year ago.

They started when I was nineteen and a half, just as my twentieth birthday seemed near. But these thoughts - these fears- these started even sooner, before I even turned nineteen. I never thought they'd turn into nightmares, but they did.

They repeat, exactly the same, sometimes more or less vivid. They are nightmares of my 21st birthday. When I wake up from these nightmares, when I spend all day crying because I still feel that fear, it's because these dreams are so real. "Can you imagine?", I beg my friends, "being alone on your 21st birthday?". I don't think they understand. I don't think they can imagine. Me? I don't have to imagine. In my dreams it's real.

In my dreams, it's December 22, 2011. Evening. My sister approaches me occasionally to tell me how jealous she is that I am 21. How excited she is for me to "party it up tonight". I pretend I am excited too. Inside, I am shaking. I cannot breathe straight. I feel sick. I want to disappear, to die. It's my 21st birthday, and I have no friends to go out with.

As the evening draws on, I am scrolling through my cellphone contacts and facebook friends, thinking of who I should message. I've already texted a few or my closer friends, but they are out of town, or working, or out of money. They aren't there, and there's no one else. I have no friends.

I post a hesitant status: "It's my 21st, come hit the bars with me!" or something along those lines. Inviting, only I can't tell anyone I don't have anyone the truth: that I'm alone on my 21st birthday. People "like" my status. People respond: "have fun tonight!" or "I'm so jealous, can't wait to party with you when I turn 21". I'm not alone. But I have no friends.

The night draws on. My sister is preparing for her own party to go to, and I know I have to leave soon. She can't know. She'd look at me in that way, with that insulting pity. Like "why are you so stupid/socially incapable that you can't even have friends". Insult. Pity. There she is, parties every weekend. Of course she thinks I'm inferior. I'm in college, and I don't have any parties to go to. She doesn't care that I'm suffering. She'll tell me how to fix the problem by making me feel worse about myself. She doesn't understand how I struggle.

So I leave. I look up some bars on Yelp and I leave. I take the lightrail downtown. Things get blurry past this point. Not so clear, since I've never been to a bar. I enter. I show my ID. I order a drink-whiskey. The bartender looks at the ID, at me. "Happy birthday". Then he steps away. And I see him, with a few other people, looking back at me, laughing at me. I have no one.

I Might Be In Love

I might be in love. Is this love?

I wonder not because of how strongly it overwhelms my senses, but because of how subtle it is. So easy to forget for weeks or months until it slips back into my mind - you slip back into my mind, and I wonder - I might be in love. Is this what love's like for me? Always in the background, like elevator music, but I can always fall back on you when love crosses my mind.

Or maybe its not. Perhaps this is just another incident of a romantic interest that one day will easily be exchanged for another.

I'm not the type to brood on my solitude. I'm either happy with where things are, or too distracted with the sorrow of having few friends. Love and romantic loneliness seldom cross my mind. But when it does slip through the cracks, I can't help but wonder - am I in love?

Until it again slips my mind.

Are you afriad?

A month from now, I will be twenty years old, unemployed, unenrolled, and residing in Chicagoland, where I haven't lived since I was ten years old.  I am so afraid.  I don't know what I am doing with my life, or why.  I am terrified I'll never get a degree, that I'll lose my way and never have a home, but I have nothing to lose.  I have no choice.

It's going to be a long, cold winter in Chicago, with mounds of snow that I'll make into a slide like I did when I was a child.  There will be clouds in the sky each day, and I know I'll be sad, I know I'll cry a lot, I know I'll be alone and lonely, but I'll make it through the winter alive.

There's a genderqueer support group in the Chicagoland area that I'll visit. I'll try to get involved with Food not Bombs, find some friends to dumpster dive with, so I can free myself from the confines of store shelves, and maybe I'll find my way at last.  I'll get involved with activism in the city, learn how to do activism outside a college campus, perhaps make some change in the world, perhaps I'll find a community, reach out, hold hands, perhaps, at last, I will be brave. Perhaps I'll transition, and maybe my stepdad will support me, because he's the only hope I have.  I can't wait to get to know him again.  I'll learn how to cook, how to sew, how to live.  It'll all work out.

I'll find a job, save up some money, maybe I'll travel in non-standard ways, and I dream of the places I'll go someday, but I know there are places I cannot stay today.  I will find a place I belong, someday.  Today, I have a month to find the courage I need to grow up at last.



Yesterday, I went on Omegle just so I could ask a friend if they were afraid. They were seventeen, graduating highschool in June, and they told me they weren't afraid.  I said they were very brave.  They were probably telling the truth, but I think they were lying.


The day before, I sent a text to a stranger just to tell them I love them.  It took me six tries not to get a landline.  They said their name was Mat, and they said it was their birthday.  They were probably lying, but I think they were telling the truth.

Help with what?

I am writing suicide notes.

I don't want to die.  I will not kill myself.  It's just a cry for help.

But help with what?  My life is not in danger.  Nor is my physical health.  I don't need help with school, I get things done, my grades are good.

I need help making friends.  I don't have any friends.  I follow the rules.  I messaged people on facebook casually, I say hi to people in the hallways, start conversations in class.  I text people when I have free times, and sometimes grab lunch with friends.  In the end they all leave.  Every day I'm alone.  I want someone to talk to.  I want someone to think with.  I want someone to get drunk with.

Sounds like a personal problem.

On Saturday of Halloweekend, I found myself someone else's dorm room.  I followed all the rules.  Talked to the kids hanging out in my hallway, walked into the room when everyone else did.  There were maybe six of us in there, and they were all going out for the night.  I asked them where they were going, told them I really want to go out tonight.  They named some greek letters, they mean nothing to me.  They weren't excited about me asking, they didn't want me to come with.  Why?  It was just a frat party, it was nothing personal.  I was still alone.  Still so alone.

Sounds like a personal problem.

Really, who's fault is it that I can't make friends?  And writing suicide letters won't convince someone to invite me to a party.

But I am writing suicide letters again.  Not because I want to die, but because, if I die, I want you to read them and know I was crying for help.

I am crying for help, but help with what?

Last night, I had dreams that I made friends.  Again and again and again.  I was so happy.  I said something about fat shaming, and a girl asked me if I was single.  I do think I have something good to say, I just have no one to say it to.  I don't "like" that girl, but I want to be her friend.  I want to be her friends' friend.  Her friend was in my dream.  I've seen her facebook, her twitter, her tumblr.  I see her smoking cigarettes.  I want to come up to her and say hi.  She is a feminist.

Sounds like a personal problem.

This isn't a real cry for help.  I can spend the nights crying all I want.  Because I do have friends, and they've all reached out to me, and I never responded.  I have friends who told me they don't want to be friends anymore, friends who asked me if I was mad at them.  I don't hate you.  But it's so hard for me to care.  I want a friend here.  I am so alone here.  It doesn't help when I have friends far away.  They can't get drunk with me, or hear my daily thoughts.  Why is this not enough?

Sounds like a personal problem.

Sounds like a problem I should stop whining about, stop writing suicide letters about.  Because I won't kill myself, I won't hurt myself.

I will cry.  But it's no ones fault other than my own that I am lonely.

This time of the year, I become a smoker again.

It starts each day at 5, right after I get out of my last class.  My days are always far from over, always more tests to study for, or papers to write, or co-sponsorships to fill out.  Still, that first breath of relief quickly turns into loneliness.  I always walk a lap around the quad, desperate for someone to share a moment with, because I am alone.  I want to walk this lap with a cigarette.

Maybe it's the cold, the way I see my breath in the air.  Last year, I craved cigars the day that first chill came along.  Or maybe it's the way I've always connected around stacks of smoke, around campfires or waterpipes.  (I resurrected an old lighter from highschool this afternoon, there are three stickers on it: a green, a brown, and a pink; three letters spelling out the word "pot", reminders of a better time.)  Maybe I am just hoping someone will stop by and ask me for a cigarette, I'd give them one, and I'd hope for a quick exchange of words, maybe we'd exchange names, maybe we'd exchange feelings, maybe we'd become friends.

Maybe it's because I've been thinking about drugs recently.  I wish I could still smoke weed like I used to.  I want to escape.  I want to spend a Saturday on acid lying alone on the grass, and maybe I wouldn't feel so alone.  I didn't get drunk this Halloween.  I tried, but I had no one to spend Saturday night with.  Maybe I just want an addiction, maybe it would be something to hold on to.  I know it won't help.  I still feel lonely when I am surrounded by stacks of philosophy and poetry, it doesn't help when I finish a paper four days ahead of time, I just want a friend.

It's been so long since I bought a pack that I forgot what kind of cigarettes I smoke.  I stumbled over my words.  I took out my ID so far ahead of time, I must have looked like an 18-year old buying my second or third pack ever.  This pack will last me a week or two, depending on how many I give away.  At the end of those weeks, I'll no longer be a smoker; but, at the end of those weeks, I'll still be lonely.

There is always a way...

I found salvation in a well-lit hookah bar in Adam's Morgan,
Practiced the art of sacrificing my loneliness into smoke rings,
Escaped a night of staking facebook profiles of acquaintances that will never be part of my life,
In search of a stranger who might change my life,
Like the man playing guitar by the entrance to the Metro:
The great minds of my generation,
I hear their voices in the poetry of past generations,
Escaping the curse of all generations

And I wasn't alone.
Not with a bag full of volumes from used book stores and libraries crossed over my heart,
Not with the words of Ginsberg and Bradbury open on my lap.
Not with the lyrical romance of rhythm in my mind,
There's a mosaic on the roof of my skull,
There is a community in the scribbles of my notebook.

Though the news spoke of murder and institutionalized racism,
Though the art on the walls was probably illegal, and definitely unsigned,
And a one-line poem in black ink on the bridge
Waged peace on the violent: "Shoot cops, not dogs".
I felt hope,
Not the kind that manifests itself in lonely tears,
But the kind that screams.

No one has veto power over my life,
There is always a way to look in their eyes and change their minds.
There is always a way to dodge their barrels and act directly,
There's always a way to build love from tragedy,
You are never alone, there's always someone else in the crowd
Fighting.

(First draft, and I'm not even sure this is a poem, but it's worth sharing.)

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

Sometimes I forget life itself isn't just a phase.

I am scared. Absolutely terrified, really. Sometimes, I forget to breathe, because I am petrified of going on, frightened of continuing. This is real. That's the hardest thing to believe, the hardest concept to swallow. This isn't some tale in a fantasy novel, this isn't a daydream I will soon wake up from. This is my life, my one and only reality. And the things I am doing now will stay with me for ever.

Sometimes, I feel I've gone too deep. I've learned too much about the world, and I've learned too much about myself. I'm declaring absolutes now.  I mean, I am always open to fluidity and to change, but certain things just won't change. Or, at least, I can't go back.  I know my body, my mind, my heart too well now.  Everything has been restructured.  I know this is right, but I wish it just wasn't... forever.

I'm hiding in a bubble. I feel safe in that bubble, safe to share myself with others, safe to change and evolve, safe to believe in the world. Oh, and we know pain in this bubble, we know difficulty. We know just what we're facing. Or do we? We look outside in disbelief. We know too much.

I go home, and my mother cries because she's scared for me. I tell her not to cry, I tell her there's nothing to be scared of. I beg her to just love me. She tells me I don't understand. My sister throws around transphobic and homophobic slurs and makes sexist and racist remarks that, to me, are inherently wrong, why would anyone ever say that, isn't it common sense? But to her, it's no big deal. She laughs at me when I tell her it's wrong. She ignores me when I beg her to rethink. I'm the only one asking her to think a little differently. To the rest of the world, she's right on.

To the rest of the world, We're mutants. We are queer, We are trans, We are feminist, We are liberal, We are young. Some of these things, We'll outgrow. Some of these things are forever. I don't want this bubble to pop, I don't want to grow up. I don't want these things to be forever. I want to be what my mother calls "normal", and I want the same for all my friends. But it's too late. It was too late from the day We were born, destined to, one day, look in Our souls and see something deviant.

I am afraid of loneliness, that We'll never find our place. I am afraid of apathy, of people judging and othering Us, laughing at Our struggles, erasing Our efforts, ignoring Our successes. I am afraid of hate, which, with apathy around, can never die. I am afraid of slurs and fists, of knives and weapons, I am afraid that We will suffer and hurt and die. I am afraid of murder.

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.)

Life Takes Decisions

My mother teases me for not making up my mind.  She tells me how she graduated highschool at 16, and went on straight to med school. She tells me how, by the time she was my age, she was already deciding on her speciality as a doctor.  I can't even imagine that.  At sixteen, I literally had no limitations on my interests. Physics or literature? Performance music or primary education? It all seemed like a viable option.  Upon entering college, I'd realized that my interests focus in the humanities, and began zooming in. Even now - nineteen years old, second semester in college, and a sophomore if you take a look at my credits - I can't even decide what to major in, I can't even decide if I even like this university.

But life, it takes decisions, and it's time I start making decisions, too. Last Thursday, I declared a Linguistics minor. The day after tomorrow, I'm declaring a Philosophy major, and then going on to find out about the Cognitive Science certificate program.  I'd considered a philosophy major since before I started college, I knew I'd do it as either a major or a minor, but deciding on a major seemed impossible: so many credits in one discipline! So many credits not in a variety of other disciplines! So much I would have to sacrifice for a philosophy major. I had to be sure, and it's the Cogntivie Science certificate program - restricted to Philosophy majors, among others - that served as my final push: Philosophy major it is; it's worth it.  I love this feeling - I am on track, I know what I am doing.  It feels so right, it feels great to make decisions pertaining to my life.

I'm on a roll with making decisions now, and I suddenly found myself rolling into new territory. I'm filling out transfer applications.  I am considering leaving CU. Maybe it's the recent rainy weather, or the fact that, due to my birth control, I've been bleeding heavily for more than a week straight, but I've been feeling depressed, lonely, and out of place. I really don't like CU or Boulder. I need to get out of here.

I settled for CU when I was selecting colleges. It's not like I didn't try. I'd been looking since tenth grade, but I didn't know what to look for. I didn't know what I'd major in, I didn't know whether I wanted in or out of state, I didn't know whether I wanted a city or a town. I knew I wanted a place that's bigger than my highschool of 4000, which did cut many colleges out of the picture, but not enough. I toured universities around Colorado and the Bay Area - a place that's very special to me, very close to my heart - but none of them seemed just quiet right. My counselor wasn't much help, either. His only suggestion was the University of Oregon. I am well acquainted with and absolutely adore Oregon and the Pacific North West, but I'm so glad I didn't go there. Even Boulder, just twenty minutes away from Denver, is too small for my taste, and, in a little rainy town in Oregon, I would have gone insane. In the end, I applied to three public Colorado Universities: CU Denver, CSU, and CU Boulder.  Boulder was my top choice, lying near the upper bounds of a "good match".  I got into all three. Even before I started college, I already began thinking about where I want to transfer.

I can't do this small town thing. I find myself dreaming of cities, of highrises and lights, of strange blocks and public buses.  Every time I go down to Denver, my heart starts to beat a little faster. I crave a city life, I'm begging to get to know it's every street, it's every turn. I crave to live, to really live, and I feel like I can't live here in Boulder.

I don't like CU. I hate how there is no diversity. I hate how everyone is white, and either from Colorado, California, Chicago, or New York.  I hate how everyone is rich and spoiled. I hate how no one cares, how they all think they are these cool hippies just because they smoke weed and wear overpriced "bohemian" clothes. I've found myself saying the same things I used to say when I was in highschool.  My sister told me I need to branch out more (of course, by that she means I need fewer queer friends, but that's beside the point), and I told her that I have no where to branch out, that I don't like the vast majority of people at CU, that I don't get along with most of the people here, and thus I have much fewer options. I've been saying that people don't care, and that they're too alike. In fact, this is just like Creek. I see Creek kids everywhere. I can't seem to get away from them. I don't know what to do. I feel trapped. A few weeks ago, I went to march for higher education down in Denver. It took off from Auraria campus - CU Denver, Metro State, and Community College of Denver. Midday on Wednesday, I looked around the campus, and I though, I love it here. I want to be here, the people here look real. Sure, they're still all white, but at least they resemble actual individuals, not like those in Boulder.  When I was waiting for acceptance letters, I was secretly hoping CU would reject me. Then, I would go to CU Denver, and I liked it there more.

I am currently applying to New York University, Washington University in St. Louis, and Denver University. The first two will be really hard to get into, and, if I do get in, I'll have to find some time to visit them before making a decision. I am fairly certain I'll get into DU, but I'm not sure if I'll accept of I do. I doubt my problems with CU will be successfully remedied in DU, except, perhaps, the part where I really want to live in a city. If I don't succeed this semester, I've got a few schools in mind that I'll apply to next year. University of Washington (ok, I know that, here I am, whining about the rain, and then considering life in Seattle, but I really love Washington state, it's one of those places I can already call home), Tufts, and Stanford (now I'm just getting ridiculous; however, I never took a risk when I first applied for colleges, and I want to take one now, I want rejection letters, please).

It's a bit very scary, but I know this is right. If I'm having these thoughts after one year, I'll never make it through my entirely undergraduate career alive. Most of all, if I go any of these places, I'll miss Colorado - the mountains, the skies, the whether, the cities and towns, the culture and people. But I'm a nomad at heart. I've lived four years in a row in Colorado now - longer than anywhere else since I was seven. I need to move on in this world.

Loneliness

(There are a lot of parantheticals in this post.)

Often, I feel lonely. I crave a friend for the night, and I crave a lover for the week.

Overall, throughout my life, I haven't been especially successful in the field of love.  My longest relationship was also my first, spanning six months March 2006 - September 2006, and I ended it because I moved. I was fifteen years old. My next one was about two to three months in the fall of 2007. (I've had a hard time calculating how long this one actually lasted. For a long time, I considered it three months long, simply because that's how long it felt. Recently, I tried to count the exact number of weeks we were together, it seems closer to two months or perhaps even a month and a half, half the length I anticipated. I even discussed this with my ex, and he also guessed it was about three to four months and was surprised when he realized it was actually a lot shorter. Strange how these things work.) I ended that one as well, because my feelings had changed. My last relationship was also my shortest, and lasted a month in the spring of 2008. I don't remember who ended this one, but it was a rough, immature relationship that meant very little to me.

As you can see, there's a trend: downward spiral, eventually leading to a long, lonely span of two consecutive single years.

However, in those years, my love life hasn't been entirely dormant. I've loved and been loved, though it was always different people. (I use a very vague definition of love, for I've yet to figure out what love really is).  I've learned a lot, and I've experienced intimacy, butterflies, and heartbreak. I've gone on dates. I've had casual sex with many men. (I've had very good experiences with casual sex. It always came at the right time in my life, and it was always enjoyable, entertaining, and comforting.  Casual sex seldom created a backlash for me, for I've never felt emotionally threatened by it, and I continue to have good relationships with the men I've slept with; it did, though, cause a problems between me and my gal friends. Silly girls. However, perhaps because I am asexual, I never got much out of it sexually or romantically.)

Somewhat recently, as I was getting to know a new friend, she asked me about my past relationships. "I ask because I think a person's exes tell the most about the person," she told me. That really got me thinking. I disagree, and I really don't feel like my exes say very much about me at all. In fact, I feel that my past has been dictated much more by chance than by choice. (Personally, I decided that the single factor I believe tells the most about a person is their childhood.)  In fact, I often feel ashamed talking about my romantic past, because my best relationship happened when I was just a child (fifteen years old!).  I'm so much older now, and still I look back to that first boyfriend when I think about what I want out of my love life.

Love is arbitrary, random, and illogical. I posted a facebook status on January 13 at 1:16PM (yes, I did just scroll way back on my wall to find it) that went like this:

"Some have lovers and still feel alone. To some, it doesn't matter, somehow. Some are perfect yet lonely, we all wonder why. Some go from one to the next and hate their life and others envy them. Some are heartbroken because they know love, and some are crying because they've never known heartbreak. Some are lucky and happy for years to come while some people fall for the wrong guy at the wrong time over and over again.

I loved this status, and felt that it really captured how I see romance. There really is no reason that things work for some and not for others, and that's just something we have to live with.
 
I've always lived by the philosophy of "Someone will come along eventually." It's worked well for me in the past: it's really kept me optimistic and prevented me from experiencing the I'll-be-single-forever phobia, which I personally find really frustrating. However, recently I've rethought this perspective. I've been following an asexual blog called a sexy beast.  Often, this blog discusses ideas such as singlehood and loneliness. One quote that really got me thinking was this:

In our culture, there is always hope that a single person will marry, regardless of the situation. "Don't worry, you'll find someone." But will we? Asking that question can feel like staring into a cultural abyss. If I was "holding out hope" for doing anything else that has the same odds of two asexuals marrying, I'd be called crazy. But when it comes to romance, it seems, no odds are too small. (here)

Naturally, some people have a much smaller dating pool than others. Theoretically speaking, I probably have a larger potential dating pool than most: I am panromantic, and thus not restricted by gender; I am comfortable with both monogamous and polyamorous relationships; I am a sexually active gray-a sexual, open to a relationship with any level of sex and physical intimacy from very little to very much (although, I'd never had a relationship with both sex and emotional intimacy at the same time, and I'm unsure how I would feel in such a relationship or whether I would be comfortable). In fact, it would appear that there are almost no restrictions on who I am willing to date.  Still, I don't think the calculated dating pool alone can determine the chance someone has at getting hitched. After all, if love is as random as I just suggest it is, then anyone could find themselves single long-term.  I don't consider myself someone who has been single long-term, and I think my love life is more active and healthy than many people's.  Still, as a potential relationship comes to an end, I am cautious to look forward and say "someday, another one will come along".  I mean, what if it doesn't? And, although this may seem very depressing, I find this perspective no less cheerful than the one I held before.

I've also been thinking a lot about how media perceptions of relationships impact my loneliness. I have no doubt that our culture really pushes us to get in a relationship. Love is constructed as important, essential, even, often, as the meaning of life.  If this were not the case, I doubt most of us would feel as lonely being single, although we would still experience some romantic frustration. (What if our culture didn't have a concept of romantic relationships?) Interestingly, I often measure my romantic success not from my personal feelings, but from the way I would imagine it would appear from the outside. For example, one reason I've found casual sex satisfying is because it's made me feel less unwanted and undateable, and made me more certain that I am not entirely alone. I analyze these situations entirely from the outside, as if I were someone else looking in. I have no doubt that a big factor concerning how I experience loneliness is society's pressure not to be alone.

Whenever I feel lonely, platonic loneliness and romantic loneliness tend to happen side by side. Platonic loneliness is the more powerful by the two, and it has the most control over how lonely I feel in general.  Except in cases of heartbreak, if I feel platonically content, I do not experience romantic loneliness, and, if I do, it's brief and insignificant. Likewise, whenever I feel platonically isolated, I always get romantically lonely and desperate. Not only is friendship a lot more important to me than romance, but friendship also influences my love life, for, when I have more friends, I meet more people, get to know more people, and am thus more likely to get close to more people. Platonic loneliness kills me so much and makes me very jealous of other people. I wonder whether my friendships are as plentiful, as close, as intense. In fact, ever since I became interested in friendship, this has become a constant stressor for me. I compare myself to others constantly and I am always trying to measure my platonic success. Every little thing someone tells me, every time I spend a night with someone or get invited to a party, every time someone texts me or comments on my status, I throw a little party with myself. Every time I spend a night alone or realize that someone is texting more often that I am, I feel empty and lost. This social insecurity, I believe, is mostly a result of my childhood and my autistic tendencies.

As I've grown, loneliness has become constant. Although, at times, it's very stressful and painful, most of the time, it's just a fact of life that doesn't bother me. After all, loneliness itself really means nothing until we lend it meaning. Besides, once I stop counting and weighing things out and just listen to my heart, I can tell, I'm really not doing so bad.