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Mar. 8th, 2010 02:05 amEven on my best days, my ability to answer emails in something vaguely resembling a prompt manner is a bit compromised. It's part concentration issues, part inebriation issues, part lack of time, and a small bit of reading the email on my phone/my work computer and being unable to respond.
About a week ago, I received a message on Facebook from my former best friend. She was one of a bare handful of friends I had in sixth and seventh grade. And anyone who knows me, knows I refer to that time period as the worst part of my life. Sixth grade to tenth grade, to be precise, so it was actually only just the beginning.
I was violently beaten up, harassed, stalked, and mentally tormented the entire time I lived in that town. At school, at home, in my neighborhood. I had no safe haven. At the same time, the worst of my mental illness was beginning to manifest, I lived in a broken home with an absent mother and an aggressive brother, and I was just plain weird to begin with. And while this girl, now this woman, had very little hand in any of that, I am still hesitant to restablish a connection, no matter how minute and tenuous. It brings too much back.
Not in the mewling, pattering omg I'm so triggered kind of way. But, more like please god, don't make me think about that time or I'll hide under the bed sobbing.
She also strikes me as, and this may be a bit unkind because I'm really only going on a ten sentence email and memories that are twenty-some years old, someone I would find difficulty really relating to. I am continually reminded of how I just am not like the general public. I don't like the same things, I don't think the same way, I don't associate with the same types of people. My friends and I are a strange, fucked-up tribe. And the glazed over look of oh, that's so interesting can be hard to take.
First world problems, I would reckon, right? But, nonetheless, they exist and bother me in a woefully pretentious fashion. At least I've fallen out of the habit of writing bleak, existential poetry and drawing shit on my face in eyeliner.
Speaking of writing, I've been talking a load of smack about how I'm going to spend the time from now until school starts back up this autumn working on a fiction project I've been kicking around in my skull for some time. It's about rats.
Now that I've spoken about it, I have to do it. It's been so long so since I've seriously written anything other than memos at work and words in this journal, I don't even know where to begin.
About a week ago, I received a message on Facebook from my former best friend. She was one of a bare handful of friends I had in sixth and seventh grade. And anyone who knows me, knows I refer to that time period as the worst part of my life. Sixth grade to tenth grade, to be precise, so it was actually only just the beginning.
I was violently beaten up, harassed, stalked, and mentally tormented the entire time I lived in that town. At school, at home, in my neighborhood. I had no safe haven. At the same time, the worst of my mental illness was beginning to manifest, I lived in a broken home with an absent mother and an aggressive brother, and I was just plain weird to begin with. And while this girl, now this woman, had very little hand in any of that, I am still hesitant to restablish a connection, no matter how minute and tenuous. It brings too much back.
Not in the mewling, pattering omg I'm so triggered kind of way. But, more like please god, don't make me think about that time or I'll hide under the bed sobbing.
She also strikes me as, and this may be a bit unkind because I'm really only going on a ten sentence email and memories that are twenty-some years old, someone I would find difficulty really relating to. I am continually reminded of how I just am not like the general public. I don't like the same things, I don't think the same way, I don't associate with the same types of people. My friends and I are a strange, fucked-up tribe. And the glazed over look of oh, that's so interesting can be hard to take.
First world problems, I would reckon, right? But, nonetheless, they exist and bother me in a woefully pretentious fashion. At least I've fallen out of the habit of writing bleak, existential poetry and drawing shit on my face in eyeliner.
Speaking of writing, I've been talking a load of smack about how I'm going to spend the time from now until school starts back up this autumn working on a fiction project I've been kicking around in my skull for some time. It's about rats.
Now that I've spoken about it, I have to do it. It's been so long so since I've seriously written anything other than memos at work and words in this journal, I don't even know where to begin.
