You’re More Trouble Than You’re Worth

“You’re more trouble than you’re worth.” A phrase that pretty much sums up every boy’s reason for breaking up with me.

I was more trouble than I was worth when his friends didn’t like me, and when I demanded his attention.

I was more trouble than I was worth when I struggled with Depression and Anxiety and second-guessed every move either of us ever made.

I was more trouble than I was worth when I wouldn’t have sex within the first month of us meeting.

And now, I’m more trouble than I’m worth because although I manage my Anxiety relatively well, it’s still there, and that’s too much. I’m more trouble than I’m worth because I need emotional support, and I need to talk about my feelings.

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The Fear

When I was 13, in the eighth grade, my best friend got a boyfriend. Out of all of us, she was probably the last one you would have expected to start dating first. She was ‘too smart’ for that and kept to herself.

I was super invested in their relationship because this was basically the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me (I know). After this, I became even more obsessed with getting a boyfriend. Now that she had one, it was only a matter of time.

But according to her boyfriend, it wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be.

He said that in a way, once you get a boyfriend or girlfriend, it’s kind of all downhill from there, because from then on you’ll be gripped by the fear of losing them.* So basically, being single is better because then you don’t have a care in the world.

And at the time I was kind of like, “Yo, check your privilege,” or whatever the 13-year-old version of that is, because he had no idea what it was like (even though they had literally just started dating). I was dying alone and he thought he had problems?

But of course, he was totally right. Anyone who’s ever been in a committed relationship will probably tell you that. Until you’ve passed every single milestone you possibly can, you worry if you’re going to make it to the next one. Or maybe that’s just me. Maybe some people feel a lot more secure than that much faster and are so confident that things will work out that they have very few doubts.  Continue reading

New Romantics

***written November 2014 but I forgot to publish it oops…I still stand by it though. Newer posts to come soon***

For the past 6 months, almost exactly, I’ve been wanting to see one of my best friends but not been able to. I’m honestly not even sure why. And the other day I finally did, and I’m happy, but the results were not what I was expecting.

I’ve been saying lately that I have no expectations of anyone, which is more or less true, but I still have expectations of myself. I expect to feel certain ways and say certain things in different situations.

And that didn’t happen.

I was so just beyond anxious the entire time, partially because of the setting but partially just because I didn’t know what was happening. And then me feeling that way scared me even more, making me even more anxious, because that normally doesn’t happen. Normally I feel at peace. He’s my oldest friend and one of the only people I feel truly safe around. I don’t want to lose that feeling.

I also don’t remember that night that well, even though I was completely sober and it was THREE DAYS AGO. Maybe that’s an anxiety thing? Who knows. I’ve been noticing that a lot lately with important moments. I remember bits and pieces but not nearly as much as I want to. Continue reading

Jump (Then Fall)

3 months ago I had this very, very brief thing with this guy, and I never wrote about it publicly until it was over. Except I did write about it, and it’s been sitting in my drafts. I went back to it and was going to delete it, because it’s now irrelevant. But then I realized that that’s what makes it so important.

This is an example of how quickly feelings can change, of how wrong you can be about someone. How even the smartest girls can get all wrapped up like this.

The only saving grace is that now I know that this is possible – unlikely, but possible. Stupidity is awful, but it’s also fun while it lasts. Every girl deserves a little fun now and again, something that I had been sorely lacking. And I’m okay. I didn’t fall in love. And I’ve been through worse.

This post will probably make you want to punch yourself in the face, it’s so adorable. And it makes me want to punch myself in the face too for different reasons, because he didn’t jump, he didn’t understand, and we didn’t make it through those hard conversations. Continue reading

Broken Hearts and Sweet Hypocrisy

Ok, so remember how I re-discovered all those old poems? And I was all, I hate everything I wrote in high school? Well, it turns out that that is not true, I only hate SOME of what I wrote in high school. This is a collection of poems about “a broken relationship, but more than that, they’re about one broken person and the secrets they kept, and someone who would have given anything to save them” according to the description I wrote on FictionPress. And the reason I don’t hate these particular ones is because they give me SO much insight into what happened back then and what my thought process was like. I think these are illuminating. There were 6 of them but these are the only ones that I think are interesting enough to share. (Note that I said ‘interesting’ and not ‘good’.)

I talk a lot about how tough this whole experience was for me, I did an entire speech on it last year, but no one can say it better than fifteen-year-old me.

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The Black Hole

So, I’ve been working on a book for the past 6 months that features a lot of personal details about my life, and as you would expect, writing it has been interesting, to say the least.

As I’m writing, I’m forced to remember things in painstakingly accurate detail, and this is either excruciatingly painful or touching or hilarious or all of the above. And sometimes this sticks with me for a little bit, but then a funny thing happens – the memories disappear.

I mean, they don’t really, of course, but they become no longer my memories, real things that happened to me, but a fictional character’s memories. If I tried hard enough, if I went back through all the old pictures and documents and scrapbooks and gifts that I sifted through in the first place, in order to recall these things, I would remember. But assuming that I don’t do that, I remember things the way I wrote them. In third-person, about someone else, who is me but not me.

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