It kind of sucks for everyone. Everyone has their problems, everyone takes things differently, we're all unique. Blah... Blah... Blah. I dunno. I really hate complaining about my life. Sure, it's not great, sure it could be worse; but I feel like I'm here to listen to everyone else's problems. I like listening to other people's problems! I was simply meant for the job. And every time I want to start, something stops me. I crack wise or make some idiotic observation, something to distract from the fact that I was about to be serious and seek help. But the thought still lingers.
Before I really start this, I want to tell you (whoever you may be) a little bit about myself and my family. My family is a rambunctious bunch of party animals. They are loud and charismatic, almost exclusively female other than one uncle as far as elders go (on my mom's side, as I don't know who my father is), but all confident, strong and very at ease with their emotions. My cousins and brother are all apples of the same tree, attractive personalities (not to mention that much of my family is pretty up there in the looks department) and social butterflies that love to party. I, on the other hand, tend to remain remain quiet in many situations, and prefer to observe. I don't like parties, I'm loud only when in a comfortable environment; I don't even understand my own emotions. Even physically we are slightly different; I am short, maybe five foot two, with straight, dirty blonde-ish, brown hair that changes very noticeably between seasons, my hands are tiny and my feet have exceeded my mom's by almost two sizes. You can still tell we are related, but they all look so much alike that it almost irks me. It's probably only my size, seeing as the women are all around five foot eight, the men being anything above six feet; and this next generation is going to be taller if not the same size.
Now, here is someone that shies from social interaction, has a tendency to draw on everything, has a lisp, mumbles, stutters, and gets terrified when someone else is flustered. Put them in a first grade classroom. It is the end of the year, they can't read and they only know half the alphabet. Do you think they'll make friends? Didn't think so. Will anything change in second grade? Third? Fourth? Fifth, even? No. But then sixth grade rolls around; 2006. Something happens, something big. Someone dies; a few people die. A few people (and animals) get murdered. This happened to be a very large case on the east coast, the first big murder in Maine in a long time (look it up, if you want to, I don't mind). It is grotesque, covered on the news and put in the newspapers. Constantly. Reminders. Constantly. Everywhere. Well, that wasn't very good for me. My grandmother, someone that I admire so much more than my mother, someone that took care of me and left an imprint on me more than anyone else. My aunt, my favourite aunt, the one that wasn't so... Hardened by life. The baby of eight children. It had to be them, right? It had to be the sweetest woman to ever grace this earth for sixty years and her thirty year old daughter? The woman that had a legacy to keep going, people to influence, who hadn't yet watched a single grandchild graduate high school? The daughter that hadn't yet seen her eldest into middle school? And to put the cherry on top, my only friend in elementary school, my speech teacher, afterschool teacher and confidante had to get a heart and lung transplant and move across the country to New York. I hadn't spoken to her (not as if I didn't try, but my searches were fruitless) until this summer, five years later.
I changed after that initial year of numb shock, I'll tell you that. I made friends, only three, and I dated one right before he moved to Washington and came out of the closet. The other turned out gay and moved to Reno. Only myself and Miguel left (I'll definitely go into that later). But I had fun. I was better. But I feel bad for it. Why did my life improve after that? How can I just go on and live without so much as a second glance in their direction? I can count the times I've cried about it on one hand. I couldn't count the times I've stopped myself from crying if I wanted to. I get mad, (my eyes simply water up and leak, I don't count it as crying) and a lot of the time I feel like they abandoned me. They just left me here to wallow in this shithole we call life, and I can almost say I have hated them for it at some points in life. So many have abandoned me; moved, died, even simply stopped talking. It's made me this person that doesn't know how to get close to people, doesn't know how to comfort or be comforted, doesn't know how to interact gently with out being awkward. Isn't that supposed to be part of the human experience? Learning how to deal with problems and learning how others deal with problems? Hell, I can't even ask a question without repeating it in my head over and over for a few minutes; and even then, it comes out jumbled, or too quiet to be heard by anyone not directly next to me. I don't know. The human emotional spectrum is far too complex for me to feel like I know myself, so how can others know me?
My personal relationships are usually rather good. People in my classes let me keep to myself and let me jump into their conversations when I hear something interesting or feel the compulsive need to correct something that was said or even defend an idea that has been popularly misconstrued (such as the pentagram being seen as a sign of the Devil when it's not even a Christian symbol). My friends are made via family members or people that had the manners to acknowledge my presence or ask questions about my art, sometimes they're just people that I recognise from soccer (a place where I'm quite at ease and sociable; endorphins, yeah?). I have a core group, Talie (my best girl friend, goofy and totally adorable, love her to death and have since eighth grade), Sam (a loud and very endearing young lady, though she seems to think herself more mature than most), Aly (dramatic, yes, but also quite conniving and fun), Tenzin (Talie's brother, like a little brother to me, he even honours my friendship by freely complaining to me. I enjoy it.), and Danielle (a witty, glamorous nerd that I find very similar to me when dealing with depression). There was Jerrald, the aforementioned gay guy that moved to Reno; he's an annoying little bugger at times, and quite crude, but he means well and tries very hard to be a good friend, which I admire. He reminds me of my aunt a great deal.
Then there's Miguel. I dated him for three years. A lot of people would say that we were just friends that liked to think of themselves as a couple, since we'd never even kissed. But I like to think it was more than that; not just something that would help us remember how close we were. He helped me in times of need, and I helped him. We held hands and shared secrets that I'd never be able to share with anyone else, and yes, we were young at thirteen. Still are young, at a mere sixteen. But to me it was real; to him it was real. As far I know, I was, and still am, in love with him. He didn't want to date me because his IB/Honours classes are heavy in work, his swim and water polo practices are every day of the week, he goes to visit family every weekend, which means we see each other even less, and I become a best friend to him again. I can completely understand. I don't want to hold him back, don't want to occupy his mind so he can't succeed, don't want to guilt-trip him into a movie so that he isn't able to keep the grades he needs to get to college. But I do want him to know that I still have those feelings for him, even if we have to behave as friends to make him comfortable. And as for the lack of physical elements in our relationship? He's too much of a gentleman to make a move if I'm scared; and I'm too scared to make a move due to my past with those of the opposite sex. I couldn't even stand to give hugs to close friends until eighth grade; I still find it hard to toch anyone. I'm not going to say what happened back then simply because I don't think I could even admit it to him without breaking down. I need closure before I can confess to the Internet and it's surfers. That's how it goes.
So guys. I might be done. I was probably going to say something else... But I seem to have forgotten. If I remember I may post another unnecessarily long rant. Or maybe I'll finally gather up the courage to rant to someone face-to-face and actually let them comfort me. Maybe that would help me to better my attitude on life. Until next time, and thanks for reading. - Isabela