How I Met Jane

January 18th, 2017

“You’re going to regret this,” she said. That’s all she cared about saying. Nothing mattered to her but my wrong doing. Nothing mattered to her but the tone I was crying in.

“You’re going to regret this.”

Through the tears and raised voices I couldn’t understand this. How can she tell me this? I’m asking for an ear. I’m asking for her to listen to me.

That’s all I wanted.

“You’re going to regret this.”

These were my comforting words. These were my thoughts to keep me going through this hell.

I knew I shouldn’t have asked yet I still did. I just wanted to talk. I wanted to talk so bad. By far the worst thing is being alone with your own thoughts. The sound of your own quiet.

She continued to yell at me in a voice that I haven’t heard since we lived with my dad – I bring out the best in people.

“One day you will know the why. You will know why you are so angry. You will know!” She didn’t want to hear anything anymore. She went on how she wasn’t going to feel sorry for me, that I didn’t have a right to be tired at 26, not even at 27 that crept in closer this year.

I had no right? That was all I had left. Once you hit rock bottom, there are so few things that a man holds on to, rights being one of them. I would be damned if these were to be taken from me as well. This was all I had left.

I began to mock and sarcastically bring up my sister’s needs and brother’s, and how wonderfully they are treated. How we can’t bring this up to my sister because it would hurt her, and not my brother…oh no. The sarcasm continued. I began to shake because I can’t believe I was saying this. I held it in so long. It had nowhere else to go.

“Because this is your fight! This is mine. And this is yours!

“You don’t think I’m tired? I’m tired. I have a right to be tired,” she continued.

Emphasizing that the right was hers, not mine.  Again, I had no right. I was just tired. I didn’t want harm. I didn’t want to fight. Why couldn’t I be tired? Her bringing up her own issues just reissued how much of a loser I was compared to the rest. I never felt so small and big at the same time. The bigger they are, the harder they fall.

She looked at me in disgust. She looked at me the way she used to.

When all I wanted more than ever was the comfort of my mom.

I didn’t want to be strong anymore. I didn’t want to cry anymore. I just wanted to be tired in my mom’s embrace.

“You’re going to regret this.”

That’s what I got.

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How I Met Jane

This is to.This is for.

This is to every person that told me that I had a split personality.
This is to every person who told me that I was a mess.
This is for those people who told me I needed help.
This is for those people who didn’t help.
This is to the guy who said I was playing the victim.
This is to the girl who said “She doesn’t know what she wants.”
This is to the guy who used me for a bit.
This is to the girl who decided what I wanted.
This is for the people I hurt along the way with my anger.
These are for your memories, I apologize…I was young.
This is for the past for taking a bite out of my soul.
This is for my soul, not letting me rest, we wanted more.
This is to the hotel for never letting me sleep comfortable again.
This is to that boy who let me sleep comfortable again.
This is to the innocence that was stolen again and again.
This is for my lover who will make me feel again and again.
This is to the doctor who said “it’s all in your head.”
This is for the nurse who said “I believe what you said.”
This is for the school counselor who said “you can’t do it all.”
This is to my mom, who said “you can do it all.”
This is to doubt, fear, and sorrow.
This is for doubt, fear, and sorrow.
This is for every lost soul.
This is for every person who wants more.
This is for your courage, this is for your struggle.
This is for your determination, believe me, it’ll show tomorrow.
This is to every mile I ran, every tear I tasted, every thought I had, to every thought I lost.
This is for every ill remark thrown my way, every assumption that was made, and stab that was saved.
This is to me.
This is for me.

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How I Met Jane

Clueless

I have no idea what I’m doing.

The majority of these posts follow this thought.

Not so much of content, but about life.

Lessons later. Heart-aches later. Hell, even small amounts of success led me back here.

I have no idea what I’m doing.

At this current moment I am trying to figure out how to break it to you that I am not that great of a person. My indecisiveness leads me to hide, and suppress everything that is right.

You’re reading this going, “What the hell is she talking about?”

I have no idea.

Years later I returned to this part of myself where I could be free to update you of how I overcame everything. That I did in fact get the dream job. That haircut I was worried about? Yeah, I got it, and I looked fantastic! The cat problem? No worries, I cut it down to one cat. Oh, and the excessive drinking? I drink f*cking tea now!

If this is what you expected, add another notch of disappointment to your expectations in life. This blog is that notch.

I question my job daily, and drink while on the job. The haircut ended up making me look like one of The Beatles, in a non-adorable way. I had 10 cats at one time (currently have 5), and tea is a foreign substance in my life.

I ended up ruining a lot of good things because I couldn’t let things go.

This doesn’t bother me though.

What bothers me is that I forgot to put gas in my car and now I have to wake up early before work.

 

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How I Met Jane

Holy Sh*t

This still exists.

Want to know something?

I’m still the same.

Within the last post, I’ve done things that I can’t express all at once. Karma came back, and why, it wasn’t the best meeting. Cycles of depression, and worried thoughts, and the never-ending fear of the treacherous, “What If’s?”

I wouldn’t change it for the world.

I wouldn’t be here typing if it wasn’t for those events.

I wouldn’t be here lying to you if I said I wasn’t afraid of the next relapse.

But I am here.

So, let’s meet Jane again.

She can control her whiskey, but now she steals beer out of bars.

 

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How I Met Jane

“You guys still think i’m cooooool?”

I just got asked if I was popular in high school.

An intense flashback of me with bleach blonde hair and stripped pants sitting on a bench laughing as I secretly stole glances of a boy I liked for four years who only noticed my existence 6 years ago.

2014-01-26 10.17.25

Yeah, I was a creeper. He noticed me though, said I had a “Staring problem.” Yup. Self-explanatory.

I mean I wasn’t at the bottom of the food chain, nor the top. Every now and then when a “cool” kid talked to me it was nice, thus proving my cool ranking was not as high.

I think I fell in between the cracks. I was cool enough to be noticed by my senior year since I got voted “Most Unique” which is a nice way of saying ” You’re one weird girl whose cool and we remembered you because you had pink hair.”

…I still don’t understand how guys liked me. To this day.

Some of my co-workers think that I was the cool kid in class though. Ha, if they only knew when I sat on gum my freshman year and tried desperately to walk backwards, clinching my butt cheeks to go home.

If someone asked me if I was popular in Middle School though, the answer would be no. Hell no.

Socially awkward, lanky girl,with no bangs to expose huge forehead, pimples, and whose only friend was a little Asian girl just imported who stood by a pole with an Adidas track suit pant and jacket that never matched and talked about homework.

2014-01-26 10.41.51

Good times. Fun fact: little Asian girl grew up a little slutty. Now has an adorable baby.

Still on this question, I still don’t understand where I stood on the popularity scale. Maybe I was that kid you liked but was afraid to admit out of fear of lowering one’s street cred?

Not sure.

I wasn’t a cheerleader.

I couldn’t successfully play a sport.

I wasn’t dumb to be cool.

I wasn’t smart to be known for being smart.

Didn’t have huge boobs.

Didn’t dress girly.

Just now in my mid 20’s understand what the meaning of a “pedicure and manicure.”

Didn’t have my first kiss until I was 16 and didn’t know that spit was exchanged.

and…

I obviously didn’t have a boyfriend or put out to climb up the social ladder.

I was just me.

and after you go from being so out of the circle of not being cool, it is then cool again and you go back up for not caring.

It’s like a fashion faux pas of wearing white after labor day. Or neon colors from the 80’s, it’s cool again.

In the end I’m pretty glad. Most of the cheerleaders now are fat and have babies, but I mean there’s nothing wrong with being a cheerleader. I’m not anti-cheerleader. This isn’t a typical low-self-esteem, tall girl who writes poetry cliché hate statement.

This is more of a “I’m dating a guy who was a football player, dated a cheerleader and now has a kid from said cheerleader and this seems to still haunt me” statement.

I was (still am) one of the guys. The girl who cursed with them, drank with them, and had a crush on one of them and he never responded back and went with the fat girl who I still don’t understand why…huh…

So to answer the question if I was popular. I would say no. I was too cool to be mainstream. I’m a little indie, independent dork.

…this is what I tell myself to make me feel better.

It works!

Always be yourself. At the end of the journey of avoiding yourself, to be someone else, you end up with yourself; this is how you end up making yourself. Make someone good.

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How I Met Jane, Sex and Ex

What Gets You Off?

I have so many lies that I’m honest.

I always think of the day where everything will blow up in my face, it’ll all be out, and I cringe momentarily…but then…I’m free.

Free of what? These are self-inflicted wounds that I hound on.

I think to myself why I can’t let go of my ex emotionally. He’s 2,000 miles away and we talk all the time. We talk like nothing ever happened, as if I never came to him saying I’m slowly leaving you but can’t let you go because  it’s my turn to be a selfish human being.

Because I will say this numerous times,  humans are sick sadistic, masochistic animals, whether you believe it or not. There’s no other explanation for this, for what we do.

For who I am that people get the tidbits of, due to my selective honesty, looping through the technicalities of honesty and lying.

I keep repeating that I am a horrible person. I mention this and people don’t believe what horrible actions I can inflict on others or what I’m referring to.

The people who I hate and get disgusted with are the people who reflect myself. People like me.

I can only be honest is in writing, to strip this all away, dissect my thoughts, and hear it to myself so maybe one day I can  have an answer.

The truth be told is that I don’t know how I feel about anything anymore. I shouldn’t have to think how I feel, I shouldn’t have to give something a chance to feel either.

This is just a rant, no real purpose, no story to tell. These are just words that millions of people have thought, I am no different, neither are you.

We’re the few though that try on a daily basis to be honest and not get fucked on a daily basis, and if we do, we take it and show to the world that it doesn’t hurt.

Tell me where it hurts?

Ask yourself that.

I did. Not sure where. I seem to always morph these thoughts and feelings into anger. I thought I was over the anger phase, how many years will this take? For me to not lose it when a male low life customer tries to touch me, when I get screwed out of a car-again, money, time, youth, and any innocence and shreds of hope left.

All of that is happening right now, but I was born into that, I’ve lived that forever. There’s more…under.. under the casual sex, the need and crave of a gentle touch. The unattached scared responses of someone falling for you and you know that you might break their heart. The manipulation. The need to be alone, along with the fear. People like me. Fucked up people who have intimacy issues but beg a part of themselves to be fucked hard because that is what we deserve. Deserve what? For what? Nothing. Not a damn thing. Just a feeling.

People like me.

That are constantly worried about time. They measure it, count it and ironically waste it but needed a chunk put aside specifically to waste.

That worry about things that they created in their heads.

I’m a horrible person that needs another horrible person. To use and be used. To figure out what I’m using for. The appeal of an addict; getting off to nothing.

 

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How I Met Jane

One of the guys

“And will that be all for you ma’am?”

“Yes.”

“Ok, may I see your ID please?”

“Of course” Hands ID over to me.

“Oh honey, someone needs a manicure.”

I look down towards my hands, I hide a couple of fingers and slide the spiteful woman’s credit card while I wish horrible things to happen to her. Luckily for her, the word denied comes on my screen.

“Sorry ma’am your card has been declined,” I emphasis decline and say this aloud, “Next!”

This is the joy of working in retail. It’s hard to have pretty nails when you’re shoveling shoe boxes all the time, but screw her, she didn’t get the best of me.

So last week I went to get a pedicure and manicure.

I don’t remember the last time I got one, oh yeah when I was unemployed and depressed.

I had an Asian woman to my left telling me to “relax” and that I have dry skin. I had a man by my feet using power tools to get rid of dead skin. Soon he was going to bring out a mask and blow torch. He made my big toe bleed.

Besides slight embarrassment from my nails, I almost kicked him in the face. Who told him to massage my foot? Geeze, it took all of my mental and will power to not roundhouse kick him.

I show up to work the next day and no one really notices. I walk in a sad attempt with my nails on my face to get attention. “What’s wrong with you, does your face hurt?” Fail!

I’m one of the few girls on my team where the majority are guys, yet I don’t really fit in with the girls. Story of my life.

I’m with the guys as they’re drooling over girls talking about their figure and we quote movie lines and idiotic scenarios back and forth.

One day I have about 4 boxes stacked up, covering my sense of direction, and do you think anyone rushes to the door? Nope.

“Oh, Jane’s got that. Good job!”

Where Ms. Deana says a low, “ow” and everyone’s acute hearing leads them rushing to her.

“Are you OK? oh my glob, get a band-aid, get a band-aid now!”

“Umm, can someone help me with the shoe-boxes, I’m on the ladder.”

“Not now Jane, can’t you see that Deana may have cut her skin!?”

I mention this to my co-worker last night. After I said in a hormonal and low cry, “but I’m a girl too,” he couldn’t help but laugh.

“Of course I know you’re a girl, but you’re cool. You can talk about anything.”

“So, you and John had to come over to tell me a perverted joke about vaginas because I’m cool?”

“Yes.”

“Why?!”

“Hey, you laughed. That’s why!”

“Fail”

I have obviously failed at a girl. I’m attractive to a gay guy at work (who is the store manager and has better eyebrows than me), guys look at me as a guy, and I don’t even fit in with the lesbian at work either. What does this mean? Do I become a cross dresser and date gay guys? Do I become a lesbian and go after dikes? Am I suppose to go back to my blonde hair and talk about the Kardashian’s and how ugly I think that baby is going to come out?

I am so confused.

What makes this whole situation worse is when the co-worker I have a crush on comes up to me and talks about vaginas.

I have failed as a girl.

guys

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