Thursday, April 28, 2016

Nobody ever even reads blogs anymore, so I think it's okay to just be real here.

I had to write that down so I could feel braver.

This year has been hard and terrible and heavy. Heavier than most in ways I didn't anticipate. And in ways I don't know what to make of just yet.
I don't feel smart enough or kind enough or old enough or young enough or loved enough or loving enough. I don't have any answers, only so many many questions that nobody will ever answer. This got real emo, haha!


My mom gave me a big pep talk today, and I wanted to remember some of the things she said, but I don't know where else to put them, so here they are. She told me to stay the course and to build a sandcastle with individual grains of sand. She told me that I'm mean, but important. I almost cried six times, but I wanted to be tough, and frankly, I don't have the time to cry. I only have time to work and write and think and watch all of the television (seriously all of it).

I really only have one friend here. I have more enemies than I knew were possible. I didn't believe the people who told me that this place is charged, but they are right. I was depressed in California and Utah and Nebraska, but Oklahoma is so much darker. I feel lighter, but it seems like the elements of this place are much sharper than anywhere else. The history of here is buried so close to the surface, but everyone keeps pretending that there's nothing but what you can see. I don't understand how to be, and I can't figure out how to stop thinking about what's hidden/ what I can't know. I wonder about who is buried under my house and whose graves are under the lake where the tap water comes from.

I think there's a ghost in the upstairs part because I saw too many orbs in a photo, and sometimes it smells like faintly dead things. I spend so much time scared of spiders and tornadoes and dead Kiowas and sounding crazy and being mean and not knowing enough, and not trying hard enough to mend things, and wondering if anyone is proud enough of me and if I can ever escape here, and if I am quiet enough or far too quiet and and and and and

And I miss my grandma.

I'm trying to figure out how to actually be a whole person instead of some fraction of something, and that's an impossible task when I'm constantly dissecting and being dissected. People keep asking me how much X I am. How can a person be only so much?

How can we live?