Guilty

There's something about being sick that brings everything into focus. You just don't have the energy to bullshit yourself. Your defenses are down. You're forced, physically and mentally, to confront everything as it hits you.

Your emotions seem to balloon to vast proportions, consuming your thoughts. The strangest part is, though, that they aren't themselves aren't any stronger. You've only opened yourself up to experiencing their full force. You feel yourself to the point of exhaustion.

That happened today, and I nearly suffocated. The tears pricked behind my eyes, and I thought I would lose it right there. I thought I would break down, sobbing, in front of my coworkers and a handful of strangers. Why?

I felt guilty. Oh, God. I felt awful. The minute he looked at me my stomach turned to knots. It felt hard, like a dead weight. It affected my ability to breathe. I wanted to run away. I know that look.

God, oh God, why? Every fucking time.

I shouldn't have felt guilty. Rationally, I know that; of course I do. But stuck in that moment, under the influence of a cold, functioning on too little sleep? Guilt. Cold, hard guilt that screwed itself into my chest until it was stuck tight. It taunted me to pull it out. Pull it out, be rid of the guilt . . . and bleed out on the floor.

I started getting flashes of other, similar faces: all hopeful, all about to be broken--because I'm a horrible person, I guess. It's the only explanation. Once is unfortunate, twice is a coincidence, three times and you're the issue. I'm the issue.

I'll have to see him again. I'll have to say, "Remember the other day?" Then downhill. I'll rip out that weighty shaft of guilt and arm myself with it. I'll turn it into aggression, into hurtful overconfidence. Do I have to? I think so. I've never known any another way.

Then his face--his face will fall and burn itself into my mind. It will join all the other faces--that wretched album of all the people I've hurt.

And the guilt will work itself back in.

Wham, Bam, Thank You Ma'am!

Dear Ginger,

You wanna know something awesome? You. You are a total and complete manifestation of awesome.

You're beautiful, you're smart, and you're funny--really, truly.

The way you handled that pushy asshat at the union office: awesome. The way you handled that bimbo who ruined your lab assignment: awesome. Did you lose your cool? No, you did not. Remember that. You are poised and self-possessed, and no one can take that away from you.

I know this morning you woke up and you weren't feeling so hot. You were tired, anxious, and in the throes of a major cramp attack. But you know what, you powered through. You pulled out that makeup bag, popped that Rockstar gum, and faced the world head-on. You know what that is? Awesome. You are strong and determined. Those are intrinsic values of yours. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

You felt jealous today, didn't you, looking at all those couples? I know you try to avoid that vice as much as possible, but remember what they say: even the best of us, my darling. You didn't let yourself get sucked in, though. I'm really proud of you for that. You pulled yourself out of that pit and moved right along. You know what I'm going to say next, because I've said it a thousand times. You're awesome, and there's someone out there for you. There is someone made just for you, your perfect complement. All these lonely nights will be forgotten in the light of the love you will find. I promise.

You don't always believe these things about yourself. Sometimes, more often than you would like to admit, you look into the mirror with loathing. You feel so painfully not enough. You feel like you fall short of everything you need to be. Or worse, you feel that you're not even close, completely out of orbit. You feel ugly, and stupid, and overemotional, and slimy, and sick. You just want to crawl into bed and cry yourself to sleep.

The next time you feel that way, I want you to come back and look at this. I want you to read it slowly and carefully. I want you to absorb every word and accept it. I want you to remember the way you're feeling now, and believe that you will feel that way again.

Babe, you're awesome, and I love you.

xo Ginger

You Call Yourself a Rebel

You call yourself a rebel

Purveyor of truth

An outcast by choice

You call yourself a victim

Trapped by conventions

Dying to break free

Funny how you mock me

Belittle all the

Things I have to say

Funny how it's not me

Screaming 'til I'm hoarse

So the Man backs down

Funny how that works, love

That you're feeling low

'Cause you're out place

Funny, when it all hit,

You turned and blamed me

For all that you'd done

Funny that I'm called weak

Utterly careless

The worst of the worst

When all I am is

Frightened and confused

Just trying to cope

Making Me Human

Why is my first instinct to hide myself?

I was talking with some people the other day--people my own age, normal people. It was going well, to my great surprise.

Don't let them know.

The thought reverberated clearly in my mind. It a suggestion offered up by my subconscious, very nearly a command. It stopped me in my tracks.

What?

Let them know what?

And then it hit me: myself. Don't let them know about me. Surely, if they knew me, they wouldn't be so cheerful, so willing to talk.

Because I'm a bad person? Maybe not. I'm tainted by the sin of the world, certainly, but I don't far surpass it. I hope. I'm aware of my shortcomings, at least, and I try my best. I don't think I'm a bad person.

But . . . perhaps I am. Perhaps that's what my internal self recognized.

If they ever found out about that, it says to me. Or this, or those other things. If they knew . . .

If they new, indeed. If they uncovered all the rips and stains that litter my heart and mind. I panic.

Oh God. Don't let them know. Don't let them know any of it.

My heart picks up, skips a beat, and stops. It restarts, shaky. They couldn't know, and never will. I wouldn't tell them. I will hide that part of me indefinitely.

A list in quickly compiled in my mind.

I should hide my thoughts--too strange. My opinions--they'll judge me. My dreams--they'll think they're stupid.

I can't tell them about the promotion--they'll be jealous.

I can't tell them how I'm doing--not really. They don't actually want to know.

So . . . what am I supposed to show them? What part of myself isn't "too this" or "too that" to expose to the world? Why do I think everything about myself is wrong?

Inner self, you're a bitch.

So, I'm different than some people. Than a lot of people. And that's okay.

I shouldn't hide myself because I'm afraid of reprisal. I should "hide" because they wouldn't appreciate what I have to offer. Does that make them stupid? No. Does it make me pretentious? No.

It just makes us different.

They wouldn't care a whit what I have to say on the theme of sexual abuse in Oedipus Rex; so I'll talk to them about the cute GM.

They're not interested in me unveiling the depths of my soul; so I'll keep the talk superficial.

You know what the funniest bit is? It's pleasant. Not every conversation needs to be life-changing. Sometimes, it's enough just to connect on a basic human level. To laugh together. To smile. To share a knowing wink.

So, we don't exegete Ulysses. My conversations with them are not riveting, intellectually satisfying, or otherwise noteworthy in the least. But when I'm with them, for the first time in a very long time, I feel utterly human.

And that, my friends, is worth more than any lecture hall has to offer.

The Thing Is, I Don't Matter

I've experienced the profound relief of realizing what little impact I have on the world.

I walk around with all these grand delusions about what my presence has wrought, so to speak.

"Oh God, she must be torn up about what I said. She'll never, ever forget."

"I hope he'll be able to get over me forgetting about our study date."

"Will that clerk ever be able to recover from my short reply to him?"

Yes. Yes, they all will. You want to know why? Because I'm a fairly insignificant part of the world as a whole.

Thank God.

I didn't fuck it it up.

Everything is going to be all right. La vie continue--I don't have to carry this around with me anymore. A weight in my chest has just dissolved, a weight I didn't even know I was carrying around with me. I'm breathing easier. The scratching guilt in the back of my mind has ceased.

What a lovely feeling, to know that my actions did not bring about such serious consequences that, in my self-absorbed worldview, I believed they did.

I didn't fuck him up.

I Still Think About You

by Zindy S.D. Nielsen

You hardly even look at me anymore, and it kills me. I know I was the one who made the first move, but I wouldn't have said a damn thing if I new you'd react this way.

You realize it's almost exactly a year since our relationship began to die? God, this month. The whole damn month was one big emotional hailstorm. I didn't want to hurt you, and you didn't want to let go. That did it more than anything else, I think. Quel suprise.

Still, I wasn't the one who drove the final nail in the coffin. That was all you. You drew away, and drew away, and kept moving until we lost all contact. Why? Because you were hurt? You could've told me. We could've worked something out.

I'm angry at you for being closed off, and I'm angry at you for leaving me. And I miss you. And I love you. I love you so damn much it hurts, and I cry, and I wish I could talk to you again--for real, not this crap we suffer through now.

The thing that hurts the most is that this is what did it. It wasn't distance. It wasn't a change it social circles. It wasn't anything that should have wrecked us so bad. It makes me think--because I didn't let you feel me up? I get eight years of my life ripped away from me because I wouldn't put out? Because I was in the wrong relationship, and you were too damn selfish to respect that?

I automatically assume the worst. That's what I loved most about you though: You knew that, and so you never did anything that would prompt me to speculate. You were always brutally honest with me. God, you were amazing. One of the best things in my life.

Why did that change? I guess the transition was too much. That's all it is, though--a guess. You never told me anything. For seven months I felt like I was running around with a mannequin. "Run" would be the wrong word, though, come to think of it. You can't run when you're stuck on a pedestal.

I stare at your picture on my phone. I think about you every single day. I'm completely inappropriate, the worst kind of stalker, but I can't help myself. I want to to come back to me, and I want us to love each other like we used to. Do you remember?

I never told you, but I used to have nightmares. In my dreams, I'd be stuck with you in a room with you, and you were trying to make love to me. I felt so disgusted and forlorn that I'd hang myself with your tie. The dream came back so often that one day I had to wake up. I couldn't attribute it to an overactive, self-sabotaging subconscious anymore.

I wish, with all my heart, that I could've wanted you like you wanted me. I wish we could be perfect, and beautiful, and live happy, fulfilled lives, never taking our eyes off each other.

I wish I could say I'm sorry: I was an idiot, I was a jerk; I was selfish and insensitive; please forgive me, I love you so much.

I love you so fucking much. Why don't you love me?