The Begining

The Beginning

 

I stretch out in my chair, throwing my arms over my head with a sigh. Life wasn’t going quite the way I wanted it to anymore. I was struggling to keep up in school, with one class in particular, and the idea of failing terrified me. Or really, I was scared of my mother’s reaction when I failed. Back in high school I’d get screamed at. Any daughter of hers just had to be perfect.

            But I wasn’t perfect anymore. I had recently come out as bisexual, posting it on Facebook so I wouldn’t have to tell my mother to her face. I got told I was in a faze that I’d grow out of. That somehow, my attraction to the redhead that was the object of my affections for a summer was just something that I could be cured of in time. Whatever helps her sleep at night I guess.

            Bondage had become a fetish of mine as well. That had started with Rick, who had no one to practice his ties on. It started as me being willing to help out a friend who was like a brother to me. But when I realized how much I loved it, it became something to benefit us both. It never turned sexual, that was something I’d bring my boyfriend into the world for. But Rick and I spent a summer trying new ties and photographing the results. I was his model and his practice dummy for three months in which I was finally starting to feel like me and not a shadow of who I used to be.

            And now, along with all my little imperfections, I was going to fail calculus. I had never before failed a class, never had to taste the bitter bite of defeat. I was terrified this would be the end of my college career because of the way it would drop my GPA. I was sure to lose any and all scholarships I’d managed to hold onto up until that point. I would be forced back home to that hell hole I called my home town. I wouldn’t get the chance to prove I could be something, do something other than get left behind. I would fall just like everyone had told me I would.

            I stare at my computer screen and try to make sense of the homework. No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t make it turn into English. I would just fail, there was no way around it anymore. My life as I wanted it to be, was officially over.

            I open up the internet browser and go through the normal routine. Tumblr, Facebook, school email, personal email, Writer’s Café, and ending it all with Authonomy. None of my stories had comments, just like always. I liked to believe writing was the one thing I was actually good at, but that hadn’t gotten me anywhere.

            I find the link to my grandfather’s blog, something he started keeping when he stopped preaching. Growing up Christian had been nice, back then I didn’t question what I was told. It was simple. But now, with everything falling to s**t, there was nothing left for me to believe in.

            The depression my mother caused when she took off sets in heavily as I give up on reading old posts. I am alone, my roommate off in class or meeting with a group. I don’t really know for certain. It was this alone time that I hated the most. It was during this time that I suffered more than I ever dreamed was possible. Every second spent by myself I had to fight not to go back to cutting like I had in high school.

            I thought I had gotten better, this depression had stopped after my counseling last year. But it had come back full force and there was nothing I could do to stop it. But I could write to distract myself. Writing always held off the demons for a few short minutes. But a look through my flash drive shows nothing I want to work on. It was all half finished novels I hated and finished short stories that needed nothing new.

            I open Word and stare for a while, trying to make the words flow off my fingers like they did back when I started all those novels. I wanted them to dance like they did in my head when I was younger. But there were no new ideas. Nothing I hadn’t already done. My mind was a blank canvas and I had no paints.

            I close the document as I give up and the blog is still up behind it. I don’t want to read this anymore, it’s been months since my grandfather posted anything new. I need something, anything to write to keep me somewhat sane until my roommate comes home.

            And in a flash it hits me. I’ll start a blog. No one will read it, but that’s alright. I don’t need it to be read, I just need to get my thoughts out on paper. Keeping a journal never worked for me. I didn’t like writing with a pen. My keyboard was always so much more comfortable. But a blog I could do. The idea that one person may be reading would be enough to encourage me to post often.

            The site is easy enough to find, and logging in is even easier. It only takes a second for me to come up with a name and then I’m in. My blog, shiny and new, a background of stars that glitter covering the screen. I smile at the lovely shades of pink that adorn it. And then, with the thrill of a new beginning, I start to write.

 

           

           

This is Me

November 15, 2012

 

Hey, I'm Kryssy, and in case you haven't figured that out yet, I'm the poet behind this little mess. I'm a 19 year old college student turned poet/writer and the life I lead is full of all those little things that I just need to get out every once in a while. That's mainly what this will be, my rantings on life, death maybe as well, and all the little poetic things that make me feel like I don't fit in. This blog will be simple, easy, and good for me to be honest. I need to vent and well; if you're here right now you need to listen. Unless of course you chose to leave, you always have that choice.

There really isn't a way to begin this in the traditional sense. There isn't truly a beginning to the thoughts I'll be writing out, they just are. There will be no future for them other than oblivion. They will fade into the same darkness that my mind will as time rots it away. But for at least one brief moment, a single glamorous second, they will breathe life into the page upon which they are written. For a single, irrelevant moment, I will live through them and be filled with the life only writing can bring. I will be given a voice, and that voice lies before you on your screen. You don't really have to listen, you can always walk away, but I wish you would stay, just so I could say you did. Just so I can say that for a second, I lived. 

My ramblings that you will see may be about nothing, or maybe, just maybe, they'll be about something important to you. Or maybe they'll be about something you've never been able to put words to. They could be about the things you've seen coming through my eyes as well, or about the things your family upbringing made you understand. Or you will not relate at all and you will get bored of the musings. You'll leave. Everyone leaves eventually, maybe you've run out of time and you swear you'll come back but you just forget. Or maybe you grow tired of reading. Maybe your family doesn't approve of what you see. Or maybe, just maybe, you'll be that one person that tirelessly returns to see more. I secretly wish that you could be that person...refreshing the page every minute thinking that maybe another post had been put up while you were reading the last over again.

You could be that person, but fate works against us and most likely you'll just vanish like the rest of them. We will all become nothing more than a tireless memory that no one has time to recall. We will be the broken clocks that no longer tick forward and sit frozen in time forever. We will be the end of that broken work we call forever. 

 

It isn’t much, but then again, it’s just an introduction. It’s the beginning of something that will slowly allow me to feel better, or at least, that’s the goal I have in mind. By the time I’m finished my roommate Tia has wandered back into the room. I can hear the clicking of her keyboard behind me and it’s comforting. The depression eases now that I know I’m not alone.

            I read over my post and then publish it, expecting it to fall away into nothing just like everything else I write, but that’s okay. I don’t mind that I get ignored. As long as one person sees at least one piece of my writing and is inspired by it I have done my job.

 

Days pass and my blog is ignored. I’m busy with exams and homework as I desperately try to pass everything except calculus. I have given up on that particular endeavor. I can retake it in the spring with another professor if need be.

            I still spend a lot of my time alone in my room. Always waiting for Tia to come save me from the way my head destroys me. She doesn’t know that I’m depressed, no one does. It’s a secret I keep locked up behind a smile that doesn’t mean anything. And everyone falls for it, as if it were the perfect disguise.

            I spend my days in a depressive fog. I go to class, come back, eat with Tia, go to another class…stuck in the cycle over and over again. I spend increasingly longer amounts of time glued to my computer screen just scrolling through pictures and stories that don’t mean anything. I still can’t write, my own novels have lost all the allure they had when I started them. I feel alone even with people all around me.

            Then the blow hits. I come home from class and there on our white board is a simple phrase that cuts me deeper than it should. Dog Collar S**t is written in the messy writing of someone in a hurry. I scowl at the words. The collar I wear isn’t just an accessory. It’s the proof that no matter what, my boyfriend will always cherish me for who I am.

            I unlock the door and find a tissue to clean the board. When it’s clean I grab the marker off the top of it and write my own message. For whoever seems to be obsessed with the collar I wear, if you want to know about it come ask me. I’m more than willing to answer your questions. I step back to look at the message and figure it’s the best I can do.

            The resident assistant on my floor walks by as I’m closing myself in again and she reads it. “What’s this all about?”

            “Someone left rude messages on my board.” I shrug, brushing it off like nothing just like I always do. These people don’t need to see me break apart, especially not over this.

            “Mind if I ask about the collar?” She has a look of concern on her face. I can’t tell if it’s genuine or if it’s only there because she gets paid to worry about us.

            “It was an anniversary gift from my boyfriend for our four year. It means a lot to me.” I fiddle with the silver ring hanging off the pink leather. It was a nervous habit I developed when all I wanted to do was isolate myself.

            She stares at me a moment, not fully satisfied with the answer I gave her. I could tell her more, it wouldn’t bother me to confess that I consider myself a pet. That my boyfriend is a sort of master in training and that I am slowly corrupting him. But I can tell by the look on her face that she isn’t going to pursue the question. “Let me know if it happens again, we can take pictures and I can report it to the other RA’s.” she says, not really committed to the words.

            “Yeah I can do that, I’ll see you later.” I turn without waiting for a goodbye, closing my door behind me a little too hard. I go right to my computer, opening up the blog without a second though. My mind is full of emotions that I have to voice and the blog is the best place to get it all out. The words flow one at a time onto the blank screen and it’s like a damn breaking open. I go from a slow, methodical pace to a frenzy of words pouring off my finger tips. My thoughts spill out onto the page before me, writing themselves just like all the novels I attempted in the past.  Finally I can write something; even if it is a pointless blog entry no one will ever read.

Acceptance

November 18, 2012

 

What a simple little word....acceptance. A little work capable of bringing great joy, and the lack of it can bring great pain. How do you know if someone really accepts you? How do you know it's not just an elaborate ruse to keep you calm so they don't have to deal with you freaking out? What if none of your friends truly accept you, they just tolerate the things you do.

This is a rut I fall into often, convinced that people accept me to find they merely put up with me. And to be honest, I don't blame them. I'm not easy to accept into any circle. I stand out in the crowd. Maybe it has something to do with the way I dress, maybe it's the collar around my neck each and every day, maybe it's the fact that I'm not shy about the type of stories I write. People aren't used to anyone that acts like me, I'm different, therefore I don't earn acceptance, all I earn is tolerance.

Usually anyway, but my current situation has changed all that. The girls I call my friends now, they support me. And the guys I spend my days with, they egg on the strange. They see all the shades of my heart and love it for what it is. My boyfriend accepts me more than anyone else. Mainly because he is dyed many of the same shades. But that doesn't stop me from striving for acceptance everywhere else. For years all I wanted was for one stranger to say, "You're a great person." But they never did. Strangers don't like different, strangers don't like odd. Strangers don't like the girls that make them feel normal.

I've given up on acceptance, I still try to talk to those strangers, but I don't expect much. I call them out when I hear them talking about them, but I don't attack them. I tell them I'm happy to be on their minds. Because that's what it's coming down to, they are always thinking about me, even if they talk s**t. It could be because I anger them, or maybe they just wish they could be as comfortable in their own skin as I can. Or maybe they're afraid that I will destroy their precious little order that they've worked so hard to create. I may never know what it is, but in truth it doesn't matter. 

They may not accept me, but they will always think about me.

 

As I finish I feel free. It’s as if the blog allows me to access the deepest reaches of my mind. I can write from the portions of my head I usually hide. Everything I feel can be given a chance to see the light right here, on my computer. And I don’t even care that people can see it, let them see it. Maybe they’ll be able to understand me better if they look at the rawest bit of emotions I have. This blog before me, small and insignificant, will become my ticket to freedom. Freedom from the pain and the loneliness, freedom from the emotion, and most importantly, freedom from myself.