Prompt Pages

Posts written in response to the Daily Prompt from The Daily Posts.

Prompt Page 0053: Revisionist History

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Go back in time to an event you think could have played out differently for you. Let alternate history have its moment: tell us what could, would or should have happened?

This is most likely going to be dark, and part of me wants to apologize for that, while the other part wants to remain true to my initial response to this prompt.

Fair warning, this is not for the faint of heart. This will also be sexual in nature.

I’ve written about him a few times. Warren #2. I’ve mentioned how he was emotionally abusive, and in two instances physically abusive. I mentioned how he was the only relationship I was in where I became legitimately suicidal.

I’ve mentioned a lot of things. But there are several things I haven’t mentioned because remembering them still brings back those emotions. I still sometimes get flash backs to those events and it’s as if I’m there all over again and I lose my connection to the here and now.

I feel it on my skin as if it’s happening again. I relive the emotions.

I’ve actually avoided those event. In my mind, in conversation. As if they never happened, or happened to someone else. I have tried to block them out, put up walls around them because I honestly don’t know what to do with those emotions. I don’t know how to bleed that poison out because every time I try I can’t maintain my grip on my present. I haven’t been able to do this alone.

I think I can brooch this subject now, though. I think I feel safe and secure enough with Zane to at least being to peek at these emotions, from my own perspective, and try to let them have their peace.

I have mentioned the event I’m about to revisit, but I have always done so as if I were an outsider looking at someone else’s life. I have never gone back to this event as myself, and if I am honest, I’m scared. I already feel the adrenaline and anxiety of going back to that room. I’m worried I’m not strong enough, that I will never be strong enough, and that some part of me is fundamentally broken because of this event.

I have been sexually involved with every person I have dated. During those times there have been instances where they have wanted sexual interaction and I have not. They did not rape me. I willingly made a choice to please my partner, even though I didn’t get much out of the overall experience. I got cuddles afterwards, we would fall asleep together. Sometime we would go out for food, or watch a movie together. There was some form of closeness, so no, it was not a negative experience for either of us. My own sexual gratification has never been a focus for me. If my partner is happy, then I am happy.

Warren #2 was the same way. Except there was never cuddles afterwards. There was never kisses and hugs. There was never affection and warmth. There was this feeling of coldness afterwards as he left to go play Team Fortress 2 or talk to his friends online.

As our relationship deteriorated, as we fought more, as he lied to me more, as he cheated on me, I wanted him to touch me less and less. I wanted to get away, but financially I couldn’t. I needed a roommate, we were on the lease together. When I would bring up the fact that I wanted to break up he would counter with how I wasn’t trying hard enough, how relationships take work. I was being childish and trying to run away. I needed to grow up.

And I convinced myself that he was right. He was the one being wronged. I convinced myself to stay with him even though the only thing I wanted was to be away. Alone. I didn’t want anyone. I didn’t want to hurt. I didn’t want to feel worthless and cold and unloved anymore. I didn’t trust anyone. No one could be trusted. If Warren #2 could say such horrible tings to me, and he supposedly loved me, what would everyone else be like?

There was one night where we were fighting. He was yelling at me. Cursing. Nothing new to be honest. I could feel his energy, hot, angry, like lightening against my skin. Being in the same room with him hurt because there was so much anger. I don’t even remember what he was angry about. He would be fine one minute, then out of no where we would be fighting. I hated it. I never knew what to expect. I never knew when he would swing into a rage. But I could feel it the second before it happened. I could feel the wall of anger hit me before the words left his mouth.

He was in one now. A rage. He never actually listened when he was like that. So I learned to stop talking. Which would make him more angry because he wanted to fight. He wanted someone to yell back at him and I never did. He would try to get a response out of me, and my one act of defiance, the one thing I could do, was not react. I didn’t want to sink to his level. It was my way of proving that I was better and that he would never be able to break me becaue I felt like that was what he was trying to do towards the end.

During this fight we ended up grappling. We ended up on the bed. He was above me. His face was red with anger and from the exertion. It was contorted with effort. It looked vicious and mean, and it’s the face I associate with him now. Not the warm smile with bright eyes. This dark, malicious expression is what I see when I have dreams of him.

I was fighting back, trying to get him to go away. I didn’t want to hurt him. But I didn’t want him touching me. I didn’t want him in my room. It was my safe space. It was one of the things we had agreed on. He wouldn’t come into my room without permission. He wasn’t welcome, why wasn’t he going away? Why wasn’t he keeping his word?

His hand slipped and hit the side of my jaw. Hard. It hurt so much. The shock of it made me stop fighting back. I couldn’t see anything but white. I couldn’t hear anything except ringing. There was nothing else except this pain in my head. I had never experienced anything like it before. I had nothing to compare it to.

He was saying something. He was doing something. But I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t make things make sense. I was crying, silent tears. I could feel them on my face. Wet, running down. One of the tears ran into my ear. I’m not sure why I remember that, or why it matters. It seems so normal, so mundane, in relation to everything else. Even while something terrible was about to happen, even while a nightmare unfolds life was still going, still turning. Stupid annoying things are still happening, so things will be ok. Things will go back to being normal. It’s ok. It’s ok.

I wanted it to stop, for him to leave. I didn’t want to fight anymore.

I started being able to focus on the room. On myself. I could understand what was going on. He was taking off my pants, and I knew what was going to happen. I didn’t have it in me to fight anymore. I didn’t tell him to stop. I didn’t say no. Instead I did what he told me to, and cried as quietly as I could because it felt like no matter what I did that it wouldn’t matter. It was easier to close my eyes and to try to escape to somewhere else. It was easier to pretend that it wasn’t happening to me. It was someone else. Some other person. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me.

It didn’t last for very long. At least I don’t think it did. He left afterwards and as he walked out of my room, leaving my door open, I curled into a ball on my bed holding my pillow to my chest so I could bury my face into it and silently scream. I screamed and cried until I couldn’t anymore. Until my chest hurt, my body ached, and I had nothing left inside of me. I felt like a wounded animal. Like I was dying. Alone. In the dark. So horribly cold and alone.

I remember waking up. It was still dark outside. It was still dark in my room. The apartment was silent. He was sleep. It felt safer. Like the darkness, the silence would protect me. I had somehow wrapped myself up in my sheet. My giant, purple, sheet. I stayed in bed for a while longer, listening.

I felt empty. Detached. The events were facts. They happened. They were logic. There was no emotion. The few twinges that I felt I crushed, mercilessly.

I would feel nothing. I felt nothing. There was nothing.

Eventually I got up and showered. In the dark. More tears. But I could only feel them for a second before the water washed them away. They, like the emotions, didn’t exist. There were no tears. There was no hurt. There was simply washing. And then there were chores that needed to get done. And work in the morning.

There was nothing. And for a long time that’s how I functioned. That’s how I as able to cope.

I don’t regret any of the experiences I have had in life. I feel all of them go into making me who I am. But if there is one thing I could change, one thing I would have happen differently, it would be this event.

So many of my insecurities are associated, or compounded from this one event, that I often wonder who I would be if it hadn’t happened. What type of person would I have turned into? Would I be stronger? Would I be less empathetic? Would I cherish the people in my life as much as I do? Would my outlooks, morals, and values be different?

Would I be more trusting in my relationships? Would I love more? Would I love easier?

If I could change it I would have this event not happen, or I would have left him afterwards rather than staying longer, or I would have pressed charges so Ashley wouldn’t have experienced the same situation. I would have stopped her experience from happening.

There are so many ways it could have been different, but because I did nothing, it played out the way it did.

I wonder what would have happened if I had been stronger. And that’s what eats away at me. Every time. Even now. I blame myself for weakness. I blame myself for being scared and doing nothing. I blame myself for staying and justifying what he did.

There is still all of this anger and hurt inside. Self-loathing. Contempt. There is still this broken, scared girl who wants to hide under the purple blanket and pretend that the monsters aren’t real and that they can’t hurt her.

But they are real, they do exist, and they can hurt you. And the most horrible ones are the ones inside your own head. The ones whispering lies to you. Lies that you believe for years. The hardest monster to fight is yourself. The hardest thing to do is to forgive yourself.

And I guess that’s where I am right now as I sit here and try to type through new tears. I’m trying to understand that it wasn’t my fault, and that’s so hard to do. It’s so hard to believe when you have part of your very soul scream that it is your fault. If you hadn’t deserved it in some way it wouldn’t have happened. If you really were a good person it wouldn’t have happened.

But for the first time, even with the screaming in my head, I don’t feel broken. I don’t feel shattered by these facts. I can feel myself still because I haven’t escaped away to some far off distance place in my head. My Ice cave where nothing can hurt me. I’m still here and able to feel. And though I feel sad, and hurt. I don’t feel weak.

For the first time I am able to take that frail, vulnerable part of myself and embrace her and hug her and finally say that it’s ok. For the first time I actually believe those words in regards to this situation. I truly believe that it really is ok. That I’m ok, and that I will be ok.

I don’t regret who I am. I don’t regret my experiences. But I do think it’s human to wonder ‘what if’ some times. And this is one of the few moments in my life where I am left wondering what would have happened if events had been different.

Prompt Page 0052: Going Obsolete

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“Of all the technologies that have gone extinct in your lifetime, which one do you miss the most?”

Hands down, the ‘dumb’ phone. Or at least the QWERTY keyboard on phones.

All I want is an email notification system. I don’t want Facebook at my finger tips. I don’t want a $400 camera in my pocket. I don’t want a “GPS Please Stalk Me” device.

I hardly even want to be able to call or text with it. Telling the time is sort of nice. I like being able to set alarms. I also like having my music and running apps.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m totally hooked into the ‘smart’ phone culture, just like everyone else. How will I live without Runkeeper? Or Omnifocus to tell me what I should be doing?

But seriously. I don’t want a Swiss Army phone.

And while I’m ranting about this. Can I please have the tactile QWERTY keyboard back instead of the BS touch screen which can never get my messages right in the first place which is really the main reason I hate smart phones?

If they’re so smart then why can’t they type right? Why is it the biggest pain in the ass to try to search for something online through my phone because I spend over half the time trying to type out what I’m searching for? Or correcting my text message? It would be faster to just call than to fight with the screen. Except oh yeah… I’m introverted and I would rather stab my eyes out than talk to people most of the time.

Maybe not that extreme… but you get the idea.

You would think with technology being the top priority of today that the phones wouldn’t suck so much. You would also think that since everything is on the Internet that access to it would be free. Like how breathing air is.

But it’s not, which is lame. And touch screens still don’t make the cut in my book, so smart phones are lame, too. All because it’s easier for me to type at a keyboard than on my phone.

Bring back the QWERTY keyboard to phones! Down with touch screen!

Prompt Page 0051: Snapshot Stories

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“Open the first photo album you can find — real or virtual, your call — and stop at the first picture of yourself you see there . Tell us the story of that photo.”

I’m not going to pick a random photo because I don’t feel like it. I don’t have a physical photo album, and really the only virtual one I have is on Facebook.

I remembered a specific picture when I read this prompt, so I’m going to write about that one instead. I feel it deserves to have its story written, even if it is sort of short and anti-climatic.

graduation

This is a picture taken by my mom on the day I graduated high school. Jason, my older brother, is on my right, while John, my younger brother, is on my left.

Sadly this is one of the only pictures I have of all three of us together.

I remember being scared that day, because I had to walk across the stage for a class of roughly 300 students. I’m sure you can imagine how many ecstatic family members there were to watch the event.

I remember being bored because my last name starts with C and once my ordeal was over I had to wait for the rest of the alphabet.

I remember being proud because my best friend was the salutatorian and she wrote an amazing speech, part of which she said was inspired by me.

I remember being nervous because my dad was there. I didn’t find him in the stands until after the event, but he was actually there, and it meant so much to me that I had silent tears running down my cheeks as my classmates and I exited.

I remember ridiculous, obscene amounts of happiness. My mom was so proud. So was my older brother. John was happy because everyone else was happy. He still had a year to go before he was free from school.

I remember feeling so loved and cared for. I remember for the first time wanting to take a picture with my family, wanting to have something that would remind me of how close we really are, and how much we care and love each other. Even if I do still feel like John should get hit in the face with a brick every once in a while…

I didn’t really feel all that accomplished, which, I suppose, is in a way sad. I had never questioned if I would graduate or not. I had to. If not my mom would kill me. So graduating in itself didn’t feel all that special. If something is guaranteed to happen, then it does, it’s more like saying, “I told you so.”

I remember feeling as if I had been dropped into a giant, open field that stretched on for forever, the horizon flat and unchanging. Where was I supposed to go from here? Where did I want to go? What was supposed to guide me? There were no landmarks, no points on interest to explore. I had survived and now suddenly there was nothing. No battle to fight, or monster to slay. I didn’t know what to do or where to go.

But at that moment I was surrounded by people who loved me, supported me, and took pride in who I was. And that was enough for me. I had done well. I had brought them honor, and that made me smile.

Prompt Page 0050: Toy Story

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What was your favorite plaything as a child? Do you see any connection between your life now, and your favorite childhood toy?

When I first read this prompt the first thing I thought of was a specific day. My dad was a mechanic for a nuclear submarine, and one of the places he ended being stationed was in Kings Bay, Georgia.

This is where most of my childhood memories come from. I loved that base. There were bike trails everywhere. My mom would volunteer at our school. We would go swimming at the pool all the time. Sometimes the pool was open at night so they would have the underwater lights on. There was a diving board the I loved jumping off of. They would play the Macarena over the speakers, and every time we would dance to it.

I have very fond memories of this time in my life. I think of it as my sheltered time. Everything was perfect. My parents were still together. I was still doing amazing in school. It was before I knew what depression was.

But I digress.

The day that I thought of for this prompt was a day where my mom had taken John and I to the library. We were allowed to get whatever book we wanted. Once we had checked out we came back home.

I guess something was up with the housing unit we were in because a few guys from maintaince showed up. I was too busy with my book to listen to their conversation, but I remember one of the guys asked me what I was reading.

I smiled wide and flipped the book around to show him pictures of whales.

“Are you home schooling them?” The guys asked my mom.

“No. It’s what she wanted to read.” My mom replied.

That pretty sums up most of my life. Yeah I had toys. Barbies, Polly Pockets, Legos, then computer games and card games. Yeah I watched cartoons and did ‘normal’ kid stuff.

But mostly I watched the Discorvery channel, the History channel, the Science channel. Mostly I read about science things. Fictional diaries about princesses and what their lives were actually like.

Play always seemed more fun when my brain was engaged in thinking. I wanted to learn more, about everything. My favorite toy was knowledge.

Prompt Page 0049: All About Me

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“Explain why you chose your blog’s title and what it means to you.“

I’ve explained the tag and title of my blog before but after going back and reading it, I never really explained where ‘Warrior’ came from.

It’s complicated and yet simple at the same time. For me there’s a story, an evolution of how I came to think of myself as ‘Warrior Freya’, and that story is part of who I am.

I began exploring Odinism a few years ago, which is how I came to follow Freya; the Nordic goddess of sexuality, fertility, war, and death. Needless to say my choice in deities is a little uncommon, so when it comes up in conversation it tends to lead to a lot of questions.

People are curious. How did I become involved in Odinism, or better yet, what is it exactly? How do I worship? Do I dance naked around fires sacrificing chickens? Ok, maybe nothing that crass, but you get the idea.

I began seeing my most recent ex, RB, about a year ago actually. Around June or July. He, like everyone else, found my choice in faith fascinating and unique. My pet name ended up being ‘His Freya’, and for a while I used that as the title for a previous blog, and for several profile names.

When we broke up it felt wrong to use that phrase to identify myself. I deleted the blog because it felt wrong to continue using it. I deleted a handful of other profiles as well. The ones I didn’t want to delete I had to figure out a new name for.

I didn’t know what to use. I enjoyed being called Freya. It made me feel closer to my goddess. It felt right, and I didn’t feel that section of the title should have to change. I was connected to Freya before the relationship. I shouldn’t have to give up that aspect of myself because the relationship was over.

But I as no longer ‘his’. And really that was where the problem stemmed from.

Our relationship was a D/s dynamic. He was my Sir. And without getting into a 16 page explination of BDSM that dynamic would be a bit hard to explain.

What stuck with me, rung in my ears, since the break up was wondering if I really was a submissive at all. I felt I was, but as the relationship deteriorated I found myself less and less willing to take that role. I didn’t feel it was right. And as much as I hate to type this truth, I didn’t feel he deserved my submission, was worthy of it.

I explained in the beginning of the dynamic that I felt like a warrior more than a submissive. That I wanted choose to kneel before someone because I approved of their character, their choices. I find their character strong, stronger than my own. I wanted to feel as if they could help me grow, in a way be a mentor or a commander to me. I wanted to find them a worthy person to follow. I wanted to believe in the causes they choose to fight for. I wanted those causes to be just and righteous and moral, and because they were ‘good’ I would fight for them as well. I would support them and give them my sword in battle.

I would give them my self, my life, my loyalty.

I am NOT a submissive to everyone. In fact I am submissive to very, very few people. I can stand on my own. I can take care of myself and my responsibilities. In fact it’s harder for me to function around other people because more often than not I feel like they get in the way. I don’t want to be micro managed. If I am given a task I want to be left alone so I can do it. And normally that task will be completed faster than expected, better than expected, and other things will have gotten done along the way.

I’m not a weak-willed person. That isn’t what being submissive is about. I’m not broken, or in need of guidance.

I don’t NEED a dominant. And that is something that a lot of dominants do not understand. I am not a typical submissive. I myself did not understand it until a book I read recently, The Warrior Princess Submissive.

Aptly named…

Anyway, back to the story.

Because I didn’t understand my aversion to being submissive I began to question this aspect of my personality. Was I just trying to pretend or fake it? Was it something that I thought was ‘cool’ so I was trying to fit a mold that wasn’t me? I was accused of being willful, of not submitting, and that hurt for me. I wanted to submit, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it when I felt like the choices being made were irresponsible and immature. I couldn’t stand behind that type of commander.

After soul searching I decided I would no longer identify as a submissive. I wasn’t submissive. I was a warrior. A warrior who at the moment was fighting for herself. I was fighting for my causes, my beliefs.

And so I became Warrior Freya.

There is more to the tale of my BDSM identity. How I learned I really am a submissive, and that there is nothing wrong with my mentality or the type of dynamic I am looking for. But that is a post for another day.

Prompt Page 0048: Fifteen Credits

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If you’re in school, are you enjoying your classes? If you’re out of school, what do you miss about it — or are you glad those days are over?

Current School Endeavors

Am I enjoying it?

Yeah. I guess so.

I’ve written about this a handful of times in my past soul searching. I’m not going to school this time for the same reasons that I did for my first degree.

I’m currently a student as a perk for working at a school. I signed a contract saying I will work at the school for three years upon the completion of my degree. In exchange, I’m getting the degree for free while still gaining full time student status, which makes my current student loans manageable.

I feel that a Digital Arts and Design degree is a nice compliment to my current Computer Animation degree. I feel it is also more marketable in more places, and will provide me with additional freelance opportunities.

It seems smart, so I did it.

I’m not pursuing this degree because it’s my life long passion. I’m not trying to turn it into my career path. I’m not a high school graduate with no direction in life in need of a job to pay for merely existing in the world.

Even though I can logically list reasons why I am taking the classes, I really don’t have any specific drive to do them. I sometimes don’t complete homework assignments. I opt to socialize and go to the gym over investing time into my studies. I do not do extra curricular research into my new field or Internet stalk the Earth shakers who are changing the game.

Honestly I feel like I do the minimum to skate by, which is the total opposite of how I used to be.

I used to be the perfectionist. I had to be the best, even though I never was. I had to make it look easy, as if it were effortless, even though it wasn’t. It was tons of time, countless hours of my life going over my assignments with a fine-toothed comb for the most ridiculous things.

It was a lot of beating myself up for not being better. It was a lot of negativity, and dissatisfaction, and resentment. It was a lot of never accepting myself or acknowledging my own accomplishments.

It was a lot of busy work that didn’t make me any better at anything. It was a lot of being forced to interact in groups with people who didn’t care.

There were a lot of good points about high school and my first degree through college, but I learned a lot about myself, about life, and about other people along the way, and all of that information, all of those experiences are carrying over into this new experience.

I’m handling things differently. I’m handling them the way I want to, and, at times, what feels like the only way I am able to.

I have a full time job this time around, and I have to put those obligations first. Sometimes that means school gets sacrificed even though I don’t want to.

I care about myself more. My own mental, spiritual, and physical wellbeing means more to me than my grades. I finally understand that an A+ mark isn’t going to give me the same level of satisfaction and fulfillment as taking the time to go to the gym, or to cook my own meals, or to make sure the apartment is cleaned and an inviting place to be.

My life is more than school. My life is more than projects. My life has people, and events, and hobbies, and other obligations. I can’t, most times won’t, give those things up.

Because of that my relationship with school seems very self-centered and irresponsible from the outside. It may give a bad impression of me, especially for people who haven’t been exposed to my past writings about this very topic.

I do the assignments when they do not interfere with my life. And I stop working on them when I feel like there is nothing left to gain.

Could I change something and make the composition better? Always. Art is never truly done. You just put one project aside and move to a new one.

I’m not trying to prove anything by completing this degree.

I’ve already proven that I can complete school. I’ve proven that I can be a professional who produces quality work. I’ve proven that, for the most part, I am a capable adult who can function in society. I feel like this second degree really doesn’t prove anything at all.

It’s an interest, a hobby, and I treat it as such. It’s not a commitment on my part. I’m not paying for it. I’m not worried about what my instructors think of me when I don’t complete an assignment any more. I am more than a student number with an average attached to it through an Excel sheet.

I am values, and morals, and promises, and priorities. I am dreams, and goals, and ambitions. And right now very little of those things center around my classes.

So am I enjoying them?

Yeah, sort of. Not the same way that others are I’m sure. I am not in the same position as others. I like the assignments because they are creative, because they push me as an artist. And for now, that’s enough for me.

School of Yesteryear

As for the schooling in my past, I miss my teachers the most. I miss the conversations we would have. I miss how they believed in me and thought I was able to achieve greatness even when I didn’t see anything inside of myself worthy of anything.

I miss the days were I could actually focus on school, because despite everything that I wrote previously I actually do love learning. I still plan to get a Web Design degree, and then Phycology and Sociology degrees simply because I find the subjects fascinating.

My ultimate goal in life at the moment is to teach aikido at a dojo.

None of my degrees will help with that. None of my degrees are really moving me towards an end goal. They just seem fun, they interest me, and so I find them a worthwhile investment of my time.

I miss being able to devote all of my time into learning. Into becoming better at something. I miss not having the grind of daily life bogging me down, because that’s what it feels like at times.

While in school you’re expected to grow and flourish, and then you enter the ‘real world’ and it can be hard to not let it cut you down, one hacking slice at a time.

Bills, debt, betrayals, mistakes, regrets, uncertainties, devastations; all of these things that life can throw at you. All of these things that can wear you down and destroy your sense of wonder. All of these things that, if you let them, can eat away at you until the warmth, the growth, the yearning to reach for more, dies, buried under the heaviness of reality.

I miss being sheltered in a way. I miss the bubble of being valued for making good marks. It was so easy for me. I should have been in such higher-level classes, but because I was depressed I didn’t take them. I excelled at mediocrity while I bled on the inside.

I miss having music as an outlet. I miss marching band, and percussion ensemble, and jazz band, and concert band, and clarinet choir, and all of the people associated with those things. I miss the safety of stepping onto a football field in front of hundreds of people and feeling confident because I was with a group of 150 people who considered me a friend and valued my talents.

I miss how it was ok to not have a clear idea of where you wanted to go or what you wanted to do. Now, in my life, people look at you as if you’re irresponsible. How could you not know what you want to do in your life? How could you not want to use your degrees? What’s the point in getting them then? How can you stray away from the original plan? How can you go with art career?

What about the days when it was ok to want to be a ballerina, or the fire fighter? Why are we suddenly judged for our dreams? Why are they suddenly unrealistic? Why is it bad that my end goal doesn’t require a degree at all?

Why do I have to be static and unchanging rather than fluid? Why can’t I dance through my life to the music only I can hear? Why must I stay still, fidgeting in my seat, knowing that I can do so much more, be so much more, if only the glares and disapproval of others weren’t there?

Why is there disapproval at all? What is there truly to disapprove of?

Why do other people feel this need to evaluate my happiness to their standards? It’s not what they would do, it’s not what would make them happy. Therefore it can’t be what will make me happy. It can’t be right, and if it’s not right it’s wrong.

I’m really not sure where I’m going with this anymore. My fingers are wondering over the keyboard as my mind thinks about the past years with rose tinted glasses.

I was so depressed during high school. The only things to kept me grounded were music and band. The only thing that felt worthwhile was my music.

And books. I read constantly. I was always in another world, another place. I was always reading about other peoples problems and how they found solutions. How they overcame their hardships and were victorious. I was always surrounded by dragons and magic and the fantastic, which made my boring, draining, unfulfilling life bearable.

I tried to find myself through other people; the guys I dated. I tried to define myself through them rather than standing on my own because as a 16-year-old girl I didn’t know how to do that. I didn’t know who I was other than a shattered, broken thing.

Even when I moved to Florida I was still in that mind set.

I still had that sick, unhealthy drive to please everyone because I didn’t know myself and that my own needs were more important.

There have been so many things I have learned outside of school. There have been so many things that school would have never been able to teach me. And I am grateful for those experiences even though some of them tore me down so low that I don’t know how I was able to stand again.

I suppose, out of everything, I miss the freedom. I do not regret where I am currently at, but sometimes, like now, I can feel the restrictions, the restraints, the obligations of society.

There’s this pressure to conform, and for a while I did. For a while those glares of disapproval were enough to make me sit still. Silent. Waiting for the chance to be myself.

No longer.

I no longer wait for approval. I no longer seek it out from anyone other than myself. I am no longer silent and still.

I refuse to give up what is important to me simply because other people think I should have different priorities, that I should make different choices. I refuse to back down. I gladly, confidently, whole-heartedly dance on my own, spinning, twirling, shifting from foot to foot, arms waving, gliding, wrapping around myself as the music of my life embraces me.

I dance as if no one is watching because that is what I feel is right. In my core, in my very bones.

I stand behind my choices, and even though I miss things about my past, and the way school used to be, I am in the present, and no amount of wishing is going to bring those days back, and even if it could, I wouldn’t want them.

I am stronger now. I am more myself than I have ever been. I am proud of who I am becoming, of where I am going. I’m trying to be true to myself, my whole self, and that includes more than just a number with the fancy abbreviation of GPA.

Prompt Page 0047: Moved to Tears

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Describe the last time you were
moved to tears by something beautiful.

AKA
The Woes of an HSP INFJ

The last time? Honestly… this is going to sound so cheesey and lame and girly… but when Zane did my laundry for me, what, last week?

That was the first time, ever, since leaving home, that someone did my laundry for me, without me asking, or prodding, or going with them.

I had been getting ready for the gym and simply mentioned that I needed to do laundry at some point because I was running out of clean cloths. It was an offhanded comment, an observation really, said out loud absent-mindedly.

I hugged Zane goodbye, said I would be back in a little bit, went to the gym, and when I came back he hugged me hello and said that he was just about to head out to switch my laundry from the wash to the drier.

I was literally speechless for a few seconds. My brain just couldn’t process the thought of NOT having to worry about something. I hadn’t asked for this to be done, and I hadn’t done it myself. There was no way that the laundry could have been taken care of. That information just didn’t fit into the structure of my world. In “Jen Land” it wasn’t possible.

It was on par with having my mind blown and a black hole opening up somewhere in Universe.

It was one thing less that I had to worry about. One thing, one random act of kindness expressed to me by another person, rather than me to someone else. Someone took the time to do something nice for me simply because they wanted to make my life easier.

I felt cared for, and thought of. I felt like I mattered and that my needs are important, too.

It was so simple of a thing, and yet it made me feel so warm and fuzzy on the inside that it’s almost stupid.

It’s very similar to when someone cooks dinner for me, or does the dishes, takes out the trash, cleans the cat’s pan. Small, little acts; normally ones that fulfill a function in some way. A chore, a task that I have to get done; something on my to-do list. Something that makes my life just a smidgen easier.

It may not seem like a lot, but to me it’s the world.

Maybe my mindset is overly deep, but those small actions have given me back minutes of my life. They are acts of kindness and selflessness and I view that as beautiful, and sometimes they are so meaningful to me that, yes, I am moved to tears.

TLDR: I cry over silly things like laundry because it’s not just laundry to me. It’s a billion times deeper than that.

Prompt Page 0046: Turn, Turn, Turn

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Seasons change so quickly! Which one do you most look forward to? Which is your least favorite?

Wow, a daily prompt that I actually am taking the time to write about. Seems like it’s been forever. At least three months I’m sure.

So what is my favorite season?

Summer.

Hand down it has to be summer.

I love the heat, the growth. I love how the days are long and full of light. I love the summer storms that rage and crash overhead. I love dancing in the rain. Or running in it, depending. I love how everything is so alive and full of potential.

I love the memories of barbeques with my family, and swimming in our pool. I love the memories of playing soccer, and basketball, and softball. I love the memories of girl scout camp and riding horses and camping and fishing.

Summer was the season where I could live. There was no school. I could sleep, I could read, I could spend time with friends.

As an adult I am better able to control my time and when I do things like socialize. But it does not change my feelings about this season.

I will always be most alive in the sun and heat.

On the flip side, my least favorite season is winter, which you would think is odd since I was born in Connecticut in the middle of December. You would think I would love snow and the cold. But I don’t.

Winter is actually really hard for me. I get depressed easily. It’s hard for me to keep my hands and feet warm. It’s hard to feel motivated. I tend to sleep way more because I’m constantly tired.

It’s like I really am a dragon and without the heat I have to hibernate.

It’s not as bad now that I live in Florida, but winter is still the hardest time of the year for me. Friends leave to go visit family, the trees and grass aren’t as bright as they were. Everything thing is asleep, waiting for Spring. And I can feel that. I can feel the absence and the waiting. The stillness.

I may dislike it as a season, but I respect Winter and her reminder to stop and reflect.

Prompt Pages 0045: Quote Prompt #3

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Occupy Daily Prompt

 Discuss your thoughts on the meaning behind the quote(s).

I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” ― poet and author Maya Angelou

I am thinking about this a lot. I’m thinking about RB (previously known as Sir). I’m thinking about Mother Earth. I’m thinking about my mom and brothers. I’m thinking about the students I interact with. My co-workers. My blogging buddies.

I’m thinking about the way I interact with the people in my life.

I’m worried that I am inadvertently hurting people, or causing emotional discord, and that’s not what I mean to do. The road to hell is lined with good intentions, though. No matter what it is that I intended it doesn’t take away the hurt.

I feel I try my best to be fair and even. I try my best to think of how others would feel. I try to think about how I would feel in their situation. And I feel I am losing that right now. I feel that I am focusing too much on myself and being reckless and inconsiderate to the people around me.

I am thinking of the projects that I haven’t helped on. The questions I haven’t answered. Yet at the same time how it is not up to me to solve every problem. I’m trying to find the balance in these situations. I’m trying to be more than my job. But it hurts the people who look to me when I am not there as often as I normally am.

I am supposed to be building them to be independent, self-confident, self-reliant, so by constantly being present I am in a way hindering them. I also feel like I’m letting them down by not being there. Failing them in some way. And those conflicting emotions war inside me.

I’m worried that I’m letting my mom down. Am I staying in touch enough? Am I making her proud? Will she feel let down if I got involved with another person? Is it worth the worry it will cause her? Would my choices make her feel bad?

What about Mother Earth? I know she wants me to be happy. I know she knows being in Orlando is hard for me. Does that make my actions ok? Am I being selfish? I think I made her feel bad. Maybe this is all inside of my head and I’m worrying for nothing. It’s not a fun feeling, though. I don’t like thinking that I’ve hurt those that I love. I don’t like thinking that because I am weak willed that I have injured my other half.

And RB. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to be friends when I feel disrespected and hurt. I don’t know how to reach out and be compassionate right now and I feel that makes me low. I don’t know how to let go, move on, which makes me feel like I am causing additional pain to an already hard situation simply over pride.

That’s not fair of me. I should be there for my friends, thick and thin. But I can’t make myself do it. I can’t make myself get over the wall in my head. And because of that someone else is hurting. It makes me feel like I am a bad person, shallow.

I am having to make choices, and I know that feelings are involved, and that worries me. I want to be happy, but I don’t want it to come at the expense of others. It doesn’t matter what I say, what I do. What will be remembered are the feelings.

How are my actions making people feel? That is what I am constantly thinking of at the moment.

Prompt Pages 0044: Word Association #1

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Occupy Daily Prompt

Blogger Butterfly Mind asked her readers
to provide prompts for her 10-minute free write.
Minimal editing. No story. Just thoughts spilling onto the page.

An expired library card
A receipt for flowers
Cotton swabs
One-half of a pair of scissors
Waffle

I haven’t written for a prompt in a while.

And maybe the recent events is why these two call so strongly to me; but the receipt for flowers and waffles.

For the longest time receiving flowers was a bad thing for me. And I guess they still are since I haven’t gotten flowers since then. I haven’t had any positive experiences with flowers in so long…

Warren #2 would only get me flowers when he was guilty of something.

They weren’t a token of affection. They were a sign that in a day or two he was going to admit to something that was going to hurt me. Something that was going to break our relationship further. Two years of receiving flowers in such a way makes me think of them as purely a sign of mourning.

I’m going to kill a part of you. Here is something pretty to remember that shattered piece by.

One day that will change. Today is not that day.

The waffle prompt reminds me of when I would go to Waffle House with my dad when I was younger. I don’t remember what he would get, but I remember he would always get me a pecan waffle, with butter and syrup. I would never be able to finish it because it was so big. I still can’t finish them. But they were an amazing treat that I always looked forward to.

It’s one of the few good memories I hold and cherish about my dad. He may have his character flaws, we all do, but he loved me and one of the things that reminds me of that is pecan waffles on a Saturday morning.