I’m 80% sure that dudes go through my tagged/me and follow me based on the few somewhat attractive pictures lurking there and then jump ship almost immediately when i start writing about ~emotions~ and ~feminism~
Even through lost dogs and stolen laptops and split pants and loan payments and long, groggy rides on the T, being an adult is better than being a college kid ever was.
Seeing how easily and calmly I’m handling most of the stressors that have been thrown at me in the past month or two speaks volumes about how much I’ve grown.
It makes me feel accomplished. Especially after last year.
It was around this time last year that I was at my sickest. I remember because it felt like spring and all I could think about was no longer existing.
I could barely leave my room sometimes, casually googling suicide methods while curled in a ball in my dirty bed. At the time, none of it seemed worrisome or worth discussing with anyone—I was so numb and sad that missing exams and not going outside for days seemed like nothing. I contemplated death in the abstract, not because I wanted to die, but because I just wanted to stop living. I wanted to wipe myself off the face of the Earth. I wanted no one to ask me for anything or even remember I existed. I wanted to be invisible.
On my more stable days, I didn’t think I’d survive until graduation. I thought of running away and not telling anyone where I’d gone, or just hiding on the top of one of the buildings on campus, laying there under the sky for days until I slipped away.
It was awful and gross. I’m embarrassed, although I know I shouldn’t be and I know that a good 90% of what I was feeling was beyond my control. The fact that chemicals and chemistry—scientific and regulated by my body—could cause these complex emotions is still hard to wrap my brain around.
The only thing that shoved me into getting treatment was fear that the one person I trusted the most would throw up his hands and say, “enough.” I pushed and pushed and I couldn’t help myself.
Honestly, I didn’t get better for me. I got better for him. But that’s what it took, for me at least, and I’m glad he could pull me out of the mire.
He was the only one that could.
He still is the only one that can, on my really terrible days.
But the bad days are fewer and fewer. Part of it is the pills. Thank god for the pills. But part of it is me. Changing my surroundings and giving myself something stable and regular to do outside of academia and away from that tiny college town helped lots. I felt like I was taking control of my life again, but more than I’d even had before depression twisted me inside out.
When you’ve dragged yourself through the murky depths of sadness that deep, slogging through the sticky mud at the bottom of your own abyss, if you can make it through and find something or someone to unstick you, you come out a little harder.
I’m a little sharper. A little more confident. My edges are smoothed out but they’re pointy. I don’t let people cross me anymore, and when they do, I don’t bother babying them. I’m not a sensitive, self-conscious retiring woman (not that I ever was in the first place).
I feel empowered. I feel like fighting. I want to punch and kick and claw my way to the things I want, figuratively and literally. I want to earn it all.
That’s good enough for me. For now.
verbally stomping on the faces of men who think supporting women’s rights = campaigning for “special privileges” is truly one of my favorite activities
like not only am i (at least in writing) defending my desire for a better and more equal life for my future daughters and all of the women being marginalized around america and the world (when would that ever be bad? i honestly don’t understand)
but i know i’m also TERRIFYING the poor MRA who didn’t expect pretty kitty to have articulate, devastatingly well-researched claws
zing i took down your terrible writing, your idea that you’re better than the women you’re arguing with, and your entitled and needlessly victimized world view in a few well-composed comments
myspaceshipleavesat10 said:Ugh, this sounds like a horrible experience for you, but I’m glad the dog is okay!
queenofthewest said: You’re not being overly-sensitive. I would be feeling terrified and guilty too. But your mom is SO right. I hope your roommate comes around. I know she will when her dog is safe. Let her be angry. Those are valid emotions. But forgive yourself too.
Good good. Thanks ladies. After a little moment of emotional weakness, logical Kelly is back. You guys are so right. The dog is okay. No living creature was harmed. It’s no one’s fault, and if she’s angry, she can be angry. She’s scared and stressed and has had a shitty day. The only thing I can do is be nice.
That’s kind of been my litany the past few years. People are really, really strange and life sucks sometimes. Shit fucking happens and sometimes you can’t avoid it. All you can do it shoulder it with grace and kindness and compassion for everyone involved. So I’m gonna soldier on and get the dog bright and early tomorrow and let my roommate be pissed and stressed if that’s what she needs to do, and go on with life, because that’s just how things go.
Like the one thing that’s making me feel slightly less guilty is the fact that, at this rate, and given our lack of screen doors that latch, he would’ve escaped eventually—it just sucks that it happened on my watch, because
a) i’ve never had a dog before and he’s not even mine in the first place and i didn’t even know how to begin handling the situation other than running around the neighborhood crying and yelling the dog’s name
and b) now my roommate will resent me forever for it, especially given the fact that her boyfriend is now talking loudly on skype in the other room about how it’s “100% kelly’s fault that this happened
like why would you try to make the situation worse brah? She was upset but happy that her dog was found, from what I was hearing, and now you’re gonna try and twist in into some drama when you live halfway across the nation and have met me for maybe 20 minutes of your life?
More stressful than any of my money problems or romantic problems or job problems:
I was on dog duty this weekend while my roommate was out of town. Dog duty was going splendidly, other than the fact that he made an escape attempt yesterday while my parents were walking in—he literally nosed past them, pushed open the door with his head and ran down the street. They caught him almost immediately, thank god.
He just ran away again. I’d been carrying some shelves up from the front porch, and while I was walking up the stairs, he nosed both of our screen doors open and ran again. I didn’t realize he was gone until I came back downstairs.
We spent over an hour walking and driving around every place I could think of that he might go to, but I was at a loss. He’s even newer to the neighborhood than I am, and when I’ve walked him, he’s proven to be (quite frankly) a silly, rather stupid spaz, so I don’t know what would have drawn him to one place rather than another. I think he just runs with no real idea of where he’s going or what he wants to do.
I called my roommate to let her know her dog had escaped, but it went straight to voicemail—she was on a plane flying home after being on a layover that got delayed into a 14-hour ordeal (so in a stressful situation in the first place).
We eventually came back to my house and I called the local police and animal control to report the pup was missing. By the end of the calls, I was sobbing so hard that I could barely speak. It sounds melodramatic, but he’s not that smart. I was genuinely concerned that I might never see him again—that he disappeared forever or got hit by a car or something on my watch.
I got a call a few minutes ago from my roommate saying her plane had touched down and that someone had called her saying they picked him up.
She’s very obviously, incredibly angry with me.
I’m still shaking right now. I’m so, so glad the pup’s okay and I don’t even know how to process the entire situation. My mom tried to talk me down.
"It’s no one’s fault," she said. "You could blame it on the doors for not latching, or on the dog for not being well-trained, or on your roommate for going out of town less than two weeks after she’s adopted a new pet and asking you to take care of it, rather than boarding it. You’re just one of the things on the list someone could blame, but it’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault."
If only my roommate thought the same thing.
I can sympathize with where she’s coming from, which is probably why I feel so awful right now. I consciously know that I couldn’t have done anything to stop him from escaping (again, this was the second incident in the weekend), but at the same time, I said I’d watch him, and he got out. If I were her and I were upset, I’d probably blame me without thinking too.
I’m still trying to calm down right now. The dog is okay. He was found. It’s good. The major issue at this point is possibly having to live with a roommate for the next five months who holds this against me, which could get bad.
The trials and tribulations of being an overly sensitive person, I suppose.