My heart is utterly broken. I cannot possibly express the loss I am feeling, the complete sadness that has overtaken my entire body. My chest feels empty without her. We were incredibly close, and I’ve not just lost my mom, but my best friend, my confidante, my spiritual adviser, and my unofficial therapist. She meant the world to me, and I am lost without her.

She gave me such strength, and, although she’s gone, I still have that. I know I can make it through this, even though this is the worst thing that has ever happened to me. The day before her funeral, I had one of her most frequently quoted sayings tattooed on my back.

I know this hurt will pass. I’ll never be the same, and I’ll never fill that void she’s left, but I know I have the strength to keep living and trying to be happy. That strength and her love are the greatest gifts she gave me, and I will carry those things and her with me for the rest of my life.

I love you, Mommy.

The fact is that I’ve become a much more private person in the past year. Which isn’t to say that I want to hide the more personal aspects of my life; I just no longer feel the need to share them. I will never deny that I have suffered from mental illness or that my life is imperfect. I’ve always filtered myself on this blog because there are things that I would’ve liked talking about but didn’t feel comfortable knowing it was out in public, where anyone could google my name and find it. I’d used livejournal for years upon years as a forum for my personal writing, and I lost interest in it last year. I’ve begun writing in my LJ again, and it’s not nearly as cathartic as it used to be for me, but it’s a good place to house my more private writing.

I’ve been taking a lot of pictures lately, and I thought I’d share some of them. You can find more on my Flickr.

I’ve been feeling pretty good lately. I was diagnosed with hypothyroidism — as I suspected I had — about a month ago. I’ve been on medication since, and I feel so much better. I have more energy, I feel more emotionally stable, I’m regaining my interest in things. I had been so fatigued and sad and apathetic for about the past year, and I’m finally feeling a little bit more like myself. I feel like I can finally enjoy life without trying so damn hard.

I’m hoping to blog more and hopefully have more interesting things to write about this year. This could all go downhill tomorrow, but it’s worth a shot.

P.S. RIP Alex Chilton.

I’m so afraid of the future that I can’t even enjoy the present. Basically every single guy I’ve been with has left me for someone else. The relationships may have been happy for months or even years, but eventually they find someone “better.” And I know I’m not gorgeous or thin or cool, but why does every single guy I meet seem to have one foot out the door? If I’m happy to be with a person — despite whatever his flaws or problems might be — why can’t someone feel the same about me? I don’t look at a guy’s superficial qualities or interests or tastes to determine his worth. I base my feelings for him on how I feel when I’m with him, and whatever’s going on in the rest of the world can fuck off because there are only two people in the relationship, not the whole damn world.

I guess I believe that the majority of guys I’m with or like don’t like me because of my outward appearance, although I have no idea if that’s realistic or not. I know the last one left me for the most part (I think) because I wasn’t physically there. I’ve just always felt that the reason I didn’t have a boyfriend was because I was overweight or not pretty enough or not cool or didn’t dress right or was weird. My friends have told me for years that I just don’t go out enough, but I’m so fucked up in the head about myself that that doesn’t sound like a good enough reason.

I also have a history of dating guys with fucking gorgeous ex-girlfriends. These are girls who ended up models, who have gorgeous hair and bodies and faces and lives, and I look like fucking Jabba the Hut in comparison. Not even Jabba the Hut ’cause at least he’s got some fucking character goin’ on in his face. The one adjective I get is “cute.” I am twenty-six years old, and all I can get is “cute.” Like I’m a fucking bunny or Powerpuff girl or something. I’ve gotten a few beautifuls and one or two hots, but usually it’s cute. And who wants cute when you can have gorgeous? Sure, I may be vaguely intelligent and occasionally funny and generous and caring and dedicated and kind, but goddamn it, leave that shit alone because she’s fucking cute.

Anyway. Before this last guy, I was happy with myself. I wasn’t anything I’m not now, but I was still pretty confident in who I was. And I was like that for about a year until he broke up with me. I was okay with myself before he liked me and when he liked me, but when his feelings wavered, it was more than just a rejection — it was like being told that I wasn’t good enough for him or to be in a relationship. For four months, we continued “talking,” meaning that we were still basically emotionally involved, just without the commitment. Even when we were officially dating, I started doing this thing I find myself doing in every single relationship I’ve been in. I started nagging him about how much he liked me, what did he think of me, was there someone else, etc. etc. I knew I was pushing him away by doing it, but my anxiety was so severe that I almost couldn’t stop myself. The only way to lessen my anxiety was to be reassured by him, but, here’s the thing — I was never reassured. No matter what he said or how he said it, it never made one bit of difference as to how I felt. Any relief I got was very, very temporary.

I don’t even know what I wanted to hear. All I know is that no words or commitment could have comforted me. And no guy is ever going to make me feel better about myself in the long run. Compliments are wonderful and amazing things, and declarations of like or love are even better, but they don’t determine my worth or fix me. I’ve intellectually known that all along, but I don’t feel it yet. I just know that there is some part of me from years upon years ago who wanted so desperately to feel love, and I still haven’t learned how to love myself without a man there to back me up. I’ve avoided relationships so I could take care of myself and love myself on my own, but I haven’t learned how to still be okay when someone leaves me or doesn’t give me exactly what I want or need.

But, honestly, I’m pretty okay with myself. I’m pretty okay with my life. And I’m still optimistic, and I still believe that things are the way they are for a reason, and that things will work out when they’re meant to.

Overall, a pretty up and down year. The first six months were amazing, the latter half hasn’t been that good, although there are a few really good things in my life right now.

I hope 2010 is the year I desperately want it to be. I hope my era of problems is over. I’m tired of being depressed, hurt, confused, unsuccessful, unhappy with myself, heartbroken, and unfulfilled. I hope with all my heart that this year isn’t perfect, but that there are a few utterly perfect moments in it. I had a few of those in 2009, and I hope there are many, many more this year. And I hope I am happy enough to recognize them.

 
\

The Guy — out of nowhere — told me he was dating someone in the beginning of last month. One day it was “you’re the girl I care about,” and literally about a week later it was “I’ve been dating a girl from work.” I feel sick to my stomach even thinking about it. Not because I’m still in love with him, because I’m not, but because — once again — something like that could completely blindside me. And since I know that he never reads my blog (because he lost interest in anything I was doing online a long time ago), I will freely admit that I miss him. I mostly miss his friendship and our conversations, but some days I miss more. And it’s hard to move on when there’s nothing really to move on to.

I hadn’t had my period since early August due to ovarian cysts, so my doctor prescribed me something to make me start it. Now I have my period, and I am a massive mess of hormones and sadness and bloat. I feel like crying, but, of course, my old block has returned, trying to keep me from feeling anything but numb, trying to hold back tears that, for whatever reason, I keep myself from shedding.

I feel talentless and unmotivated. I feel like the odd one out in my family, the one who ended up with absolutely nothing to show for 26 years of living. And, seriously, how the fuck did I end up here? How I have I gone through hell, come out hopeful, and yet still feel utterly worthless? Why is that one day I believe in myself and the next believe in nothing? I’ve believed for so long that there’s a reason for all of the shit in my life, but now I can’t imagine what that reason would be. And if there is a reason, can I hold on long enough for my life to sort itself out? How long should I wait before giving up? A year? Five? Ten?

At eighteen, I would have told you emphatically that at twenty-six, I would have a college degree, a relationship, and happiness. Today I’d tell you almost as emphatically that I’d have those things at thirty-one. I’m not sure at this point if that’s optimism or just idiocy.

There’s still a twinge of hope in me, though. I said recently that I’d rather die trying than just giving up because I’m going to die either way. At least with the former, I can die knowing that at least I tried, even if nothing worked.

FB group: If Emily is in a Longterm Relationship Within 5 Years, Drinks are on Her

I’ve been having a hard time lately. This whole summer has been hard. I feel like I keep getting hit with one thing after another, and the optimism I’ve been working so hard to keep is currently faltering. I’m trying so hard to remind myself that things are the way they are for a reason, that I don’t need to worry about what I should do because there are no wrong decisions. That’s the only thing that’s kept me going.

For whatever reason, I’ve become more spiritual this summer. I had a thought a few months ago — that maybe some people have to go through hell in order to see that there is some Good in the world. My heart has been broken several times in the past few months — more times that it should have in such a short amount of time — and yet I feel like everything is still going to be okay.

I don’t know why things are the way they are right now, but I feel like there is some reason. Maybe I’m supposed to learn or gain something from my current situation. Maybe it will eventually work out. Maybe it won’t, but it’ll lead me to something that does. I’m trying to realize that not knowing is okay. I hate not having the answers, I hate not knowing where things are going, I hate not having a definite future. Maybe accepting those things and accepting that I can’t control everything is part of why this is happening.

All I can do is try, and I know that. I can’t fix everything or make everything what I want it to be, but I can keep pushing forward and making life what I can. I can be sad and hurt, but eventually I need to pick myself up, change out of my pajamas, and live the life that I have in the best way I can. All I have is this moment, and there’s no sense in dwelling on the past or worrying about the future if I can’t fix either right now.

All I can do is make do with what I have and mend myself.

I had sworn for awhile that I wouldn’t go back to retail. Aw, hail, no, I’d say at the mention of retail. But, honestly? I’m good at it. I’m good at registers and talking to people and organizing things until I nearly concuss myself from trying to make things exactly even and straight. It’s nice to be back somewhere I can indulge my loves of talking and anal retentiveness. I told The Guy last night, “You know how much I talk. Now imagine how much I talk WHEN SHIT GOES ON IN MY LIFE.” He has only known me while I’ve been unemployed and lazy. Poor guy doesn’t know what he’s in for.

So maybe I’ll have things to blog about, too? JOY!

I’m 26. Ow. That hurts. I’m the same age as my mom was when she had me and as Nick Drake when he died. Somehow I am neither dead, married, or knocked up. Knock on wood (except for the married part).

It’s been a weird year. I’ve actually enjoyed being 25, but I’m also not sad to see it go. I’m ready to move on to a new year, a new age, and hopefully new things. I’m hoping that this will be the year that things start to pick up for me.

A few highlights from the past year:

• Being totally wasted at my 25th birthday party and dancing on furniture.
• Puking in Mandi’s car on New Year’s. (Mandi commented tonight that she is the best friend ever because she cleaned up my puke, bought me my birthday dinner, and still loves me. That is love right there, guys.)
• Conquering my fear of flying. Well, not so much conquering as going through with it anyway and not managing to pee on myself.
• Meeting someone amazing, and even if things are complicated right now, I’m glad to have him in my life.
• Making an Etsy store, which I’d been meaning to do for a year, and actually working on it and making a little money.
• Not dying.

So, it’s been pretty good, but let’s get this fucking show (life?) on the road!