Sometimes I really hate myself, for really stupid reasons.

I FREAKING HATE MY UTERUS, Y'ALL

"You know that feeling where . . ."

Isn't it interesting that we view feelings as places?
As if sadness and loneliness and anger and fear and helplessness are just little woodlands we meander through. 
I like that.

GRRRRRRRRRR.

 This LiveJournal entry that I posted on December 30th, 2009 does a good job of explaining the current scenario.  Note that it takes a *lot* to turn me into this much of an angry bitch.  Note also that this is an LJ entry and thus it was not an actual sent letter.

Dear Mark,

Stop texting me.  Stop messaging me.  Stop emailing me.  I Have No Interest In You.  You broke up with me two and a half years ago, remember?  And thank you for that, by the way.  It was quite possibly the only positive thing you did for me, even if you did it for reasons unrelated.  The year I spent with you was the dumbest year of my life.  I'm not blaming you entirely for it but I'm not completely letting you off the hook for it either.  But you know what?  I'm over it.  And you.  I'm seriously, honestly, completely over you.  I don't think about you, Mark.  I don't ever think about you.  I have my own life now and it has nothing to do with you.  You think I'm still terribly angry at you or hurt or something, from two and a half fucking years ago.  Honestly, what the hell is your problem that you think I still invest ANY time into thinking of you?  I'm only reminded of you every month or so when you send me these creepy lonely desperate pathetic messages wanting to be friends with me.  Apparently my very brief replies declining the invitations have not given you the hint, so I'm just going to ignore you now.  I have literally no emotions invested in you EXCEPT that I'm fucking pissed that you're still sending me stuff.  I dare you to be more pathetic.  I mean I'm still very hurt that I'm not with Asa but even I have the common sense not to keep harrassing him with texts and emails and messages, and that was three months ago, not TWO AND A HALF YEARS.

Unfortunately I've deleted most of your messages and texts to me so I don't have much evidence to keep as little mementos of your personal comfort zone invasion, but here is a message you sent me on December 12th:

Hey it's Mark...
how have you been? alright here.. just been bounching around the northwest for the past few months after moving to portland.
Portland was alright but I felt like I needed to keep moving so yeah... anyway the reason I am saying hi is cause I'm actually back in town right now and I'm bored and i know that you are the craziest person I know in this town which in return makes you the the most sane in a weird sort of way that I'm sure you understand, so I was wondering if you wanted to hang out some time. I'm not really letting anyone else know I'm here cause I just don't want to deal with stupid people. I'll be here for a while though so they are all bound to find out. but for the time being I'm sorta hiding... hahaha
anyway, I don't have a phone and I havn't had one in like 6 months but you should call my old number which is now my brothers: 509-899-****
Hope to hear from you!
If not I understand cause I was quite and asshole to you way back when...
Mark

And here is the text you sent me an hour ago that prompted me to write this entry:

Hey its mark.  Just letting you know this is my new number.

I really wish I had saved some of the other messages you sent me because these do your desperation no justice at all.

 Then, twenty-two days later, on January 21st, 2010, I wrote this entry:

cuz, ya know, um, this is perfect timing for you to keep harassing me right

this actually happened monday night but i couldn't get out of bed and then i forgot about it

so i'm, ya know, passed out in my bed in post-surgery painland and all, it's HALF PAST MIDNIGHT on a MONDAY and i get a little beepy noise from my phone saying i have a text

and I open it and it says

"You really dont like me do you?"

and I'm thinking who the hell are you, mystery texter  because I made a point to delete his number from my phone because he irritates the fuck out of me and i don't want to be reminded of his desperateness.  so I reply,

"Who is this?"

but then I realise it's probably mark because he would completely do something like that.  So i memorise the phone number and go through my old texts and yep, it's mark.  so I write back:

"Oh it's mark.  honestly i don't even think about you at all.  i don't care.  Why are you texting me at 12am on a monday?  Why are you so obsessive?  It's creepy."

I never got a text back.  YAY HE'S GONE MAYBE

I thought he was gone.  Hooray!, thought I, he has vanished!  He will leave me alone to get on with my life!  Ten months passed.  I was in the clear.  Life was lookin' dandy.  And then, fool that I am, I decided to log into MySpace for the first time in about a month just to see if anybody had sent me anything.  And lo and behold, posted on my MySpace, was a comment from 'Last Thursday' from Mark.  And it said,

How's life?

He refuses to go away!  MAKE HIM GO AWAY.
I posted this in his MySpace comments.  Please, Please, Please let this be the end of this.  PLEASE make him go away.  PLEASE.

 

Leave me alone.
Do not call me.
Do not write me.
Do not message me.
Do not text me.
Do not comment me.
Do not ask how I am doing.
Do not talk about me.
Do not hold out any hope that I will ever socialise with you again.
I do not like you. I want you to stay away from me.
Please, please, please. LEAVE ME ALONE.

Jesus Christ.  I find it slightly horrifying that he would even find anything appealing in my personality, considering I strive to be Not Like Mark At All.

heroic

So, I'm making this post just because I am feeling really really proud of myself.  Which is dorky, but, hey.  I deserve a pat on the back.

I heard noises of a rather . . . sexual nature coming from the room next to me so I went out to investigate, and my suitemate N was lying on the floor with her skirt hiked up and a shirtless guy on top of her, with the door open.  They tried to kick the door shut softly but I stopped it with my palm and responsible!Kellie kicked in.

Me: Are you okay, N?
N: Yeah . . .
Me: Are you drunk?
N: Yeah . . .
Me: (to guy) . . . are you really sure you want to be doing this to her while she's drunk? *scornful tone*
Guy: I'm really drunk too.
Me: I just don't want her to regret it in the morning is all.
Guy: Yeah, she's probably ready for bed.
Me: Yeah, I think you guys should go to bed.  Sorry to ruin your fun and stuff but I just really don't want you to regret this.
N: No, you're such a good friend Kellie, you're the only responsible person [no really I swear that's what she said]
Me: Yeah, I mean have fun and everything guys, but maybe just don't go the whole way right now.
N: I love you Kellie!
Me: I love you too N.  Goodnight guys.

LULZ.  I felt like I was in one of those teen educational movies or something.  I am such a total responsible nerd.  But really though, I just prevented a potentially bad situation from occurring.  I think I have a right to be proud of myself, at least a little bit, for being helpful.  But I didn't want to be really lame and brag about it where large amounts of people would see it.  *waves to audience*

obviously feminised names

I love these so much.  They're so underloved because they were given to women a lot in the 30s and now everybody views them as old lady names, but they'll get their place in the sun again soon.  A lot of people also see them as ugly or unfeminine because they retain all of the sounds of their male ancestors, but I love love love me a good strong female name.  Some I especially like:

Albertina
From the Germanic name Adalbert, which was composed of the elements adal "noble" and beraht "bright".
---I've just started being really fascinated by this name.  It's like a toy made of porcelain that you love to play with and spin around but must handle very carefully because it is very fragile.  I love the shapes and sounds my mouth makes when I say this name.  Albertina.  You could call her Berta or Bea or (gasp!) Beata!
Claudine
From a Roman family name which was derived from Latin claudus meaning "lame, crippled".
---It's like Nadine, but with colours that remind me of impressionism.  Claudine is the name of every woman in every Monet painting I've ever seen.  And that's not just because his name is Claude.  Or maybe it is.
Ernestine
Derived from Germanic eornost meaning "serious".
---Oh Ernestine, everybody thinks you are so ugly and rotten.  I will nurture you into a beautiful bloom, with your literary and feminist references.  Ernestine has a harshness and a bitterness that puts a lot of people off, but there's a softer, more lacey side to it that follows you around if you're lucky enough to see it.  Ernestine is a name that was antiquated before it was ever used.
Georgina
From the Greek name Γεωργιος (Georgios) which was derived from the Greek word γεωργος (georgos) meaning "farmer, earthworker", itself derived from the elements γη (ge) "earth" and εργον (ergon) "work".
---Such full, bouncy sounds.  Few names have a true rhythm to them.  Georgina has a true rhythm to it.  Georgina reminds me of fruit trees.  It's full and rich and saturated with colour and life and possibilities for personalities.
Geraldine
From a Germanic name meaning "rule of the spear", from the elements ger "spear" and wald "rule".
---I see Geraldine as almost a mix of Ernestine and Georgina.  Geraldine is frumpy and ugly but lacey on the inside much like Ernestine, but it's intense with sound and colour and flavour like Georgina.  One of my favourite things is when names give me not only colour but flavour.  Geraldine carries a parasol.
Oscarina (okay, so I made this one up)
Possibly means "deer lover", derived from Gaelic os "deer" and cara "lover".
---I made this up about a year ago because I was (am) so infatuated with Oscar Wilde that I couldn't bear to have him missing from my female combos.  Daphne Oscarina was the combination it was invented for.  Anybody named Oscarina would have to be an avid painter with her own "art studio" that is really just a converted garage.  It's swell.

I can't even imagine how awesome it would be to have a daughter named Georgina.  Even though if I ever have a daughter I totally won't name her that since there are names I like more.  But even so!  Georgina!  Albertina!  Be still my beating heart!!  I sometimes wish I wanted a big family just so I could bestow all my children with these antique roses of names.

This needs to end, now.

Dermatillomania, that is.  I'm stopping.  I'm going to force myself to stop.  No matter how painful and stressful and horrible it is going to be to do so, it needs to stop.

One month before my eleventh birthday - actually, it was exactly eight years ago today - my parents got divorced.  Along with the crippling mental illness that ensued came the beginnings of acne (which may also have to do with the first hints of puberty).  I was the only person in my class, and in fact my entire school, who had acne.  My mom had just moved out abruptly and my brother was locking himself in his room for days at a time and I spent a lot of my time locked in my room as well, crying and crying and staring in the mirror at my stupid crying blemished face, and then I just began digging my nails into it.  I had nothing but fragments of family left at home, and at school everybody started to avoid me because of the scabs on my nose and forehead resulting from hours of time spent in front of the mirror pawing at my face until it bled.  I just wanted my stupid ugly zits to go away.  I thought if I just tore at them enough they would go away.

And now eight years later, this compulsion has spread from my face to my arms and shoulders and back and hips and neck and stomach and chest.  Over almost my entire body, I am covered with small circular scars.  I hate looking at my body in the mirror, and it has nothing to do with weight or whatever else it is most women dislike in the mirror.  It has all to do with these horrible blotched scars covering me.  And it makes me so angry at myself that I begin to pick at them more, because a part of me still believes that if I can just pick at them enough, they will go away.

Whenever I get an itch, instead of scratching it, I find a blemish I've created somewhere around the area and pick it open.  If there isn't one, I find a pore and dig my fingernails into it.

There have been dozens, if not hundreds of nights where I have crawled into bed around 11pm hoping to get a relatively early night, and then start tearing at my skin, and when I look at the clock it's far past midnight.

For a period about a year ago, I would run my razor over areas of my body where there wasn't any hair, just so that I could get razorburn, so that I would have something to pick at.  That's why my stomach has scars on it.

A few years ago, I cut my nails short in an attempt to stop.  The next day I stole the family pair of tweezers so that I could use them to keep damaging my skin.

I haven't worn a bathing suit since I was eleven because I don't want anybody to see my back.  Nor have I worn a tank top because the tops of my arms and shoulders are covered with wounds and scars.

I very rarely wear white shirts, because they get blood stains on them.

I realise that all of this is really disgusting to think about.  It's really, really, really disgusting, and if I didn't trust Oscar so much to love me unconditionally I would never make this post because there have been a lot of times when I have convinced myself that nobody would ever want or love a person with such a disgusting habit and such a disgusting body.


I'm stopping now.  This is it.  Tomorrow afternoon I am cutting my nails short, going to the store to buy scar remover, and purchasing band-aids so that if I have an urge to pick at my skin it won't be able to be fulfilled instantaneously and I'll have time to convince myself not to.  I'm going to stop this.  I'm going to do whatever it takes to stop this.  I have allowed myself to destroy so much of my self-esteem, confidence, hope, and body for some of the years when I needed it most.  And it ends now.  This illness is not going to eat away at my life.  It ends now.