Tomorrow is going to be the worst birthday of my life. It was really solidified that the worst person my college has ever seen is me.
I’ve really tried my best, but once again, I can’t do anything right. It feels like it is never good enough. Right now, this is the worst I’ve ever felt in my entire life. Literally. I didn’t even know it could be this bad.
I now do wish once again I was normal. And I thought I made progress. I clearly didn’t. People don’t care to know who I really am.
I really wish that right now, though… To be a normal person. Even after I thought it could be better to be myself, people really don’t like me as myself. They only like me when I can be a normal person.
Why me? Why did it have to be me? I didn’t want it to be me. I wanted it to be the opposite. I just wanted to be a normal person.
But, it really is true that most people only like you when you’re normal.
I’m glad this is verified. It feels truly anything but great.
Why am I even doing this anymore? I don’t get the point. I really don’t accomplish much, apparently. Even when I really wanted to accomplish anything at all.
I wish someone could make it stop. I wish someone could just make me a normal person. I right now wish I didn’t have any disabilities at all.
I’ve decided I do believe in the idea of God. But like not in the Bible sort of way. I don’t know. Don’t really care to explain either. But I’m rereading some notes from people, and it has impacted me. I have MY opinion on what that means. And honestly, I don’t know the specifics yet.
However, I do know I believe in something. Otherwise, I don’t find the point. I’ll figure it out. My mind on this changes a lot. I think that’s good though. You don’t want to be so set on your opinion that it impacts your ability to consider new information.
SOOOOO… ya that’s a good thing for me right now.
And if you go back and forth… AS YOU SHOULD!!!!!!!!! New information should always be considered… duh bishez.
I’m just so hurt by the fact I am treated so poorly by professionals. Especially the ones I’m paying. I cannot make it stop, and I do not know how to unless I am mute. I already was situationally mute for quite some time during my youngest years. It didn’t work. I already caused scenes. It didn’t work.
But to have a literal expert that you’re paying tell you to “memorize the answers” or “do what everyone else is doing and find friends to study with” in order to improve your grade is so humilating. I feel like I don’t have a choice at this point other than to continue doing whatever it even is that I am doing to be perceived like I am so incredibly unintelligent.
It goes back to the same question.
Why do you feel the need to treat me so poorly?
Like I’m actually struggling to understand how I am “being a know it all” while simultaneously having “answers that have nothing to do with the questions”.
Do people just not think I’m capable of feeling emotions?
Because I am so emotional it is disruptive to my daily life.
So the disconnect just fucking hurts.
Think before you respond to someone coming to you for help.
Oh, or just think about how you’d talk to a disabled child in the same situation.
I am rereading some of the papers I wrote throughout my time during undergrad, and I admire my willingness to write about the exact opposite of what some professors wanted just to see what they’d do. Rereading my U.S. history paper is making me laugh SO hard right now because WHY would I argue that side???
Like bruh… I’m not stupid I know women weren’t treated well back then. But get over it already because they should have been. My argument will make you reconsider because I already thought through ever counterargument you have. And it probably did because it was a quality paper.
“You won’t get an A if you choose that perspective.”
Literally did I ever mention to you I cared about this class? I don’t thinkkkkkk so because I didn’t. Like please was I even there on the days attendance wasn’t required? If not, I didn’t care. And I wasn’t, so I didn’t.
SOOOOOOO I’m still choosing that side even if I don’t believe a word I’m writing. And I did. #lolZ
He wasn’t flexing though. I didn’t get an A on that paper that honestly deserved at least an A-.
Mostly because it’s literally evidence-based that my existence isn’t enjoyed. I don’t even have to be doing anything “wrong”. There is just something about me that people do not like. They can just know by looking at me.
I have been making art again, and it feels like I never stopped.
And I don’t mean I have been making some little quick sketches during class or when I am waiting for my appointments to start in businesses’ lobbies. I mean I have been really making art again. In the comfort of my humble apartment that’s actually not humble whatsoever.
And I hate that I stopped.
Fortunately, the almighty question of Whydid I stop? isn’t lingering in my brain. I’m not desparately trying to analyze this decision of mine while I go through the motions of my everydays. I already know the answer. It’s an answer that is so prideful it even hurts my own feelings, but I think maybe, just maybe, these prideful answers in my life make manifest the areas in which I need to self-reflect. And God knows that list is long, so adding to it never hurts. If anything, that list reminds me I never have to be bored, for there is always work for me to be completing.
You can guess the reason. It’s not that hard to decipher.
There is something about making art that is so catharthic; it’s indescribable. You don’t have to say anything to try to be understood. You just sit back and let your creation do the talking. You sit back and watch other people try to analyze what your work means, and you’re finally in the driver’s seat. You get to watch them react and respond. And you don’t have to provide any feedback on whether their interpretations match your intentions. They’re finally the ones with the unclear understanding of communication. I find it beautiful in a twisted way. I find their interpretations to be absolutely stupid the majority of the time, but I like to stand there and listen to them explain away pieces that don’t need any explanations. It’s a cruel pastime, but it’s one I’ll keep in my back pocket despite the negative connotation; sue me, please. I would recommend it to a friend in need of a positivity boost for sure.
Of course, there are the many other reasons art is the thread I hold onto during times that make existential questions erupt in my brain like lava spewing from a volcano over every square inch of land as far as the eye can see. But mostly, hearing the elites’ and the genuises’ takes on pieces of art that need no takes is music to my ears.
How sick and twisted is it that I was conditioned to believe I am inherently the worst person on the face of the earth? That I am born “bad”? That I am to live in the constant fear that I am going to literally burn in a perpetual fire if I make a mistake or mess up or get it wrong?
How sick and twisted is it that I was conditioned to believe if I pray hard enough my problems would go away? That God would hear me?
He fucking didn’t.
He didn’t hear me because he was never there.
I showed up for Him everyfucking time, though. Every single one.
And He didn’t do anything…
He didn’t do anything.
He didn’t do anything because he was never there.
I did, though. I prayed. For everything, for everyone, for myself. I sacrificed my time, my energy, my fucking life to and for God.
And He didn’t do anything but watch me suffer.
He didn’t do anything but watch me suffer because he was never there.
he didn’t show up… But I did.
I did because I am here, and I have to live in this state of mental torture every single day of my fucking life.
I am heartbroken for myself.
What if I wasn’t conditioned to believe I fucking killed Jesus?
So what does that make this?
Do I consider it pure joy? Do I LITERALLY fucking count this all joy, my brothers and sisters?
That’s the rule in the Bible.
But is that the rule for me?
Is it the rule for me to be OVER FUCKING JOYED that there’s absolute misery in my never-ending depression?
Because if it is, I’m going to have to say it’s absolutely vile that God would demand that of me.
I’m going to have to say “considering it pure joy.” is not for me. And I’m sorry to and for myself that I ever, even for a second, thought it was.
But, “considering it pure joy…”, that’s for fucking ME.
I am choosing that for ME. Because I made it this far without God. Despite God.
I owe thank yous to many people. I owe several of them to some. And I know I owe everyone at least one.
There is one person, though, that I need to thank on here… And she knows who she is. For without her reaching out five years after Considering It Pure Joy came to be, I may very well still be sitting here thinking I am foolish to have shared so much of my life with people. I may very well be sitting here thinking I am foolish to have shared so much of my life with anyone at all.
So… To MaSt, thank you. To say anything less would be to evince my selfishness, which do not get me wrong, there will always be plenty of that to go around… But to say anything more would be to nettle myself with my excessive need to people-please.
That’s all there is to it, for now; perhaps one day I will find the words to string together some profound publication that adequately conveys my gratitude.
MaSt, I’ll never forget your message. Not just because it humbles me to the point of laughter due to me finding it so outlandish that I had the capability to make an impact… But because that impact I did not even mean to make… I was simply being myself… And hoping someone loved my anyways. And you did.
I have applied to 21 scholarships today. TWENTY-ONE. Not TWENTY-FUN. I am not turning the legal age to drink in America. I am literaLLY dying out here trying to save every spare penny a bi$h can. LITERALLY. And I am using literally correctly so COME AT ME. Or probably don’t; I have no good comebacks up my sleeve at the moment. That is because my sleeve is filled with my salty AF tears.
I am so freakkkkking sick and tired of a life in solitude with my poodle. No offense, Tucker, but it is just not the same as being in class. I am just over it. That is why I had to buy Snoop Dog’s wine today from target. I had to because there was no other option for me.
That is ALSO why I had to put it in a portable container before I head out for my nightly walk with Tuck Tuck Goose.
I just cannot even believe this catastrophe of my social and academic career. I NEEEEEEEEEED someone to cut me a break and either get me a book deal or a reality show deal. Preferably the book deal. But I won’t mind some Kim K. action either.
Alright toodles. My Snoop wine awaits me. Can’t wait to walk my dog, drink this wine, and cry HAHAHHA.
Sarah, I lied. This post is not for you. The next one will be (#lolZZZ).
I just have always loved this poem since I read it in high school.
I resonate with the title more than the poem because I think the title itself is genius, especially when followed by words explaining its meaning… **chef’s kiss**; it is a literary masterpiece… And I never told anyone this when I was in high school. I never added to the Emily Dickinson Conversation when we reviewed some of her most famous works. I never said or did anything other than expound upon what Google said her works meant… More truthfully, what Spark Notes and Cliff Notes said her works meant.
And that is because I was telling all the truth but telling it slant.
And it, Tell all the truth but tell it slant, received no credit, or rather poor Emily received no credit for her writing and her ability to feel so deeply, until after she died. And my high school self and this wretched account are dead, so this post, if even viewed by anyone at all, will receive no credit until then. Or I suppose now depending on when this is published, too.
Poor and clearly pompous me, for feeling like I am on the same level of writing and feeling as Emily Dickinson, and even personifying her feelings to her corpse. Poor and clearly pompous me, for even thinking a dead body would be feeling betrayed or disappointed or hurt or anything at all by this entire ordeal of her fame and love only after her, what seems as though, never-ending suffering.
What a shame that those who are trying their absolute hardest to communicate their desire for human connection and understanding and love do not receive any of it until they’re dead.
And that previous sentence, the one literally before this one presently being read, is me following Emily’s advice: that is me telling all the truth but telling it slant.
The Truth, when not told slant, is that I feel like the insurmountable vexation that progresses from having a mind like hers… one that makes her able to think and write this profoundly… is oddly enough the juxtaposition of the crux of progressive deterioration of that very same mind. I feel like it is oddly enough the juxtaposition of the crux of her, as aren’t the body and mind one and the same? Isn’t that what makes a person a person, as consciousness is too perplexing for even the world’s most intelligent psychologists and neuroscientists to “figure out” and explain?
Yet consciousness makes us human. It makes us different than the rest of living “things”. And isn’t that a good thing?
We are not animals but we are at top of the animal kingdom.
We are not unintelligent but we are destroying the one planet that keeps us all alive.
Make it make sense? Make the but make sense. Because I just simply cannot.
And that is what I find to be so profound about this entire poem. It’s the but in the title. That’s it… when I’m not telling it slant.
The Truth is I do not fucking understand the point of life.
I do not fucking understand the point of life.
I do not get it.
And no one can explain it to me.
That is the all the truth when I do not tell it slant.
However, if you do not tell it slant, that truth, or rather The Truth, is “too much” truth. It is misinterpreted as feeling emotions I do not feel. It is misinterpreted as me lying when I say those misinterpreted feelings are not felt. It is a whole bunch of an intertwined mess between me, “professionals”, and what is.
Therefore, I will just say what I said at the beginning of this entry:
I just have always loved this poem since I read it in high school.