Action.

Something was pointed out to me, by one of my sisters no less, as to why people may be ignoring it [two posts back.] She didn’t say it like that but her question was, “What would posting that solve? Imagine him reading it. What would you want his response to be? What do you think it would be? I replied, “[It’s] Not really about him reading it, more of  the people around him. Letting them know that someone they put on a pedestal is someone who would say something like this.”Her question was a valid and a good one. Another person said, “People would rather not deal with what they don’t understand or what they don’t want to understand.” These eased my anger and put me in a place of reflection and I came to a few conclusions.
I have very little feeling about how He responds it because I have learned that it is best not to carry the opinions of those who hurt you, but if I had to want him to have a reaction, I would want him to feel ashamed. Also, I am done being seen as the ‘evil one’  because people those around him only have half of the story. Anyone capable of saying things like that to a sexual abuse victim is not a white knight. Reasoning, why do I care about his friends? I wouldn’t want anyone to be friends with someone like that. I am also tired of awful people being praised. You wouldn’t praise someone who slapped and already wounded person, would you? I’m trying to change the way things work, I’m being the change I want to see.
It enrages and saddens me that people aren’t helping. Lack of understanding isn’t an excuse anymore; my mother doesn’t truly understand everything I’m going through but she is still trying to help, she isn’t be ignorant. The true issue is people not wanting to understand and to change because people are afraid of change. The more boastful they are, the least likely they are to actually help, but they continue to boast. I had already learned this but I only believed it when I asked for help yesterday and I’m not one of those Facebook users who posts, “Share this if…” I prefer action. Action like calling-out an asshole who criticizes someone going through PTSD from rape.

The action, the change, I want is for the true good people to win instead of those who are two-faced.

 

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How I met Patricia.

2. Write about a chance meeting that has stayed with you ever since.

This chance meeting is funnier and in all honesty, she has changed me just as much as I have changed her. Patricia. Four years ago, almost. I wrote an entry in my online diary and that is how I met her. She commented on it. Here is the actual entry, edited a bit for an easier read.

    So Lets start at the very beginning: I was cleaning out my bathtub drain because apparently there was so much hair that it was stopping up the drain. Disgusting I know. The smell was awful, there was so much hair that I could–I am serious–make a wig. After getting every last hair possible, I cleaned my bathroom, bathtub etc. I felt so dirty and gross afterwards that I wanted to take a shower. So I turned on the shower and got distracted. Now for you to understand how in the world I could possibly flood my bathroom floor without using the tub, I must tell you. My shower head and its handle apparently think it’s hilarious to swivel, oh no, not towards the tile wall, but to the bathroom floor. So, I essentially flooded my bathroom floor because 1) I got distracted and forgot about the shower and 2) because I have a cheap-ass shower handle; it turned and BAM!When I saw this I freaked, but didn’t scream nor just stand here. I ran to the garage, got the shop-vac, and Guess what I saw heading back up stairs? (We have two stair cases, I took the front ones. When I had the shop-vac I took the back stairs.) That’s right, I saw the tile floor covered in water and the ceiling literally dripping wet in some places. It wasn’t like the whole entire ceiling was sopping wet, only a few spots.  I tired to vac the floors, but stopped and thought best if I told Mom. She wasn’t horribly angry, just said, “Oh, fuck.” She told me to run upstairs and shop-vac that first, so I did. Both Mom and I were amazed by how fast it moved. It took some time and it worked. The ceiling stopped dripping and my carpet was some-what dry. I brought the shop-vac down-stairs and while Mom shop-vac’ed I got a towel and dried as much as I could. Mom said our only worry is mold. She said it should dry, but I would have to Clorox my room and open windows–actually I don’t have any windows–I have a huge glass door– every day. It would be dangerous to not open your window-door because the mold will get you sick. I wouldn’t have any qualms about this if I had a screen to my door. I don’t and I live in Texas; it’s summer…. bugs.. lots of bugs.

That entry was how I met my cross-generation-twin Patricia and I am glad I flooded my floor.

1. Being trapped in a confined environment can turn an ordinary experience into a powder keg. Write about a thing that happened to you while you were using transportation; anything from your first school bus ride, to a train or plane, to being in the backseat of the car on a family road trip.

 

I don’t have anything spectacular to write about that happened all at once but I do have one trip that was a succession of events that made for an interesting trip.  In this particular story I was headed to see my sister, Rachael, in Pennsylvania. It was also the first time I’ve ever flown alone. It was sort of fun… Sort of.

5:00 am.

The air port is pretty empty.
The woman in front of me, I swear, I thought her and her guy were going to have good-bye sex right there. Luckily they didn’t and then it was my turn and he asked how old I was,
“I’m sixteen.” I say, glad that it was a easy question. If he asked my Social ( I know he wouldn’t, but I was thinking he might at the time) or something, I would have been screwed. I get passed him then I get to the Grouchy Security Lady and I nearly gawked at her because she wants my jacket in one of those security tubs and my shoes in another box. My bag? Unless it has a laptop, no box. Lady, what the hell? I’ve been to this airport and I have seen more ethical, happier, and brighter Security Crayons than you.  Southwest? Put everything in in one box if you can.  She was also he kind of person who gave orders in increments.  Just tell me all at once and don’t mumble.
Southwest: the happy airline.

Once I make it out of Security, I find my gate easily and sit there for a while ogling the Odwalla drinks and bars. I finally get up, determining that my flight won’t leave when I move my butt. I get a bar and a drink. I feel better and stat reading Under the Dome. It’s good, but slow like most of Stephen Kings books so it’s not working to hold my attention. I keep reading because I am stubborn.
When my plane starts to board I am momentarily worried and irritated with how they board.
How am I supposed to do this? F8? ‘Numbers ten and up’? Does every letter of the alphabet have ten seats? Or is every letter one seat or row?
I go with numbers ten and up. I find my seat and it’s a window–yes. I see my seat partner and he is a mildly chubby man in a floral shirt with a chain link bracelet–his watch was on his other hand–and he was listening to Beyonce.  He also had an iphone and a blackberry, but  unlike every other zealot, he had a Dell Notebook that was black and most likely a 06-07 model. I saw the Vista sticker and this definitely wasn’t a newer model.
I find the set up odd. I am sixteen, reading Stephen King wearing a pink Antones (blues club), blue sparkly Converse (which got some attention from Pilots), LA Ink sweatpants (I didn’t know, I just liked the design) and listening to Depeche Mode. I don’t have everything spread everywhere like he does, and I listen when they say,
“Please turn off all portable electronics.” He does not. He keeps listening. He doesn’t make any attempt toward conversation and neither do I. He doesn’t even look at me. He actually looks straight past me into my window. Still avoids my gaze. I know it can’t be my boobs because they are hidden in my Cambridge sweater. However, I take off my sweater because it was getting a little warm–he notices. Of course. Now you ask if I mind all of your stuff everywhere. So, a 26-inch waist and DD’s interest you? How funny.
I am glad when the trip is over and I land in Newark. My hip is hurting and so is my nose. Plane smells. People smells. Nasty drink and food smells. And someone is sick. Or going to be. When I get off the plane and into the air-port I ask a Continental Lady where my gate is because my pass doesn’t say. She tells me it’s gate 114. I’m at gate 86. I go and start speed walking to my gate and, yes, a few laugh when I continue my speed walk on a moving side walk. I don’t care because all of them, honestly, looked like Humans on Display. Blank faces and zombie-like.
As I am walking I realize my tampon is on it’s last legs. Oh, joy. Wait. Oh, shit. I walk faster and find my gate and I find the nearest bathroom.
Once back to my gate, I find it’s moderately filled with little league baseball boys. Since they talk quite loud I determine some things: they’re quite dull, several of their names, several of their phone numbers, and that they are forgetful–that bit was thanks to their coach. Good going, coach. While I wait I listen to the Gate Calls,

“Mr. Gordan your non-stop flight to Beijing is boarding, please go to gate 78.” They said this thirty times and I was about to go look for Mr. Gordon myself. I was sitting alone, contemplating this when I small and I mean small–thin,  crush-able looking body–girl sat some seats away from me. She had the average hair butchering: emo hair cut, sandy blond, and fake high-lights. She must have woke up this morning and decided that wearing all gray was awesome. Gray skinny jeans, gray converse that were attached to feet that wouldn’t stop movinggray wolf shirt with red rhinestones for the eyes, and she was kind of gray skinned herself. I couldn’t determine her height until the plane started boarding and when we did… Guys, compared to me, she looked ten. She couldn’t have been, though. Her face was more mature. She was tiny and she made me look twenty-six. Her face all made-up and shit with bright little eyes and scar free skin. While I have shadows, discoloration, darker eyes, dark hair and no make-up. Her mother then arrives, making her seem even younger and smaller. I then find out she has a birdie like voice; oh, boy.
Once we bored the plane I find that I am in the very first seat–1A. I am on a very small plane with a lot of very loud boys. The Flight Attendant gave me an apologetic smile.
My hip drove me crazy. I couldn’t hold a position for more than a minute. Literally.
The flight it finally over and I walk into PA Air-port with one last thought,

“I hate people.”

Root Rot.

B: Tell the story about something interesting (anything!) that happened to you, but tell it in the form of an instruction manual (Step 1, Step 2, Step 3….)
Step 1:
I don’t have an interesting thing I want to focus on. A million things bounce around my head reading those words.
Step 2:
my mind focuses on the one thing I can’t talk about. Focuses on the flashbacks that bubble up like sewage–the memory, the feel, the betrayal. How ripped to shreds I felt afterwards, like my world was impacting on itself and leaving nothing but a shaking and terrified thing in its wake.
I felt like I was nothing. Nothing more than to be hurt and used. Why was a such a fool? Did this really just happen to me?
“No, no, no, no, no… please let this be another nightmare. Oh, please let me wake up. Please let the pain go away. Please, please, let this be a dream–don’t let this be real.” I thought and as the pain got worse, I knew it wasn’t a dream, and I wanted to scream, cry, rage, and run away. I didn’t. I literally just curled up into a ball. I pulled my knees to my chest, my fingers knotted in my hair as if that would make this go away, and I began to shake. My whole body and my head at the same time–no, no, no.
Step 3:
For the next couple of days, I was hollow. I did my best to not let it show. Yet, it felt and still feels as if everyone can see straight through me. I’m becoming invisible, though, to myself. I don’t know who I am anymore. I feel that all I am now is that one horrifying memory. That one day, I’ll scream, be torn apart by its surfacing and yet, I feel like I’m rotting from the inside out.

Ice Cream and Slim Jims.

Image

I saw this and thought, “Hey, damn nice abs!” but then I saw a comment,

“i want to know what is motivating about an eating disorder and fake boobs.” [Direct quote] I commented that it wasn’t nice to say that this girl has an eating disorder and fake boobs when she might not. She could be like me. I’m not by any, 130lbs, means anorexic but my hips pop out just like hers and my boobs are big—DDs. You factor in tiny shoulders, a twenty-five-inch waist, being almost five-foot-nine and what you have is someone outside of the norm. Yet, I love ice-cream, Slim Jims and I will eat them together.
People seem to hate people who are outside the norm and will insult them to no end for some peculiar reason and Pinterest is a great show of this.

Pinterest, especially the Health&Fitness section (or ‘board’). You find more insulting and assumptions at the expense of beautiful women. If they are too muscular in someone’s opinion they are disgusting and manly. If they are too skinny (and rarely those deemed too skinny actually are) they are disgraceful and the user gets reported. It’s insane!

The worst and most aggravating for me to see is the “real women” bullshit because it is usually athletic women vs plus-sized women. I think it is appalling how people can say that something as meaningless as your weight dictates if your “real” or not; it’s not as if you lose a certain amount of pounds and suddenly you become a robot. Think about how ridiculous it truly is! What if people said because my eyes are hazel, I am more real than the girl with blue eyes. You would sort and laugh, wouldn’t you? Of course you would because it’s preposterous. The problem is that people don’t think. Sometimes they are bitter that they don’t look how they want and insult those who do. Sometimes it brings back painful memories. It’s no excuse, though. There is no excuse to insult those who don’t fit the norm.