21 days. Wearing the dress.
Considering giving up. Not because it's hard. But because...I just don't care about wearing it. I care about the cause. But, I feel nothing when I put it on. Which has been causing some weird bitterness.
But, I feel apathetic in all things these days. Insecure. Not well liked. The dress seems useless, like my life sort of seems right now.
Lame. But true.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Thursday, March 17, 2011
The Dress.
So, I've been wearing the same grey dress for 18 days. For the Daughter Project. Which is fine and great.
But..I'm not exactly sure how much I'm doing for it. It's not really that wearing my dress is difficult, or something I even think about a whole lot. Just put it on, put something over it, leggings, go. Whatever.
It's not that I don't think about the problem of sex trafficking. Obviously, I do. I'm spending an entire 4 (ok 5 and a half...) years getting a degree so I can get a job at some organization that stops it. I think about it often. But the dress? Am I really serving anything for the daughters?
Truthfully, it doesn't really feel like it. I guess it's raising some kind of awareness..but I'm not really doing that, either. My recent built up hate for the internet has really come out and I'm not really on the internet much talking about it. Nor do I have a good camera to take pictures of myself daily. I'm having a hard time really seeing the worth of what I'm doing, you know?
So what do I do? For the daughters, what do I do? I got no money, no car, nothing. So what? Will my schooling pay off? Will my dress convince ONE person that sex trafficking is abundant and needs stopped? Will I teach anyone? Not sure. Being in a Women's Studies culture...everyone knows. And I mean EVERYONE. Maybe even more than I do.
So what, then is the dress doing?
I have yet to figure that out. But I'm still trucking.
But..I'm not exactly sure how much I'm doing for it. It's not really that wearing my dress is difficult, or something I even think about a whole lot. Just put it on, put something over it, leggings, go. Whatever.
It's not that I don't think about the problem of sex trafficking. Obviously, I do. I'm spending an entire 4 (ok 5 and a half...) years getting a degree so I can get a job at some organization that stops it. I think about it often. But the dress? Am I really serving anything for the daughters?
Truthfully, it doesn't really feel like it. I guess it's raising some kind of awareness..but I'm not really doing that, either. My recent built up hate for the internet has really come out and I'm not really on the internet much talking about it. Nor do I have a good camera to take pictures of myself daily. I'm having a hard time really seeing the worth of what I'm doing, you know?
So what do I do? For the daughters, what do I do? I got no money, no car, nothing. So what? Will my schooling pay off? Will my dress convince ONE person that sex trafficking is abundant and needs stopped? Will I teach anyone? Not sure. Being in a Women's Studies culture...everyone knows. And I mean EVERYONE. Maybe even more than I do.
So what, then is the dress doing?
I have yet to figure that out. But I'm still trucking.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
paper
Every three months, the experience of the doctor's office is like a ticking reminder of pseudo-crazy they made you believe. Sitting on scratchy paper lining, wondering why they're giving you the same survey because no matter what your answers will be, they will give you a pill.
"You sure you don't want to kill yourself?"
Yes.
That was the simple answer anyway, to a complex series of spiralling thoughts and memories that couldn't possibly be explained to a doctor sitting parallel to you in her swivel chair. Did I want to die? Sometimes. While the lingering possibility of putting an end it all will hover above me for the rest of my days, the probability of it comes in waves. It's the want to kill parts of myself, not the entire structure of my being. How can I explain that to a doctor?
It's the memories of a parents fist slamming into my spine.
It's the loneliness of a bedroom shoved into a corner and the fear of your roommates walking into open skin and broken dishes.
It's the secret desire that they will.
It's the school work that's violent to your free-spirited personality.
It's the constant panic revolved around preserving it.
It's the ringing in your ears.
The voices you don't wanna hear.
The thoughts you can't control.
The dreams that attack you while you're unconscious and helpless.
It's the selfish, reprehensible, piece of shit I really am.
(Ya doc, I do wanna fuckin kill myself. And if you sit across from me and try to convince me that you never thought of it either, I'd laugh in your fuckin face. I'm not a fuckin pill. I'm not your goddamn bonus on your paycheck. I'm a fuckin person who has been through a lot of shit and maybe I just don't fuckin feel like it anymore. K? So give me something else that's not a fuckin pill. How can you medicate me when the state of the world is against me? Attacking me. Luring me into it's cages and refusing to set me free? Don't you feel it? Have you been desentized like the rest of the world? The rape? The tourture? The murder? The sorrow and shame and sheer agony? Has the white walls and sanitized smell of this place blinded you?)
That part, too.
But yet, I sign up for them every month. Every month. It's like, if I don't, then I failed. I pushed away my only chance at survival. The whirlwind of the what ifs and the coulds and the shoulds and the panic settle too far in my bones to ever turn back.
I don't want these pills anymore. I want God. I want God to kill the part of me that I can't kill myself because that means actual death. I want God to open my skin for me because when I do it it results in bloody paper towels hidden underneath my bed. I want God to get me wasted, and fall so deeply in drunken love for Him. I want Him to see everything. Everything. I want Him to hold me and pray over me always.
It's the one two three of when it's gonna happen. Is it happening now?
"You sure you don't want to kill yourself?"
Yes.
That was the simple answer anyway, to a complex series of spiralling thoughts and memories that couldn't possibly be explained to a doctor sitting parallel to you in her swivel chair. Did I want to die? Sometimes. While the lingering possibility of putting an end it all will hover above me for the rest of my days, the probability of it comes in waves. It's the want to kill parts of myself, not the entire structure of my being. How can I explain that to a doctor?
It's the memories of a parents fist slamming into my spine.
It's the loneliness of a bedroom shoved into a corner and the fear of your roommates walking into open skin and broken dishes.
It's the secret desire that they will.
It's the school work that's violent to your free-spirited personality.
It's the constant panic revolved around preserving it.
It's the ringing in your ears.
The voices you don't wanna hear.
The thoughts you can't control.
The dreams that attack you while you're unconscious and helpless.
It's the selfish, reprehensible, piece of shit I really am.
(Ya doc, I do wanna fuckin kill myself. And if you sit across from me and try to convince me that you never thought of it either, I'd laugh in your fuckin face. I'm not a fuckin pill. I'm not your goddamn bonus on your paycheck. I'm a fuckin person who has been through a lot of shit and maybe I just don't fuckin feel like it anymore. K? So give me something else that's not a fuckin pill. How can you medicate me when the state of the world is against me? Attacking me. Luring me into it's cages and refusing to set me free? Don't you feel it? Have you been desentized like the rest of the world? The rape? The tourture? The murder? The sorrow and shame and sheer agony? Has the white walls and sanitized smell of this place blinded you?)
That part, too.
But yet, I sign up for them every month. Every month. It's like, if I don't, then I failed. I pushed away my only chance at survival. The whirlwind of the what ifs and the coulds and the shoulds and the panic settle too far in my bones to ever turn back.
I don't want these pills anymore. I want God. I want God to kill the part of me that I can't kill myself because that means actual death. I want God to open my skin for me because when I do it it results in bloody paper towels hidden underneath my bed. I want God to get me wasted, and fall so deeply in drunken love for Him. I want Him to see everything. Everything. I want Him to hold me and pray over me always.
It's the one two three of when it's gonna happen. Is it happening now?
Thursday, March 3, 2011
3 am
It's 3 am and I can't sleep.
I put my head down on my pillow...and thoughts race. That familar lump in my throat. My chest tight. Hazy eyed.
One year ago, I was packing to go to India. This year, I'm insecure. Depressed. Fallen off my boat in the middle of the sea.
What happened? What happend? What happened?
This is famous question these days. This is the question I ask God. What happened to me?
And this: why love anything, or anyone, if it'll just leave you in the end?
My heart aches these days. Aches for what once was. Right now isn't too swell. It's ragged and it hurts. It hurts me to the marrow in my bones. I just want to be packing for India right now. That's what I want to be doing.
I put my head down on my pillow...and thoughts race. That familar lump in my throat. My chest tight. Hazy eyed.
One year ago, I was packing to go to India. This year, I'm insecure. Depressed. Fallen off my boat in the middle of the sea.
What happened? What happend? What happened?
This is famous question these days. This is the question I ask God. What happened to me?
And this: why love anything, or anyone, if it'll just leave you in the end?
My heart aches these days. Aches for what once was. Right now isn't too swell. It's ragged and it hurts. It hurts me to the marrow in my bones. I just want to be packing for India right now. That's what I want to be doing.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
One Dress
I'm wearing the same gray dress for one month for the daughter project. Day 1 starts today.
thedaughterproject.org
More on the issue of sex trafficking to come. I gotta jet to my spanish exam!
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