G-O-D

Try as I may to scoff at religion, I envy those who have faith in something.

Really, I do.

It's funny to laugh at the idea of a higher power over cocktails, but alone, in bed, at night? I want a god. I want to say to worrying friends Don't worry, god has a plan!, but I can't bring myself to say that.

It's a lie.

Where is this alleged higher power when people go to war, die of cancer, or even me, when I feel this unhappy all of the time? Where is he/she/it when I cry myself to sleep, alone in bed?

I feel a certain hollowness that I think faith could fill. But how? I tried Yahoo! Answers and all I found were austere religious people, each trying to "sell" their book, their organization, their club.

I don't want to attend a church, mosque, temple, or any other building full of strangers trying to absolve their sins.

I just want to feel full, happy, satiated with life. It's like I'm a faith-er-exic--a faith starved individual, a condition brought on by myself.

I constantly feel jaded and emotionally drained, as though I just resolved a huge fight with a loved one.

How do YOU believe? Where is YOUR faith?

How can I be that way?

I need a sign, something to tell me there is something bigger than this.

Because really, if we are the highest level of intelligence in the Universe, then I am sorely disappointed and I WANT OUT!

Doctor, Doctor, Give Me The News

I finally saw a psychiatrist/therapist today.

Insecure, obsessive, compulsive, depressed, resentful were all words that she threw around, summing me in words.

I felt no connection with those words.

There was no, Aha! Now I get it! moment. There was just my emptiness filling with frustration.

Who is she to define me? I paid $50 for someone to tell me I'm broken.

I'm broken.

I already knew that. She told me that I could be fixed.

Do you have a hot glue gun? Elmo's paste would work just fine, too.

Something to adhere the pieces together, my pieces together. Anything.

Her feigned interest disgusted me. She doesn't care. She cares about my health insurance and how much I pay her. She cares about her $100/hr rate and how happy she is that she didn't quit pre-med after organic chemistry kicked her ass.

Me? Psh. Dust in the wind, money spilling, another sob story particle of dust, leaving nothing behind to prove it ever existed.

She asked about my childhood.

Awful.

She asked about my teen years.

Horrible.

She asked how I've grown.

I told her to look at me. No, really look at me.

That should answer your question.

Children Revolt Me

I hate children.

My 3 best friends have named me godmother to their babies.

I hate them. They disgust me. Their inability to take care of themselves and their sticky paws make me gag.

Their smell, mannerisms, inability to string together words, and their existence in malls, restaurants, airplanes and movie theaters all further my frustration.

Even children, grown up versions of babies. They can speak sentences, but most of the time they are incomprehensible. They jump from topic to topic and they have no appreciate for the unknown.

They constantly ask "why?"

Why can't they be satisfied with ignorance?

Don't they know the bliss of not understanding? Can't they see that they're lucky to not comprehend how bad life is?

The worst part? I am jealous of them. I want so badly to feel that. I don't want to know. I don't want to understand. I cannot fathom wanting to know more about this world we live in. Why not accept it and move on?

I want the freedom of ignorance and the freedom to forgot.

I Have Only Had Sex 3 Times

I tout myself as a sexpert among friends.

People come to me for advice and I give it, animatedly and excitedly. I laugh and joke and reference non-existent men, "He was only this big!".

But I have only had sex 3 times. All in one night. With one man.

Since that sexual encounter I have almost had sex several times, but dysfunctions on my part prevent that from happening.

We will be kissing, almost becoming intimate, and then it all comes to a screeching halt as my mind begins to chatter in a panic stricken manner.

"What if he has herpes? Condoms don't always work! What would my religious parents think? Oh, I should visit them this weekend....do I look fat in this position? His breath smells bad...and he has bacne at 30. I need to get out of here NOW"

All of a sudden I enter panic-mode, where I MUST leave at all costs. I scramble into sitting position, re-dress, and leave, a stream of apologies, lies, and excuses like fire pouring out of my mouth.

And even my best friend thinks I have had a lot of sex.

When people invite me out on weekends, 50% of the time I go out, and 50% of the time I brag, "Ah, can't, I have a date" and I give a mischievous smile as though it validates my date and the fact that I might have sex.

Why does lying come so much more easily than the truth? I am at a point in life where I can never stop living this lie, and that terrifies me.

I am tired of being someone else. I am tired of being 1,000 someone elses.

I'm stuck. If I do meet a man I want to marry, how can I raise my children? How can I look them in the eyes and tell them that lying is wrong?

I am a sick hypocrite and while I sit at this computer typing, I've become disgusted with myself.

Advice?

Thanksgiving Makes Me Cry

This holiday depresses me.

The parade, the football, the pies, all of it.

When the doorbell rings and distant relatives walk in, I shudder with contempt.

It's all fake. No one is happy to see anyone. In fact, the kids are the only honest ones present.

Their cries of, "But I don't want to wear this dress, it's itchy!", "But I want to sit at the big-kid table!" and "I'm done eating, can we go home now?" are the only honest words uttered on turkey day.

Why is it that children are the only ones capable of blunt honesty? They lack some filter that our parents impose upon us to prevent us from saying stuff like, "Mommy told me that when you call, she's in the shower." and other socially inappropriate honesties.

Back to Thanksgiving. The parade makes me the most upset. The grinning floats seemingly leer and mock me with their weightlessness. Their floating heads simply reaffirm the fact that I can't let go.

My total control over every aspect of my life suffocates me like the oxygen deprived floating head of Spongebob Squarepants.

And why don't the children fear these massive floating monstrosities? It seems like over stimulation would get the best of me and I would pass out in a sea of colors, confetti, and joy.

It makes me think of taking ecstasy at a discotheque, too many colors, sounds, people,and smells for the brain to process.

In fact, I feel like that in day-to-day life. I wish I could go numb to it all.

What's wrong with me?

Do You Recognize Her?

Today at work I bonded with a woman who I thought was my hero.

She is 34, I'm 25.

We began the day talking about relationships, how we both found it difficult to get close with men.

As we got further into our discussion, we got to know each other a little better.

She said she hated spooning. Me too.

She hates holding hands. Me too.

She hates cuddling. Me too!

Then she said that she'd been in love once before.

She told me that she'd been in love when she was 25, but she'd ruined it. She said, "I think we're the type of self-destructive women who are never meant to be in love."

What?

I came back and read my past blogs.

When did I become so self destructive?

What am I doing? I can only blame myself, right?

How do I end this cycle? Is everyone else this self-aware? And then, is everyone else this depressed when they see themselves for the first time?

I look in the mirror and see someone I no longer recognize.

Who is she?

Do you recognize her?

I've Been Sick...Not Really

I'm sorry I have not blogged in a while, I've been very, very ill.

Not really.

That's a lie. I have actually never felt better.

Except that a man loves me and I don't love him. I've allowed him to love me for months now and I don't know what to do.

His mannerisms irk me to no extent. The smell of his cologne makes me gag.

Worst of all? His kindness makes me want to vomit. Is it wrong that I would like him more if he were abusive?

I would enjoy our sex if he tugged my hair a little harder, pinned me down, bit me.

I fantasize about rape. Is that sick?

I can't bring myself to break up with him because I cannot fathom that I, the most empty person I know, would reject filling, warm, delicious love.

Love so pure and kind that its saccharine flavor makes me sick to my stomach.

Love so thick, like molasseses, that it makes my tongue stick to the roof of my mouth and makes my vomit slide back down to my acid filled stomach.

What is wrong with my heart?