Too Much Time Spent Talking With Myself

My coworker left a Coke Zero on my desk this morning.  She swore it would taste just like *real* Coke.  She lied.  I'm now choking it down to be nice.

Yesterday, one of my friends from high school responded to my blog post, saying, "Just read your blog and I wanted you to know that I always thought (and still do think) that you are amazingly gorgeous."  Which was really sweet considering a) I wasn't remotely expecting someone to compliment me, especially not someone who hasn't seen me in 17 years, and b) I never actually thought of myself that way when I was a teenager.

From an extremely early age I learned to become an expert compartmentalizer (so what, I made up a word--only I am allowed to do that, and I will do it when ever I want).  It was easier to store certain things in locked boxes in dark corners of my mind that I never needed to visit.  There were things that I didn't want to think about, and that I thought no one else wanted to know either.  Being able to do this has both harmed and helped me, even now.

Compartmentalizing is a coping skill.  It allows me to get over things quickly, and not be bogged down by things that are really upsetting.  Sometimes that can make me look like I don't care, when really I care so much that it is painful, and if I don't want fragile days like yesterday, I need to stuff all that shit in a box and look the other way when someone is watching me.

The importance of this skill was very important in high school.  If I opened up and was honest with someone about my home life, one of three things would happen: 1) not believe me, 2) distance themselves from me (friendly but no more hanging out), or 3) treated me like damaged goods to the point of not wanting to even look at me much less talk to me.  The girls generally fell in camp 2, and the boys in 1 and 3.  This does not go over well for an insecure teenager who had no idea that she was strong and could use her words to stand up for herself.  Instead, I'd tell someone whom I thought I was close to, that my father chased me around the house with a 2x4 yelling at me to get it over with and just punch him already if I was so insistent about being mad at him.  Or when he'd ask me for "some lovin,'" which was his charming way of saying, hey, let me molest you while your mother is busy cooking dinner! 

I understand how frightening this is for other teenagers to hear.  Yet, at that time, I was living with it and had been since elementary school (possibly earlier, I have completely blacked out most of early childhood), and wanted to be liked and needed people to know I wasn't this crazy shy girl.  It didn't get me too far, and it was easier just not to mention it, and let everyone think I was a weirdo.  Funny how that gave you more street cred--being an everyday sort of crazy versus a sexually molested, lonely one.  It's okay if you sit around cutting yourself if you're doing it to be cool, and not out of any other need to explore the various ways pain can be inflicted.  All those things I did, to know myself better, to know how far I could be pushed, I shoved somewhere else, and just pretended that part of me didn't exist.  It was out of shame, it was out of feeling like I was dirty and at fault.  It is the way people looked at me.  I got enough looks I didn't want coming my way at home, and I didn't need it at school either.

So I put it somewhere else in my mind.  With that, I also lost a bit of self-perspective.  I didn't look at myself.  I did not acknowledge the beauty of my teenage body.  I let other people touch it, and I received the normal teenage satisfaction that comes with having sex and feeling like that is love.  I didn't even stop to think that these people I was with even thought I was pretty.  I have no idea what I was thinking really.  I dressed in some serious baggy clothing.  My hair was down to my ass, and I hid behind it.  I was almost always completely covered in some ways; even in a dress.  Thigh-highs, tights, long skirts, tall boots, knee highs. 

I slowly got out of all this in college.  It was a rocky start, and I still played by my high-school rules.  I was  in some bad relationships (oh, the awesome sex, though!), and my clothing, if possible, was even worse than it was in high school.  I'm not sure when I truly started to look better, and stop hiding myself in boxes in my head.  At some point in the last decade I started appreciating more of who I am, and what I have been through, and that overall I am very competent and have gotten further in life than expected.  I even have a pretty good sense of style now, and know how to dress my body for ultimate affect.

Lately, my compartments have been popping open at unexpected times.  I'm not sure if it is because of the therapy, or that in general I tend to be happier these days.  My mind can be very mean to me.  Yesterday was just terrible.  So many things kept appearing in my head.  The Orange Lover, people I have loved deeply who are no longer in my life for whatever reason, other things that I won't mention here, a sadness for what I have lost, and failing to compare it to what I have gained.

It is good to know that people thought well of me in high school, and who know me now, even if it is just an FB connection, who can tell me that they always thought I was pretty. 

Also what helps is to have the Guamaniac take you out for drinks and dinner.  Sadly, I did not get to make out with any girls, but we did eye the boys and giggle a lot.  Then I had to dump him as a friend for continually singing The Cranberries horrible horrible hit "Zombie."  While I usually think my friends are awesome, that is some truly evil shit.  I texted many people last night with the horror that was being thrust upon me.  No one even came to my rescue.  I went home laughing and fell asleep quickly.

Happy birthday, Guamaniac and the Amazon!