I wish there was a way to accurately express just how violated and disgusting being called “sexy” makes me feel. It is the wrong word to describe me; I feel like there could be a general consesus about this. But whenever it happens, I feel helpless. That I cannot scream and yell enough about how they are wrong and disrespectful and thoughtless. But I know that realistically I cannot just expect people to know how it affects me and expect them to be sensitive to it. Even so. It still makes me feel horrible about myself, and like an objectified, revolting failure. I shouldn’t be afraid of existing.

I could write a book about how to erase yourself completely from the consciousness of everyone that used to know you.

Like. Thinking back on it? Like. I used to have a lot of friends. Like, no joke. I had a ton of people that I considered my friends and like, hung out a lot. Like I used to be really socially active and generally connected to the world outside of myself. People used to know me.

I used to have a pretty sociable and spontaneous life.

Lately, my life has been extremely routine. I go to school. I usually do not interact with anyone. I come home. I waste some time around the house. I go out and drive around and waste more time, only outside of my home so that I feel like I’m actually doing something. Once again, I usually do not interact with anyone. I go home. I write papers or do homework. I scroll around on the internet. I finish my school work. I go to bed.

About once or twice a week I break my routine and see my two friends for a few hours between school and going home.

Alternatively, once or twice a week I am scheduled to work. This is usually the most human contact I have.

I go days without laughing or smiling or emoting at all.

I don’t text with anyone. I rarely talk to anyone consistently over the internet. I have all but entirely removed myself from the world. Nobody knows me anymore. It is no one’s fault but my own. This blog is pretty much the greatest source of personal expression that I’ve got.

It’s like. Sometimes you just step back and take a look at your life, and it’s like…damn. What happened.

It’s fucking empty.

I am an angry creature. I am mean to myself. I am full of venom.

I’d like to be proud of something for once. Or like, let myself feel happy or just generally okay. But it’s like, I’m afraid that if I let myself feel content or comfortable, it won’t be long before something - no matter how small or seemingly insignificant or commonplace - comes along and causes me to feel like a fucking idiot for ever thinking that I was allowed to be okay or content with the way that I am.

I find it incredibly hard to relax, constantly consumed with stupid amounts of fucking anxiety that simply serves to make me really really frustrated with myself. Because I recognize when I’m being irrational and I recognize when I’m being ridiculous and have set up impossible - damn near impossible - standards for myself. But in being possibly the most heard-headed, strong-willed, stubborn person I’ve ever encountered, it’s very hard to try and like, overcome myself and my general predisposition to sabotage every good, fleeting feeling I may ever have.

Wow it’s not even 11AM the fuck. It’s raining.

There are only six people in this world that I have ever allowed close enough to be vulnerable with and actually have real, legitimate emotions around. Two of these people I no longer speak to. Another one is my therapist, so I suppose that doesn’t even count. Another I rarely see, due to distance and school.

I constantly fear saying “too much”. Showing “too much”. And while I may allow myself at times to become passionate, it’s usually over something insignificant and done in a very devoted breed of satire.

And even now. Unless I’m paying for someone to listen to me every Thursday at 2pm, I don’t feel right being serious or expressing anything even mildly sincere about myself that isn’t a throw away comment meant as a joke in the theme of “lol Michelle hates herself lol sux lol lol lol what else is new lol”.

I’m terrified of having things held against me. Being reminded when I’d rather leave things buried. Having my feelings trivialized. Having to go back and explain myself. Excuse myself. Denounce myself.

I want someone to know me. But I need to want to know them too. And that’s probably the most challenging part about it. Taking interest in other people, not dismissing everyone I see because of x, y, or z. Some small detail. Some basically insignificant bit that turns me off because my standards of the company I keep are outrageous, unfair, and incredibly, incredibly superficial and mean. I am a horrible human being. I am not exaggerating. I am not being dramatic. I take full responsibility for everything in my life.

So it’s not like I’m wondering why I feel so detached from humanity as a whole. I do it to myself. It’s not necessarily something I can turn off, though I’m working at finding a middle ground. It’s proving difficult considering the very nature of my personality. Though, most of the time I like playing the part of the charismatically cruel, reckless, self-sacrificing, outgoing, loud, excessively outlandish jackass. Making other people laugh, smile, or generally be amused is the greatest thing in the world to me.

When I’m with other people.

But then sometimes I sit here - alone, like anyone else - and realize that, sometimes, it’s been days, weeks, months, that I’ve gone without saying a single sincere, real, honest thing about how I feel with regard to anything at all, especially myself, to anyone’s face. Not just a computer screen. But real, honest face to face communication. Confiding does not happen. It is a terrifyingly unsafe concept.

It’s then when I realize just how much of a fucking scared little kid I can be.

I like playing dress-up when I’m alone, because then I get to be whoever I want to be and play-act in my own space for as long as the time lasts. It’s definitely the most constant thing that I’ve carried over from childhood - having had a lot of time to myself - and it brings me a great deal of comfort to just disappear for a while and be in my head.

I feel that turning twenty-one will only further this, seeing as I’ll be pairing this dress-up game with alcohol, which will most likely make things more interesting.

See: time spent at Cathouse last summer.

I do not feel human anymore. I am cracking and falling away. I am not complaining. I am documenting. I am narrating. I am remaining as rational and objective as possible. I do not feel sorry for myself. I am detached from this creature that I do not recognize.

It’s always either too much or never enough. There is no middle ground.

It’s funny, how easily I forget just how much more comfortable I am dressing unisex/like a dude in 2004 than I am doing the girly thing.

Well, you know. As girly as I could possibly get thing. Like, for instance, I just finished trying on an outfit for tomorrow and realized how good it felt to just be in straight(technically skinny, but not jegging) grey jeans, the black low top converse I’ve had since I was fourteen, a black polo I got at Goodwill repping some food court Chinese resturant, a pull over sweatshirt, a belt, and my extensions out with my hair back in a ponytail with just my bangs in my face.

And yeah okay the makeup stays, but the makeup is more my face than my bare face is my face. If that makes sense. Like I should have been born with stain around my eyes because it belongs there and I feel like somebody else without it. Anyway.

Like. I just felt this calm. It’s almost like, when I’m dressed that way, I don’t find myself constantly worrying about what I look like, because I feel confident and comfortable. It’s insane, the amount of anxiety I get about what I’m wearing, though I’m sure most other people feel the same way when they’re as body conscious/image conscious as I am.

I just get this feeling, sometimes, that there’s a pressure for me to dress a certain way and look a certain way and constantly reaffirm this that and the other. And like. It’s hella dumb, because nobody technically even ever comments on anything that I wear or really what I look like at all. It’s just me. Like, I tell Dr. Wilson some of the things that I fear people might ever say to me, and nine times out of ten, he just kind of looks at me - waits for me to finish whatever ridiculous manic tangent I’ve gone off on - and delivers a very simple “Michelle. No one - no one - would ever say that to you. No one would ever, ever tell you that. No one, unless they were very, very ill, would ever tell that to you. Ever.”

Blah blah blah I need to stop listening to the really really really mean, critical and cutting voices in my head and just do what I actually want to do.

Another reason why I wouldn’t actively entertain a relationship is the whole “I don’t have sex” and “Really normal things about intimacy at my age make me extremely panic-stricken” thing. Like. I wouldn’t want to essentially get into a relationship with someone and then, like, essentially deprive that person of a fulfilling sex life. That doesn’t feel fair to them. At all. Like, I would expect to be cheated on because I always expect the worst, and I feel like expecting someone you’re dating to put out isn’t irrational, so me not doing that would be grounds for wandering. Wow that was really bad on the self-worth scale holy shit.

I don’t want to make anyone else deal with those issues of mine. Like, I’m extremely uncomfortable with the idea of just someone seeing me topless, so the whole like…”all of my clothes are off FOR SEX” thing is absolutely out of the question. Like. No.

And along those lines, the whole “this is okay/this is not okay” list of normal shit and trying to essentially force someone to learn it feels so fucking selfish and totally not worth it in the end, for them. Like, I wouldn’t be worth their trouble to try and deal with me. Because I’ve just got a lot of stupid little shit that all builds up in a very complex heap of shit that is practically impossible to sort through. I know I’d bring up the issue early on about the discomfort regarding sexual shit so as to not have it be too much of a prolonged surprise, but I feel like eventually, no dude/chick within a few years of me is going to put up with that for long.

And I can put on my face and do my song and dance and be the most charming son of a bitch in the goddamn room - at least, that’s what I think - but if you’re not in on the joke that “Haha this bitch fucking hates herself so this is ironic for reasons”, there is no point.

It’s a constant source of frustration, all of these things that I’ve described. I desperately desire companionship and affection and validation of worth - something that is extremely hard to admit - but when it comes down to it, I know that there’s not a single person that I feel I could ever be comfortable letting in that much. And even if I did, I’d do my classic thing where I start to feel like they like me - an idealized, false version of me - more than I like them. I’ve really never had any relationship where the level of attraction and attachment was mutual. I’ve had plenty of crushes, sure, but always on people that I considered out of my league, or that were essentially unattainable or “would never go for me” as I’d probably put it. And worse yet, if they like me, that must mean they don’t really know me, or just have really low standards. And then I freak out and don’t want them anymore, and so I run and alienate myself and cut off all contact because they were too fucking nice to me and I can’t handle people being nice to me. It makes me hate them and think they’re fucking retarded and below me and are generally an idiot for believing my persona and not trying to challenge me at all or call me wrong or call me a bitch or call me out on any of the shit that I do just for the sake of being called out.

Like there isn’t even a goddamn consolation prize other than an extremely jaded/actively frustrated sense of humor.

Ugly on the inside, ugly on the outside. Imploding for the sake of saying it was something I could do all by myself. I want people to hear me without my having to say a single word.

An indisputable loudness, where there is no room for speculation.

I just need to turn up the volume.