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EDIT: Shit, don't read this. It's pathetic.
Okay, so I kind of made a mental pact with myself about being who I normally am: A reclusive slacker, who maintains friends only through the occasional witty comment when I deem to tear myself away from my computer.
It probably has a lot to do with the bitter hell that was last summer.
Anyway, I am now a great deal more outgoing and, if not adventurous, at least willing to try new things.
Through this approach, I now have a lot of things going on. GSA, class, hanging out with friends, homework, spending weekends in Destin. I'm going to D.C. in a few weeks, I'm having a ton of fun, and I'm getting a handle on what I want to do with my future. All in all, I'm in a good place.
But the side effects of being so active and studious all at once are a little tough.
I don't get a lot of sleep, anymore. I exist on caffeine a majority of the time. And I get bored, easily.
Normally, this boredom hits only at night, in between homework and crashing for the night. During the day, I can and will get up and do something. But at night, I crave nothing more than to hop in a car and drive.
I miss driving. I miss driving a lot. I miss speeding down dark streets in the dead of night, driving on the wrong side of the road because they're deserted and I can, blaring music and singing along, badly. I miss having the windows down and hi-beams on. I even miss getting lost in the backroads and having to take long, winding dirt roads to get back to what I know.
I have discovered that I reconcile myself with tough decisions and hardships by writing about them. I did it in France, during what I'm pretty sure was a psychotic break. (No, I'm not really kidding about that.) I still do it, here. And it's not necessary that people see it and read it, as it's enough to get my thoughts in order. I put this stuff out there nowadays because it's just easier. I'm used to it, and my wrist doesn't hurt for hours afterwards. I wrote my damn hand off in France. Filled up notebook after notebook.
Anyway, I think this is a sort of therapy session for what was my last summer at home.
My parents warned me about coming home. And they were right.
A lot of my frustration stemmed from disappointment. I wanted to do things over the summer, like go camping, something I can't yet afford to do on my own. My parents had plans, however, to remodel a great deal of the house, so that they could refinance.
I understand that. That house is their home, and they have four more children to raise in it. But I'm also selfish. I didn't want to spend my summer helping them reconstruct a place where I no longer live.
I have always been very proud. I spent the summer in a war between that pride and what I need. I still need my parents and their charity. But I do not want it.
It didn't help that I am still very much the experimental child. My parents don't yet know what to do with someone my age. While their own time in my shoes is still fairly fresh in their memories, they don't know how to treat a child that they still remember wearing diapers when she suddenly decides that she doesn't need them, anymore.
My parents are content to treat me as an adult, as long as it suits them and their needs.
God, if I could describe the indignity of being treated like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum. Dismissed because they didn't have the time and energy to deal with me. And then sent out the next day on a list of errands for them, all the while fighting for possession of the car.
In many ways, it was worse than the Jauberts. And now, a month and a half later, it is still painful. As I'm feeling now, I will never go back.
I don't miss Tallahassee. Hell, I don't even miss the people who live there. I don't miss that house or that bed. Those don't feel like mine, anymore. I felt like a visitor in a house I once called home. I was yelled at, ridiculed, put down, and ignored. And if that was how it was before I left home, then I don't know how I ever put up with it.
I can't imagine walking into that living room, with intent to stay, without feeling sick.
So, I am going to dive into this school thing and not surface until I am too damn old to even consider going home an option.
Yeah, I lost where I was going with this. But, you were warned.
Okay, so I kind of made a mental pact with myself about being who I normally am: A reclusive slacker, who maintains friends only through the occasional witty comment when I deem to tear myself away from my computer.
It probably has a lot to do with the bitter hell that was last summer.
Anyway, I am now a great deal more outgoing and, if not adventurous, at least willing to try new things.
Through this approach, I now have a lot of things going on. GSA, class, hanging out with friends, homework, spending weekends in Destin. I'm going to D.C. in a few weeks, I'm having a ton of fun, and I'm getting a handle on what I want to do with my future. All in all, I'm in a good place.
But the side effects of being so active and studious all at once are a little tough.
I don't get a lot of sleep, anymore. I exist on caffeine a majority of the time. And I get bored, easily.
Normally, this boredom hits only at night, in between homework and crashing for the night. During the day, I can and will get up and do something. But at night, I crave nothing more than to hop in a car and drive.
I miss driving. I miss driving a lot. I miss speeding down dark streets in the dead of night, driving on the wrong side of the road because they're deserted and I can, blaring music and singing along, badly. I miss having the windows down and hi-beams on. I even miss getting lost in the backroads and having to take long, winding dirt roads to get back to what I know.
I have discovered that I reconcile myself with tough decisions and hardships by writing about them. I did it in France, during what I'm pretty sure was a psychotic break. (No, I'm not really kidding about that.) I still do it, here. And it's not necessary that people see it and read it, as it's enough to get my thoughts in order. I put this stuff out there nowadays because it's just easier. I'm used to it, and my wrist doesn't hurt for hours afterwards. I wrote my damn hand off in France. Filled up notebook after notebook.
Anyway, I think this is a sort of therapy session for what was my last summer at home.
My parents warned me about coming home. And they were right.
A lot of my frustration stemmed from disappointment. I wanted to do things over the summer, like go camping, something I can't yet afford to do on my own. My parents had plans, however, to remodel a great deal of the house, so that they could refinance.
I understand that. That house is their home, and they have four more children to raise in it. But I'm also selfish. I didn't want to spend my summer helping them reconstruct a place where I no longer live.
I have always been very proud. I spent the summer in a war between that pride and what I need. I still need my parents and their charity. But I do not want it.
It didn't help that I am still very much the experimental child. My parents don't yet know what to do with someone my age. While their own time in my shoes is still fairly fresh in their memories, they don't know how to treat a child that they still remember wearing diapers when she suddenly decides that she doesn't need them, anymore.
My parents are content to treat me as an adult, as long as it suits them and their needs.
God, if I could describe the indignity of being treated like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum. Dismissed because they didn't have the time and energy to deal with me. And then sent out the next day on a list of errands for them, all the while fighting for possession of the car.
In many ways, it was worse than the Jauberts. And now, a month and a half later, it is still painful. As I'm feeling now, I will never go back.
I don't miss Tallahassee. Hell, I don't even miss the people who live there. I don't miss that house or that bed. Those don't feel like mine, anymore. I felt like a visitor in a house I once called home. I was yelled at, ridiculed, put down, and ignored. And if that was how it was before I left home, then I don't know how I ever put up with it.
I can't imagine walking into that living room, with intent to stay, without feeling sick.
So, I am going to dive into this school thing and not surface until I am too damn old to even consider going home an option.
Yeah, I lost where I was going with this. But, you were warned.
