I don't ever want to lose this video:

Confession time.

I settled. I had settled for Library school. I looked at my options in first year and said, the hell with it, I’ll go to library school. Truthfully, I don’t want to go. Truthfully, I put off applying this summer for so long, I couldn’t get in. Truthfully, I put off applying this FALL for so long, it’s too late to get in, in January. Truthfully? I don’t care. I don’t want to go to Library school anymore, so as people are want to do, they question me. My older sister’s home from the U.S. now and she’s just tried to grill me on my “plans for the future,” and I made up some bullshit answer and left the room. I don’t know what I want to do with my life.

I looked up schools; colleges, universities, etc. I looked into training. But what it all boiled down to, every single time, was “do I really want to do that? No.”

I can’t for the life of me figure this shit out.

I have no skills, no talents, no interests.

In grade 5 through 6, I wanted to be a herpetologist (studies reptiles,) until my older sister told me that there was no future in it. In grades 7 through 9, I wanted to go into Egyptology, until my older sister once again told me there was no future in it. I even toyed with combining the two: studying retiles in Egyptian mythology, until I was reminded with low grades in Biology that I royally suck in any scientific field (which was needed for herpetology).

I have no interests. I watch tv, play video games, and surf the internet. I’m not passionate about anything anymore, and I hate that! Everything in my life is just....blah. I don’t care. I can’t care. I want to care, but I just can’t seem to do it! I can’t even write anymore, and it’s killing me.

So now what?

What now?

For a short time I toyed with the idea of going into some kind of artsy class, but I’ve never really ever been encouraged in any way, artistically, so it was just sort of a fantasy. Anyways, it’s both of my sister’s that are artsy. I’m just sort of...a blob of worthlessness.

I don’t want to talk about it with anyone here, because every time I do, I just panic and start feeling like a...well, a worthless blob.

I have no skills.

I have no talents.

I settled for library school, and now I’m not even going there.

“It’s kind of pathetic, living at home with mom and dad,” says my older sister. Well, thanks.

I truly feel that, maybe, if someone during my childhood had pushed me, had even forced me into doing things, maybe I’d know who I was. I took piano lessons as a child, when I wanted out, all I did was say so and they let me quit. Meanwhile, my older sister was pressured into staying in it, and now she’s professionally trained. Both my sister’s were in a singing choir, both pressured into staying in it, now the older is in the Graduate Musicology program at UCLA, and the younger is taking Art Fundamentals and soon Graphic Design at college. And me? I was offered to join the choir. I told my parents I couldn’t sing. They said ok, fine. And then, overtime, both sisters took occasional opportunities to make fun of my “singing” when I was singing in my room. So, really, was I ever told differently? I said I couldn’t sing. They basically said “You’re right.” I said I didn’t want to play the piano anymore, they said “Kay, whatever.” I didn’t want to join any clubs or teams in elementary, highschool, or uni, no one said anything. I almost failed 3 classes over the past 4 years, and all anyone ever told me was “You did your best.” NO! I didn’t! I spent nights meant for studying on the computer or watching tv. I slacked off, and only one person talked to me about grades, my German History prof, who I felt like I was letting down, so I worked my ASS off, and still almost failed. I felt like SHIT, and mom said “Oh, well, you did your best.” But my BEST is not GOOD ENOUGH!

I don’t want to blame others, I hate doing it, it makes me feel like shit. I shouldn’t do it, because that’s one thing I was encouraged to do and feel: it’s always, all of it, my own fault. I’m fat, because it’s my fault. I’m not the brightest, it’s my fault. I have no goal in life, it’s because I’m lazy and don’t want to think for myself.

But it just seems, this one time, that maybe it’s not ALL my fault. Maybe if someone had had just a titch of faith in me, if someone had encouraged me, pressured me, told me that I could do it, maybe then I wouldn’t be feeling as worthless as I do, as lost, as alone, as, as... stupid as I do. Maybe it’s not all my fault. But even if it’s not, that still doesn’t help me in the long run. That doesn’t help me give a definitive answer to “what are you doing with your life?” This Christmas is going to be hell. The entire family (extended and otherwise) is going to be asking my sisters about their grown-up adventures, then either ignoring me or asking me “so, what the hell are you doing?” and whichever they do is most assuredly going to be followed by one of those looks. Those looks that is plain black and white language among Italian families that says “I worked for years, and immigrated to this country, and didn’t speak a lick of English, and saved and pinched money, and brought up blank number of children before I was blank years old and I’m still struggling and you’re, what? Sitting on your ass, playing video games at age 23? Pff.”

So here’s a question, Italian family, if you have such wisdom, why did you not encourage, push, and pressure me into achieving?! Why did you let me “just get by,” when I could have soared?! Why did you have only scant amounts of faith in me?! And so why are you, now, not helping me?!

I feel like that’s all anyone’s doing. They question and question and question and then leave. They don’t help. They tell me that their brand of “help” is telling me that “It’s kind of pathetic, living at home with mom and dad.” Thanks. I know that already. Why do you think I feel more like shit than I usually do?!

I need help from my family! I need directions from my family! I need my family to act like a family! I don’t know what to do with my life, with myself, and, like usual, all my family seems to do is tell me “oh, that’s nice dear. Also, you’re pathetic. Do something with your life. And F.Y.I, you can’t sing.”

So what’s it gonna be, hm Kristen? Maybe you can take...ummm....goldsmithing at the local college?! Sounds like a goddamned plan to me!

"I'm a lot better...

...before you really know me."

"You know, like, you know all those books I have that I won't let you read?...It's just all of these love poems that are about you."

"I act like an idiot 'cause, I dunno, 'cause I have a void in my heart."

PostSecret: Confessions on Life, Death and God from Frank Warren on Vimeo.

I have a crush on a boy...

A sort-of-story I began writing in October:

I have a crush on a boy. This is bad. The last time I lusted after a boy like this was in grade 11. The year, I personally believe (me, without any training in the field other than what I gleaned from dated high school books and fledgling Wikipedia articles,) my self-diagnosed depression began and thrived.

There was a boy.

            He wasn’t really all that and then some, if you know what I mean. He wasn’t the bees knees, or all that and a bag of chips, he was simply average. He had his group of friends, and I had mine, they just seemed to cross paths occasionally. And by “occasionally,” I mean he dated every single one of the girls in my group, for various periods of time. Breaking up with one and taking the next one on a date a day later. He was, simply put, a serial dater. I can’t really tell you how things evolved. But I can explain how the crush developed, and how I forcibly broke my own heart so no one else could.

            I think, maybe, that I let the idea of him into the inner chamber of my heart because, simple as it is, he spoke to me. Flashback:

I am in grade 11. I am 17 years old.  I am the quiet freak in a gaggling group of girls. I am fat, seen by myself as worthless, ugly. My best friend, my Siamese cat Sasha, is ill and will soon die. I am depressed. I wear black t-shirts, of which I own countless numbers. My puffy hair is untamed and parted down the center of my head. I have yet to begin maintaining my brows, and I am fat, fat and ugly. A year later, one of those gaggling girls will corner me in the library and tell me not to be embarrassed if I’m gay, since I don’t giggle over boys like the others do. I will be too shocked at the assumed implication that I will not be able to tell her that the reason I don’t obsess over boys like the rest of them do is because I am convinced that my inherent ugliness and girth “gross boys out,” as it were, so I see obsessing over them as a waste of my time and effort.

I am in grade 11, and this average, Ontario farmboy talks to me. I slowly become stricken.

I try to ignore these feelings, try to convince myself that he, like most other boys, is a jerk. I watch him date through my friends faster than I can recognize the development of a crush. By friend 4, I begin to daydream. By friend 5, I’m trying to plan out, in my head, how the conversation will go when, not if, he asks me out. By friend 5, I’ve convinced myself that he was only dating them because he was too shy to ask me out first. That he was my knight in burnished armour.

            I panic. I find myself watching friend number 5 with growing jealousy. I begin to imagine nightmare scenarios, where he dumps number 5 for me, or worse yet, we go out and friends 1 through 5 turn on me for it. So I break my heart. I find reasons to despise him, I find flaws in his character, in his person, and extrapolate on them until he is nothing but dirt in my eyes. I take all of those panic situations, those nightmares, and convince myself that they will, without a doubt, happen. I hate him.

            But when he breaks up with friend 5, and begins to go out with some other girl from outside my group, I hurt.

            I start to feel a hole being dug into my gut, under my ribs, just below the surface. It’s like hunger pangs I can’t satiate – it is all consuming. I had broken my own heart, out of fear. He had inadvertedly broken up with me, out of disinterest. I hurt, like hell.

I have a crush on a boy.

            He is nothing spectacular. He is simply average. He has his group, and I mine. We just happen to cross paths occasionally. He is nothing special. He just talks to me.

            He has some of the kindest eyes that I have ever seen.

I’m going to have to break my heart again, before it’s too late.