Now tell me whatchu want, whatchu really really want!

Today, I sent out 14 job applications. I'm pretty sure I was under-qualified for at least 5, but  potato POTAHTO, amiright??

Anyway, I'm exhausted because two of them required writing samples and essays. Which means I made some up on the fly, because I don't have any on me and they were due by 5 o'clock today. And goddamnit, I want a better job.

I want. I want I want I want. Today, thanks to a Cracked article, I really thought about what in the hell I wanted.

I thought I wanted to move out to escape my situation at home, because it's a bit unhealthy. If that were the case, I would have moved out 6 months ago, no matter if it meant eating ramen every night. So therefore, this is not WHY I want to move out.

The gun to my head isn't based on issues with my family. It isn't based on hating my space for what it is, but more for what it represents. Being in this place means I haven't moved forward, that I am not stable.

I want to move out because it would mean I was stable. 

This is why I won't move out without a salary position. This is why I'll spend my money right now on gifts for my boyfriend, or maybe a trip to Florida. Because I would rather sacrifice the apartment hunt for the ability to enjoy this time while I can.  Once I work 40 hours a week, I may be too exhausted between filming and work to really spend time with anyone.  I want to meet my boyfriend's grandfather, so that I can know a side of him I've never seen.

Maybe it's counter-intuitive, but I've always valued experiences over money. What's the point of working 100 hours a week if you can't enjoy what you make? Some people work for the day they retire. But how the fuck do they know they're gonna live that long? Most people in my family die in their 60's. I may as well party now. I would rather spend time with my boyfriend than go to school for something I may or may not really be cut out for. Maybe that makes me a weak person, or a terrible feminist, but my job won't keep me company when I'm old (again, if I get there) or mourn me when I'm gone. If I worked 100 hours a week to be rich, I wouldn't be able to have a dog. I wouldn't mind earning a little less so that I could have time for a dog. 

I'd rather take this time to find my passions, whether they end up being what I work in or something I work in order to take part in.

I will not push myself from one unstable situation into another, what would be the point? I can ignore my family, I'm used to it. I can channel the anger into things like this blog. Seriously, does anyone who's happy keep a blog?

I just take comfort in the fact that I am doing all the little steps I need to do in order to find a better job. Finding that better job will lead to me to looking for the right apartment. And when I do...

It will be glorious. I will probably (okay, definitely) ugly cry. I will have a whole new set of things to worry or get angry about, and a whole new set of goals to reach. But it will be well worth it.

-Grace #Adulting

Dirty Laundry

I've been criticized for a lot of things: My messy room, my terrible life skills, having to google what cleaning products can't be mixed so I don't die...

And for airing my "dirty laundry".

AKA, my rapes.

Does people knowing about these things through my abrasive jokes and pithy commentary make them think less of me? Maybe.  Does it turn me off from me? Probably, and I have evidence of such.

But, does it make me a bad person?

Today, a man I had briefly dated and had former consensual (and terrible) sex with but then later took advantage-wait no, no euphemisms- raped me while I was black out drunk, texted me after I told him I never wanted to speak to him again.  So while I tried to to ignore him, I wanted to say SOMETHING, not necessarily outwardly caustic, but sarcastic and funny to myself. Because I deserved to get some of that out, and I deserved to hear him accept he did something wrong.

Yes. Yes, still. He then said he had apologized, and that he was apologizing again. He also said it was a funny response. Which, made me feel really good. Because I got to be snarky, without being cruel. Because even though he raped me, I don't think he's a terrible person all around.  I just think he needs to rethink what constitutes as an appropriate time to be intimate with someone when you are sober and they are not. Which is 99 times out of 100, not the right thing to do.

Apologies help out the person who did the wrong feel better, more so than the person they wronged.  An apology doesn't erase an action, or words said. It's not a free pass. All it does is make you seem like less of a douchebag and make YOU, the WRONGDOER feel better. I admit this as a wrongdoer myself.  These things we do that hurt others are like shrapnel; a little piece always lingers in our systems. Whereas some of us are better at handling it, like Ironman, some of us get a little more cut up on the inside.

Sometimes we have a piece of clothing that hasn't seen any sunlight in ages. It's smelly, and worn and faded. No matter how many times you wash it, bleach it, or douse it in softener, the stink is so imbedded in the fibers the only way it will leave is if you hang it out to dry.  It needs air, and sunshine, regardless of how ashamed you are that someone will see this filthy laundry you have. Sometimes, it's the only way we can truly move on.

So here I am, airing out my dirty laundry. I've been raped twice, one a pretty grey situation that I rarely speak of because I always have to justify it. The other, date rape.  I have a pretty volatile state of being and I am addressing and working through it.  

I feel a lot less dirty now.

-Grace #Adulting

MOIST/The Wrong Side Of The Bed

Today is one of those days where I really want to just punt a small child. An evil small child, good children don't deserve to be punted.

I have morals.

Nothing happened, I literally woke up and on my way to work started crying over a stupid joke that would normally not offend me. I just felt this flood open up behind my eyeballs and this feeling of anger and futility washed over me.

My boyfriend was very confused, and the people around us probably thought he just dumped me.

My family has spoken of my infamous temper that showed its first inklings as a toddler.  My first word was "eso" (in english: that) And i used it conjunction to anything that captured my fancy. I wanted it all, and by golly fuck all y'all I was gonna get it. So I'd plant my feet, raise my clenched little fists and scream/grunt out of my q-tip shaped head :"EEEEEEEEEEEESSSOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I know if I ever do decide to have children, there will be a major ass kicking from karma for this.

As I grew older, I learned to suppress my anger, especially after I started acting out violently to those I loved most.  I was a spanked child, and after a while I didn't see anything wrong with hitting first or hitting back. This is why spanking is mostly counter intuitive, unless you want to raise a socio-pathic Jackie Chan.

But as the law of energy goes, it doesn't disappear, it just transfers to something else. And it became through my tears.  I just started to leak, at the slightest provocation. And I was mocked, oh boy, how I was mocked.

My family thought I was being melodramatic. Boyfriends thought I was manipulative. Friends thought I was suicidal.

I thought I was wussy.

But fuck them, I'm not.  I may throw tantrums over little things and I may cry when I see a dog die in movies, but I rarely hurt people I love. I have always owned up to being wrong. I have been stoic and strong when it mattered for others more than myself. I have cried with people when they needed to not feel so alone.

So what, am I gonna cry about it?

You betcha, motherfucker.

The Walking Cliche

I have been 25 for roughly two days, and so far, it's a drag.

My birthday was lovely. Dinner was lovely. Everyone I spent it with was very kind to me and loving and I have never felt more cared for.

Or alone.

Not in the romantic sense, or even the familial sense; but in this all encompassing sense that stems from not feeling I am doing anything with my life other than just getting by.  Knowing another year has gone by and I feel like I have had to let go of so many dreams.  I didn't even know what to wish for when I blew out my candles, so I  made some vague and general wishes that seemed to be appropriate.

I may not believe in God, but I'm still not telling you my wishes, bitch.

I remember the first time I ever decided I wanted to be an actor.  I grew up on Selena and Annie, always performing my little cabarets in front of the mirror in my basement. I was so obsessed with Annie that even when I was turned down for the role in my second grade play I sang her songs backstage with such gusto the kids HATED me for it. But fuck them, they were all assholes.

I also used to pretend I was an orphan and purposely wore tattered clothes, which simultaneously worried my parents and just confirmed my mistrust in Child Protective Services.

Now I'm 25, and wondering what to do. I have little dreams: wanting to participate in roller derby, traveling all over the world, owning several dogs. I then have bigger dreams: Giving an uplifting speech in front of a ton of people (real scientific terminology here), inspiring people to adopt not shop through my own means or a non-profit, and I'd love to receive an award for something. It doesn't have to be anything major, but I haven't received an award since I graduated High School and  I miss the validation.

I'd like to be able to help my parents out when they're no longer able to work. I'd like to be completely independent.

I would like to wake up each morning without palpitations.

Who knows how many of these dreams I'll have to kill?  I already have a lot of blood on my hands.

-Grace #Adulting

Happiness: Flawed Coping Mechanism

Last night I had a nightmare that ended with me being in a broken pool full of people and once the pool broke, they all crushed me to death since it was on a slope.

Needless to say, I'm a little droopy. But today is also my boyfriend and I's one year anniversary, and I'm happy. But equal parts nervous.

I have never had a relationship outside of this one last this long, that was not long distance.  I have mulled over why not over and over in my head for years but could only assume I either had terrible taste, terrible timing, and a troubled mind.  And now, today, I finally have met a milestone various friends have both equally reached and surpassed various times with ease.

I don't want reaching a milestone in a relationship to be my biggest accomplishment. I think I'm afraid that I'm becoming dependent, or that I'll lose a part of myself now the more time I invest. My boyfriend has the more dominant persona, and that's fine because it's one of the things I like about him, but I fear my own persona being lessened because I get too involved.  With other men, it's always been baffling to me when I've finally mustered up the chutzpah to confront them about their poor treatment and they scatter like waves rather than engage or fight for me. Or disagree. Maybe I was the only one with balls to call them out on being terrible people.

I made the mistake of dating a younger guy last time. In my defense, he looked 30 (Russian men are strange that way) and had no idea his age until AFTER I had started liking him. So there's my justification. I still feel like a creeper.

Anyhoo, we started to date and it was so nice because he was so innocent. Seriously, I was probably his first real girlfriend (and first in a lot of other things, HIGH FIVE BRO) and it was nice. For a while. And then 3 months in, things changed.

For one, most of his friends (a select few are very nice and people I keep some contact with) are real douchebags. Actually, that word doesn't even capture the amount of terrible that runs through their veins, as one of his friends once beat the shit out of a girl for no reason other than she tried to step in front of him while he was beating up her boyfriend.  These are the people he hung out with, a lot.

So much so, that once I got a second job and he got a job, he would rather play football with them (and guys, it was MARCH) than hang out with me.  I don't think he ever even took me out to dinner in the whole 5 months we dated. And on Valentine's Day, I was fed up.  I had picked something out for us to do that was relatively inexpensive (yes, I PLANNED MY OWN ROMANTIC DAY) and bought him a card and soem chocolates he liked.  He calls me the night before and asks if we can go see Die Hard, because he spent all his money shopping for clothes and taking his parents out to dinner the day before Valentine's Day.

Normally that would be very sweet, but the poor timing was ridiculous. So we compromised on seeing warm bodies, I dressed up even. He didn't notice. I paid for my own halal food and movie ticket. We saw the movie, he left. I went to the thing I wanted to go to. I cried on the way home because I felt so undervalued  and foolish for investing so much time and effort into someone who would never, EVER appreciate it.

And how do I know he'll never appreciate it? Because a week after our "nice" breakup, he starts telling people I'm a huge slut and that he humped me and posts a bunch of articles about how you shouldn't date sluts.

This, people, is why I don't want to live on this planet sometimes. Because I know there are millions of people who have had this and WORSE happen to them. And they should all eat a bunch of

But then, sometimes something good comes along. And then, you realize you might be the one to fuck it up and be the only one to really feel the loss if you do, because that's the way of the world.

I feel better after getting all of that out. It's really terrifying to be this in love with someone, but also really rewarding.

I'm very lucky.

-Grace #Adulting

The Scarlet Letter

Sometimes I feel like my brain is a hand that has no opposable thumb; that it is lacking in the most basic of functions and reasoning.

But other times I wonder if I feel this way because it's easier to just say something is wrong with me.

Every night, for the past 9 months I have listened to various meditations, mantras, motivational speeches. I've used delta waves, repetition, osmosis, you name it.  I even tried praying. I don't even believe in God, and if I did I'm not egotistical enough to think he'd take the time to listen to me with all the other shit happening.

I have exercised.  I have reflected. I have written. I have sang. And I have cried.

Oh, how I have cried.

I went to the psychiatrist today. I made the appointment 3 weeks ago and have waited anxiously for it since. I wanted help.

He prescribed me pills.

They are not high dosage, they are not intense.  We spoke for about 30 minutes, and he never gave me a diagnosis. I had spoken to him of the various ones I'd had.

He prescribed me pills and psychotherapy, because part of my issue was a personality trait.  I have been off and on meds since I was 14, and talking about my extensive history of struggling was strange because it has been a very long time since I had said it all aloud.  It was like a juvenile's rap sheet, and my conviction was on his prescription pad.

I was ecstatic. I was relieved. I thought "Now I've got the magic elixir, and it will all click in my head and I will be normal".  Then I talked to my boyfriend about it.

My boyfriend is the most level headed, pragmatic and emotionally intelligent person I know. He's also a naturalist who prescribes to his own belief that you just "get it" after continuously thinking about how you need to change.

It made me feel like a failure.

The shame is so palpable I can feel its heat vibrating off my chest and now I want to just crawl under a rock  or live like a hermit.

I'm a failure.

He didn't mean to make me feel this way. Not once did he criticize my choice, he even told me he was proud of me. But I know. I know there's a "but" somewhere.  I know, deep down most likely subconsciously he's lost a little respect for me, as does everyone who finds out I am on medication.  There is always the attached "well, she's on meds".  It's hard enough being taken seriously as a woman. It is a bookmark. It is a stamp.

It is what keeps me up at night frantically listening to these recordings until I wake up in the morning with palpitations and terror.  I am afraid of what I will do or say.

I am afraid that what I accomplish or fail will always be shadowed by this aspect of myself. I fear having people give me that look, the look of pity and the look of fear as if you have something contagious.  I have given it to people myself, and I am so, so sorry for it.

Because it is a scar. It is a branding.

It is a scarlet letter.

-Grace #Adulting

Of Nemo and Toilets

There are two types of people in this world: People who see the futility behind toilet seat covers and those who refuse to see the truth.

There are also other types of people: People who assume a server doesn't mind waiting while they read the menu, and those who realize this is a dick thing to do.

Last night, in what was supposed to be a FUN dinner, I contemplated smashing everyone I'm related to in the face with a hammer. I would never do this, but I admit imagining it felt good.

First implication of the evening being a stressful one, I ask my family if they want to eat at Bareburger since they keep wanting "organic" food. They inform me they didn't like that place. We end up at Bareburger, because this is the place they were talking about all along. But of course, I can't be right.

Next, I ask my mother what she wants: A turkey Burger.
Okay, I say. What on it?

Turkey Burger.

...It's like dealing with a five year old. She always does this, she'll just tell the server after assuring us she's thought about what she wants despite barely reading the menu that she wants "Chicken". This means the poor server has to wait and speak with her another 5-10 minutes as she makes up her mind and actually reads the menu, while I look for a rock to crawl under.

While ordering a pretty specific and large amount of food, I am constantly being interrupted and the server is being accused of being wrong and reminded of things she has already noted. I am an actor (sort of), I know server speak you assholes.

I am informed I ordered a bad beer, and that it isn't cold enough.  Granted, tap beer is warmer.  However, this is the same exact beer my cousin ordered for them last time we went and they all said they liked. Amazing how that works.

Finally, there's an issue with the check because the server either miscounted our cash or my Aunt did, because my card is overcharged. While I am speaking with the server on how I will take care of MY MONEY, and making sure I give her all my CORRECT INFORMATION, my family is pestering me to explain whatever I'm doing. In spanish. While the server is still there.

When I inform them that she has other tables and I don't like speaking of personal matters in front of wait staff, I am accused of putting others above my family members.

I snapped. I told them that "You have no clue what it's like to be a server. Stop being so self centered, and let me worry about my fucking money".  I'm now a monster.

I really hate this idea of family obligation that I find is extremely prevalent in Hispanic and Latin culture.  We are born needing and "loving" our mothers because we have to in order to survive. At least, we used to.  Our parents also feel the natural urge to shelter and care for us because it helps the survival of the species.  This is terrible in some cases because, honestly, most people I know shouldn't be parents. I mean please, please, please next time use a condom.

It's ridiculous to me that I have to feel manipulated and made to feel irrational guilt by a group of people who claim they do it out of love, even if with the best of intentions.  I am nearing 25 (google calendar reminded me of my own birthday) and I'm ready to choose my own family. Whether that means a husband or maybe just dogs the rest of my life, that is my choice.  I owe you nothing. You  are EXPECTED to take care of a child. If you don't, then you are a horrible human being that goes to jail. It is in the nature of having children; you don't get thanked. If you're looking for appreciation, you've chosen the wrong life path.  After they can fend for themselves, your job is done.

If you try and hold them too close and too long, those little baby bird wings get mangled, and then they end up like me.  The Nemo of the bird world, trying to fly away with only one wing.

-Grace #Adulting