I have terrible habits. For instance, I freak out over small things that maybe I have generally no right to freak out about. Boys, grades, consequences of most actions. I freak out to a point of petrification.

And you may say, “But you’re so well composed and capable. I don’t believe that you freak out!” And to that I say: Sir, you are sadly mistaken. I am a mess of awkward and tears. There is a general habit of being unable to cope with emotional trauma.

On once instance, there was a falling out with my mother, and I had a total melt down where I cried for 4 hours straight, couldn’t eat, and kept repeating ‘Just let me clean.’ Terrible stuff. My mother contemplated taking me to a psychiatrist, but her Mexicanity got to her, and she changed her mind.

And then, recently, she found out that my cousin is getting psychiatric help, and then had the audacity to ask me if I wanted therapy. Of course, I was ecstatic at the idea of getting help for whatever mental trauma that I’ve sustained. But I refused, in a fit of anger and violence at the thought of her caring, because some other mother cared about her daughter enough to get her help. Regardless, my ability to be analytical has actually hindered any possibility to really think through what has happened in my life that has made me so emotionally crippled. And to be quite honest, I can’t remember terrible things as terrible. Just as happenings.

Is that a sign of further mental deterioration if I can’t discern happiness from sadness, because it all just is?

And, anyway, I’ve decided that my method of coping is running. Ironic, considering I run three miles on a regular basis to calm myself and clear my head. Totally not helping. It’s therapy, I guess, but I don’t like feeling unable to breathe.

Like when I was in the womb for 36 more hours than I was supposed to be, you know? Or when I got tackled in a volleyball game and couldn’t breathe for a few seconds? Or when I blacked out momentarily after my crash? Yeah, that kind of stuff.

This girl is never going to smoke. It’s just a shitty idea, and I’m not going there. It’s just awful.

Back to the point, I run because that’s way easier than staying and having to deal with things. I enjoy fighting, but only because I get to yell. I like that, but when I have to be vulnerable, I’m just not gonna do it. It’s a flaw, I admit, but at some point I just can’t live with what gets thrown in my way. (Bad for college, or doctor ambitions?)

Notice that I’m weird? Yes, well it helps to admit that the world is a Buddhist happening where every religion is right, bad people don’t exist, and reincarnation is a thing. I don’t understand normal human behavior; I suppose that I refuse to understand.

I love televisions shows that open up the idea of supernatural powers with a backbone of spirituality. Zodiac elements? I’m all over it. Water bender? I think not! I become defensive, like earth, or passive, like air. Sometimes, I can be calm about an argument, but that just doesn’t fly when I’m moody from hunger, lack of sleep, or need for my mom. It just doesn’t happen. And that’s basically a passive, but aggressively passive technique. I accept criticism with grace, avarice, but grace. If only, if only, the woodpecker sighed, the bark on the tree was as soft as the sky.

Sorry, that was a ramble moment. Where was I?

Ah! Well, I’m getting to the point, out of maturity or sureness of adulthood, I’m sure, that I’m deciding what I want, and deciding that I want to fight for things. I want to be happy, and my evasive technique is only semi capable at achieving that. So I’ve resorted to fighting. Problem is, I still don’t know how to deal with this new feisty period of rebellion.

So for now, I’ll just run away. Because it’s easier than trying to connect with people who don’t really give a s***. Or at least, an eternal s***. Because love isn’t real. Thanks, Dad, and every boy who has seen my worth in the body that holds my soul, and wit and intelligence.
F*** you, even though you made me happy once upon a time.