Out of Titles

Feeling depressed on an all expenses paid vacation to the mountains is disgusting, and I hate that about myself. 

I think I hate a lot about myself. I’ve never truly loved myself. I’m usually at neutral, and on occasion, that all too familiar hatred creeps back in. 

But alas, I’m not here to wallow in self pity (or am I? I don’t actually know what I’m here for. It’ll be a fun mystery for all of us to solve together)

I haven’t written in a while (over a week is a while), and I got that itch to type, put the flutters of thought to paper. Or screen. It’s a little crazy that I went all those years without writing, without knowing what I was missing, and now that I know, I can’t seem to stop. 

I’m not terribly Not Okay right now, but earlier, I hit a concerning landmark indicating I’m reaching dangerous thought patterns. Three landmarks maybe. More, less, the altitude is making me not think well, not really but I’ll blame it on that. Anyway. Big landmark 1: the urge to. Well ok actually people do read this, I can’t be THAT real. 2: that little voice in the back of my mind moving up, and consuming. 3: my cousins were singing worship songs, and I didn’t want to join. I can’t say whether it was because I didn’t want to be around people or because I didn’t want to be around God. 

I keep making excuses to not go out and busk, and that seems a deeper issue than first glance would say. I didn’t replace my guitar so I could busk. I took up big space in the car. The excuse that stuck is that it’s too cold out, my reynauds will flare up and I won’t be able to play. True. That also hasn’t stopped me in the past. Another excuse is the creepy orange magician guy is there. He has always had an unsettling air about him, and last year he shot me many a nasty look for me taking the prime busking spot. Again, that never stopped me before. Two more excuses that may be a bit closer to the truth. I’m burnt out from camp. Yeah it’s been a month, but even at home, I haven’t touched my guitar. And I don’t want to put myself on display for money. I’m not a huge fan of selling myself. None of those things quite hit the mark for why I’m unwilling to do the thing that has brought me a lot of joy (and cash) for the past few years. This doesn’t seem like a big deal. But it is. 

Walking down the street full of rich person shops, after having gotten expensive ice cream, complaining. At one point I realized what I was doing, and that was what set off this whole thing. Or, this part of it at least. 

How dare I complain? Did I not bash the entirely of America for the attitude I now possess? I am on a vacation in a cool part of the world, not worrying about food or shelter, and yet I still found things to complain about. I won’t water down the disgust that brought. I became the very thing I swore to fight against without even realizing it. 

I need to delete TikTok and NOT get it back. It’s not helping anything. 

I’m around my family for the first time in over a year. My aunt and uncle specifically. Both of them have asked about marriage, guys, dating, all that jazz. Over and over. My mom likes that topic, so she likes to jump in and say that surely it won’t be long now. My grandparents say they need another wedding in the family and look at me. I wear strange outfits and they all laugh and tell me I’ll never find a husband that way. 

I am 19 years old, and if we are being honest, I would not be able to live independently. 

Also. I am 19. Barely. 

I hate “this stage of life.” All my friends are getting married or into long term relationships. 

I try so hard not to be jealous, in part because that is a gross thing to be, but in part because people keep saying God will only “send me my person” when I am content alone. 

Maybe I’d be content single if my family was content with that too. 

The older I get, the more I think that I am falling behind. 

I’ve never had my first kiss, my first date, my first anything. 

At this point, even if I somehow, by some miracle, “found Someone”, he will have already done all those things. All of my firsts, he will have done with someone else. 

Not that it matters. 

I’d be a horrible girlfriend anyway. 

It does always circle back to self pity, doesn’t it. 

I’m sitting in a fancy condo in the middle of Colorado, and I’m pitying myself. 

Gross. 

I feel myself slipping back into that terrible pit from early April, only now I have more than just one person to scare away. 

It might be different though, instead of wanting to talk, I find myself isolating. 

Is it because I think they wouldn’t want to hear from me anyway, or because I want them to actually talk first, or am I just self sabotaging?

Yes. And I’m tired. 

I need to get away, rest. With God probably. I am incapable of rest. 

I’ll figure it out I guess. 

Good things. End on something good. Or at least not mentally bad. 

I have three blisters on each foot, and one has not stopped bleeding since it showed up on Wednesday. 

I got a cool tank top today. 

Gilbert is still cuddly.  

I’m wearing one of my favorite sweaters. 

-Kiah Rain