Oh

I leave for camp tomorrow. That means it has been close to three months since I left. My heart still aches. There has to be something wrong with me, my inability to move on even remotely, even after all this time.

I’m scared for what this will do to me at camp. I used to think that Extreme (the camp) was the best body of believers ever, the closest I’d ever be to God, the most I’d ever do for Him.

I’ve been ruined for the ordinary, but this isn’t a good time for that type of ruination. I will unintentionally compare the community and the missions to what I had been around and doing. I don’t want it to be negative. I’m sure it won’t be.

But I can’t help feeling like I have already lived the best part of my life.

Those thoughts lead no where good, and everywhere suicidal, so no more expanding. I will not be killing myself tonight.

Finally done with that rusting job. I’m not going back. Mother is insistent that I am a horrible person if I don’t go back. She “didn’t raise me like this, to be irresponsible with money!” Right. Because I’ve spent money since I’ve gotten back. my mental health was/is so affected by that job (as silly and overly redundant it sounds), I can not possibly make myself think about going back. I don’t know what that means for me. Maybe I’ll get kicked out. Either I go back, and have spirals the likes of which I am scared of (maybe. Maybe not.) or I don’t go back and have my mom talk every day of how much of a disappointment I am. There is no winning. The question is, whose voice can I live with?

The other night, Matthew sent me a snap of Ashlin laying on his chest. It wasn’t anything weird, just I usually snap him to talk to Ashlin. I saw it and got grossly bitter. Unfairly bitter. I was upset “why did that whore get a devoted boyfriend? I’m still here, still lonely. It’s not fair!” Ok and? First of all: she is a wonderful and lovely daughter of Jesus. I do not get to condemn her for her past. Two: just because I haven’t been a successful whore doesn’t mean I’m not one. It just makes me bad at it. Regardless. I told Trevor about it. I shouldn’t have. Different parts of me keep trying to get me to stop talking to him. I am loathe to admit it. But continuing to be friends with him, especially since I really don’t have any other friends, is hurting me. I could never tell him that. Or he would stop talking to me all together. He cares about me, so if that is what it took for me to be ok, he would do it. When I talk about him, people think he loves me more than he does. People think there’s still a chance. No. I’d have to be pretty for there to be a chance, and everyone knows I am anything but.

A picture of Cody popped up in my featured photos. I’ve talked to him a few times since the… gosh, I can’t call it a break up, we weren’t dating. I don’t know what to call it. Anyway. It’s always just been “how are you?” “Good”. I was very close to. Starting something again? In a fit of loneliness? And see, that isn’t fair to him, me, God, anyone else. I reached the sickening conclusion a few days ago that I didn’t really ever want him, I just wanted a boyfriend. And that is precisely the reason why I will be alone for a long, long time. I didn’t reach out to Cody. I do regret literally everything about it. Maybe that would have been for me if I had waited (but I didn’t.) Maybe we would have parted as better friends if I had sone as God was saying sooner (but I didn’t.) There’s no changing the past, and that really sucks, let me tell ya.

I keep reliving the past. Reading the YWAM scandal thing to my sister (who tapped out three minutes in). Starting out the window looking at the lights and rain like I did in Lynden. Looking at old pictures, zooming in for the details. Digging to find every possible picutre and video. Smelling that one jacket that I never washed. It’s ok, I need to move on, camp will help. I need to lean on God. Camp will help.

I keep stalking Madison. Trevor’s girl. Or, not yet, but likely after this summer. Bitter because in another life, we would have been best friends. She’s like me as far as I can tell, just with better fashion sense, prettier hair, a better face, and bigger tits. Mostly bigger tits.

I don’t want that, so. I guess I can’t really be complaining.

My mom was cleaning my window in my room today? I don’t know. I was tired after work, wanted to be alone. And she wasn’t leaving. I was rude, asked her if I could please be alone. As she storms out of the room, she says “this is why no one likes to be around you.” I doubt she even remembers what she said. All I knew is it’s still echoing in my mind, hours later. It’s the reason I’m writing this instead of texting people directly. If my own mother can’t stand to be around me, then everyone else is likely the same. Thats the irrational but rational in the moment conclusion my subconscious has latched onto. Give me two to three weeks and I’ll be right as rain. Never fear.

An old coworker came back for a few days. She made me feel like I used to feel a lot. I’d forgotten the feeling, almost. The feeling of needing to hide parts of yourself. I had to make the self depreciating jokes before she did, because if I didn’t, hers would be two times worse. Two days of working with her mesed up a whole lot in my mind. Or set me back. It’s been a long time since I’ve been around people who like seeing others as less than them for no reason other than boredom. After those days, I no longer feel normal. If that makes sense. I never felt normal before DTS. I was always always always the outcast, the girl with no friends, the girl who couldn’t ever be liked by any guy, who had weird interests. And it was known. And talked about. Affected who and how I was interacted with. But at DTS, I felt. Normal. Everyone always says normal is boring, but that was the first time in 18 years that I felt normal, and it was the best I’ve ever felt. I would argue that because no one at DTS was stereotypically “normal”, everyone was normal, so that is why I was so comfortable. I miss that. This missing though, isn’t with tears in my eyes, sobbing about the past. This missing joy, at realizing only now that there are places I can belong. Even if I don’t have one right now, I found one once, surely it will happen again. hopefully it doesn’t take 18 years this time.