Why hello there
Now, I don’t know if you appreciate Lifetime as much as I do, but I personally think it is the most beautifully awful channel on TV (with OWN at a close second). I almost shit my pants when they came out with Liz & Dick starring Lindsay Lohan. Anyway, their most recent work of art is a little film called Jodi Arias: Dirty Little Secret. I mean, come on now. The title says it all.
My brother and I stumbled upon the movie around midnight the other night and we were hooked for the next two hours.
This movie is so incredible I don’t even know how to describe it. The main thing I got from it is that Jodi Arias is totally nuts. And not only is she nuts, but the guy she killed was nuts too. The movie was extremely sexual. I’m talking about slut action every other scene. If you want to play a drinking game with this movie, drink every time someone does something blatantly sexual. You should be hammered or dead by the end of it.
There’s also a lot of plugs for the Mormons in there. The guy that Jodi killed was Mormon, and brought it up all the time. Eventually, Nutso converted to Mormonism when he didn’t even want her to. She was just flinging herself at this guy that she was obsessed with. Like obsessed. Her lover, Travis, seemed kind of ashamed of what he did with Jodi, but his religion and shame weren’t enough to make him stop fucking her. He compares her to coffee, which his beliefs also prevent him from having.
Lifetime portrayed Jodi Arias in a terrible, crazy stalker psychopath way. Why would you want to get on the bad side of a murderer? They also didn’t spend much time dolling her up, making her look more attractive than she was–especially after she committed the murder. Her bangs went straight to hell after that.
A plus about this movie is that you know how it ends. That’s what I like about true story movies because I can get too anxious otherwise. If it’s true, I know what’s going to happen. It’s like being ahead of the game. However, the filler they put in Dirty Little Secret between parts that I knew were either sexual encounters or just Jodi Arias creeping on this guy and having mental breakdowns.
What makes no sense (in reality and in the movie) is why the guy, Travis, is okay with having sex with Jodi even after she’s a clingy brat turned stalker. The movie makes him seem quite stupid and ultimately taken down by his inability to control his dick. There are a million red flags that get waved in his face, from her collection of photos she took of him without his knowledge, to her breaking into his house. He ignores all of them. All of them. Even when she shows up randomly, bangs him, and insists on taking pictures of him in the shower, he’s cool with it, and we all know how that ended.
There’s a little something for everyone in this movie. So invite over your sexual, anxious Mormon friends with nasty looking bangs and watch!
So I was going to write this blog about what my therapist thinks I need to do with my life right now and whatnot, but here’s what stopped me from doing that:
1. Food. First off, I had to make breakfast, and then before I knew it, I had to make my brother and myself lunch. Why would I make my perfectly able-bodied seventeen year old brother lunch, you ask? Because I am a nice effing person despite the fact that he is an ungrateful gangly thing that only thanks me in Chinese.
2. Social Media. I was too busy looking at Instagram and reading Facebook posts and twitter twots.
3. The weather. It was pretty stormy up in here, so I had to go around closing windows and straightening my hair (because I wouldn’t want to be caught with ratchet locks if the power went out). I also had to tweet about the weather, so that was a hassle.
4. Hambo. If you don’t know what Hambo is, you sicken me. It’s the most wonderful app that I have on my phone. You shoot stuff and throw grenades and whatnot as a pig version of Rambo. It’s basically a classic. I also had to tweet about this.
5. Laundry. To the surprise of the world, I decided to wash all my clothes today. It’s a simple task, right? Wrong. Since my meds make me shake/spasm, pouring things is usually difficult. In the process of laundrying, I managed to pour probably a cup of detergent out onto my hand, pants and the floor. I looked like a smurf had just melted all over me.
6. Vomit. My dog, Sasha, decided it would be a good idea to puke her guts out all over the carpet. If she wasn’t such a dick about it, I might actually feel bad for her. See, Sasha has this thing where she goes out of her way to make sure she’s on the carpet whenever she throws up. Even if you physically move her off, she walks right back onto it and keeps hacking. This particular time, she got up from the kitchen and walked into the carpeted family room literally a second before she started gagging. If you’ve ever cleaned vomity carpet, you know how inconvenient this is.
7. Conditioner. I had to go get some from Target. It was magnificent.
8. More food. Noodles and burritos specifically.
10. Cher. She’s performing on The Voice tonight, and I’m too gay to not watch it.
Can you tell I stopped caring about making this blog entry even remotely acceptable? I am to this post as Carrie Fisher is to her body.
Yesterday I was over at a friend’s house when her six-year-old brother asked me one of my least favorite questions: what happened? I knew what he was talking about before I even looked up.
I have self-injured for years now. Because of this, I have hundreds of scars all over my body. It’s impossible for me to wear summer-appropriate clothing without exposing some of them. Some of my most defined scars right now are on my left wrist. I was wearing short sleeves, so I immediately knew that they were what he was questioning me on. When I checked to see where his gaze was directed, that was confirmed. He was staring straight at my wrist. I turned my hand over slightly and mumbled “I don’t know.” Yeah, I’m real smooth when put on the spot. He immediately said, “How do you not know?!” To which I cleverly responded, “I don’t know.” Luckily the kid dropped the subject after that.
I’ve been in similar situations tons of times, and it never gets any less uncomfortable. I almost feel bad when little kids ask me about my scars because some weird part of my brain thinks I’m tainting their innocence. In reality though, they don’t really care and move on to the next topic of their ADD focus. It’s much worse when older kids, teenagers, or even adults ask. When older people ask what happened to my arms or legs, my typical response is “What do you think?” or “I don’t handle things very well.” Sometimes I spice it up a bit with things like “I got in a fight with a cougar,” or “I ripped the tag off a mattress.”
Of course, those types of responses open the floodgate for all kinds of reactions. The worst is being told “That’s disgusting” or “You’ve ruined your arms.” I’ve even been made fun of for my scars. Self-harm is already a thing that has a strong sense of shame surrounding it. People don’t have to be doucheballs about it too. I get plenty of questions also. It can be ignorant things like “Are you emo?” or “Didn’t that hurt?” Of course it hurt. That’s kind of the whole point. Sometimes people ask why I would do such a thing. I never really have a satisfactory answer for that one. It’s a hard thing to explain to someone with no prior exposure to self-harm. Other times, people open up. I can’t count the number of times people have just come up to me and showed me their arms or said something like “I used to do that too.” I have very mixed feelings about these reactions. I understand that they can relate, but I don’t want to form some type of self-injurious bond with them because that could never go well. It’s like being categorized and thrown into a club about something you don’t want to emphasize about yourself. There is no way in hell I define myself by my scars, and it’s unfair when other people do that for you.
I get a lot of glances too. People don’t need to say anything because I know just what they’re looking at. Sometimes people’s eyes hold disgust or pity, but most of the time it’s like a shocked curiosity. It can be anyone, from my own family or friends to the cashier at the grocery store. People just stare and for whatever reason think you won’t notice.
I’m not saying it’s offensive, don’t get me wrong. It doesn’t feel like I have a right to judge people judging me. I’m the one who chose to wear short sleeves, and I can own that. I think that’s an important step in being able to accept your own body, flaws and all. You have to own it. Yeah, I have scars. Or yeah, I’m overweight. Or yeah, I don’t like this, that and the third, but it’s there. It’s like saying “So what?” to the world. It’s there. That happened, or that’s real. Where you go from there is entirely your choice, and it’s in your control what you want to be different in the future. I may have some scars for life; I can accept that. From there, you need to own it without defining yourself by it. You have to decide that you will have scars for life instead of being scarred for life.
Before I start in on this rant, I’d like to make you aware of how uncomfortable I feel right now. You see, depending on how I sit, my collar bones can become extremely defined, like to the point that other people have said it’s weird too. This wouldn’t be an issue (in fact it’s kind of slimming) if I wasn’t terrified of my collar bones breaking through my skin. I don’t care whether that’s medically possible or not because I’m going to believe it regardless. I am concerned about it to the point that my back actually hurts from being so tense. Aren’t anxiety disorders a blast? I just thought you should know and keep in mind that as I’m writing this, I’m deathly afraid of my clavicle exploding out of my chest.
Anyway, I live in Lancaster County. This wonderland is also known as Amish Country (excuse me while I vomit). The Amish are everywhere. It’s like Witness 24/7, but without Harrison Ford. Fun fact: that movie was actually filmed in Lancaster. Oh how proud I am to call this place my home. There are a lot of little things here with the Amish that can drive a person insane, but to protect you from the harsh reality, I will only be going over a few.
First, driving conditions. I do not drive a car because I am terrified of the concept, but I ride in plenty of people’s cars and I am still affected by the Amish on the road. Amish people typically travel via horse and buggy, scooter, or rollerblades. If you’re behind a buggy on the road, prepare to feel your brain melting in your skull, especially if you’re in a place where you can’t easily pass them. They hog up the roads and slow down everything. It’s one of the most irritating things on earth if you’re trying to get somewhere within a reasonable time. It’s right up there with SpongeBob’s laugh. The little kids even poke their heads out the back of the buggy and sometimes wave at cars. Cute, right? Wrong. They can pile like ten people in one tiny buggy. like, ew. Then when they aren’t in buggies, they scoot around on their weird ass little scooters everywhere in every type of weather. I remember when scooters were cool; then I turned twelve. Like, seriously? And then, if they aren’t on scooters, they’re rollerblading like maniacs going top speed with their groceries and everything in hand. Anywhere else, it would be completely bizarre, but here it’s happening everywhere you look.
Cow shit. That’s what it smells like here. The farmers are constantly spreading manure over their fields, especially in the summer. Do you have any idea how nasty it is when the air is 90 degrees, humid, and smells like cow shit? And then because of the buggies, there’s horse shit all over the roads. The horses just take a dump whenever they feel like it while trotting along like everything’s cool. This one time, a horse took a monumental shit right in front of our driveway and it bothered my mom so much that she went outside with a shovel and a box and actually cleaned it up. I guess desperate times call for desperate measures. But really, who does that?
For a community living hundreds of years in the past, the Amish are surprisingly condescending. They glare out from underneath their straw hats at my SnapBack (I’m just using this as an example, I’m really not a SnapBack-wearing douchebag…well, okay, just sometimes). If you’re walking down the road with an iPhone out or something like that, they literally glare at you. But it’s not an angry glare. It’s an I’m-better-than-you glare. What upper hand could they possibly have in life? The fact that they rarely wear shoes?
Another thing that grinds my gears is when people ask me if I’m Amish. I probably get asked hundreds of times each year. Lancaster is tourist central, so people are always asking stupid questions like how do you get to the Amish Village? It doesn’t help that a lot of them speak poor English. I despise anyone that comes here on vacation because there is literally no reason for anyone to be here. Anyway, tourists ask me if I’m Amish when I’m out walking. I’ll paint you a picture of what I look like: NOT AMISH. Even when I was in my angst-filled emo phase, my hispanic best friend and I would get asked. Then, when you go anywhere outside of this area, especially to cities, you can’t tell anyone you’re from Lancaster without getting “wait, are you Amish?” I am not and will never be Amish.
My mom said not to say anything bad about people in my blog, and not to be disrespectful of their culture and blah blah blah, but seriously? It’s not like they can read this.
I haven’t written the last few days because my life is just so boring. Well, maybe not. It’s one of those things that isn’t necessarily boring, but you just really want it to get a move on. It’s sort of like the second hour of Les Miserables.
It’s halfway through Saturday now, and so far I’ve only been playing Fluff Friends Rescue (my turkey, Butterball, just got adopted!) and Techno Kitty Adventure, and I snapchatted people that haven’t snapped back. I’m trying to figure out which apps are too hard for my brain or my hand-eye coordination. Regardless, this is how it’s been all week. Pretty mundane, right? The highlight of my week is probably eating Swedish Fish yesterday. Not gonna lie, I really like Swedish freaking Fish.
The major problem in my life right now is the fact that I don’t want to get up to move my laundry from the washer into the dryer. I’m surprisingly in-the-moment recently, so I don’t worry too much about the past or the future. Unfortunately, “the moment” is boring as hell.
My thoughts are even boring. They’re weird, but boring. It’s things like “What are my grandmother’s two and a half foot spoon and fork doing in that corner?” and “Could Techno Kitty Adventure actually cause me to have a seizure?” Everything in my house is weird in a surprisingly boring way too. Like to my left are a scrapbook of Kipper’s life, Wii remotes, an abnormally large book of photography detailing Lady GaGa’s time on tour, and a glue stick. Multiply that concept of random unrelated things by ten thousand, and you have my entire house. Multiply it by a million and you have my life.
My mom always said that boredom was a choice. I can’t decide if I like this or not, but I don’t think it’s optional. Some people might call it calm, but I say it’s boring. At least a tumultuous experience is an interesting one. Most of the time, my life is as exciting as Planet Earth, and for that I apologize.
I’ve been meaning to write this for a few days, but I just haven’t been able to.
I recently found out that a good friend I made during a hospital stay earlier this year passed away. She committed suicide in April. I don’t think there’s any good response to information like that. I had talked to her only a few days before it happened, and the fact that it took me so long to find out made it even worse.
Her name was Makayla. She was pretty, funny and very outspoken. For eight days or so, she and I were closer than anyone else on the unit. In hospital time, eight days seems like forever. She was helpful and welcoming from the second I stepped in. For a while, she wore one of my shoes and I wore the other. She always had my sweatshirt on. We were tight. Her humor and laugh always brought my mood up. She was discharged close to twenty days before I was, but I promised to text her as soon as I got out. I did just that. We talked frequently for a little bit. I knew she wasn’t doing great, but neither was I. I never expected anything to happen to her. I didn’t realize just how hopeless she must have felt.
I keep trying to come up with a way to make this a lesson or literary nonsense where I explain something or other, but that doesn’t feel right. Nothing in the situation feels right. This is not my first experience with a suicide, and unfortunately it may not be my last. There is such a huge need for people to get the help that they deserve. Everyone deserves the best help available. And at the same time sometimes hospitals or therapies or medications don’t help. People don’t give them a chance to truly make a change. Each individual in need has to be open and willing to change, and willingness and hopelessness are almost impossible to find together.
If I could help everyone hurting, no matter what, I would. If I could help just one person, I would. If I would have known what Makayla’s future would hold, I would have been far more encouraging of her treatment in the hospital. I think I took her safety for granted, and that’s why her death is still a shock for me.
Unfortunately, I do not know her family and therefor there’s not much I can do at this point other than just remember the good in her. I will forever keep the pair of shoes that we shared, and I will never forget the impact she had on me in and out of the hospital.