Yeah, you read that correctly. I’m attracted to both sexes, and yet I oppose gay marriage. Good luck calling me homophobic or whatever else you normally enjoy calling conservatives, odds are, you’ll fall flat on your face. Marriage is between a man and a woman, considering that the entire ceremony is dependent upon Christian/biblical belief, which states quite clearly that homosexuality is a sin. I’ve honestly never understood the fight for gay marriage; nothing about it makes any sense. You want to stand before God and pretend that one of you is something other than what you were born, all because society makes you think that the process is necessary to prove your love for someone?

If you’re gay or bisexual and you’re reading this, forget what society is teaching you. You don’t need to stand before a crowd of family members, before God, and pretend that you’re exactly like a normal couple, because you aren’t. But that has absolutely nothing to do with love, now does it? For right now, at least, I beg you to look at the more important issues that are building up around us while far too many linger on things that can be settled afterward. Love, and be loved – marriage, in contrast to that, is irrelevant.

Now that we’ve got all of that out of the way, I want to ask you if you really listen to what Obama and the people he surrounds himself with wish to do to the people of this country. You may think you know exactly what is inside the healthcare bill, but I beg you to read it.

http://patientsunitednow.com/files/full-bill-searchable.pdf

Even if you think you’re a supporter, just take another look. I just want everyone to be well informed – don’t lean one way or the other until you’ve made an educated decision. Don’t stand on either side of the fence only because you listened to someone else speak, even me; I want every American to make their own choice based on what they believe after they’ve read it for themselves. If you still decide to support it, then we have a difference of opinion, but I would never attack anyone for having a different view. Look at the President and who he surrounds himself with, calling the people who object un-American, Nazis, and other vicious names. I don’t know about you, but until now, I’ve never heard a President call American people names period, especially just for disagreeing. Is that honestly the way we want to conduct ourselves?

Of course we’re all going to have different views. That’s the great part about America, or at least it’s supposed to be, isn’t it? That you’re able to believe however you wish in total safety? Look at what’s happening – that’s being taken away, and it isn’t right. On that note, if you read this, and disagree with me and wish to say so, please be courteous. I refuse to respond to people who would dare to sink low enough to attack what I believe in – I refuse to fuel the fire.

Be informed, learn your history, and remember where intolerance and thirst for power can lead. Think for yourself, speak up for what you believe in, whether you be on one side of the fence or the other, and never let anyone silence you – this is America. Refuse to be silenced.

But… if I’m unable to change what’s wrong with me, to purge myself of it, that means that I’m stuck with it indefinitely. The rest of my life… even if I were to die tomorrow in some freak accident, that seems too long a time. I don’t want to leave this world with a diagnosis. I want a clean bill of mental health like all of my friends. Santa, and even my counselor, Dawn, are constantly reassuring me, hinting, really, that although having this can be taxing, it comes with serious benefits, too. They seem to be impressed, excited, even, about my dedication to writing – I suppose a normal seventeen year old girl would be doing… what? Cheerleading? Falling in ‘love’? Anything as long as it isn’t productive? I have no idea. And don’t get me wrong, I’m not putting anyone down who enjoys cheerleading or who cares for someone – I’ve just never had the desire to do any of these things, and maybe I’m wrong in trying to stereotype and find the ‘norm’. I’m just trying to figure out what adults find so amazing about me.

My English teacher (my favorite, she and her husband are absolutely staggering in their intelligence and insight) confided in me (while we were alone at the writing workshop that I attended, thanks to her) that she felt guilty that she couldn’t make her classes more difficult for me, and that she really did find me to be different than the average teenager, which caught me off guard. No one’s ever told me that before, at least not out right.

My Music teacher and I sit in his office and have philosophical discussions, which are engaging and thought provoking – I absolutely love him for them, because he’s been through college and can actually find new ways to challenge me, which I love. He’s trying to get his master’s degree in education so that he can become a principal, and every time in the last year that he’s had one of those huge 38-page papers due, he’s asked me to read over them during class and check for mistakes, or leave comments as to how I think the paper could be improved.

My Consumer Science teacher and I, whenever I could lead her off-topic (there were only two people in that class, myself and a friend) would have psychology discussions, and I would always go to her for any questions I had on the subject. Although I’ll admit that sometimes she really got on my nerves, she was a nice resource to have around. Though she didn’t know it at the time, a lot of my questions were for personal use so that I could diagnose myself – after taking multiple tests on the internet and voicing any questions I had to her, I was finally able to tell my mother that depression wasn’t exactly what I thought I had – turns out I was right.

Then there’s the school librarian, whom I absolutely adore. She’s been the librarian there since my mom was in school, and I’m thankful that she isn’t retiring until after I’ve graduated. If I ever need to read a book that I myself can’t afford, or if I just want to have a discussion about plot or the inner workings of a story, she’s the one I go to. She’s read more books in her lifetime than anyone else I know, and she’s always giving me newspaper clippings and everything else I could possibly want/need about authors or writing advice.

There’s also all of the amazing people that I met at the writer’s workshop – adults were coming up to me the entire week, asking me questions, wondering what someone as young as me would want with something like the Teachers As Writers program. All of them were so nice, and I think if I can get $600 in graduation money I may go again next year just to see all of them again.  To be honest, I missed them before we ever left the parking lot.

Anyway, the point of all this was I don’t understand what all of these people, Santa and Dawn included, see in me. Outwardly I try not to act any different than any other teenager, and in many cases, I don’t. I love going to concerts, I get drunk whenever I’m not on meds, and I love hanging out with friends. Isn’t that normal? That’s what everyone else does, right? So why aren’t all of those people intrigued by my friends, why don’t they react to them in the same way?

I don’t know. I mean, the only other person I know that gets similar reaction, though not quite so much of it (because she doesn’t provoke it by asking questions all the time, I suppose, or she most certainly would) is my best friend. I mean, Jesus, she made a 31 on her ACT the first time she took it. She’s incredible – I love her to death, and she actually understands what the hell I’m talking about most of the time. She’s good with concrete things like numbers and calculation, and I’m good with abstract things like philosophy and imagination. We make a good pair, I think.

In the end, I guess everything happens for a reason. This thing inside of me, though I often think of it as evil, is an unkillable monster that has just as many good points as it does flaws. It’s the reason I believe in Yin and Yang. The downs are awful, but the highs are incredible; the flaws are huge, yet so are the positive aspects; it’s a demon that lives in perfect balance inside of me, and that’s the only comfort that I’ve found that actually helps, because it’s something that I can understand. So with every circumstance that I find unbearable, every emotion that tears me apart inside, and every shadow that breeds inside of my mind, I can justify the existence of these things with the things that make me stand out as an individual – my mind, my compassion, and overall, the most important and powerful thing that I’ve yet to find: my writing.

It isn’t at all what you think it is, though. Oh no. I don’t get one of those simple counselors, the ones that ask you questions, then nod while you lay comfortably on a futon, asking you how you ‘feel about that’. That would be all too easy. Instead, I get Dawn – a woman with the best of intentions, but who doesn’t get me. She’s also the children’s counselor, so she often pulls out all kinds of kiddy cards and projects to try and tap into my psyche, unaware that all she’s doing is causing me to close up. I’m seventeen and she treats me like I’m five – the whole experience is so demeaning. If I can’t even get along with my teachers at school because I find them horrifyingly ignorant, can you imagine how degrading it is to have someone talk down to me like that?

But it isn’t as though I can say something, because she honestly doesn’t realize she’s doing it. A lot of people I know wouldn’t care, and would ask for a different counselor anyway, but I just suffer through it -  I don’t want to hurt her feelings, because she’s doing her best. It’s just something that I dread on a regular basis, especially since I don’t think I need counseling in the first place; I just need medication, which I have now. Can’t we leave well enough alone and spend that thirty dollar copay on something more emotionally helpful? Like chocolate?

I’m on a good sleep schedule now. I go to bed at soon as it gets dark (nine thirtyish) and wake up around six thirty. I feel much better now that my sleeping is straightened out, even though I don’t want to admit it. Soon I’m going to start exercising and getting on a strict routine – everything from what I eat to how much I run is going to be monitored. The only thing that I’ll allow to break my routine is writing, as you never know when inspiration will hit, and overall, that’s the most important thing in my life right now. I’m really excited about getting fit, though – I think I’ll start today, even though I won’t be able to go running yet because of the rain.

The summer isn’t going by fast enough. I’m so excited for my senior year – not only have I finally reached my final year in Hell, but I get to take classes I’m interested in for once: College Composition I & II, along with Advanced Placement English. Plus, it’s well known that Seniors get away with anything - ahahaa, I’m ready and willing to put that little piece of info to the test.

Anyway, I suppose that’s all for now – the rain is picking up, and bringing along thunder so I’d better scram and get the computer unplugged. I’ll just go finish The Chocolate War by Robert Cormier; it’s good so far, though definitely outshined by I Am The Cheese. It’s a signed copy. Ahh. ._. It’s a shame that the library would probably miss it… (and that the librarian would know who took it, as she’s a good friend of mine xD.)

Oh well.

Where are the humans? It looked around, twisting in the toxic breeze and straining to get a glimpse of human life, but none came. The flower looked at the log home that had housed families for generations. Something was different about it – one of the windows had been shattered in the winter, and the white curtains that the breeze was toying with were green with mildew. So they’ve finally abandoned it, then; if someone were living there they would never leave it like that.

An aching loneliness suddenly ran through the flower. It brought its petals to a close, shivering. Everyone’s gone. Everyone’s left me here. Who will take care of me now that the humans are gone? Who will protect me from the acidic rains and feed me and… love me?

It opened its petals just enough to see outside and began scanning the horizon for some other sign of life. In the distance, it spotted the rising pollution from the factories and giant apartment buildings where the remaining humans lived – where, the flower assumed, the family from the log home had probably been forced to move. The trees around the flower stood only as mocking skeletons – long ago had they traded the toils of living for the sweet savor of death. The grasses were brown and unrenewed, the weeds withered to oblivion, and there was no sign of wildlife in sight.

The flower was ready to give up when a flash of red caught its attention. Excitement ran through its stem into its very roots, and it felt that for all of the combined relief and joy it could jump from the earth and dance – for there, on the edge of the tree line beside the house, was a giant red flower. Its petals glinted in the sun’s distorted purple rays, and its metal stem grew firmly from the earth…

Metal? The flower looked again, closer, and every ounce of joy it had previously felt was immediately stripped away. It had found nothing but an abandoned pinwheel, stuck firmly into the ground – perhaps as a parting gesture from the child that once lived in the log house. The flower closed its petals once more, and this time, it would not open them again. No, It thought. This is not how things were meant to be.

I’m a writer. It’s what keeps me from going insane, and the only thing – I’ve lost my mind in the confines of my room several times, though, after having gone weeks without seeing another person (other than my parents) and writer’s block having its way with me.

Anyway, I’m not here to bitch and moan about the way I was born. I’m here to post slivers of story, poem, essay, and generalized thought -  I might even post a few of the things I experience when meditating, if nothing else. I just need somewhere to vent, a place to call home, and a place where my mental wanderings will not be so harshly judged. Hopefully, I will find that here.

Seeing as this is my first post, I’ll start with something simple.

Earlier, I found myself reading The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy by Tim Burton, desperate to see into the mind of one of my idols. (If you’ve yet to read it, please do – it’s wonderful. You can find it online for a free read.) But I have the horrible tendency to look at how talented my idols are and put myself down – I tell myself that I’ll never amount to anything, for there’s no way I’ll ever reach their status, right? It’s all so confusing – I continuously tell myself I’m going to fail to keep myself from getting disappointed, while everyone around me is telling me the opposite, trying to encourage me and point me in the right direction.

As I was reading Burton’s poems, I noticed that several of them all had to do with the same thing – a child being distorted in some form, being a disappointment to their parent(s). Is that how he felt when he was growing up? Did he feel like I feel right now, or is it only a coincidence that his poetry holds fast to this reoccurring image? Now I find myself wondering what he did to pass the time when he was growing up and how he handled his mind.

People say that he has Bipolar Disorder, which is another reason why I look up to him so much, even though I don’t think he’s confirmed this (not entirely sure.) But if he does have it… does he take medication? Would I be better off, more creative, without it?

I have so many questions, and no one to answer them. I would stop my medication if I thought I could handle it, but I always end up on the brink of suicide – maybe I’ll try getting off of it once I get into college.

This post has been mostly rambling, but that’s okay, I guess. It’s my blog, so I have the luxury of playing God – I suppose I can ramble as much as I want. (I’ll try not to in the future though, as I’d like at least a few people reading this.)

Keep your eyes peeled for bits of writing I may post later on. I’ll close this with my favorite short film (by, you guessed it, Tim Burton) titled, “Vincent”.