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[theyellowplaceposts]

Will you marry me, Harry Styles?

I first saw Harry Styles one Friday night in 2011. I found him in my childhood home, where my big sister and her other 13 year old friends were watching videos of a British boy band on our HP Pavilion desktop. I inserted myself in a corner behind them and watched over their shoulders while a rambunctious group of 5 teenage boys, sitting in a staircase, answered questions from fans bumbling with laughter and awkwardness. 

I soon came to know these 5 boys as a music sensation called One Direction. One Direction, a British boy band, who at the time, only had two songs out. Consisting of Harry Styles, Liam Payne, Louis Tomlinson, Niall Horan and Zayn Malik, the group was quickly ravishing the hearts of young girls across the globe. First formed on the British television show “The X Factor” in the winter of 2010, they’d found their way into our family basement on a Friday in 2011. 

I spent that weekend finding out as much as I possibly could about “1D.” I’d scoured the internet for their birthdays, favourite foods and songs, their ideal girls and personality types. Devoting my Friday, Saturday and Sunday to my research, I couldn’t wait for school to come around so that I could deliver the heart pounding news to my friends. And by that Monday at lunch, courtesy of the J-14 magazine I brought in my backpack, the news of One Direction had spread amongst the elementary school girls like head lice. 

At recess we traded in Taio Cruze’s “Dynamite” for 1D’s “What Makes You Beautiful,” during math we wrote their names, circled in hearts, on the pages of our Hilroy Exercise books, and at lunch we called dibs on our favourite members. And I, getting first pick, had only one name in mind: Harry Edward Styles. 

Harry Styles and I are exactly 6 years and two months apart, him being born on the first day of February and I, on the last day of March. Harry Styles has brown curly hair and dimples on each cheek. He has green eyes, and looks like a young Mick Jagger. Harry Styles is sensitive because he cried once in the documentary “One direction : A Year in the Making.” He loves John Mayor, and The Rolling Stones. And I was certain that if Harry Styles really knew me, he would love me. 

I figured at around nineteen would be the most appropriate age for Harry to fall in love with me, right around his twenty fifth year of life. I spent most of my sixth grade year planning for my nineteenth birthday, 8 years from 2011. I researched universities in London, where he lived and spent his time when he wasn’t touring. I looked up apartment prices, and scholarship options. I thought about how I’d break it to my mom. I wondered if my sister and friends would miss me. But the goal was Harry Styles, and as long as we were in the same place, at the right time, the universe would do the rest, it owed me that much. 

Before then, however, I made sure Harry and I wasted no time. Harry Styles and I spent our days in his apartment, watching movies, making pancakes, and dancing in the kitchen. Our meet cutes extensive, from cafes to airports to mutual friends and parties, Harry and I seem to always have a way to find each other. Though we sometimes fight, or break up for weeks at a time, always for different reasons: cheating, distance, dependency, we always find our way back to each other. We spend the afternoons outside with our friends, we celebrate birthdays in quirky restaurants and Christmas in his family home. And our relationship goes on like this from the age of 11, into the next couple of years. 

                                                                                   --- 

While my mom and her new boyfriend drank to an excessive amount and fought in our kitchen, Harry Styles and I met for the first time at a cafe in London. He came over to my table and asked “Is this seat taken?��� Stunned by my Canadian accent, he asked questions about where I was from and what brought me to London. Pretending I didn’t recognize him, he and I laugh and exchange vast conversations about his interest in sign language and my ability to speak french. He doesn’t want to leave without having gotten my number, which I sheepishly provide on the cafe napkin. 

Harry took me out to Cheshire, the county in England where he’s from, to meet his mother and sister one afternoon. We drank coffee in his mom’s backyard after Cameron Fullum made me cry, calling me “big girl” in the 8th grade hallway. I helped his mother cook dinner for all of us, and his sister Gemma told him how much she liked me. 

Though our relationship, like any real relationship, was not all rosey. We fought about trivial things like distance and harmless text messages. Once, after I had spent hours trying to break open a storage trunk and my undiagnosed OCD kept me up all night, Harry and I got into a big fight while he was on the “Take Me Home” tour. I was upset because there were pictures of him online, seemingly on a date with another girl, and he was upset because he couldn’t understand why I didn’t trust him. 

Though Harry Styles and I aren’t perfect, we spend years together happy and in love. We split our time between our home in London and wherever his tour with One Direction might take us, making only occasional trips back to Canada, to see my high school friends and my mother. We celebrate birthdays, Christmases and album releases together, my own graduation from University and the landing of my dream job. Harry and I brave the world together, leaning on and caring for each other; always at ease to know we aren’t alone. 

                                                                               --- 

Harry Styles and I break up when I’m about sixteen. It was more me than him. Though we both got busy, me with getting older, after school activities and a boy from my history and science class. Him, with the end of One Direction, a daunting solo career, and a debut album to write. With less time for each other and so many distractions, we both ended up different people, in different places unaware how we became so separate in the first place, give or take a few details. 

At the time, it felt like Harry Styles had disappeared from my life as quickly as he had come into it. I became so preoccupied that I’d left him, my dearest Harry Styles, somewhere between exam prep and Halloween parties, all too busy with my 16 year old social life to notice. All of a sudden years had passed and I’d let him go without really knowing it. 

Today, I’m reminded of him only when I see him on my TV at an awards ceremony or through my laptop, dotting around on a twitter feed. In moments like this I’m reminded of the person I knew, and the whole other person that exists, and I wonder if they are mutually exclusive.

The Harry I knew felt so real to me, I can still feel him. I hear Harry's voice and it's as familiar to me as my own mothers. I can still pick his hands out from a crowd. I can still sing every line from any One Direction album. 

Harry Styles and I existed somewhere different, in a world where I was thin and smart. In a place where my OCD didn’t plague my every thought and my mom never met her boyfriend. In a place where I felt safe. I sought refuge in Harry Styles and in return he was kind to me. Harry Styles and I were best friends. And if we’re being honest I’d probably still marry him if he’d just ask.

[theyellowplaceposts]

A Happy Mother’s Day

Happy Mother’s day !!  Yep, here we are, May 10th, today was Mother’s Day and I figured I’d come on here and fill you in on how my family’s day went. I know I don’t usually share many stories on here but I thought I’d make an exception for this one, because I guess I don’t really know who else to tell this to. I always said that this was a place for me to be honest, and this is just about as honest as it gets. Maybe I’ll end up deleting this or maybe I won’t but I thought putting this all on here might make me feel a little better so I’ll just go for it. 

As far as holiday’s days go I would say that this Mother’s Day ranks somewhere between Mother’s day of 2018 where my mom and I got into a big screaming argument and I left before we could even start our annual lunch and Christmas of 2011 where we ate St Hubert for Christmas Eve dinner at my aunt Gina’s house after my mother and her boyfriend, let’s call him Glenn, got into a massive argument. I’ll spare the horrific details, but a huge blowout broke out the day before Christmas Eve and our original plans to have a big dinner at his house with all of this family were obviously a no go and we ended up sulking at my aunt’s house with chicken. So yea, I’d say this mother’s day ranks definitely worse than Mother’s day of 2018 but better than the Christmas of so many years ago. 

I mean, I’m not exactly sure where our nice, simply planned Mother’s day started going awry. I know that it was sometime between dinner and desert but… you know what? If I’m going to tell the whole story I should probably start from the very beginning. 

So given that this year’s Mother’s Day would be amidst the coronavirus pandemic, it was only going to be my mother, my sister and I celebrating together, none of the usual cousins or aunts or anything like that. So my sister and I got my mom a couple of simple gifts, ordered her a big o’l cheesecake and planned a late lunch. A true rager for this here holiday. My sister even got really wild, making homemade tomato sauce and pasta from scratch, cooking being one of the skills she was very successfully developing in quarantine. I much prefer to sit and watch because my cooking specialties include things like toast and to be fair I can do a mean minute rice but other than the cooking Mother’s Day was a conjoint effort. 

However, at some point leading up to the day, my mother and big sister pulled a fast one on me and invited my mother’s boyfriend to have lunch with us. Which could have been fine, if he would have made the choice to behave, but you know choices are tough. Should I act like a perfectly normal grown adult or should I behave like a babbling nutty lunatic? Listen, I understand it’s a hard call and the lines can get a little blurred, for Mother’s Day though I believe the first one would have been more appropriate but I think he got a little confused. Maybe he thought it was Groundhog Day or the Super Bowl, people get confused all the time. 

All that to say the beginning of the day was going swimmingly. Pasta was being cooked, presents and cards had been opened and it was generally a good time. During this pleasant afternoon a little wine was added to the mix and I think someone, so Glenn, got a little confused again (god bless him, he can’t ever get it quite right) and maybe mixed up the wine for water? Or maybe for the air he needed to breathe. And this is where Mother’s day began to shift, a little like Glenn’s awareness. I think I first noticed it during lunch when he started slurring and calling my dog a “Big Motherfucker” while feeding him pasta. Then it became even more apparent when Glenn cried, three different times during lunch. Once about how this was his first good meal in three months, then again thinking about his own mother and once more because he feels bad for the people suffering in Italy. Which you know, some could view it as sensitivity or as him being sweet, but drunkenly crying three different times during our Mother’s Day lunch isn’t exactly what you want. 

My mom was able to find a little humour in it as it was the first time Glenn had drank in a long time. We were all able to laugh a little and still try to remain focused on giving my mom a good Mother’s Day. After we finished eating and cleaned up, the idiot over there (Glenn) was still babbling and he was starting to give me a bit of a headache so I went to lie down on the couch. 

Now, I did end up falling asleep so I’ll try to explain this next part as best as I can but I know I missed out on a few details during my slumber. Lying down just metres away from the dining table, I woke up to a little back and forth argument between my sister and Glenn, something about a cake. From what I gathered, as I took my seat back at the table for dessert, Glenn had sent my mom a cake the day before, and because we had already ordered her a cake, she gave a few pieces of Glenn’s cake to our family and my sister's boyfriend so that it would not go to waste. Now this, this made Glenn VERY upset. Again, the details are a little muddled but I believe Glenn was just angry about the cake and decided it would be a good idea to then say “Fuck you” to my mother or something like that and that’s when my sister defended my mom and they were arguing. My sister said something along the lines of “Don’t speak to my mom that way” and he was still heavily intoxicated, going on about cake. 

I knew better to expect more than this from Glenn, it was nothing new. Sure he’s laid off the drinking in the past couple of years but he would never change. It was my mother’s choice to stay with someone like this, though I’ve explained my aversion to it on multiple occasions, she says that she’ll make her own decisions, so I stay quiet. 

More arguing happened, my sister started crying, my mom stood up for my sister and somewhere in the mix Glenn shot a fews nasty comments and slurs. I then spoke up and asked him to leave, and was not interested in what he kept trying to say as a rebuttal, I told him again and my mom had him call his son to come pick him up and drive him home. He went on and on saying nonsense about myself and my mother until I think he just forgot how to use words.

While we all waited in silence for Glenn’s son, Glenn took the floor once more but this time he was very sorry. I’m not exactly sure how he went from holding up his middle finger at me and leaving it in the air for several seconds to now crying and apologizing. But nonetheless, now he was sorry. He maintained that my mother was still “a big fat woman” and I would still “pay for what I did” but he was still sorry. 

The afternoon ended with Glenn's son coming to pick him up while Glenn threatened to throw the leftover pasta and cake my mom so kindly gave him to take home all over our front lawn. What a show that would have given the neighbours huh. My mom got Glenn into the backseat and came back inside laughing it off, used to this behaviour by now. Though I’m not sure why someone would want to ever get used to something so toxic, I figured Mother’s Day wouldn’t be the greatest day to ask.  

We finished mother’s day off by watching a movie then all retreating to our separate corners of the house, my sister in her room, my mother in the living room and myself in the basement, cleanly sweeping all of today’s events under the rug like we do every bad thing in our house. 

[theyellowplaceposts]

Grown Ups (like the Adam Sandler movie)

Oh I’m sorry do you hear that? It sounds to me like the jaunty tune of 50 cent’s “In Da Club (It’s Your Birthday)”. Do you smell the burning birthday candles? Can you picture my dog with his bowtie and his best party hat on? Well, if not, try a little harder, because, that’s right, you guessed it, it’s my birthday. 

Well, actually it was my birthday a little over a week ago now. 

“Happy Birthday!” You said. 

Thank you. That’s very nice. 

But don’t worry, this is not a “Birthday Party Ideas” post or a “How To : Make Easy Online Birthday Invitations”, I’m not here to talk to you about DIY birthday gifts or party favours, I’ll save that for next year. 

Without giving too much away, because these posts are anonymous ( maybe I’m your dad, or your neighbour, maybe I’m your grandmother’s friend Marjorie, who really knows?) this year was a big birthday for me. This year I am officially an adult. I’ve shed my child form like a snake and have now put on the skin of an adult, yikes. I’ve adapted my wardrobe to only pantsuits, I’ll drink camomile in the morning and eat half a grapefruit while I browse through the circulars. I can keep a planner of all my appointments and carry around a pocket book like a true grown up would. 

Or at least that’s how I picture an adult, but knowing me, a more realistic version would probably be me in my room, wearing my pantsuit and eating nesquik cereal behind my bed hiding from all the other adults and rethinking this whole grown up thing. 

Because the truth is, the idea of all that really scares me. Not the grapefruit and pocket book part, just the actual getting older part. And I know that this makes me sound like I’ve been some sort of irresponsible teenager these past few years, galavanting all over town, engaging in drugs, blowing off school and all that jazz, too afraid to start being serious, but that’s actually not the case at all. I’ve actually always been a pretty serious kid, and a pretty boring one too. I don’t really drink or do drugs, I’m good in school and I hate parties. I mean honestly I love to play scrabble, I read for pleasure and I taught myself how to knit. I couldn’t resemble the elderly more if I tried. But, I’m still petrified of growing up. 

I guess part of it is because growing up demands decisions. The older we get, the more choices we have to make, choices that ultimately lead to where our lives are going to end up. Before, it was okay to just have dreams, but now, you actually have to go and do something about them, and that’s scary because what if you mess up?  

Or what if you think you want something and you spend all this time working towards it but when you get it it’s not what you wanted after all? 

When you’re a kid, and you make the wrong move or you massively fuck up, it’s okay because you’re just a kid. You have this huge window where you can make mistakes and change your mind and it doesn’t matter because there isn’t really anything at stake. But, once you get older that all changes. There’s so much more attached to your choices and less and less time to try again. 

And now that I’m already considered an adult, it would be nice to know how that’s going to work because I never seem to make the right choice. I make a decision big enough to impact my future and it’s usually not even a week before a big bucket of “fuck you” is poured all over my life to the theme song of “Jaws.”  I don’t know how to stop making mistakes. I don’t know if I ever will know. 

Is there some sort of handbook that all the adults get to read? Or maybe is there a question and answer hotline? If so I would like to know, do I hire someone to do my taxes or am I supposed to do them? Should I go out and buy a blender? And when will it no longer be acceptable to only read books from the YA section? 

Something else I’d love to know is when does it all stop feeling so scary? Or does it ever? Is there a period when things just start to click and somehow you wake up in your mini van driving the kids to school on your way to work? Or are we always going to winging it, terrified of what might happen? 

I mostly worry because the more my life becomes my own, the more chances I have to destroy it without even noticing. And if you knew me, fucking up everything in my life up is something I seem to have no trouble doing. 

I’m scared. I’m really fucking scared. I’m scared of messing up, I’m scared of failing. I’m scared of getting older and everything I’ll have to leave behind in order to do that. I’m scared of being grown and still feeling the same way I do now. But I guess that’s all part of it. And maybe, just maybe, one day I’ll feel like I’ve got this adult thing under lock and the messy, uncontrollable, hysterical parts of myself will have faded away. Or, maybe they won’t and I’ll always be this person, just with wrinkles and a briefcase. But I don’t know. I don’t know much clearly, which again is why me being an adult should be outlawed but I’m assuming that I really don’t have a choice in the whole matter, so I’ll give it my best go. (Or maybe call the government and have them change my age on all my legal documents back to a teenager). 

(Ok side note, this is seriously why I can’t be an adult like, yes please go ahead and call “the government”, let me know how that goes for you, you idiot.)

[theyellowplaceposts]

How To Deal With Failure

What to do when you finally set off to fulfill your great big dreams and then those dreams all blow up right in your face? I mean like proper chernobyl disaster, mount vesuvius eruption kind of blow up and then you have to turn around and go right back to the place you were so so desperate to leave not too long ago? That’s just a direct copy and paste from a google search I did this morning. Think maybe someone’s got a pamphlet on that? 

I won’t go into too much detail about what happened and how I watched my dreams get shot and killed by a hunter like in Bambi. But do you remember when you were a kid and you’re at a restaurant? You’ve got a nice fancy shirley temple with a gorgeous long straw and you’re blowing into the straw and making bubbles with your drink, and it’s all so fun and it’s your classic restaurant move. Then all of a sudden, the drink bubbles get too high and you’re oh so unaware and BOOM, you’ve got a face full of shirley temple, a stained table cloth and a very disappointed mom who’s taken the drink away from you and won’t order you another. That is what happened to my dreams, give or take a few details. 

My dreams didn’t work out for me and I know that that happens to a lot of people. I guess I just, very ignorantly, thought that it would never happen to me. This isn’t exactly a side of myself that I love to share with people, or on the internet, I mean this whole post could quite literally be a cartoon of a girl wailing, with a “Why Me?” speech bubble coming out of her head, just completely and wholly ignorant to the world around her, but that is how I chose to feel for a long time. 

 After the disaster, I spent days standing on a street corner with a “Woe is me (and only me, not you)” sign while ringing my bell.  But after a few days my sign got wet because it rained, plus the bell was too loud and it hurt my ears. After that, I thought to make a list of people whose fault this could be, the crashing and burning of my dreams, I mean. I could start with my mother, who clearly set me up for failure from a young age, encouraging me to pursue goals that were obviously never going to work, thank you mom. I could blame my elementary school teacher, making us read that dumb book that started all of this, fuck you Mrs. Flood. How about you JANE? Lying all this time, convincing me that I could do anything I set my mind to, that was some bullshit. 

But then, the list didn’t read quite right with everyone and my mom said that I wasn’t allowed to mail it to my elementary school because we didn’t have any stamps and I couldn’t hand deliver it because my schedule for the week was all filled up. Being a martyr is taxing. 

So I went out into my front yard and took a crack at the world. I yelled into the air, I screamed as loud as I could at it. I thought about giving it a taste of its own medicine, you know stepping on some flowers, over watering the trees, maybe even spitting at a few birds, that kinda thing. I could destroy it right back. There was nothing better to blame. 

I was really given it what it deserved, we were going the full twelve rounds, until  my neighbour came outside and asked me to shut the fuck up. And that, that got me thinking. 

No I’m kidding, but really somewhere between that time and now, I really did do some thinking. 

At first, I didn’t know how to move on from there. I was, of course, angry that my big moves bubbled up and spewed all over my childhood dreams, but it happened. That was that.

Then some other stuff happened. I got a snack, realised how entitled I was acting, played some recreational sports, threw out my sign and my bell, made some jokes, learnt a couple of things and started growing up. 

I took time to reflect on everything that happened, I made choices about who I wanted to be and how I wanted to react to the things that I can’t control and I took responsibility for my own actions. I bought a tweed pant suit, a brief case and started eating appropriate meals for the time of day because this is what adults do. 

I chose not to be angry at the world anymore, not to scream or cry to it, not to complain or grovel. This, all of it, sucks, it does and it makes me feel scared and shameful and makes me want to blame anyone that isn’t me. But really, the world doesn’t owe me anything, it doesn’t owe anyone anything. It won't hand out candy or do a dance everytime we do something right. It’s not interested in our stories or our misfortune. It will not ask, or grant and does not give any more than we take. 

But I’m not bitter or pitiful, I’m only learning and I’m grateful because being naive is a privilege. I am privileged. I am privileged to come from where I come from, to have what I have to be where I am. I won’t go into a big cliche about it, because ugh, how dull? But the world can give me nothing else for free. It’s busy, trying to give back something to the people we’ve taken so much from, and I know I'd be a fool to think that I deserve more than what I’ve been given. 

But, I also know how foolish it would be to just give up. My dreams are still mine. They are wide eyed and unaware, they’re hopeful, quiet and they are good. I still have all these dreams, and I’m still going to celebrate when I achieve them and probably cry when I don’t, but I can’t kick my legs and throw birthday cake when something doesn’t go my way. 

Despite everything I’ve learnt (see the above paragraphs) I still really don’t know how to deal with failure. The title of this post should have about 10 question marks after it, and they should be in bold and highlighted yellow. But I’ll leave the way it is for effect.

I’m not exactly sure where I’m going to go from here, or how to go about pursuing other dreams or really how “to do”. Do anything. But does anyone really know? Or are we all just failing all the time, scrambling to find ways to get back up?  I’m going to say yes, yes we all are, and even if it’s not true just go with it because it makes me feel a whole lot better. I have no conclusion to this, no way to end off because I’m still in the middle of figuring it out, but, like everything else I’m figuring out at the moment, I will let you know when I do.

[theyellowplaceposts]

The Wheels On The Bus Go...

Alright you in the back cue the sad music, you guys on the left start digging up all your repressed childhood memories, and everyone together please put on your choice special occasion headpiece (all different colours, heights and themes will do), it’s pity party time.

Sometimes I tell myself that the best way to cope with having bad days/weeks/months is by throwing yourself a literal pity party, and by literal I mean party hats and all. I put on my best party outfit, I decorate my living room with balloons and streamers, I’ll sometimes go as far as purchasing a cake if the party seems to call for it, if it’s been a bad enough week I don’t care the cost. I tell myself that I’ll go through this bad time, I’ll have the party and I’ll move on, and at times that felt true, but now I’m not so sure. Lately, it feels like I’ve been throwing my figurative pity party for over a year and a half.

I pass the days like a weird/only half there zombie or something. It’s like I wake up having already decided this day is going to be bad, and I don’t try to make it any better, and I do it day, after day, after day. Don’t get me wrong I know I could decide differently, I know that if I decided to change things I could. I could start by deciding to go speak to someone, then I could decide to start doing all the little things that I’ve been wanting to do, I could decide to start making decisions that would lead towards my own happiness, but I can’t.

“What? Yes you can.” No, I know that I can, but I can’t, you feel me? Do you get my hip, sad/deep adolescent language? Well if you don’t, what I mean by that is, I’m not sure why, it’s like all the steps are right in front of me and the only thing I have to do is take the first one, but everytime I choke and turn the other way. I mean do you know how many times I’ve written something like this in the past year and a half? I don’t, because I lost track after about ten, and everytime that I finish writing it I tell myself that I feel better and I’m going to start doing all the things I should be doing, finally taking the step and then like clockwork, I don’t, and I don’t and I don’t and I don’t, over and over again.

Is there a word for wanting to make change, knowing what to do to be happier and just choosing not to do it? I don’t know if there is, but say there is a word, some synonyms would definitely be madness, foolishness, absurdity, doesn’t know why they can’t help themselves-ness.

I assume that sometimes everyone feels like this. Like they can’t bring themselves to make better decisions, I know that I’m not alone in not being able to take the steps to make change. Maybe we’re all a little scared? Maybe we’re scared that if we do what we’re supposed to do and still nothing changes, that we really are doomed after all. Or maybe we’re scared that maybe these changes will actually make us happy and healthy and we’re all unconsciously masochists (in the non-sexual manner) (or sexual, no judgement here). I don’t  know why I can’t bring myself to take the steps I need to be better. Maybe I still need to hit rock bottom, if I’m not here already, because quite frankly this feels pretty damn close.

I really don’t know. I think I’ve said “I don’t know” 12 times in this body of writing. Well I’m sorry but I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know. I do not know much, I don’t know how many people live in the state of Ohio ( I hear it’s lovely there), I don’t know who discovered the atom or what clouds are made of, I don’t know who invented American sign language or how many versions there are of monopoly and I don’t know why I’m unable to control myself when I watch “Mamma Mia!” the movie, but, I do know this; I’m really fucking tired.

And I know what you’re thinking, maybe the day where things just click comes sooner than you know it, and maybe the day where I learn to use proper punctuation and grammar in these posts will come too, but I wouldn't count on that one. Maybe my great quest for wellness will start tomorrow, or maybe I’ll keep pulling the same shit 6 months from now, but I’ll let you know when I do.

[theyellowplaceposts]

The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

I am flawed. Deeply, unattractively, unmistakably flawed.

I want men (boys, it still feels weird saying men) to think that I’m beautiful. I willingly subject myself to their gaze, and I want to be desired by them. I’m afraid that my voice, my opinions, my ideas are not attractive, that women like me are not the kind of women that boys are looking for.

I am envious of other women, I want the bodies that they have, I crave the attention that they get, I long for the confidence they embody. I want to empower them, I really do, I also fully understand that them being beautiful doesn’t make me ugly, them being smart doesn’t make me not, them succeeding doesn’t lead to me failing, At times though, I can’t help it, I feel jealous and almost vengeful.

I look to others for validation. I am not beautiful, unless I’m told so. I’m not smart, unless people are asking me for my help. I’m not successful unless I’m being envied. I get insecure about my decisions. I need others to tell me that the choices I am making, the path that I’ve chosen is a good one. When I put myself down, I secretly hope the people around me will tell me otherwise.

I want people to like me, even people who I’m not particularly fond of. I don’t even know why. I’ll sometimes go as far as altering parts of my personality to be more like the person that I think they’d like, even if that’s not someone I like.

I can be mean, and I get angry. More often than not I feel pretty out of control when it comes to my emotions. I can go from being a little agitated to screaming and I don’t even know how I got there. I’ll get so frustrated and cry when I can’t get my point across, if I’m tired or even if I can’t find the remote.

I talk way too much and I think that my opinions are always the right ones. I find it hard to really try and understand someone else’s point of view when it comes to the things that I am passionate about.

And I’m sure if you asked most of the people around me about me, if they were to speak only truthfully, my list of flaws would be much more extensive than that.

I am, I am bad, I am wrong and I’m unsound. I’m confused, and clumsy and lazy. I’m emotional and insecure. I am many things that I wish I wasn’t. But fuck it, what can you do? We all carry around our flaws like they’re these dirty secrets we have to choke down and keep quietly inside ourselves. But it’s exhausting and it sucks, and I really can’t and I won’t do it anymore. It’s okay that I’m all of those things, we all are in some ways. These are the ugliest parts of myself and I’m writing them down, I am putting them out there, I am throwing them up (that’s a play on when I said “choke down”, haha I’m clever). I’m other good things as well, and I’m working, slowly but surely, on loving, well maybe closer to liking, all of them.

[theyellowplaceposts]

The S word

Sex, sex, sex, sex. Sex. SEX. Maybe just one more for good measure; sex.

You know, bumping uglies, gettin down, doin it, sexual intercourse, love making, and just about whatever else you can think of.

*Side note* I just google’d “slang for sex” and in a list that came up, these were found; “get some stankie on the hang down”, “horizontal refreshment” and “hot beef injection”. I’m not exactly sure what one does with this information, but I’ll leave it here, just incase.

Okay, anyways, let’s get back on track. Our track had something to do with... um, well I can’t remember exactly, oh yea, SEX. S-E-X, INTERCOURSE. Ok, genuinely, now I’m done.

Like I was about to say, I did not grow up in a “we are allowed to openly talk, share and ask about sex” kind of house. We never even had so much as the “safe sex talk.” I mean, my mother would literally make me cover my eyes if there was a sex scene in the show or movie I was watching. She kept this up until I was sixteen years old. Sex was just not on our list of dinner table conversation topics. It was this unwritten rule that it was not something to be brought up, so I followed the don’t ask, don’t tell rule.

High school was not very different from my home life, in regards to this. I was thirteen the first time I realised that sex was not for girls. More specifically, at that age, masturbation was not for girls. I was in seventh grade, and the boys in my class talked about all of it, the kinds of videos they watched, who their favourite pornstar was, which girls would be the easiest to get a handjob from, etc (clearly, I went to school with a couple o’charmers). However, when the conversation shifted to me, my immediate answer was “no”, “No I don’t do that”, “no I don’t think those things, no I don’t watch any of that.” I didn’t even know why, why I was lying or why I felt embarrassed and why I couldn’t even stomach the thought of telling the truth, but I was not alone. All the girls at school did not do  that.  That was gross and something that girls did not do. And I believed them.

It wasn’t until I got into 10th grade, when I became friends with a group of four girls, that I realized something different. It was the first time I had ever heard girls speak openly about sex, and they  spoke  about it, the ins, the outs, the particulars, the specifics, we once spent a whole hour talking about how our vaginas looked. We were quite the open bunch to begin with, but we wanted t  o share. We craved answers and questions, we wanted to know and tell, to talk and listen. We talked about our own experiences, and the experiences of other girls that they knew,

and their sisters, and neighbours, and cousins and someone’s mom’s friend Dawn’s, daughter’s best friend, and I realized we were all FRIGGIN LYING when we were thirteen! I’m not sure if maybe I was just a little naive (well, maybe a lot) or if we were that afraid of admitting it, we so convincingly lied our asses off that we believed each other, but we did. I did. I spent years thinking, somehow, something was wrong with me, that there was a chance I was the only one. I only then realized that girls have desires and needs and THEY ARE SEXUAL and it’s not a bad or gross thing and I want to scream that from a building, I want to paint it on a billboard and I want to put it in a damn song. I want people to know it, that it’s okay, it’s good and normal and wonderful.

We should feel like we can have casual sex, and lots of it, with lots of different people. We should feel we can save it for marriage. We should feel like we can have sex with people of the same sex or of a different sex. We should feel like we can pleasure ourselves. We should embrace our sexuality, or if we’d like, keep it to ourselves. We should feel comfortable sharing and asking, or deciding not to. We should always and only have safe and consensual sex (There could be a whole blog post dedicated to this, and there are many! There are tons of great essays and  SO  much information on what it means to have consensual sex, so definitely go take a look at those!)

My sexuality is mine, and I haven’t always felt like I could talk about it or embrace it the way I should, and have wanted to, and I know many women (and men, of course) who feel/felt like I did when I was a younger. Even now, though I’m older, at times, I still feel this shame come over me, that what I’m sharing, what I’m saying and doing is not what good, polite, quiet girls do. That it’s not what a man might want, it’s something that I should keep to myself or pretend doesn’t exist inside of me. I think this has been ingrained in me for so long, it’s just a little tougher to shake then I’d like, but I’m working on it, and I’m yelling as loud as I possibly can.

[theyellowplaceposts]

Nice To Meet Me

So, I’ve decided to start a blog. Yes, yes I did.

It feels pretty strange writing this, as I’m pretty aware the only person reading this is going to be myself. So essentially I’m talking to myself, but that’s fine. (I do it all the time, hey look I’m doing it right now, hey, how are you). I thought that was funny.

So, I assume that the first thing someone does when they start a blog is write an introduction piece, letting possible readers know who they are, what they stand for, what their blog is about. They’ll probably mention their motivation for starting this blog in the first place. As a total rookie, I’m not really sure I can fully answer those questions. I don’t know a lot about what I want to post on here, I don’t know exactly what I’m going to write about. The only thing I know for sure is I just want a place where I can say  something,  and I figured this would be a good place to start.

I’ve always had this idea that the second you write something down, the exact moment a thought leaves your head and makes its way onto a paper or a screen, a piece of yourself, beyond your body, now physically exists in the world. Everything that I’m going to write here is an extension of myself, it’s me putting a piece of who I am on the internet, into the world, and as scary as that might be, I’m ready to do it. I want to exist somewhere that goes beyond myself, and I’m going to start here.

*Reading this over I’m not sure if any of it makes sense, but just go with it*

That’s just about the best introduction for this blog I can possibly make. It might be a little messy and confusing, it’s not perfect and it’s unaware of what exactly it wants to say, but you gotta start somewhere.