un-friend-able.

I don’t quite understand why anyone would want to be friends with me. If I wasn’t me, I don’t know that I’d want to be friends with me. I lean strongly toward no.

[Aside: I just realized that this may come across like I’m digging for compliments or something like that. Not my intention or goal. I just honestly wonder about this and have for a long time. I guess because I have such a low opinion of myself.]

I am not what one would call a ‘happy‘ person. I’m negative and overly self-deprecating. I  still think I can be fun and funny and obviously charming (as has been previously established), but it was drilled into my head my whole life that if I’m not happy, no one will want to be around me. If I’m not happy, I’ll end up alone.

And let’s not forget this gem that makes me want to drive off a cliff, Thelma-and-Louise style: If I don’t love myself, no one else will ever love me. Hmm. I guess no one loves me, then.

By some strange voodoo, I did end up married. But as you may recall from my previous ramblings, that was most likely a mistake. Not that marriage itself is a mistake, but that my choices were mistakes. I don’t know that I was ever truly in love. [Not with my husband, I mean. I do believe I was truly in love with my ex who I was with for four years before everything fell apart. I blame myself. Of course.]

What happened with my now-husband is that I was so worried I’d never find anyone who could love me (you know, because I don’t love myself) that when I found someone who did (as far as I know), I just went with it. I know. Really stupid way to enter into a marriage. In my defense [though there is no defending this], at the time, I had convinced myself I was in love. I didn’t realize I was fooling myself until much later.

And there’s also the fairy tale thing… Just like I was told my whole life that not being happy meant I’d be alone, I was also told that there’s no such thing as a fairy tale. That may be true, but being told that over and over again made me give up on finding anything close. It made me settle for the first guy who wanted to marry me. I figured, fairy tales aren’t real so I should cut my losses and take whatever I can get.

This whole marriage diatribe is totally off my original topic: my lack of friendability. [Yes, I invent words now.]

I have always wondered… if I pretended to be a ‘normal‘ happy person, would I have lots of friends? If I forced myself to be outgoing (even though I really don’t have it in me), would I have lots of friends? If I acted confident, would I have lots of friends?

But those ifs… they are not who I really am. They’re not the real me. So wouldn’t that make all those potential ‘friends‘ not really ‘friends‘ anyway? Real friends would know the real me. And love me anyway.

But then we circle back to me not loving myself so no one else can love me. And as devoid of self-confidence as I am, I know that there are people who love me. [Weirdos. And I say that with great affection.] So obviously that whole no-love-without-loving-yourself thing is total crap.

Unless… that only refers to romantic, fairytale love. That I do not have. And according to the rules, I never will. Unless I miraculously start to love myself. Yeah, right.

 

p.s. — Contrary to what I said above, I don’t really want ‘lots of friends’. I want one best friend. And maybe one or two others. [Offline, I mean. I have a ‘best friend’ online… and quite a few other friends online. It’s in-person that I have a hole in my life. A big gaping one.]

         

©2020 what sandra thinks

Posted in life, writing | Tagged , , , , | 25 Comments

fucked up fresh start.

When I started blogging, I wanted my online persona to be me, but different. It was my chance to start fresh. My chance to not be known as Sandra, the depressed chick. No one would have any preconceived notions about me. I was a stranger. Maybe I could finally separate myself from that identity (the ‘depressed chick’ one). Maybe I could stop that constant feeling of others pitying me or looking down on me because I’m not conventionally ‘happy‘.

I wanted to write about… whatever. I wanted to vent about some stuff (and people), to make people laugh, to talk about my writing, to share some of it… you get the idea. It started out well enough. When I look back at my first few posts, I actually seem… okay. [I won’t say ‘normal’ because who the hell knows what ‘normal’ is?]

I never wanted to let on just how much of a disaster I truly am.

But soon enough, I slipped into my pathetic, needy, anxiety-ridden, insecure self. Soon enough, I was sharing way too much about my feelings. Soon enough, I couldn’t hide my reality. And soon enough, I felt like that’s all my blog was—exactly what I didn’t want it to be.

Now I feel apprehensive about sharing so much so often about my personal struggles. Once I’ve shared those things—those feelings—those thoughts, I feel that it changes people’s opinions of me. Like, in a bad way.

Maybe this led to my disappearance (or my infrequent appearances). But it wasn’t a conscious decision. I never planned to disappear. It just seemed like I became my depression/anxiety. It overwhelmed me… consumed me. It took over my whole life. I thought, ‘this is all I am.‘ And I hated that. I hated me.

Disappearing didn’t take those thoughts or feelings away, though. They are still with me. Sure, I am a mom, daughter, sister, wife… but deep down, I feel like all I am is fucked up. That defines me. Only that. I still hate it. I still hate me.

What do I do? Do I try to go back to the start? Do I stop posting about my emotions and shit? Honestly, I don’t know if I can. Apparently, it’s who I am. It seems it’s all I am. [Horrible thought: I don’t have much else to share.] Besides, you already know how fucked up I am. Not talking about it isn’t going to stop you knowing it. The cat is out of the bag. And, man, he bolted. He just ran and ran. I can’t put him back in. Besides, he was suffering. He couldn’t breathe. He needed to be let out. [This concludes my cat metaphor.]

I think what happened here is that this blog turned into some kind of ‘therapy‘ for me. Mostly the spill-my-guts kind. [And for the record, at this point in my life, I hate even the word ‘therapy’. I’ve been through it… talk therapy, CBT, whatever. Tried. No help. Done.] Maybe that’s what I needed this blog to be even though it was never what I wanted it to be. I felt like that was all wrong. Again, maybe that’s why I unintentionally disappeared.

I just don’t like who I am when my [god-awful] emotions consume me. I get overwhelmed and overcome to the point where I cannot think, talk, or write about anything else. And though I hate to admit it, I’ve been especially overwhelmed and overcome for a very long time. A couple of years, at least. I’ve had trouble focusing on anything else. It’s a horrible way to live. I don’t recommend it.

Yet… in my head, I’m already thinking about posting about how I’ve been doing during these many months I’ve been absent. But I think and rethink and overthink and second guess myself and… here we are.

Being me is a real pain in the ass.

 

p.s. — By the way, the irony of this whole post is not lost on me. On and on I go about my anxieties about posting about my anxieties while posting about my anxieties.

         

©2020 what sandra thinks

Posted in life, writing | Tagged , , , , | 34 Comments

it’s something.

lonely writer.

As of today, my last post has 48 likes. I’m sure to some that’s nothing… and to others it’s something. To me, right now, knowing I have barely been here for months, it’s definitely something.

Do people actually like me? Okay, let’s not get carried away.

Granted, I don’t even know if all 48 of those likes actually read my post. Or if they actually liked it. But still, they bothered to ‘like‘ it. [I’ll stop using the word ‘like’ now.] They bothered to acknowledge me. Forty-eight people. That’s something. Especially when you consider the fact that on an average day, excluding those in a customer service role where acknowledging me is required (read: Target employees and the dude who sells me coffee), three people acknowledge me. And they’re all related to me. Okay, maybe two. Sorry… I may have exaggerated when I said three.

Anyway… [I hate how often I use that word…]

I haven’t posted here regularly since last April’s A to Z Challenge. Before that, many months passed without me being around much. The last time I posted serial fiction was the final chapter of Back to You which ended on the first of September 2017. No, that’s not a typo. 2017. It has been over two years. It has been 852 days. [Yeah, I know it’s insane that I counted.]

One of my problems, if I want to call this a problem, and I’m not sure I do, is my inability to write. Sometimes I have plenty on my mind but getting the words down is problematic. Sometimes not knowing what to write is the issue.

Or maybe it’s not knowing what is okay for me to write.

I’m trying to please the wrong people. Because the right people, or person, is me.

A wise man once told me to write what sandra thinks… not what sandra thinks other people want sandra to think. (Yes, it was you RR. Maybe you don’t even remember… but I do.)

However, I’m afraid to write what I’ve been thinking. Maybe afraid isn’t the right word. Ashamed? Embarrassed? Or maybe, yes, afraid. My head is not a fun place.

It is because [prepare yourself for a shocker] I lack positivity.

[Aside: Why does autocorrect, in WP anyway, always tell me that positivity isn’t a word? That’s fucked up. Although I suppose positivity doesn’t exist for me so maybe WP knows me. Like Google knows everything about me. Officially freaked myself out now. Maybe I should ask Google what to do.]

So… positivity. Am I off-putting without it? If I am, so be it because positivity is not my goal. Maybe it used to be but no longer. I don’t want it. Not that being positive isn’t a good thing, but striving for it is obviously counterproductive for me. Doing that has only made things worse. Not only have I never become more positive despite my best efforts, but because I ‘failed‘, I have, in fact, become more negative.

I believe that for some people, positivity is never going to be their thing. And that’s okay.

The sooner I accept that, the better… because I’m so fucking sick of banging my head against a brick wall. I’ll never crack the wall… only my head.

[Would I even be me if I became the picture of positivity? I think not. I like my sarcasm and cynicism. I’ve been told it’s ‘charming’. No, really, I have.]

There’s a book I started to read because the title grabbed me immediately. Now, I’m only on page 6 as that is as far as Amazon would let me read in the ‘Look Inside’ view. But I already like this book. It sounds a bit like I wrote it. Okay, maybe not, but it sounds like the way my mind works. Ready for the title? Brace yourself. Here it is.

The Antidote: Happiness for People Who Can’t Stand Positive Thinking

And I put it on my Christmas list. And now, nine days after Christmas, here it lies beside me.

I’m still on page 6.

 

p.s. — Totally unrelated but… I have been watching Lucifer on Netflix, and well, I’m in love with the devil. 

         

©2020 what sandra thinks

Posted in blogging, life, writing | Tagged , , , | 47 Comments

she’s alive.

Dear Anyone Who Still Reads My Blog,

Hello. I thought I’d let you know that I’m still alive. Due to unfortunate circumstances, I haven’t been around. But I think of my friends here often, and I miss this place. I think it filled a void in my life that needed filling.

It’s not that I’ve found a solid replacement for this. I haven’t. And I do need something more. But I haven’t found it. I want it to be writing but wanting it isn’t enough. I need to be able to do it, and I haven’t been able to for a very long time. I mean, I have written little bits here and there… ideas, notes, even little scenes that I’d love to make into full stories. But I just can’t make it happen.

I think it just wasn’t meant to be. And that whole ridiculous thing… ‘if you want something bad enough, you can make it happen’… is crap. I can’t make my creativity wake up. If I force it, everything I write is crap. There truly are things beyond our control.

So here I am, wondering why this place—where I once found a bit of a home—doesn’t feel the same. It’s not you, it’s me. Stop laughing! It’s true!

Anyway, I’m alive. I’m okay. And just in case I’m not around much [or, you know, at all], I hope you have lovely holidays.

p.s. — I always feel that this is obnoxious, but I never promote my shop… so… this is me doing that. I have lots of stuff available on RedBubble that would make lovely gifts. Tees, journals, notebooks, bags, stickers, and even more stuff. I also have a ton of different holiday cards for sale. Maybe you’d like to have a look. Much love… and thanks.

         

©2019 what sandra thinks

Posted in blogging, life, writing | Tagged , , , | 37 Comments

just for me.

I rarely do things ‘just for me‘. I don’t see the point. All I end up with is financial anxiety and tremendous guilt. And, you know, I simply don’t know how to be kind to myself. Someone recommended a book about just that. Maybe I should read it. Too bad it’s not at my local library because I refuse to purchase a self-help book since I think most of them are just… useless. If I don’t have the motivation or the will to act, how is a book going to help?

Yes, I’m that bad.

———

I picked some flowers
just for me
wrote and read for hours
just for me

bought a little treat
just for me
something rich and sweet
just for me

but those are all lies
just for me
since I can’t justify
‘just for me’

 

p.s.— My monster-in-law finally died two weeks ago. I realize that sounds totally cruel and unfeeling, but it’s just that she was never really nice to me. She was kind of terrible. And she had been deteriorating for a long time. Plus, I use humor in pretty much every situation. Even death. I guess it’s my coping mechanism. Or maybe I am just a bitch. 

         

©2019 what sandra thinks

Posted in life, poetry, writing | Tagged , , , | 8 Comments

what am I doing?

It has [only] been fourteen days since my last post! Wow. I surprise even myself. So… what the hell have I been doing? I’ll tell you… even though you didn’t ask. I promise it will be super interesting. And then I will break that promise… because it won’t be.

Here’s what/where/who I’ve been…

…finding
Nemo. No, I’m just kidding. You know what I actually found? Waldo! I mean it. I found the real life Waldo. I was innocently driving along when, on the side of the road, I spotted a man wearing a red and white striped shirt. I think I scared the shit out of my daughter when I yelled, “I found Waldo!

Oh, how could I forget? I also found two stowaways on the back of a car in a random parking lot.

…visiting
Rhode Island. I like to call it visiting my summer vacation home. That makes me feel better about my life choices.

…eating
Blueberry Crisp. Mom took us to the place Grandma used to take us to pick blueberries. We filled a bucket. Also… sad pickles.

…drinking
Well, coffee, obviously. But when in Rhode Island… I’m having the best treat on earth.

…thinking
My life is fucked up.‘ But that’s old news.

…watching
The Daily Show, The Late Show with Stephen Colbert, Late Night with Seth Meyers. My favorite late night crew. And Archer.

…wearing
Not much. It’s fucking hot. Try to control your excitement as I am not posting pics of this one.

…listening
There’s a song… I just can’t stop. I don’t know if it’s considered ‘pop‘ (which goes against everything I believe in… blah… blah… I’ve said it a hundred times…). I guess it might be since it’s on pop radio. But then again, so are lots of artists not considered pop. Anyway, I don’t give a damn what it is or what anyone thinks. This song is amazing, and I love it. Add coolness points because the kid’s dad was Doctor Who.

I’m sharing the video… but this is the lyric video. If you want to see the official/original (starring famous dad Peter Capaldi), go for it, but prepare to weep.

I’m going under, and this time, I fear there’s no one to save me
This all or nothing really got a way of driving me crazy
I need somebody to heal, somebody to know
Somebody to have, somebody to hold
It’s easy to say, but it’s never the same
I guess I kinda liked the way you numbed all the pain

Now the day bleeds into nightfall
And you’re not here to get me through it all
I let my guard down and then you pulled the rug
I was getting kinda used to being someone you loved

[partial lyrics | Someone You Loved – Lewis Capaldi]

p.s.— Seriously, I have had that song on repeat for, like, two hours. I am not ashamed.

p.s. 2— I miss you. 

         

©2019 what sandra thinks

Posted in life, music, writing | Tagged , , , , | 35 Comments

I said good day.

I usually write when I feel like ass.

Wow, what a fabulous opening line from a girl who hasn’t posted for nearly a month.

Okay, back to feeling like ass. I guess I write when I feel that way because I’m looking for support. Yes, I freely admit that. That’s me. Needy as hell. I don’t have any friends… I only have you. [Not that you are not friends, but you know what I mean.] I am lonely.

The most social interaction I have is a monthly talk with my MH nurse practitioner. She doesn’t do talk therapy… it’s not like that. It’s just a check-in. But for me it’s more. She has the ability to point out what’s good when I only see what’s bad. And she tells me that the ‘advice‘ (I use the term *very* loosely) I get from some, usually unsolicited, is total crap. That helps me because I take to heart what people say to me, and I feel inadequate… I feel like a failure. Like, more than usual. But I shouldn’t because it’s not that simple. It never is.

No one is me. [Lucky you!] No one truly understands what I feel or what I am/am not capable of. So suggestions and advice make me feel worse because… see above. I fail.

Wow, a tangent. Imagine that. Ha. That probably makes up half of what I post. It’s a wonder I can ever write anything coherent. I’m all over the place.

Okay okay. Right. Good days… bad days… when I write… that’s what I was talking about.

I often wonder why I don’t write when I’m having a good day. Is it because I have so few of them that I try to accomplish other things when I do have one? Maybe. I bet part of it is my ridiculous fear that I will disappoint everyone when I follow a ‘good day‘ post with a ‘feel like ass‘ post.

[By the way, a ‘good day’ for me is one where it’s not bad. A ‘good day’ for me doesn’t mean something good happened. It just means nothing too bad happened. So I guess a ‘good day’ for me is probably a regular, neutral day to most people. But a regular day for me is a bad day… because that’s what I have most. Is it bad that on a ‘good day’, I barely recognize myself? ‘Who the fuck is this person??’ Yeah, I guess that’s bad.]

Anyway…
(That’s one of my pet words… it annoys me when I use it… but here we are.)

I’m sorry I haven’t been around. Every day I think about stopping by… but I never make it. I have no excuses… no explanations. I just don’t make it.

But I’m here now.

Rejoice!

 

p.s.— Just so you know… right here, right now—this is me on a good day. 

p.s. 2— I’m not proofreading/editing this post… because I don’t feel like it. 

         

©2019 what sandra thinks

 

Posted in life, writing | Tagged , , | 35 Comments

remember me.

hide in hood.Not actually me.


Remember me. I was going to put a question mark, but I decided it’s not a question. It’s a command. I order you to remember me, dammit!

It’s been weeks. More than six of them. This has been my longest absence since I first appeared here on September 14, 2015. [I just looked up that date. I didn’t realize I started so long ago.] In the beginning, I had trouble coming up with post ideas. And now… well, here we are.

I created this blog to have an anonymous place to say whatever the fuck I wanted. Did you know that the day I started, I was particularly annoyed with my husband? That’s what drove me to finally do it. I wanted to bitch about him… to write what I was thinking… to get my thoughts out there—my thoughts that I sure as hell couldn’t share with my husband.

Despite my anonymity, I chickened out. I went with the other reason I always wanted to blog… because I love to write. And now… well, here we are.

I still love to write… I just can’t do it. Not to my liking, anyway. I have some (like, seven) well thought out (but incomplete) fiction ideas. I just can’t seem to… go.

But here I am. Maybe this time, I will be back sooner than six weeks from now.

Oh hell, I didn’t even tell you what has happened since I was last here. Don’t get your hopes up—there’s nothing huge.

I did have a birthday, though. Whoopee.

 

p.s.— All of this embarrassing stuff is still going on, though. But my lips are still sealed. 

         

©2019 what sandra thinks

 

Posted in life, writing | Tagged , , | 51 Comments