confused

There's a part of me that craves male attention. The other part of me despises it. I'm not sure how this dichotomy sprung up. Until high school, I was unharmed by guys. At the same time, the idea of marriage never interested me until I was college-aged. But a lot has happened during and since high school that has successfully warped my perspectives on life and love.

Love. What is it anyway?

Sunday morning, when my life went haywire again, there were specific things that set me off. See, the previous day had been great. I'd met with a lady from church for early morning coffee, and I can say that we were both encouraged by the appointment. Tyler sought me out during the day--even though he was busy--and we had some time together to talk one on one, go for a walk through the park. We had a tech rehearsal that our artistic director--the head of the drama department--attended and gave excellent notes and some surprising compliments. It was a good day.

Then Sunday morning, I woke up, went to the shower, and promptly went crazy. It's not that I woke up in a bad mood--I woke up happy, actually, and excited to go to church, albeit tired from the previous evening's late night. But something happened when I was showering. Negative thoughts about the past--and not my past, for once--infiltrated my mind and I couldn't help but feel angry, mistreated, degraded, and worthless--which doesn't make sense since I wasn't involved in that past. (But it does affect me now.) The past is such a confusing thing. I don't see how I can forgive it.

So those thoughts began swimming around in my head, and then I felt futile when looking towards my future. At this point, it's very bleak. I don't see myself getting better. And if that doesn't change, I will be unable to do what God called me to do. (I mentioned this in the last blog.) So those thoughts began to swim around in my head as well. I went to my car and headed somewhere else.

Once there, I began journaling these thoughts, but didn't get far. Writing wasn't an effective means of getting it out anymore. So I cut myself. I watched a ladybug crawl across the windshield and wondered at the hidden underside that's just as ugly as a cockroach's. I wondered if people are like that: a beautiful veneer in what's seen, but ugly in their hidden places. I felt (feel) that way about myself.