#cath post

i decided to go college for three reasons:

1) i have no clue what the hell i’m going to do with my life. i love writing and i love photography but there’s no sure fire paycheck in that, so why not college? getting a degree seems logical except i don’t need a degree to become a writer or photographer. what is a literature degree going to really do for me?

2) i need a decent job in order to live my life and you’re more likely to get a decent job with a college education. 

3) i wanted to battle my anxiety. my general anxiety disorder stops me from doing a lot of things and limiting myself from the people i interact to. i thought if i forced myself to go to college- a giant social event, i can try to talk to more people. i have talked to me people and i’ve been vocal in class but everything about college freaks me the fuck out. i caught an anxiety attack once on the train (mostly because of my claustrophobia) thinking about everything i have to do to get a stupid degree i don’t even really want. 

i just- i don’t know. i don’t think its healthy for me to be this anxious over college. i don’t completely hate it, i don’t, but i just don’t care. i have no real want to be there and that’s reflecting in my work. i turned in an assignment three days late, i had reason but still. 

maybe i’m not ready for college. maybe i’m just a giant baby who needs to grow the fuck up.

this kind of spurred on because i had to write a 600 word essay on a painting. a fucking painting. i don’t know shit about art. i can’t write 100 words on a painting yet along 600. why would i need to do this? how will this better me in any way possible?

i’m completely lost in every way possible. it also doesn’t help that no one in my family has a college degree and they’ll all looking at me to do it. i feel trapped and in a rut. i don’t know what to do. i don’t want to drop out because i know i’ll disappoint everyone. 

honestly, i realize this has a lot to do with my depression and anxiety but i can’t excuse myself from life because it’s not convenient for my mental health. i’m just wondering when is it too much for me to handle? where do i draw the line from being anxious to unhealthy anxiety?

once i matched with a girl on tinder, i was so happy she swiped right i didn't feel the need to message her. i wanted validation a girl can find me attractive. being straight was so easy. you never need to announce it, being straight isn't a conversation, no one ever asks you "how did you know" or thinks of your sex life as a museum in which they can peak in on. no one ever questions your feelings to the opposite gender if you're straight. you never have to come out to your family. being straight is so easy. i feel so sorry for that girl i matched with.

i'm scared to bring you home to my family. my sister once told me she knew i would be gay before i did. i hate the idea of her being right. i hate her projection of who i am actually reflection off my skin when i hold your hand. i hate living in her idealized stereotypes of what a gay woman is. i'll tell you what a gay woman is. she carries bricks in her belly, and applies the sharpest eyeliner you've ever seen. she will never look different than a straight woman, an asexual woman, a woman who was not born a biologically woman. stereotypes are stories that latch on to a community of people and burns their culture and richness down until the ashes are the remainder of what you want them to be. she didn't think i was gay because of how i acted, it wasn't even a stereotype. she said i was gay as if putting a curse on me, as if being gay was my monster. being gay was never a fear until she made it out to be.

i’m sorry. i love you. it’s not your gender that makes me afraid of you. see, when i was born my skin was too tight and placed on backwards, i was always aware of my label, always too self aware. i know my instruction manual too well, i know my skin is too tight, and i’m scared i’ll shatter from your touch. i’m scared you’ll break some part of me i never knew existed. you were never written in the instruction manual. i don’t know how to handle you.

i knew i liked you the second you said if you were a character from bob's burgers you would be louise.

the place where your hip dips down to meet your thighs will always be my favorite part of you. it’s the purest skin, untouched by the toxins around us. the cigarette smoke you release will never taint the hidden chamber that lines underneath your cotton panties. my lips will always find that spot, i hope there's an imprint of me there.

all my poems will forever be about you. maybe the pronouns will change, but when i talk about amber lips or the feeling of discovering the nape of your neck you'll know it's about you and only you.

labels were never an issue with me. i can't remember ever telling someone i was straight, and i never suffered with internalized homophobia. i always thought as i grew older it would naturally come to me, like a fairy god mother of sexuality. i didn't like you because you were a girl, and i didn't like him because he was a boy. it was the light in the space in between your teeth that drew me into the eclipse of you, and the way your eyes followed strangers on the street mentally preparing answers for their questions. it was how brilliantly you pulled off that yellow turtleneck, a color that i had always been too intimidated by. i wanted to talk to you that day at starbucks because you weren't ashamed to be another girl ordering a pumpkin spice latte, and you smiled at the cashier. i never met someone who treated a cashier as nicely as you did that day.

you told me to read that john green book with such enthusiasm i didn't have the heart to tell you i had already read it. i pretended as if i was uncovering new land, as if the mystery of margo roth spiegelman was new constellations i had yet to witness. when you asked me what i thought about it you had a glint in your eyes that i had only seen when jim and pam had kissed during the casino night in that one episode of the office. i didn't want to tell you i hated that book more than i did the first time i read it. instead i invited you over and we saw the movie together. i didn't care that the plot of the movie was as pointless to me as the plot of the book, although i will admit that radar was cute, i only cared how your finger tips never stop drawing shapes into the fabric of my jeans. if i look closely i can still find the cloud hidden in the seams.

when i told you about my dad, you said "me too".  when you talked about your mom, i added in my own complaints that matched. we fit our broken pieces together trying to make something beautiful out of the life we were born into. when you saw my scars hit the light you turned the music up and sung louder than ever before, you grabbed my hand and told me the sunlight was the audience and watching it pour onto the floor was hearing the applause of everyone who hated us. we laid on the floor watching rays of light paint across each other's face. you never asked about my scars, i told you about them anyway as i watched the sun pull back and forth like waves on your cheekbones. for once you were quiet, and after i was done you traced over them. i had never let anyone touch my scars before. i had never felt fragile before you traced the lines on my arm.

i'm sorry i'm so insecure. that i will probably never feel comfortable with my shirt off, that my mind will make my thighs into boulders. i'm sorry you'll have to tell me i'm beautiful. i wish i could believe my reflection when i repeat it over and over again in the mirror. i'm covered in the dust of back handed compliments so it might take a while for me to believe you. i will always stare at our pictures together and put my thumb over my face.

once you whispered into my ear about different types of trees. i couldn't tell you it was three in the morning and i had a nine a.m. class. i wanted, against my better judgement, to know the different types of trees. oak, almond, papaya, basswood, black birch...

everything i've written about you is a figment of my imagination. you don't exist in my life as of now. you are a character i created of the perfect girl. i've never pressed my lips on the column of your throat, or felt the slenderness of your hand. you haven't struck me with your lightning bolt of laughter. i haven't stood in the all awe-consuming heavenly glow of your presence. when you do walk into my life however, whether it be in a starbucks or not, i hope i am able to love you in a way i can only write about.

the first boy i ever dated broke up with me over text message. the next one couldn't even break up  me because we were never together, i somehow misread the way he kissed me for monogamy, i created a false story from misleading touches and smiles. i almost feel sorry for them, they will never know how hard i can love.

Eros - sexual love. the modern greek word “erotas” means “intimate love”. it’s about sexual desire, and passion, and as much as our society can proclaim is the highest form of love for the greeks’ is could be dangerous and an irrational form of love that can take complete control.  It’s almost funny, in my opinion, we deeply long for the idea of “falling madly in love”, but this was something they always feared, because it was a lost of control. Eros steam from the first time you see that person, the immediate attraction. philosopher plato describes Eros as the souls recall knowledge of beauty, and the spiritual truth in Symposium. 

Philia - deep friendship. this is a concept developed by Aristotle, it is the kind of love centers around friendship, the loyalty, emotions, and sacrifice for your dearest friend. It started as men who grew strong brother bonds while in battle.

Ludas -  playful love. this love stems from a love within children, or young lovers. the love isn’t as strong as  Eros rather much more in the form of flirting or teasing. the playful stages in every relationship.

Agape - love for everyone. selfless love, a love that is extended to all people. the word is found to be translated into latin as caritas, which is the origin of charity. Agape is also used in order to describe one’s feelings for their children. Thomas Aquinas described this form of love as “to will the good of another.” also known as Storge. 

Pragma - longstanding love. this is a form of mature love, a deep understanding and developed relationship between two people, typically married. Pragma is the mature version of  Eros, but less of the act of falling into love rather than standing in love. 

Lately, Philautia -  love for self. there’s two types of self love; one being narcissism and another more nature version that can enhance your natural capacity to love. you’ve heard of the saying “you have to love yourself before you can love others”, the greeks figured that out for their own.

i’ve seen more greek varies words for varies types of love, and as of this moment i’m in love with the simplicity and idea of that. i love you is such a general phase that is thrown out like asking to pass the pees. it doesn’t carry as much value. i find these words with a lot more weight attached to them.

3. that assumption is probably right, i do find books more interesting than your conversation. the way a writer can describe in a thousand different ways the way her hair touches her cheek is more captivating than your latest facebook post. character growth only takes about three hundred pages, and you still haven’t tried to see me as anything more than a virgin you want to conquer. see, real life is beautiful, you can’t read about touching the petals of a flower and experience it, you only get second hand feelings, borrowed senses. but a book will never remind you of what your father said that summer when you were nine, and a book will never tell you that your mental illness is an excuse for not wanting to public speak, and a book will never cat call you making you afraid to walk alone in your own neighborhood. a book will never give you a reason to hate yourself.

4. my sexuality isn’t for you to understand, or fix. i am not broken. it’s not because i haven’t found the right person. much like mental illness sexuality is something you cannot control, and as much as i want to be like you my body and mind are in a world where rewatching american horror story is more important than your naked body and i hope you still love me when i am pulling away again and again.

5. when i say self deprecating jokes, it’s not because i’m fishing for compliments. i’m trying to beat you to the punch line of the joke that is me.

6. when i was born i was so weak i had to be placed into an incubator for three months. i wasn’t allowed human contact. the only time my mother got to touch me was with rubber gloves. she said it was one of the hardest three months of her life. the first touch for a new born maybe is the most important, a bonding moment between a mother and child. i never got to feel my mother’s skin until i was three month old. maybe this is why i am so far away from you all the time. human touch is so foreign to me.

7. you ask me what my tattoo means. i tell you “perception”. it never truly resonates with anyone who hasn’t taken the time to pull me apart and examine the pieces. the meaning is empty to you. 

8. i’m sorry you’ll never see my body. see, i spent months not eating in order to get it perfect, and when no one saw perfection but sickness i thought i wasn’t doing it right. i wanted my body to be perfect for myself and anyone who’ll see it, that they’ll write poems about the arch of my back and make home in the spaces between my ribs. i still can’t look at myself naked without finding the flaws. no one tells you after you begin to become healthy again that you start to hate different parts of yourself. my body is not a temple but a prison. 

9. despite my appearance and my speaking tone my life hasn’t been privileged. excluding my pale skin, and my caucasian features my blood is boiled with spices and home cooked meals. no, i don’t speak spanish. i barely listen to spanish music. but no one is allowed to rip away my dna and replace it with european  genetics because i am not your “typical spanish” girl. your stereotypes do not work on me. “you don’t look spanish” is just the same as taking my history, my family and erasing it for my skin tone. i am not white. i don’t find anything wrong with being white. but when you try to erase my identity to fit your depiction of hispanic makes me feel less of a person and more of a shade of white i’ll never be away from. dear people, you make me be ashamed to be spanish. 

10. i am a biromantic demisexual, feminist, pro-gender, pro-choice, raise boys and girls the same way, body positive, cruelty free, mental health awareness, book reading, LGBTQ+ supporter and i am a clusterfuck of social justice and protest against racism. i am too much injustice trying to fix itself. that assumption, you have correct.