Teen Idle

     I'm so tempted to give up blogging, to just disappear from the community completely. I feel frustrated with myself for creating a new blog instead of sticking with my old one, which had a tremendous amount of readers. I feel like my words are going unheeded. I feel I no longer have an internet presence. I've been neglecting my followers as well as the blogs I love to read. It would be foolish to give up now, especially since I've dedicated so much time and energy into something that means so much to me. I'm tired of feeling sorry for myself. I'm constantly making excuses for my inadequacies and I can't do that anymore. I'm growing up. I need to be more responsible for my actions and myself. With that said, I've decided to stick with what I started. I refuse to let school, work, or any other aspect of my life get in the way of what I love. Writing is my passion; it is my dream to write my own novels, blogs, magazines, articles, poems, ect. I feel blessed to have this blog. And although it doesn't have much credibility or followers, it is a reflection of myself. And I can't let trivial things such as page views deter me from expressing myself.

Picture by moi.

Love

    I have never been in love but I often wonder what it's like. It sounds wonderful, yet awful. Empowering, yet crippling. Liberating, yet confining. Being "in love" is much more than feeling love for someone else. It's exposing your soul, knowing that you face the risk of being betrayed or exploited. It's about sharing weakness with another person. It's about compromise and forgiveness; acceptance. It's about giving someone permission to hold your fragile, palpitating heart in their hands, hoping that they care for it delicately. Love stripes away all the facades and exposes your darkest secrets, reveals your innermost fears. You are left naked and under scrutiny of the one you bestowed with love. And it's terrifying. But then the fear melts away as you're encased by comforting arms and affection kisses. Trust is so closely tied with love; it's what holds people together like adhesive tape. Yet it's such a delicate, easily broken attachment. People are so often tempted to sever it; which is why love seems to be short lasting. 
     When I think about this ineffable idea that has prevailed throughout the history of mankind, it evokes a myriad of emotions: confusion, anticipation, and fear. I don't understand it because I have never experienced it; and thus I look forward to when I finally do. However, I am scared of it because my trust in people has been shattered; I am an agglomeration of broken nerves and cynicism. Sometimes I wonder if my faith will ever be restored. Sometimes I wonder if there will be anyone willing to reach beyond the tangled thorns of my mistrust to my unattainable heart. Oh, I shouldn't trouble myself with thoughts about the indefinite future. I know that when I find love, my fear and reserve will deliquesce, and I will forget I was ever scared at all. 

On Artistic Integrity

     I created this blog because I wanted a new start. I wanted to break away from my other blog, which was very similar to this one but less personal. This blog contains my whimsical thoughts and innermost secrets. And since its inception, very few people seem to read it. That is partially my fault. I used to be an active member of the blogging community but now I live in the shadows, writing to open air. I feel my words faltering and falling back into the darkest depths of my mind. They are unheeded and I am left feeling unsatisfied. And then I wonder, am I writing for myself or for others? I write to express myself but do my words have validity if no one is reading them? I feel disappointed when my work is neglected because I feel people can benefit from my musings. I also feel like I'm not good enough, which discourages me from even attempting to continue this blog. But if I'm good at one thing, it's persevering. So I'm going to keep writing, regardless of how many readers I attract and the popularity of my blog. I'm going to keep writing because that's all I can do. 

Photo by me.

Why Have You Left Me Alone?

     I have written so much about you, even though I promised myself I would no longer waste any more words on you. How could I not though? I am so deeply affected by what you did to me that I can't help but pour my soul out through writing. You probably never think about me anymore and that thought pains me. Because whenever I hear your name or see your face, my grief vibrates throughout my bones and wrenches my heart. My body longs for you; but my mind is the only thing keeping me from falling to your feet and begging you to come back, back, back to me. I know better. But I can't help but feel weak when I'm near you. 
     I have this fantasy that one day, after a year or two of not speaking, our paths will yet again intertwine. I imagine us sitting somewhere and reflecting on what we used to be. Why do I have this terrible feeling that something like that would never happen? Why do I have this horrible instinct that we'll never speak again? It pains me to think of such awful things but I can't help it. The day we parted ways, I made it clear I didn't want to be anything, not even friends. And while I don't know if I regret that yet, I do know that I ruined our chances of ever being even acquaintances again. 
     How strange it is to go from something to absolutely nothing. In a mere hour, we severed all the ties between us. I watched you walk away from me without looking back. I watched our affection turn to dust and fall through my fingertips. I knew it was for the best. I still know that now. But I still mourn. I mourn because you never gave me a chance. I mourn because you never let me try and chip away at the wall you built around yourself. Even when we embraced and kissed and touched, even when I was the closest I could physically get to you, the barrier still remained. Tears are welling up in my eyes as I write this. You always said you were curious about how I looked when I was sad; well here is your opportunity. Look upon this tangle of shattered illusions and inconsolable sorrow. 

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Photo taken by me.

Start Another Story

     I had given up the hope that I'd ever find someone worthwhile of my affection. It seemed to me that no matter how many people I met, no one interested me. I felt hopeless but reassured myself that someone I could like would come to me if I was patient. And then I met you.
     It was a Friday night. I walked into my friends house and was greeted by a group of familiar faces. There were a few people there that I didn't know, you being one of them. We introduced ourselves briefly and that was all. You went somewhere else as I effusively greeted my friends. It wasn't until later that I began to realize your lingering gazes. They made me shiver with delight and satisfaction. But I didn't think anything of it, aside from the fact that I had somehow caught your attention.
     A few of us were outside in the small but lovely backyard, standing around a table donned with plastic cups. You were next to me and offered to be my partner for the game. I accepted. And this is when I began to see what was so obscure to me at the beginning of the night. You kept leaning into me and whispering tips and strategies into my ear. Your fingers lingered on mine when handing me the ping pong ball. I noticed in your voice a gentle softness that I have never come across in a man. I stole quick glances at you throughout the rest of the game and began to feel the blossoming of a great tenderness within my breast. I felt the impulse to reach out and touch you, just to reassure that you were real, that this wasn't some fictitious illusion. For so long I have been deceived by the facades of other men. But for once, I felt like I had met someone who was the same person inside and out. 
     I haven't seen you since that fateful night, yet the memory of you continues to haunt me. Such a thing has never happened to me before; I would be a fool not to pursue it.

These pictures were taken by me. Click on them to be directed back to the original source.

What Can't Be Erased

     You are infatuated with me. And I used to think I felt the same about you, but now it's hard to decipher my true emotions. I feel torn. Being with you only reminds me of my bitter past: the heartache, the melancholy, and the disappointment. I used to be idealistic about relationships; I used to be overwhelmed by the beauty of a specific person or the prospect of being mutually affectionate. But I am no longer that foolish, optimistic girl. Badly bruised, I have become more cynical than I already am. I have little hope for the future of my love life, which lies on the floor in shambles.  
     I wish I could exclude you from this curse of mine but I can't. Although you seem different, I thought the same thing about the last boy. And in the end, I realized I was terribly wrong. I don't want to be wrong about you. But I don't want to get hurt. I don't think I could bear another failed relationship. 
In short, I'm afraid. 

Photo by me, click on the picture to be directed back to the original source.

Silent Undoing

     It’s estimated by the National Eating Disorder Association that ten million American women have an eating disorder. But even that statistic may be false; for there are many who won’t get help or even admit to themselves that they have one. Eating disorders don’t get the attention they deserve; it’s as if people know they exist but they don’t understand anything about them. I personally have suffered from Anorexia. I was hospitalized and admitted into a treatment center for two months, in which I acquired the strength to embrace recovery. Through my experience, I have discovered that most people are ignorant about Anorexia and Bulimia. And I feel it’s my obligation to show people through words and photographs what they’re really like.

     Anorexia Nervosa is defined as a psychiatric disorder characterized by irrational fear of weight gain, self-starvation, and a warped body perception. Individuals suffering from this disease are terrified of eating and are convinced that if they do, they’ll become grossly overweight. The very thing that keeps them alive disgusts them.

     Bulimia Nervosa is a disorder in which individuals consume a large amount of food and “purge” it through vomiting, exercising, or laxatives. Bulimia is similar to Anorexia since victims suffer from the fear of food and weight gain. However, Bulimia is often considered the opposite of Anorexia, for instead of abstaining from food, they indulge in it. Having experienced a little bit of both (my official diagnosis was Anorexia purge type), both have similar psychological affects. These behaviors are self-induced which is why it’s a common misconception that those with eating disorders can just “stop” their behavior. However, victims develop a dependency on their self-destructive actions. It empowers them and brings solace; even though at the same time, it disintegrates their self-worth.

     Eating disorders develop for a myriad of reasons because they affect individualistic people. It’s widely accepted that the diseases result due to a combination of genetic and environmental factors. Those with relatives that have eating disorders are more likely to develop one. Some other causes for eating disorders are: the need to control, low self-esteem, addictive personalities, black-and-white mentalities, perfectionism, stress, a chaotic home life, anxiety provoking transitions (puberty, moving, ect.), and the media.

     We live in a media saturated world. Everyday girls are bombarded with images of women they should aspire to look and be like. There are products for concealing every flaw imaginable: wrinkles, cellulite, acne, ect. Women are constantly objectified as beautiful and sexual beings, not real people with thoughts and feelings. In my opinion, we have lost our souls in this industrial technological world. Values are warped and priorities are skewed. We are a society obsessed with beauty and many will do anything to obtain it.

     Ultimately, my goal for this photo series is to deglamourize eating disorders. They are wretched diseases that are not glorifying or rewarding. They extinguish your will to live, render you a hollow shell of your former self, and blind you from the truth. You become your own worst enemy. I am tired of witnessing girls struggling from something that isn’t worth it. I want people to love themselves for whom they are, not for how they look.

Your limbs flail wildly above your head as she jerks at the strings attached to your body. You are her circus puppet and devote yourself entirely to pursuing her every whim and desire. You do not dare challenge her superiority even though you know she’s slowly killing you. You do not dare sever the tenuous strings that bind you to her like iron chains. You are nothing without her. She breathes life into your limp, cadaverous body. She gives you something to live for, something worthwhile, something that places you on a pedestal of greatness. She whispers encouragement each time you contemplate caving in; praises you each time you lose a bit of weight or skip a meal. She is delighted by the hip bones jutting violently beneath your taut skin. She is your only love; the only one you’re utterly faithful to. You need her and she thrives of your devotion. She substitutes everything you lack. She fills your dismal void with purpose. And because of this, you are forever indebted to her.

Every day you trace each bone with tender admiration. The jab of your elbow, the protruding collar bone, and the deep indents in your knees all motivate you to continue your crusade for perfection. So rapt are you in the quest for the ideal body, the ideal soul.

Eating is like a sacred ritual. You are very cautious of what passes through your lips. Every morsel of food incites a wave of nausea and fear. Most days, you prefer to eat nothing at all. And soon enough, this becomes very easy. The hunger pangs in your stomach delight you for they are indicators of progress. Once those disappear, you’re convinced you don’t need food at all. You’d much rather prefer to be light on your feet anyway.

Was this perfection? Glimpsing in the mirror, you see thin ratty hair, sunken eyes, and sallow skin. You no longer look human. Instead, you look like a monster, emaciated and emotionally devoid. You’re dying. Yet you can’t stop because she has become engrained in the very fibers of your being. You identify her, worship her. You’ve lost everyone and everything; yet you don’t care. You have her. You are her.

You have no control over your own mind. She infiltrates the crevices of your conscious, dictating your actions and warping your perceptions. And you let her do this because you’ve lost faith in yourself. She haunts you with her chilling demands and pushes you to an unbearable state of madness until you can no longer differentiate between who you used to be and who you are now. And no matter how hard you try to silence her, to expel her from your thoughts, she always remains, reminding you of your inadequacies and failures. She taunts you with promises of a fulfilling future; but what future? Your destiny is in the form of a generic hospital bed where you’re hooked up to IVs and heart monitors, where you’re force fed through a tube if you refuse to eat. What you’re working towards is the ultimate self-destruction; You’re greatest ambition is to die.