The Care and Keeping of Kitty

This is something that I need everyone who knows me to understand. Not just see. Not just hear. Understand and accept. And I really do mean everyone. Every single person, from my boss to the person to whom I talk in class, from my best friend to a passing acquaintance, this is a thing you need to know, and I really don’t think anyone has gotten it yet.

Having me sit down and watch other people work and then telling me not to worry about it is like sticking an alcoholic in a wine cellar and telling them not to drink.

It will not happen.

If you are desperate for me to be okay with it, you have to say something like this: “I want to do it." “I like doing this sort of thing." You can NOT say: “Don’t trouble yourself." “You’re fine, just stay there." or anything else related to that.

You have to make it, at least in my eyes, about your comfort, not mine. If, in reality, you want what’s best for my physical health and peace of mind, make favors to me about you.

Growing up, I was taught that putting myself in any place other than last is selfish, and that there is nothing worse than being selfish. I was not taught—did not learn—that if I don’t take care of myself, no one will, until I was fifteen, and by then, the habit of putting myself behind everyone else was so ingrained, that I’m still trying to break it, and I still feel guilty as all get out when I put myself ahead of anyone else, even when I know that I need it.

This is why talking about my problems is so hard for me. This is why I can’t call people at three in the morning when I’m crying too hard to sleep, even though I have to work in five hours. This is why I always surrender in conversations when others interrupt me. This is why I always volunteer for the shit jobs, why I always pick up the extra shifts, no matter how tired I am, no matter how much I just want to rest.

I don’t actually think it, but my subconscious whispers to me: “You aren’t as good as they are. You aren’t as important. Let them sleep. Let them talk. Let them rest. You don’t matter." I try to fight back, I try to speak up and speak out and make myself heard, but I have been conditioned my whole life to think this way, and it’s only been a year since I left the constant presence of people who still (despite knowing what it does to me) force this bullshit down my throat.

So, in the end, friends of mine, what I’m saying is that I need you to take care of me sometimes. I’m trying hard to kick this thing in the teeth, but I really do need your help, and it’s so fucking hard to ask for it because, get this, it makes me feel guilty and selfish. ("You should be able to do this yourself. You’re not strong enough. Why should you expect them to help you when they have their own problems?")

Most of all, though, I need your reassurance. The occasional, unwarranted “I love you," or “You’re adorable," no matter what my mood is like before or after, never goes unnoticed or unappreciated, and it makes all the difference the next time I must fight my demons.

These Scars Are Different

On my eighteenth birthday, almost a year ago now, I got my very first tattoo. My mother wasn't happy about it, but she didn't have to be; I was an adult by then, and I used my own money.

I had actually requested that it be a Christmas present the previous December--not the actual tattoo, I'd still pay for it, but the parental permission required to get a tattoo before I was an adult. Obviously, my parents said no, and, actually, the fact that they did kind of hurt.

Subject Matter: My Self-Esteem

I honestly think that my friends have no idea how truly high-maintenance I am.  Maybe they're just dense.  Maybe I don't let it show.  I don't know.  What I do know is that, as someone whose self-esteem could fit inside a quark, I need almost constant reassurance that, yes, I am a good singer and a good actress and a good writer and a good poet and smart and pretty.

Because, yes, I've heard it all before.  Yes, sometimes I start to believe it.  But you know what happens then?  A small voice pipes up inside me, and it says, "Who are you to be so conceited?  What have you done that you're justified in feeling important?  What could possibly make you think that people like what you do, or even care?  How is what you've done good enough to be shown to people?  How is your voice good enough to be heard?"

In the end, what that little voice says boils down to is, "No one cares.  You're not important or special enough.  Shut up and let the better people go."

I'm getting better grades than my big brothers did at my age.  I talk about it a lot.  I laugh that since I have a higher GPA and ACT score than my oldest brother, I'll get into the college he got rejected from, and then maybe I can rub it in his face that I did something better than him.  My parents get really disapproving and say that isn't Christian.

Ask me if I give a fuck, Mom and Dad.  Ask me if I care that it's technically mean, when I know Matt'll laugh and congratulate me.

"But who says you have the right?" that little voice whispers.  It's starting to sound a lot like Mom.  Or maybe Dad.  "Why do you think that, just because, by some fluke, you got a higher ACT score than the boys, you're smarter than them?  Maybe they weren't well rested.  Maybe they ran out of time and had to start guessing.  Don't rub it in his face that you're smarter than him, because it isn't true."

Just this weekend, Neenie and I both had plays.  Two different plays, two different places, the same days, the same times.  Mom went to Neenie's opening night.  Grandma and Grandpa went to Neenie's last show.  No one came to my opening night.  No one but Mom, Dad, and Neenie came to any of my shows.

When she said that only Grandma and Grandpa came, Neenie added that no one loved her.  I shot back that none of our extended family came to my shows, and no one came to opening night.

"So what?" the little voice whispers.  It definitely sounds like Mom and Dad together now.  "It's not like you're as important as her.  It's not like anyone cares.  You had three lines.  She had two whole songs  to herself.  You're lucky they showed up at all.  Be quiet and be grateful."

Sometimes I wish that I never had to come home.  Sometimes I wish I could go live with Smitty or Marissa or Stefanie, someone who loves me and tells me that they love me and assures me that I'm special and good enough and perfect the way I am.  Then the voice whispers, "You don't deserve that.  You don't deserve to be told that, even if everyone knows it's a lie.  You need to feel that you're worthless."

And that's when I get fed up with it.  That's when I call the voice out on it's bullshit, tell it to shut the fuck up, I don't care if I don't deserve it, I don't care if it's a lie, I want to feel special and loved and good enough, I don't give a rat's ass what my family says or thinks, and by God, I'm going to listen to my friends when they say I'm awesome and cool and pretty and smart and good enough.

But then no one says it.