Unmade.

And I was so sure before.

I think my intentions have been fulfilled. I've dealt enough emotional pain. The resentment and anger and refusal still churns, but in truth, I'm so exhausted from trying. Out of twelve school days, I've eaten twelve meals. On the first week, I plateaued. On the second, I gained. I hated myself. I hated everything that was happening. This third week has been a cycle of rebelling my body, dehydrating myself to fatigue...to the point where the quantitative measurement of my appearance improved.

On those bad nights, I sat in my typical maniacal wakefulness, squirming, kneeling on my chair, face pressed to Youtube. I envy those bloggers so much. Everyone shares the values of family, success, comfort, and luxury, but my family seems to recognize these as the only values that exist. VidCon and P4A and vlogbrothers and Tyler Oakley expand the meaningfulness of their lives, our lives, by building incredibly vast relationships. They busy themselves into a social network of real people, real projects. When I watch Grace Helbig and Ryan Higa and even their "lesser counterparts"... Hannah Hart, Sean Fujiyoshi, David So, Troye Sivan... even the little people are invited to the massive celebrations of community.

Of the many things I dislike about high school, I most regret not learning how to be truly social. I wish I took Honors Print instead of Honors Written. I wish I had the guts to take media classes and that second year of AP Studio. I wish I understood the value of connections and friendship. I wish I didn't push people away. This sounds like those deathbed cries, when the disease-ridden patients groan that they regret not spending enough time with their loved ones and worrying too much about technicalities of life. Many people like being alone, but not feeling alone. I shouldn't have rejected so many people just because they don't share the same merits.

At the same time, it consoles me that for many people, the better part of their lives don't start until their adult years. Shane was that guy who puked during gym class and ate the asphalt. John Green was a hopeless romantic and a terrible student. And I, I hate the drone of physics lectures and the buzz of art history PowerPoints. I bask in knowledge, but I hate tests. I do well.. sometimes, but my favorite moments are always when I'm drawing out a sketchbook assignment and or planning posters or writing essays. I truly do not reject the idea of exams because of my performance, but because I would rather create.

I finally feel like my own person. Establishing a presence online has helped, but more than anything, the understanding of independence is striking. I think I'm almost ready to create and earn for myself. I think I can do it. I'm going to try. Failure is palpable, but a future of filling out someone else's project is so much worse. My mom wants so desperately for me to have a conventional, peaceful life. I'm so scared that my future is already twisted in this direction. I'm so scared that I passed up my only opportunity to be an architect at Cornell. I'm so scared that I'll regret this.

There isn't part of my life that I can sacrifice for true affection. I'm not ready to be sweet or cute. The games are better than the real thing. Our dry-mouthed obligations are unnecessary. None of the admiration, awkwardness, or bafflement is reciprocated. Be my partner, my friend, my noodle. Just don't romanticize it. I want to meet this Brown guy of Chelsea's.

Oh.

Now I know why.
These echos that still haunt me, the screams that constantly sing my insufficiency. I can't think of a time I wanted to hurt myself more. Maybe its just characteristic of pain, of heart ache, of sickness.

I almost told someone today. I was tearing away the last trinkets, the final gifts, practically shouting the futility of romantic relationships. Sebastian was staring. He expressed that he thought I was improvising a soap. I would have corrected him, but the bell rang.

The thing with telling people is that they always understand in their own contexts. They say "Oh great noodle flakes, its so true" but because of their own relationships. The only person who shares this kind of hurt... is you. And you, you can't matter.

I don't want my circumstances right now. Math team, stats, ELA, humanities... I can deal with them, but I hate waking up every morning in complete opposition to the idea of making progress. I want to give up. I tried so hard, but the little advancement I make in cold, miserable perseverance is always erased in a single night's indulgences. Like, that condom was hilarious. So many parts of my days are funny and enjoyable, but it all falls barely short of meaningless. I don't want to participate. I'm so tired.

On good days, I do.
But only because I'm not done dealing my share of heartbreak.

Holes.

I have one more story that I think needs dredging up now.

Retreat was held at Carthage College. I rave about running through Pioneer Park, but Carthage is where I fell head over heels in love with God's inexplicably beautiful creation. This is where I felt the purest compassion and remorse, the shaking grip of my soul being violently cleansed by what I know to be the Holy Spirit. This is where I was okay. This is where the rising sun ceaselessly floods the lake. This is where I sat on the rocks, utterly alone, singing I Will Rise to the crashing waves.

This is where I stood, one year later, behind the doors of the sanctified praise and prayer night room. I was trying to forgive someone; I was confessing; I was crying; I was giving up the iron fist of my sins. But none of these thoughts were heard. He wasn't listening. After so long, he still didn't understand. One of my best friends turned down my offer to pray for her. And it went on. People did not want me to pray for them. I was terrified because something was wrong. Something fundamentally wrong with me made itself so obvious. Our pastor warned us about people of other belief systems. Their prayers brought demons. These people... like me.

But I want to say this. Regardless of my questionable, endless corruption, there was one moment during last year's retreat that shook me. It happened outside those doors. Another friend asked to pray for me. He was a character intertwined complexly in the realm of relationships, especially this one. It was not to his fault; my affections for his friendship are completely assured and without a single thread of anger. He prayed not in tongues but in truth and ingenuity and absolute friendship. We sat apart, hand in hand, and the tide of unprecedented, unstained understanding and gratefulness washed through. And then we stood not even an inch apart, and everything I thought I believed about my circumstances was broken.

Although hindsight bias can make moments a lot more dramatic than they are, I spent the rest of the night shivering uncontrollably and in mass confusion. And this is where I could no longer tell anyone the truth, and so then, two holes were shot through my life. One is bitterly crumbled in stitches, closed. One is vacant, and I expect it to never be fully occupied again.

We can bump heads. We can have the hardest conversations about love and hurt and pick up emergency Skype calls immediately. We can build memory palaces together. We can run and sweat and you can surprise me from behind and tell me your deepest faults. You can tell the most wonderful, stupid jokes in the world. You can teach me everything about those forbidden topics. We can be blatantly honest and wholeheartedly loving, but that little hole is reserved. Reserved for no one left.

Its best this way.