On Betrayal. (with additional side-rant on nonconformity)

This isn’t for a particular person. This is for an entire group of people. The people I thought were “real.” The people I thought could handle my flaws, could handle my strengths, could handle me having a bad day and a good one. The people I felt so ready to devote my time and effort to. The people that come to mind when I think of those “close” to me.

I don’t just feel disappointed. I feel betrayed on many levels.

I won’t get into details, because drama is not my ballgame. I’m more of a blunt, to-the-point-argument type of person. I will say, however, that the current situation I’m in annoys me in the sense that not only do I have utmost contempt for the behavior of these people, using their own personal suffering and my past mistakes to speak lowly of me and despise my recent gains, but the fact that these same people who grimace and whine behind closed doors have the audacity to grin and embrace me. Or at least some of them do. Some of them just don’t speak to me and pretend I don’t exist. Or that they didn’t hear me. I’m not sure which I hate more at this moment.

Considering our age, I was expecting a higher level of maturity with acceptance of things. While my flaws tend to eat away at my being, so do the flaws of others. I can’t say I’m handling my life perfectly, because I’m not, but I can say that it’s not wrong to hope for the same amount of respect for myself that I try to uphold for others

But at any rate, I dedicate this post to all of the not-so-perfect, I’ve-made-a-mistake, overly-forgiving, nonjudgmental, straight up people who have been lied to, blackmailed, back-stabbed, secretly hated, betrayed, abandoned, and otherwise had their friendship forgotten. To those who lost a friend, were fooled to think they had one, or never had one in the first place. The voices that sound ignorant, despite the amount reason they may hold in their hearts.

I may not deserve the acceptance that I seek, but I know many others do. To think that now I’m an unhappy nonconformist and freshman year I was one of the social butterflies is astonishing. I had friends in high places and low places alike. Now? I’m not so sure. I don’t have a crew, I don’t have a solid “best friend,” I don’t have the best grades in the school, I don’t even wear matching clothes. I’m too lazy to wear my contact lenses, I listen to Dr. Dre, Lupe Fiasco, Chiodos, and Marilyn Manson. I don’t even brush my hair some mornings. I was happy before, but with recent events, I start questioning my way of life. Like maybe the comfort of a “tribe” is what I need to cope with things, or maybe if I had the best grades ever I’d actually feel like I belong in this school, or maybe if I matched my clothes and tried improving on my appearance more often I’d actually have a decent conversation that would start BECAUSE of my outfit. But most importantly, maybe if I actually had the friends I thought I had, I’d be a better person.

However, I’m done chasing what-ifs. There is one year of high school left, and I still have a few people that still actually give a damn about me. Those are the only ones that really matter anyway. Because despite time, flaws, therapy, relapses, and the simple lack of classes together, I can still say I trust them with my life, past, present, and future. And yes, despite my angst and teenaged loneliness, I’ve never been luckier.

- Therese

The State of Being Hu(wo)man.

May 15, 1991, I made my debut to life. I was destined to grow a womb, weight on my chest, curvy hips, and a bit more body fat than my best friend. I was to be the object of eyes instead of ears; of superficial worth instead of intellectual savvy. By birth, my head was shadowed by a sheet of glass, which, day by day, inched closer to me. I never noticed it as I grew up, because I never cared for female company. Legos, Hot Wheels, and toy guns graced by toy box, and I spend my days being an elite spy for the CIA (a better one, in fact, than my friend Lucas).

It wasn’t until high school when I felt the first stings of male chauvinism. As puberty progressed, people often remarked on my decent physical appearance. I had a Filipino mother, a White father, and had been an athlete for my whole life, so naturally, my face was unique and my body was sculpted relatively well. But perhaps what hurt more was that I was never called “smart,” “witty,” or “funny.” I sort of was, in grammar school, when I had brightly colored braces, unflattering glasses, and no shape to my prepubescent body. I tried to rationalize it, to say that it was just McNair’s effect on me, that I was absorbed in a highly competitive atmosphere and though I may have been bright, I seemed duller when placed in the same room as a genius. I still do try to rationalize it as so. But I know that once I’m out of 123 Coles, I’m going to see exactly the same thing, and I won’t have a competitive atmosphere to use as an excuse for it.

It was also high school when I set my mind on not having children. Why? Sorry, I have no intelligible excuse for this except “Kids suck.” To be truly honest, I don’t believe I’d successfully raise them, I’d probably neglect them like I neglect everything else, and I don’t want to deal with the responsibility of ensuring a human being’s future. It was my grandmother who told me that “Menstruating is a little monthly sacrifice for the privilege to make life.” Though this is a cute way to look at bleeding out of a vagina, I’ll have to be blunt. It effing sucks that I still have to endure a painful week (instead of three days), every three weeks (instead of four). I won’t get detailed, don’t worry. It’s not only an annoyance, it’s another force (working in cohorts with friends, family, and other adults) pressuring me to have a child. I don’t want one, but to think that every month I have to sit out and sometimes even call out of school because of the pain I feel, and that the pain is for nothing… well, you reconsider.

But let’s talk about things that matter right now: I’m a junior in high school, I’m looking at colleges and I’m going to be applying in a few months. The number of women in college (and in the overall population) exceeds that of men, so the odds are highly against us (unless we’re interested in West Point or some other rare colleges). A woman is running for the Democratic primaries. Maybe it’s a step forward. Really, I don’t see the step, because the discrimination is still full-throttle, we still judge her ability to be president just based on her femininity. (I’m even guilty of it.)

To even simply accept the social (and unrealistic) expectations of being perfectly beautiful is hard. Look at our movies. All the ones that have women as the protagonist heroines are the ones with women (Sorry Ms. Jolie) like Angelina playing Lara Croft, with voluptuous breasts, curvacious hips, and amazingly strong arms and abs. Or it fails like Ultraviolet (I hated that movie so much..) where the plot FAILS. The only way women ever look appealing is if they’re attractive, badass, or GOD you’re lucky if you’re both. The meaning of sexy is almost unattainable by most average ordinary women.

So all in all, there’s mounting pressure to be a mother, a wife, to be just an attractive sidekick to the all-powerful male boss, to battle the millions of other women trying to surpass that expectation and attain CEO status, and even worse: we need to look perfect. It’s no wonder more women than men report a history of attempted suicide, with a gender ratio of 3:1. (Yes, it’s that bad.)

I also notice that no one likes women writers because of the expectation that all we’ll ever write is sappy love novels. I must strongly disagree with that, just look at Nora Roberts. Or JK Rowling. You know you love their books. I prefer writing horror/occult fiction. =D But yeah, y’all suck.

I don’t know why I wrote this. I guess I was just PMSing. (I must admit, I do have a point.)

That’s all for now. Peace homes.

-Therese

Love: A Friend, Painkiller, and… ?

So if you don’t know me already, I’m Therese. I like to consider myself a close friend of Julian. People say I’m a great writer, and personally, I choose not to believe that I am. Because really, what is writing but a reflection of what’s in your head. In that sense, no one can claim my thoughts to be any better than anyone else’s. And as you can see from that little bit about me, I’m a tad cynical. However, as someone dear to me once said (quoting a comedian), “A pessimist is someone who looks both ways before crossing.” Likewise, that’s why I have this attitude toward this post.

I’m here because this is the best place to write about things like this. Maybe someone will listen to me and understand. Maybe someone won’t. In a digital age where everyone’s connected, within minutes of my break up with my boyfriend of a year and a half, Facebook screamed it to my “friends” on their News Feeds, whether they wanted to know about me or not. Thanks, Facebook, I’m glad you’re so sensitive about it.

That’s one reason why I’m here. No, I won’t give you a lengthy explanation to why we broke up, how we broke up, or if we’re getting back together anytime soon; I won’t tell you whether I’m dealing well or not, and I won’t tell you what my intentions are. All I will tell you is this: I don’t deny that I loved him. Being that this is “their perspective on things,” I’ll give you my perspective on the only thing that’s been on my mind for the past year and a half. If you couldn’t guess it already by some odd chance, the topic is love.

I wrote a piece a year ago explaining why people love. To save you the burden of reading another blog entry, I’ll sum it up. Love is a habit. And it’s a habit that develops when your habits and routines coincide with someone else’s. The fact that it’s a habit makes it so hard to get over. So hard to stop loving. Even if you promise to love someone forever, if your habit changes, you can expect your feelings to change as well. In this case, love is a friend. It’s that visitor that stops by every so often, and as long as you’re friendly with each other, it’ll come by for another chat, another engaging rendez-vous.

With that whole habit thing, I could never have been more dead-on.

Now if you end up like me, love can be a painkiller. It’ll be that pill that you need whenever you’re feeling a little off. Maybe you have a headache, or a heartache. A little bit of love will wash that away. Of course, you have to be careful. All painkillers can be addictive, if abused, and soon enough you don’t know if it’s the love you’re looking for, or the fulfillment. Maybe you’re looking a certain feeling it gives you, and you’re not taking it because you truly need it; truth is, you become dependent, and you don’t even realize that there is no pain anymore, just need. I suppose it could be a good thing, but my perspective? You lose yourself.

While I have the spotlight, the last thing I would like to say is that love is an essential element of life. Whether it’s torn you apart or keeps you together, it’s essential. As human beings, we’re made to love. We’re made to enjoy each other’s company, and sure, we may hate some others. You can’t swear love out of your life because it’s a habit. It’ll come back when you least expect it. Maybe when you don’t even want it. I guess what I’m trying to say here is that love exists, and you don’t have to be with someone to know that you love them. You don’t need to get along that well, you don’t need to talk to them day in and day out. And if things were meant to be, then years later, when you would have forgotten about them already and moved on, if you see them again and can honestly say you’ve never forgotten…

Well, I think you’re onto something.

- Therese Kathryn

The Awakening Project

According to a study done in 2004, suicide is the 11th leading cause of death for all ages and accounts for 1.4% of all deaths in the US. If that number seems small, consider this: 1.4% of the population is more than 32,000 suicides, which is equivalent to 89 suicides per day, one suicide every 16 minutes. It puts things in perspective, doesn’t it?

But what’s the point of all of this?In order to shed light on a situation that the media has completely ignored, I, Therese Bailey, have created this group, called The Awakening Project, in which talented young adults can create short films which will be presented at an annual film festival* hosted at a venue in the Jersey City area. There is currently an application being written up for a grant of $1,000 from Youth Venture. However, this can not be completed without a group of committed young adults (ages 12-20) to support the cause. Please join! Every member’s involvement is highly appreciated. If you are interested in a leadership position such as Vice President, Secretary, Treasurer (thought this might be taken by Norlan Cruz), Event Organizer, Marketing Leader, or Researcher, please contact me, Therese Bailey as soon as possible.

The Awakening Project: Opening the eyes of America to the Suicide Problem

-Therese <3