What I want to tell my crush

 

I’m a broken human.

I’m emotionally unstable and suffer from two, probably three, diagnosable mental illnesses.

I struggle with self-harm and low self-esteem. My brain in constantly telling me that people hate me, that I’m a horrible worthless person, and no matter how much people prove otherwise, no matter that I know the voices are wrong, nothing can convince my brain that I’m worth more than the dirt on the bottom of my shoes.

My gender is non-binary or nonexistent. My body may have been labeled “female” but that has never been the way it felt. Society constantly screams at me to follow rigid norms, to choose one or the other, but I don’t. I can’t. Even trying to use the bathroom can feel like choosing between which leg to chop off. The consequence is that I suffer from dysphoria and a constant anxiety that I’ll never fit in, never be understood, never be fully accepted. That it’s me and not society that has to change. That if I just tried a little harder everything would work out just fine. But I’ve been trying as hard as I can for my entire life. I deserve a break that I’m never going to get.

You’re my favorite kind of person.

You’re quiet but you have the power to speak your mind if people are willing to listen.

You take the time to listen.

When you state your opinions you let people know that’s what they are.

You’re 100% okay with agreeing to disagree. You don’t see disagreements as a roadblock to friendship.

You’re okay with admitting you’ve had struggles, while acknowledging that you might not understand those of others.

You don’t sympathize with people, you empathize.

You understand it’s okay to not like everyone. You get that it’s not your duty to be everyone’s friend. You’re cool with being selective. You understand quality is better than quantity.

You’re fun to talk to. You appreciate popular media but you dig below the surface to see what deeper meanings and implications the stories may hold.

You’re excited to share your passions with others and you are open to listening when others want to share their passions with you.

You’re eager to learn and excited to make an impact in this world.

You seek me out when almost no one else will.

There are few things I want more than to be with you, talk with you every day, feel you holding me so I know that things are eventually going to be alright. To have you around to confide in and share in the intimate parts of your life. I want to know the details of your day. I want to be a part of your routine.

But I don’t want to break you like I’ve been broken.

I don’t want to suck you in to the disaster that is my life.

I don’t want to upset you if you have to tell me you’re not comfortable dating someone who’s not a girl.

I don’t want to put you through any kind of emotional upset.

Because after knowing you for only a few months, I care about you too much.

I can’t be so selfish as to put you through that.

To put you in a spot where you might have to choose. Where you might struggle when I convince myself you don’t care about me. I don’t want you to feel like you have to prove yourself. I don’t want to draw you in and then push you away. I don’t want you to suffer the emotional tug-of-war that was my last relationship.

I don’t want you to care too much.

I don’t want you to become afraid of me.

So instead of telling you I’ll keep it to myself.

Better to see you wind up with someone else than with me.

 

Things My Ex Taught Me

During that awkward time we tried to be friends, my ex kept telling me I’d taught her a lot in our time together and she knew she’d taught me as well. But she never specified what it was we were supposed to have learned. I came up with this list the other day when I was feeling especially vindictive. I realize a lot of my distress stemmed from the fact that I was too afraid to speak up or share my real emotions, but there was no doubt a power play in our relationship, and she absolutely had the upper hand.

Things my Ex taught me

  • It’s unnecessary and excessive to be open about a relationship
    • Ignore each other in public
    • Don’t talk about each other to others
    • Refrain from referring to each other affectionately
    • No physical contact unless we’re alone
    • No couple selfies
    • No profiles pics of the two of us
    • Because only gooey, mushy, clingy couples do things like that
  • The person with the most relationship experience has authority over the relationship
    • They get to decide what’s okay
    • They get to tell you how you should feel about things
    • If this is your first romance, you don’t know what you’re doing, so anything you think and feel is likely wrong
  • It’s okay to dwell over your ex with your new partner
    • And it’s okay to constantly compare them
  • It’s okay to hold your partner hostage emotionally by:
    • Refusing to commit to the relationship
    • Talking openly about other crushes
    • Insinuating that if your partner asks for “too much” you won’t want to date them anymore
  • It’s okay to exclude your romantic partner from your friend groups
    • All of them
  • It’s okay to deny your partner the labels they want and reject all labels rather than coming to a compromise
    • And then go around using your own label without your partner’s consent
  • It’s okay to refuse to admit you might be together for a while
    • And normal to assume that you won’t
  • It’s better to be roundabout with emotion
    • If you’re upset, don’t tell your partner—wait for them to find out and ask you about it
    • If you think your partner is upset, don’t ask them about it. Wait for them to tell you exactly what’s wrong up front
    • If you start talking about emotions stick to the theoretical and avoid the practical
  • Ignore patterns of behavior. Get hung up over the little things
  • Your partner’s concerns and fears will become unimportant if you treat them like they’re not important
  • It’s okay to simultaneously take advantage of and be irritated by your partner’s lack of experience
  • Even though you’re more experienced than your partner, and they’ve never had sex before, and they’re really self-conscious about it, don’t be the one to bring it up or open the discussion. Wait for them to make the first move.

 

I was so shocked that anyone would want to spend any amount of time with me at all, let alone even entertain the idea that she might want to spend the rest of her life with me–that when she refused to commit to me, refused to commit to a long-term relationship, said it was unrealistic for me to expect that of her–or of anyone–I believed her. I believed that no one would want to be my life partner. I believed that she was totally in the right to keep her commitment hanging over my head. Emotional blackmail. I thought it was okay. Because I loved her. And I was waiting for the day she’d say she loved me back. It was worth waking up every morning afraid today would be the day she left. It was worth the emotional tug-of-war. It was worth consistently being told that I was wrong. It was worth the pain of never knowing, only guessing. At least I thought it was. I felt lucky she was giving me anything at all. I thought it was okay. Because she said it was. And I believed her. Because I loved her.

 

Cultural Experience

One of my favorite things so far is being able to meet people from different countries and cultures from all over the world—not just Germany. I’ve met people from Hong Kong, Australia, Maryland, Massachusetts, California, Jamaica, The Dominican Republic, Panama, and probably others (I wasn’t able to catch all the names). The people from California and Australia talk about how cold Germany seems while I’m thinking how it would be much colder in most of the Midwest right now. The students from Hong Kong (many of which, interestingly, are studying in Queensland right now) very emphatically informed the entire group multiple times that Hong Kong is not in China or Japan. The man from the Dominican Republic (to whom I dedicated an entire post, for various reasons) was shocked to find that most of us had heard of his country. I loved listening to the various accents and languages and words, and eagerly answered questions about my home and culture when I saw others were as curious as I was. I hadn’t even begun the educational portion yet and already I was learning so much.

At our New Year’s Dinner, though, I was stuck at a table with various students from America and one Australian who didn’t say much. For the past two days I had enjoyed the feeling of being on equal footing with most of the students there—equally lost, equally stupid, equally fascinated, equally curious. But at this table I found myself back in the same old boat. It was like I’d never left the States. Here, once again, my limited experiences in certain areas prevented them from acknowledging my expertise in others. My input was rendered invalid because I disagreed with popular people. My preferences were ignored because they were unconventional.

After a while I shut up and sat quietly seething at the table listening to the Americans banter around me. I had come on this trip partly, if not mostly, to escape my stupid self-centered individualistic non-inclusive fast-paced culture, and yet here I was smack in the middle of Berlin surrounded by fucking American privileged middle-class white college kids. Just like back home.

When I’d talked to my Australian friend about ethics and gun control we exchanged ideas and opinions on equal footing and listened to each other’s experiences and input. When I’d talked to Erik (see other post) about my summer camp experience he listened in fascination and applauded my methods, asked me a lot of questions, and supplemented my narrative with his experiences and input. The one time he mocked my method I calmly explained my thought process, and he went so far as to apologize for passing judgement too quickly, and shook my hand. But when I asked Grace to be respectful of the food she refused to eat, she and the other Americans acted like I was pushing it after the second time. The three girls from my school act so petty sometimes, but I feel like I can’t say anything testy to the people who were nice enough to give me a ride.

People are actually judging me because I don’t have much money. I’ve experienced subtle prejudices against lower-income folks in general but so far I’d been lucky enough to avoid direct jabs against my personal financial situation. These people were mocking me for not bringing money I didn’t have, and making me feel stupid for getting cheated out of almost half my Euros at the conversion kiosk at the airport. Most days I didn’t have enough money to buy water or go to the bathroom and had to ask people for loose change or favors, which made me feel horrible about myself and my situation.

I miss tutoring International students. I miss their open curiosity and eagerness to learn, and I miss talking to them in that nonjudgmental environment. I learned a lot about language from them and them from me, and neither of us made fun of each other for cultural differences or previous experiences. Honestly, sometimes I feel more similar to non-Americans than to Americans.

Selfie Culture

People tell me I will feel better about myself if I accept the fact that I am pretty and my body has few flaws. I notice I take more “selfies” when I am feeling especially pretty or especially upset. I try to capture the moments when I feel good about myself so I can look back on them and know that they exist. A weird thing about our culture is that older generations complain when our generations post too much gloom and doom on social media, but they also complain when we post too many “selfies” or “groupies”, which for many people serve to capture the positivity that tends not to last nowadays. So we’re not allowed to be negative OR positive, essentially. We can’t point out the flaws in this world or the good things we see about ourselves and others.

Snapchat-4998686981687577159

I know it can be annoying to see pretty much the same pictures of people over and over again, and it’s rough getting criticized by the older generation who says we’re attention-seekers whose happiness is dependent on how many likes we get on a given picture. I’m not going to say some people aren’t victim of that, but try thinking of it another way.

I’m not posting these pictures for you. I’m posting them for me.

I don’t care how many likes I get on my pictures because it doesn’t matter. I know who likes me, and I know who loves me, and pressing a button on a web site doesn’t change that.

I don’t care who sees my pictures, but it matters to me that I have the confidence to put them out there.

Because here’s the thing.

I already know I’m pretty.

I’ve known since I was little, and I’ve always appreciated the fact, because everyone kept telling me how pretty I was.

But it was never that important to me.

It actually got kind of annoying how hung up people got on that.

It got embarrassing. It made it seem like they thought that was the only important thing about me. How I looked.

It backfired. I started hating my face. My body. My shape. Everything about me on the outside.

I wanted people to appreciate what they couldn’t see. I wanted to be smart, to be clever, to be artistic, like my brothers were.

Because on the outside I’m perceived as a girl, the language about me changed.

It took me a while to reclaim my appearance. To remember that I’m not trying to be pretty for anyone.

Not even myself.

I’m not trying to be pretty at all.

I don’t feel like I have to be.

That’s not what’s important to me.

I post pictures of myself when I feel good about myself or especially upset, and I do it to remind myself that my ultimate goal is not the number of likes I get or how good my face looks.

My goal is to be loved and wanted for who I am inside.

And more than that, my goal is to make a positive impact wherever I go in this world.

And that has nothing to do with the way I look.

There are many reasons I still dislike the way I look but none of them are because I don’t think I’m pretty enough. I learned that about myself kind of recently. I don’t feel my current body reflects who I am on the inside, but it has little to do with societal conventions of beauty.

I already know I’m pretty. And yes, it’s nice to hear that, especially since current society’s definitions of “beauty” are so strict. My body has flaws that few people ever see, but I’m lucky that for the most part I happen to fall into this mold of “pretty.”

But that’s not important to me.

The reason I’m smiling in these pictures is because I know I’m a good person. I know that I try my hardest. I know that I’ve already started to make a positive impact. I know I have a lot to look forward to, a lot of work left to do. I have good people in my life. I have people that expect good things from me.

People tell me I will feel better about myself if I accept the fact that I am pretty. What they don’t know is that I’m past that. I’ve tried that, and at this point, for me, the “feel better” I get from thinking I’m pretty doesn’t last nearly as long, nor have nearly as much of an impact, as the feeling I get from reminding myself I have worth as a human being.

It was really hard getting to this point and I’m still struggling to stay there. I’m struggling daily to remind myself what’s important to me.

But I have moments to fall back on that help remind me. I take pictures like this to capture the light of those moments.

I don’t like everything about who I am. I don’t know many people that do, and those that do tend to be self-centered, terrified of life or boring. Knowing that I can dislike parts of myself and still like others gives me more strength than just looking in the mirror and thinking “Yeah, I’m pretty.” Being able to look at my reflection, turn away in dissatisfaction, and remind myself that actions speak louder than appearances, is what I need the most right now.

Being able to be dissatisfied with my appearance but know that it’s okay, that I have more important things to focus on, gives me more confidence than saying “I’m pretty” and believing it.

I dress up or down for myself. I opt out of makeup not because I believe it’s a scam but because I just don’t feel like wearing any. And when people tell me I should I shrug it off because that sentiment doesn’t matter to me. I might play around with it and enjoy it but right now I’m fine not putting any on in the morning.

I wear clothes that hide my shape because I happen to like loose baggy clothing. I think it’s more comfortable. And when people tell me it’s a waste of my curves I don’t pay much attention because I know what feels right to me.

And then there are days where I do feel like dressing up, I do feel like wearing skirts and leggings or fancy shirts, and when people tell me they wish I’d dress like that more often because I seem so confident, I look at them and wonder what is it about them that prevents them from seeing that same confidence when I wear my normal clothes. They may not see it but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel it.

I don’t care how I look to other people. Society tells me I should. That’s what I struggle with the most. Living in a society that tells me I have the wrong priorities, that I should care more what people say about how I look. But I don’t, really. I care what people say about my actions and my character.

I don’t know exactly where I’m going with this; it turned out a lot longer that I thought it would. But it’s my two cents for the day. I hope you got something out of it.

Who Am I?

I don’t think I’m ever going to be secure in my identity. Every day I encounter a situation, a person, a comment, an emotion, or an expression that makes me question how I present my gender. For almost a year now I have known that I am neither male nor female but some interesting thing in between. Some days I feel masculine or feminine but for the most part I feel comfortable outside of these expressions. But it is a struggle every day knowing that this is not the norm. It is a struggle every day fighting against ignorance and assumptions; attending large events and being left out when the speaker addresses “ladies and gentlemen” or speaks to “our young men and women.” This binary distinction leaves me and others like me out of the discussion. It is a struggle every day dealing with friends and family who tell me I “would be more comfortable” if I “embraced my femininity.” No, I would be more comfortable if people like you would accept me for who I am.

I’m terrified of telling people I want a different name and pronouns. I have been asked multiple times by some awesome people what my pronouns actually are and each time, though I usually tell them I’m “fine” with the pronouns assigned to me at birth, I feel a little more safe knowing that there are people out there who will switch without a problem if I ask them to start using they/them instead. But unfortunately these times are outweighed by the number of times someone reads my “Ask Me About My Pronouns” button and laughs because they think it’s an “English Major joke” or get uncomfortable when I tell them what it really means.

Like, why should my identity affect anyone else at all?

But then who am I kidding: a huge part of why I’m still hiding part of my identity is because I’m afraid no one will ever be comfortable enough with who I really am to spend the rest of their life with me, or even date me at all. How will they be able to explain me to their friends and family? How will they feel about themselves dating someone who doesn’t have a gender? How will they deal with my fluctuations in gender expression, my panic attacks when I feel like I’ll never truly be accepted in this society, my insecurities, inconsistencies, eccentricities, and emotions?

And do they even have to be a romantic partner to feel uncomfortable? What if my friends reject the real me, too?

It’s only been a year, but it’s been one of the longest years of my life and there are (thankfully) many yet to come. I’m powering through what I can and leaving be what I can’t, and I’ve learned to rely on my friends as best I can. I have support, and I have some privileges, and I have the security to know that, right now at least, I am relatively safe. I could be myself if I want to.

I don’t know what will happen. Maybe I’ll come out to everyone tomorrow; maybe I’ll wait for years. I’m almost positive I won’t be able to tell my parents until I have no obligations to visit them anymore. Most of my supervisors already know. I’m hoping to go into this summer at camp with everyone knowing as well. But telling them will be terrifying. I love my summer camp so much it would be awful to be turned away, but I love it so much I feel like I can’t go back hiding my true self from my kids.

I still have time but what comfort is that knowing I will go back to work and class on Monday hearing people use the wrong pronouns because I’m too afraid to tell them otherwise, and dealing with stupid remarks from classmates who just don’t get it? I hate feeling like the only one who knows anything about being non-binary and the only one who bothers to speak up about it. I hate having to hide myself when everyone tells me I should be authentic. I hate living in a world where what you say, what you do, how you act, and what you feel is restricted based off parts of your body you have no control over. I hate how almost everything and everyone who is the least bit “different” is seen as some kind of threat.

In some ways it would be easier to keep hiding. But I also know that hiding is exhausting. Is it more exhausting than constantly fighting to defend and validate my identity? I don’t know. But I will never know until I try. And I’d rather die knowing I tried and failed (but hopefully won) than die wondering what life would have been like living it as myself.

 

What it Means to be Safe

What it Means to be Safe

Each time I think about the subtly spiked looks that spit between us now, or the blunt words that gently bruise my shaken shoulders, my mind spirals back to the dipping of the mattress when your knees joined me on the bed, the faint creak when you leaned across the curl of my body and carefully covered me with the blanket you gave me the night the scars came back.

My head fizzed with the leftovers from my first drink. A newbie, unnecessarily tipsy. My fresh bones ached; my sharp and shiny monsters crept closer, warded off only by the felted warmth of your gift. I remember your hand on my back as I tried to sleep, its careful kindness a soft stone on my skin, and the quiet voice that questioned the sniffs I tried to bury.

There had been a night where it was I stroking your red curls in my lap while your drunken eyes refused to close, two of us on the strange couch, several dark weekends ago. In my bed you watched over me, as I had with you. My pathetic child’s voice crept past my hands. Your softened response: “I’m not angry.”

Your hands on my back sketching love on my shoulders, fingers longer than mine that held a story, that caught my hands, my hair, my hurt, fingers that the night before handed me the glass while wide eyes watched and waited with me when the buzz entered my body for the first time. Arms that curled around me when we sat in the park admiring the midnight haze and rare summer chill.

I remember what it feels like to be safe.

Leaning on you felt like leaning on a tree—broad shoulders like supple branches carrying the weight of life, your spine a sturdy trunk wrapped in the rings of your years and sheltered by experience. You were sturdy and firm. I relaxed into your soft bark, the jacket I’d lent you in the darkened chill. A shoulder to tuck my head into, kinky red hair rustling against my face. A mouth that sighed, happy.

Your legs lead me through the night when my restless yammering took us around campus. My nonstop chitchat fueled by the fizz and my hyper limbs calmed by long fingers sketching love on my shoulders.

And when I remember your calm smile, your wide eyes searching for mine, your tentative laugh at my tipsy giggle, the tree of your body planted near me, I ache harder for the strength of your branches and the calm of your voice. My stomach ticks when I think of you and heaves when I see you. I know the bright green eyes don’t search for me, long fingers don’t reach for me.

Before I can look into your face again I have to hear your voice—quiet, patient, steady. A calm wind where there had been storm. I have to taste the sadness trickling in the darkness, a sorry sap I know I have to tap.

The distance placed by months of crackled words and severed glances slips behind us when you join me on the step. Bitter concrete sends chills seeping up our skins. The inches between us may be miles or years or forests.

But my arms yawn and my spine shakes when my soggy voice creeps out from the crevice of bent shoulders.

You ask before I let your fingers gently draw across my back. A note of kindness left behind. There was a time we could have shared a note of sorry, of love. I missed you.

I need to feel you again. My demons snicker that you aren’t here; your sturdy trunk has fallen to the storm, your branches cracked and splintered in the grass.

I hug you again. I feel your bones again, I feel the fabric of your shirt, the soft and sticky of your skin, the knots of your hair, the firmness of your arms. Your fingers swirling slowly on my back.

I’m sorry. I missed you. Thank you for coming back.

It’s a different kind of touch; beneath your bark are things I can’t see. It’s a familiar sketch, but sullied and softened. I’ll never be a solitary name carved in your trunk. I’ll never hold the secret part of you I’d tried to see.

But this I can hold—this solid body, this sturdy tree. These gentle branches. The lively heart.

I feel you hold me again and remember what it feels like to be safe.

***

Kitties May 2014 082

Sometimes it’s the safest places that become the most toxic. The tree that withers and decays will still give shade until its putrid remains rain down, smothering those who claimed its haven.

There are different methods of coping with the pain. I don’t think anyone hurt me like you.

Worse than the scores by my own hand on this body that is mine. Worse than the sizzle of the two times you hit me when you were drunk.

Jagged phrases, blunt glares and deep silences.

The eyes that searched me for safety now stared at my arm as if shreds of my flesh were falling off like pieces of a smacked puzzle.

The fingers that sketched my canvass with love have by now counted the slices on my skin months after my shaking hands put them there.

The lips that met my cheek after one too many, pressed against my hands one damp midnight after work, now curled with words invented to smart.

Subtle promises and loaded gifts, snapping back with tart glowers if I took my reaction “too far.” Branches that guided and protected now lashing as at intruders in a bitter storm. Your trunk once planted near me now settled firmly opposite on the plastic benches slicked with October mist.

I snapped that night, the night you sat with me for hours in the dark chill jabbing words at me that cut deeper than my lithe blades, leaving marks more sour than the ones already splattered into my skin.

My core shook. No arms but my own shielded me from the midnight weighted down by autumn. Fingers longer than mine extended, curled and waiting, joined by the familiar murmur of my name. I pulled back, refusing the jaded caress and ignoring the cloying softness.

You can’t hold the blade unless I let you, and I was ready to snatch it back.

Our gazes clashed and for once it was you who couldn’t stare back.

My child’s voice broken by months of maybes and sobs you didn’t deserve now lashed out with stinging truths and long-awaited questions that stumped your ready mouth.

The tree never recognizes the wood of the axe that slices at its trunk.

You’d failed to see I had roots of my own. You never noticed the rings of life curling through my trunk.

Our branches had been tangled for too long. I was done waiting for the wind to set me free.

And when you saw how firmly I was planted it was you who took the fall.

The scars will no longer be for you. The pain has changed and so has the cure. I am alone but I am free.
No one’s branches protect me but my own. I’ve learned what it feels like to be safe.

073

Summer Camp Speculations

Summer Camp Speculations

I just love kids so much. Honestly, sometimes just looking at a small child makes me want to cry, and I really don’t know why that is. I think part of it is because I so intensely want to believe in the amazing spirit of every single child I come across. I want to tell them how awesome they are, how super cool it is that they’re wearing a blue t-shirt, that they are holding their sibling’s hand, that they stop and take a picture of the sunset or a bug with their phone. I want to tell them how much of life they have to look forward to. I want to tell them to keep the positive attitude that they start off with, that conviction that they are perfect and cool and capable and life is just an adventure to live and learn from.

At what point does our society tell our kids that they’re not worth it? What eventually convinces kids that life is a drag, a trial to be tolerated until something better comes along? When do they lose their free spirit, their unshakable sense of self? Who comes up to them and tells them that all the cool things they like are dumb? When are they compelled to stop, look around, see what “everyone else” is doing, and drop what they really want to do just so they can be like “everyone else”?” When do they become convinced that it’s better to fit in with an unrealistic mold than it is to stay yourself?

Recently I’ve started to take a look back at my own life, and I wonder the same things about myself. I know I complain a lot about my family, but my experiences with them don’t begin to explain the intense feelings of self-hatred I experience. And I know from talking to my friends that I’m not the only one. There’s something fucked up about the younger generation, and it’s not our fault, and I’d give anything for this next generation of kids to not have to suffer through it.

I wonder every day what happens to 12-year-olds to make them want to kill themselves. I wonder what kind of hurt kids must have suffered through to become bullies. I wonder how many times it takes for a kid to be hurt before they shut down and are labeled with some kind of mental disorder. I wonder about all the creative minds we’re suppressing because they way they work doesn’t fit “the norm.” I wonder when it was decided that asking for help was a bad thing, so kids are forced to look stupid and adults don’t take the time to ask “Why?”, rather focusing on the “what”–what haven’t you done, what do you need to do to make up for it? I wonder what happened to make parents think that taking care of their kids is no longer a humane necessity but a duty that they perform out of free will and tolerance, and then hang this over their kids’ heads as some kind of threat. “We take care of you, but we don’t really have to, and you should be grateful we give you anything at all.” What is going on here?
All I wanted as a kid was for someone to tell me or show me that I was worth it. That I was worth believing in. It took me years to even realize that’s what I wanted, what I’ve been missing. And now that I’m in a new environment, surrounded by people who love me, support me, and believe in me, I can’t handle it. I don’t know what to do about it. I’m convinced that they must be wrong, that they must be lying to me. I’m so convinced I’m not worth anything that when someone tries to show me the contrary, I shut down, and sometimes start to avoid my closest friends just to get away from that confusing feeling. And the worst part of it is that I know I’m not the only one experiencing this. So many of the people I know are feeling these same feelings and harboring these same thoughts.

And they keep getting younger. One of my precollege girls–she could have only been 10 or 11–wrote a message on the white board at least four times during our 2-week class. “Life is not meaningful.” And she signed it with her name.
WHAT IS GOING ON IN OUR SOCIETY TO MAKE A FUCKING TEN YEAR OLD SAY THAT LIFE IS NOT MEANINGFUL?