Behind Brown Eyes

No one knows what it's like. To be completely dismissed and not listened to. Ever. No one takes me seriously. No one. Maybe it has been my own doing. I never do anything that I want. I just sit and go with the flow. But the minute I actually have an opinion or something that I want to say or do, I am disgarded. 

Door mat, meet Allie. 

I always thought it was me who plowed through my relationships. That I was the controlling one. No. I'm just a nag who likes things a certain way. And even when that "certain way" is exclaimed every time, it is never done that way. Take for instance, my MIL. She doesn't listen to the way I like my cats taken care of. I have them on a very strict schedule and diet. But what does she do? She feeds them when she wants and what she wants: milk, tuna and half a bag of treats because, "Sonny wasn't eating anything else." 

And I notice that in the midst of whatever relationships I'm in, where I'm the door mat, I get frustrated. Like, hey, ouch, that hurts. Get the fuck off of me! Too little, too late. It becomes a struggle for control. Even though I didn't have any to begin with. I'm not OK with this anymore. 

Here we go, word vomit: 

Have my parents even checked on me to make sure I'm ok? If I went missing for 2 weeks do you think they would notice or care? I'm not the one with the drug problem, so it's easy to disregard me. My mom has been to my apartment in White Plains, once. My dad? Zero. My mom will call me on the phone to see how the cats are doing, but not how I'm doing. She also didn't actually believe that I was depressed last year. No one did. No one "understood" the mood swings, the crying at any moment, the complete loss of appetite for life. Seasonal depression, they called it. 

It never truly went away. It just became easier to manage. A voice lesson here.  A dance class there. Nice distractions. I still cannot channel my feelings in the correct way. I have no idea which way is which or if I'm right. All I know is that I do not feel supported, loved, truly cared about. And I know I cannot go on the rest of my life feeling like this. 

I wish my Dad would come and have dinner with me every Thursday when he's in Westchester. Instead, he has no idea where I actually live. Nor does he call me on Saturday mornings like I asked him to when we last spoke on the phone. I don't care if he wakes me up. I should be awake. My stepbrothers don't even have my phone number. My real brother is too scared to even talk to me because of what happened a few years ago. I'm also terrified of getting too close to him again, because of what happened a few years ago. My stepsister is more concerned with other things then spending time with me. My stepmother has three kids of her own, even though she said she always wanted more. I want to think that she thinks I'm one of hers and not just "Paul's daughter". My mother lies and spends more time in the Adirondacks without me. I was never invited up there for a weekend. Every time I ask her to watch my cats she has something else to do, like go to the Adirondacks. Am I asking too much? It's not material things. There is absolutely no price tag on my simple requests. Or am I that bad of a person that no one wants to spend time with me? Am I cold? Not friendly. Do I have resting bitch face? 

Do I complain too much? Am I judgemental? 

The last thing I want is anyone's sympathy. I just want them to genuinely want to spend time with me. Or just call and check in. But how do I say this to people without feeling rejected? I already felt rejected when I asked my father to take me to the doctor for a preop for surgery. Granted it was in the middle of a work day when I asked and it sounded like he had better things to do. 

My husband can't sit still. He's the one I feel most dismissed by. I live with him. I see him 7 days a week. He doesn't ask me any questions. I'm the one who has to start all conversations. We're always doing things that he suggests. It's a 50/50 chance it's also something I want to do. Yet when I ask for something, I get turned down. When all I want to do is relax, we have to go do something else. I already have to split my holidays between my mom and my dad, now I have to split it between my in-laws too. 

Every year I ask to be on a tropical island for my birthday. And every year, I am told no. I legit just looked up flights and hotel to Aruba from 12/24-12/26. Alone. Do I really want to spend my birthday alone? At this point, I'm metaphorically alone so is it really that much different? 

I've had two meltdowns this week in front of my husband and he still hasn't asked me if I'm OK. Ignorance is bliss. #Blessed

You can judge me all you want from everything I just wrote, I don't care. For once in my life, I don't give two fucks. I only want to surround myself with people who care. Who actually take the time out to send me something, an email, a text, or god forbid even a phone call. Hell, I'll even take good vibes at this point because why the hell not. 

No one knows what it's like, to have a birthday on Christmas. And no one knows what it's like to be me. Would you have cared enough to ask?

Scaredy Cat

You know the feeling when something is too good to be true? It probably is. That's how I live my life. A skeptic from Day 1. Glass half empty. There's a lot going on behind the smile on my face. Endless thoughts of the future, my beautiful relaxing future. But, I'm scared.

I'm scared to just go for it. Because something will go wrong. I won't have the right formula, the right look or I won't even be any good. Confidence? Pssh.

There's a photo of me around age 2 or 3 and I'm sitting at my kiddie table in my living room. I have a blue pen and a yellow legal pad. I hadn't really learned how to write yet, but you could tell it wanted to just pour out of me.Yet, here I am, 20 some odd years later and I am terrified. Terrified of my thoughts. Terrified I won't be able to finish a thought. All of my writing has gone unfinished minus 1 screen play and 1 short story. Both of which will never see the light of day. Ever.

What does it really take to start something? Just a little hope and faith. Lately, I've had neither. 

I want to be a published writer. I used to write Journalism, blogs of course but a for realsies published writer with a book, a book tour and millions of people reading the words I wrote. The words that came out of my brain and onto a MS Word doc. Even right now the typing of the keys invigorates me. All of this pent up writing aggression. I just need to start. Just like how I did this blog. Words to paper. Baby steps. I don't need to finish a whole novel in 24 hours.

Nothing is what it seems, and nothing will be everything you've ever wanted. My one idea could spawn an entirely different story than originally planned. I just have to be prepared for that. Not necessarily prepared, just willing to go with the flow.

I also need accountability. 

How many hours are in a day? I work for 8 or 9 of them and then I try to sleep for at least 6 or 7. So, in between eating, showering, commuting, playing with my cats and spending quality time with my husband where does that leave me? Oh, right. A big fat zero.

In reality they're just excuses. 

In a perfect world, I would quit my job, live off of my book advance and write a best selling novel for the ages. They'd make a movie out of it and I'd live peacefully in San Diego, taking yoga and pilates, tending to my garden, cooking delicious healthy foods for my family and going on fun vacations with my husband. I'd volunteer at an animal shelter and have a healthy wardrobe and knick knack collection all vintage and used.

You heard it here first, folks.

Time to throw away the pessimism. It's getting me nowhere close to San Diego.

Not quite San Diego, this is actually Ireland.