Our Father...

Am I a bad person, for feeling this way?
Listening to you talk about your father and wondering if I will be telling the same horror stories oneday, it makes me sad.
I was once fearful for the younger offspring, but I see the way you love her. I feel the way she has no fear for you.
It's different with her. You are different now.
You say you are fearful that I resent you, and you are right. I resent you. You ruined the way I see all men. You killed the way I feel respect. If you could do it over, you say, you would... I know you would be the same. It wasn't the change in you father, it was the me that was the problem.
You always ask why I hate you. You always ask what you can do to make me like you.
Just stop wondering. The damage is done. There is no reversing the way you have made me feel.
If I am a bad person, I will just have to live with it.
And so will you.

Misplaced Misfortune

I was trapped in a car for days with the family. It wasn't so bad, but I felt creative the entire ride, crossing state boarders and smelling weather changes. All I wanted to do was write. And alas I was trapped with no outlet for the words swimming through my veins.
I regret it now, because there is nothing left of those thoughts. They are long gone, littered among the state lines and left in the warmth that isn't induced by a wood stove.
I am sure they are happier there. And who knows, maybe I will come across them on the journey home. But for the time being I am left voiceless.
So I will discontinue this attempt at reviving those thoughts.

Happy Holidays.

I listen to what I want to hear. I digest what I need to hear. And I tolerate what you need to say, just so we can all seem a little happier.
I haven’t loved family holidays for years. Spending my days with the very people I seem to avoid all other days of the year, talking about my future which I don’t believe I have, smelling all those foods that make me want to vomit, all the gift wrapping flying through the air and complete chaos- I hate it all.
I feel bad… as I should for hating being around people who love me. It hurts me that I feel nothing back. And honestly there is nothing I could possibly do to fix myself. I have tried everything know to induce feelings for someone- anyone, but I never have.
And dear family, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I can’t be the person you need to see smiling at all the love and attention I am receiving from you. But understand that it’s not all my fault. But it’s not all your fault either. But this is an incurable disease I have. And it all stems from the self-loathing I am so good at.
It’s that one thing I am still good at.
Professional.
Pathetic.

You Know

I am surprised to find that I am not even remotely upset.
I am not even looking back.
I assume we both know what's going on here.

You know that look you always said I gave you...? I am pretty sure it was frustration, curiosity and disgust all melded together. I am so glad this happened the way it did.

It was fun, and now, thankfully, it's done.

Me.

Allow me to define myself. My name is Jessica Diane Hunt. My body is 20 years old and my mind is nearing senior citizenship. I like independent films, long books, narration, alternative music, and for fun I am a professional photographer. I don’t believe in stereotypes. I don’t believe in love. I do believe in God, although we aren’t very close.
What you see is an average girl with average looks and average outcomes. I used to have dreams. I used to have goals. I am quiet by anyone’s standards, but this isn’t because I have nothing to say. It’s because I don’t want to waste my time explaining what I think.
I break all my own rules. I don’t accept my own advice, let alone anyone else’s. I am passive. No one ever knows when I need or want or feel or anything. Life is easier that way.
I can’t explain it because I don’t really believe I can explain myself.
This is how I view myself. This is my definition.
Nothing is skin deep. Everything has a back story. And everyone is thinking the same things all the time.
They are thinking “me”. We only care for ourselves and we wait for someone else to care about ourselves too. That is what we call love. These are the simple, plain language views of life.
We are here.
We are here alone.
We don’t want to be alone.
We find company.
We wait to leave.
Death.
And all we think is “me”.

Shh..

Can I confide in you a secret? Well, I suppose it’s not a secret that I am a human being with human feelings, but I hear that some of the qualities are a little different than average.
I want to fall in love. Eventually, that is. But first I want someone to fall helplessly, desperately, madly, painfully in love with me. I want to know that am what makes someone get up in the morning. I want to be disgusted with the amount of attention that someone tries to pay me. I want someone to love me more than I love myself.
Does that make me selfish? I have always assumed that it did. I have had people whose opinions I don’t respect tell me that this thinking is most definitely selfish. But if this is the one thing I am selfish about it, I will be perfectly fine.
I do want to fall in love, eventually. But I just don’t think I am in an acceptable place to make that leap.
So keep my secret, just a little longer.

Make Meaning.

Today I was staring at a park bench. Just a simple poorly placed bench that was divided into 3 separate seats on the sidewalk and I started thinking about the type of people in the world. What people would be sitting on this bench?
There is the far right sitter. She cowers to herself hoping her sitting doesn’t inconvenience anyone, keeping all her belongings safely under her feet and keeping her elbows from crossing the line. She does this in the off chance that someone else would want to share this bench with her.
There is the left side sitter. He walked up to this bench and took the easiest first seat that came to him. He isn’t rude, but at the same time he doesn’t think of the inconvenience of someone stepping around him. He makes himself comfortable, but not too comfortable. His elbows might cross the sides; he might shyly stare at the far left sitter, wondering if she would give him the time of day.
Then there is the middle sitter. He has no concern for how he is portrayed. He doesn’t care if his closeness makes the others uncomfortable. Even if he arrived at the bench first he would have taken that middle seat. His personality says that you will notice him and if you absolutely need to sit, you will sit by him. And you will like it. He strikes up conversation to make the situation seemingly less uncomfortable.
Three strangers sharing a bench; as close as possible, yet as unfamiliar as living in the same world allows.
The one weird girl staring at a park bench… hoping someone won’t notice how much thought she puts into breathing each day.