What’s in a Name?

Brandon: Deception, pain, anger, bad memories. Love, good memories, almost the one. The reason I started this blog.

When I hear that name, no matter who the name belongs to, my first reaction is to think of those words. Names define a person. Perhaps not for everyone, but it does for me. I have a bad feeling about all girls names Allison because a girl back in high school was a huge bitch to me. Likewise, I immediately get a flash of hate when I meet or hear about someone named Brandon. I guess he just fucked me over that much.

So, imagine my surprise when I’m scrolling through Facebook and I see a picture my best friend “liked”. It was a picture Brandon had posted, and it was a picture of what I assumed was his 6 month old baby girl. Usually I wouldn’t care. I had gotten over him, right? I don’t care about his life anymore. But then I made the mistake of reading the caption.

“Amelia sleeping so peacefully tonight.”

For those of you who don’t know, that’s my name. My name is Amelia.

At first I was confused. Amelia? Why would he type that? Obviously that picture was not the picture of his baby girl… it was someone else’s. It had to be. So, of course, I consulted my best friend who “liked” the picture to confirm my thoughts.

But no. That is his baby girl. And he named her Amelia.

So now I’m sitting here, processing the idea that my ex’s little girl has my name. Perhaps you don’t understand what the big deal is, and if you don’t then feel free to consult the first 10-15 posts of this blog. He is the reason I started it. I was in a dark place after he kind of tossed me on the curb and then proceeded to try and drag me back for 6 more months. He wanted to be friends with me, but I just couldn’t. I didn’t want him to be able to say my name with any happiness.

But now he says it every day, full of love and hope and happiness.

And once again, like I’ve ended almost every blog post about him for the past 4 years, I’m still hurting.

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Waiting for It

“Love doesn’t discriminate
between the sinners
and the saints,
it takes and it takes and it takes
and we keep loving anyway.
We laugh and we cry
and we break
and we make our mistakes.
And if there’s a reason I’m by her side
when so many have tried
then I’m willing to wait for it.
I’m willing to wait for it…

Life doesn’t discriminate
between the sinners and the saints
it takes and it takes and it takes
and we keep living anyway,
we rise and we fall and we break
and we make our mistakes
and if there’s a reason
I’m still alive
when so many have died,
then I’m willing’ to wait for it…

Death doesn’t discriminate
Between the sinners and the saints,
it takes and it takes and it takes
and we keep living anyway.
We rise and we fall
and we break
and we make our mistakes.
And if there’s a reason I’m still alive
when everyone who loves me has died
I’m willing to wait for it.
I’m willing to wait for it.
Wait for it.” – Wait for It, Hamilton

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The Last Five Years

I haven’t quite decided if sharing secrets bind friends together or tears them apart. I suppose it depends on the secret. Or maybe secrets bind friends together for as long as the secret remains critical. Or as long as the secret it kept just that: a secret.

Even though it happened almost 5 years ago, the repercussions still weigh heavily on me. At the time, this massive secret made us all feel closer to each other. We shared something no one else could possibly feel or understand. It made us stick together like glue — we were each other’s support. We were each other’s survival. I don’t think I could have ever gotten through a time like that without my best friends, and they probably couldn’t either.

And now, 5 years later, I feel like we are all trying to hold onto each other by a thread; trying to feel that closeness we had. I don’t know how much longer we will make an effort to stay in each other’s lives. It seems like they have all moved on with their life. They have been able to work through what happened and move past it. Sometimes I feel I have not.

And I get the sense that they blame me in some way. Not for everything, of course, but for a lot. I get the feeling that talking with me brings back every emotion from 5 years ago. I get the feeling that they all look at me and see Junior Year Amelia, trying to make sure nothing falls apart and sacrificing a lot to make that happen. They can’t fully forgive me. And I don’t blame them one bit. I can’t fully forgive myself, either. I was in the middle of it all, and I dragged them in with me, not wanting to go through it alone. I remind them of what we all went through. They all still talk to each other, and I sometimes find myself feeling very much alone.

We are all clutching on to ghosts of each other, and I don’t know how much longer that is going to last.

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I’ve lost my voice.
And I don’t know where to find it.
I lost it somewhere between staying young and growing up,
Which is a large span of time to search.
When did I put down the pen?
When did the words stop flowing from my fingertips?
I’m not sure.
I shouldn’t stop looking,
But I feel as if I should.
I feel as if I’ll never find it again.

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“Love, hunt me down,
I can’t stand to be so dead behind the eyes.
And feed me, spark me up,
A creature in my blood stream chews me up.

So I can feel something,
So I can feel something.

Give me touch
‘Cause I’ve been missing it.
I’m dreaming of
Kissing me in the night
Just so I,
Just so I

Can feel something

You steal me away
With your eyes and with your mouth.
And just take me back to a room in your house,
And stare at me with the lights off.

To feel something

In the night,
In the night,
In the night,
When we touch
In the night,
‘Cause I’ve been lusting it.” – Touch by Daughter

In the night
In the night
In the night
When we touch
In the night
‘Cause I’ve been lusting it

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An Angry Letter to Dad.

Dear Dad,

When you asked me if I understood why you stay away from the house, I didn’t. When you asked me how I felt when Tom and I broke up, I rolled my eyes because you think that is comparable. Yes, I didn’t want to see Tom. I didn’t want to be around him or think about him. But here is the difference: there weren’t children involved.

And yes, I told you to grow the fuck up because there are children involved. You are hurting, I get it. You don’t want to see mom or the house; I get it. But what I don’t get is that you feel it is acceptable to not see your two daughters for weeks on end just because you’re hurting. Grow the fuck up. Get over it. See your children.

And no, I’m not ecstatic over the divorce and neither is mother. Thanks to your inability to talk things out with her, I’ve had to be the one to hold my own mother when she cries because you won’t talk to her (or when you do, you tell her that you feel she is going to hell because her soul isn’t saved — not cool).

I’m sorry that your plan to be married to mom forever and to live in our house forever isn’t happening anymore, but whose fault was the divorce? Yes, mom has her issues, but stop acting blameless. Stop playing the victim.

Stop being a shitty father.

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Grumble Grumble.

I’m not quite sure why my subconscious likes to torture me, but for the past month my nights have been filled with dreams about how I don’t have a boyfriend/my journey getting a boyfriend/having a boyfriend. Essentially all things boyfriend. Why my subconscious thinks I need to be aware of my boyfriendless state 24/7 (because I think about it when I’m awake, too), but apparently I do.

Of course, it probably doesn’t help that a good majority of the girls I went to high school with have gotten engaged/married the past few months — even the extremely smart ones — so at 22 years old I feel like I have fallen behind where I am supposed to be in my life.

It also doesn’t help that I’m pretty much successful in everything else except relationships of any kind, whereas many unsuccessful people around me are actually successful in relationships. What do they have that I don’t have?

Ah, yes, the ramblings of a drunk female.

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Adult of Divorce

My parents have had a pretty on-and-off relationship ever since I can remember. When I was an infant dad would leave and come back, then mom would leave and come back, and so on. Over the years not much has changed, except for the leaving part. Since I have three younger siblings, both parents have wised up and realized that might not be the best thing for their children to witness. That hasn’t stopped them from throwing the divorce word around every couple of months. I never could get away from it. Even when I was in college 4 hours away, I would get a call from my frustrated father telling me he “had it up to here with your mother” and then I would get a call from my mother detailing how the divorce was going to work and that it would be in everyone’s best interest. Things would seemingly cool down a week later and I wouldn’t hear anything else about it until they would have another big blow up. They were empty threats, something I or anyone else never took too seriously.

There was even one time a year ago where my father suddenly decided he was going to move out of the house and sell it. He began tearing through my little sibling’s rooms, hastily boxing things up for storage. It really shocked my little brother and sister, scarring them to the point that any time they see packing tape come out of the drawer they ask if dad is going to pack everything up again. After about half a day of packing, my dad went to sleep. When he woke up, he acted as if none of it had ever happened, ignoring the boxes strewn about the house.

There are still boxes piled in corners around the house, unopened.

My father likes to be a bit dramatic.

But this time feels different. This time my mother filed papers, my father has set a deadline on when he is moving out, and meanwhile he moved upstairs into the spare bedroom. He even knows who he is going to stay with. Yes, this time is different. This time, the divorce is actually happening.

It’s an odd feeling, really, being 21-years-old, the oldest child, and faced with your parent’s visibly broken relationship actually coming to a close. I think it’s different when your parents get divorced at a young age; you aren’t entirely sure what is happening or why it’s happening. I was raised in my parent’s bad relationship. I know everything that is wrong between them — every moment of distrust, every night spent in hopelessness, every thought of divorce. I was 12 when I was sitting in my father’s car listening to him tell me everything that is wrong with my mother. I was 13 when I would hear my mother lecture me to “not marry a man like your father”. And after every conversation like that, I would have to go home and watch them exchange veiled pleasantries in front of me and listen to them scream at each other when they thought I was out of earshot. Sure, I didn’t know everything that was going on at the time, but as I grew older they both thought it would be appropriate to let me know the wrongdoings one did to the other in the past when I was a child and didn’t know any better. Once I hit high school, I would be privileged to stories of how my mother felt so ashamed to ask for money from friends and family because my father failed to pay the bills and racked up debt, of how my father felt like a failure to his children for not being able to properly provide for his family. It weighted me down for a long, long time.

As the oldest, I felt it was my job to take care of my siblings. Mother would stay late at work and dad would shut himself in his room to drown his sorrows in TV shows. My grandmother was really the one keeping the house together, and I would watch after the kids. Yes, I call my siblings the kids (a fact that completely baffled my therapist). And then I went away to college, and for the longest time I felt like I had abandoned them; I had left them in a place devoid of love and affection. I was tormented by the idea that they weren’t getting a good idea of what a relationship is supposed to be like, that they didn’t know what it looked like to have two people in love. I never did, and it has shown in my relationships. I finished college in 3 years total and have rushed back home and back into the parental role. And once again, I feel responsible for them.

Not only do I feel responsible for the kids, but I also feel responsible for my parents. I don’t know why. My therapist said that I am the fixer in the family. I am the one that tries to hold things together. That might be true, and if it is I am apparently epically failing at it. Let me tell you why I feel responsible for my parents. There are several reasons, and they are in no particular order.

There are many nights that I lie awake thinking about how my father feels, and it makes me sick to my stomach and it makes me want to cry. I don’t think he has paid a bill on time in twenty years. Something is always way overdue. He is about to enter his second divorce. He can’t keep a relationship with anyone, platonic or otherwise. When he comes home, his ears fill with my mother’s disapproval and the sound of disappointment in her voice. He never hears an encouraging word from her. He has worked so hard to run away from his terrible childhood, and it seems like anything he ever does is a reflection of what he had to grow up with. My father is a good man, he just can’t escape the damage done as a child.

There are also many nights where I lie awake thinking about my mother. About the hole my father put her in. About how she feels like a failed parent because she can’t do things to help us children out due to my father’s debt he built in her name. My mother doesn’t trust anyone anymore because for so long she heard my father whisper in her ear that it would be okay, that he would get things paid off, that they would be debt free. And that has yet to happen. My mother looks at me with tears in her eyes and tells me she is fine, that she will figure it all out.

My parents are drowning in each other’s sorrow. And I feel like I have to help them out of it. Because of their failures, I have chosen to be overly successful. Because of their mistakes, I pushed myself through 3 years of undergrad and now 2 years of graduate school so I can earn money to help them pay everything off and ease their minds.

Perhaps it would have been better for them to divorce when I was a child and didn’t know any better. But it doesn’t matter, because they are divorcing now, when I’m 21-years-old. And I’m still here trying to fix whatever is left over.

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Oh, It’s You Again.

Oh, hey there. You’ve popped up again. I haven’t thought about you in a while, but here you are taking up space in my head. Your face floated into my thoughts like a delicate butterfly after I heard someone who sounded like you. It’s good to see you.

You were in my dream again last night. You do that every few weeks. It was so vivid and real to me that I woke up happy, thinking the dream had transcended into reality. In my dream you burst into my house, picked me up, and began passionately kissing me. Gross, I know. I remember being so confused but I wasn’t going to question what was happening. And then you left me, and I stood there stunned and hurt. And then the dream skipped time as it does, and I found myself opening the door with you standing there. I remember I couldn’t breathe with your green eyes piercing into me. You told me you were sorry for leaving, that you freaked out. You told me your feelings scared you, but that we should try a relationship because why the hell not? You said we spent the majority of our friendship in high school missing our chance, so now is as good of a time as any. I looked at you very seriously, not believing this was actually happening. Not believing you were in front of me, admitting your feelings, something both of us were too scared to do before. But there you were, doing just that. And then I woke up. I woke up happy. And then I realized it was a dream.

I suppose all of these random dreams and thoughts of you is my subconscious telling me to contact you somehow, either over Facebook or text or whatever, even though it’s been 2 years since we last spoke. But that won’t happen. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to hear from me, and I wouldn’t know what to say.

There was one time a few years ago where you told me you liked to read my blog to keep up with me. I wonder if you still do. I wrote another blog post about you 2 years ago, and I remember you messaging me and asking me if it was about you. I lied and said no. But I guess telling the truth doesn’t really matter anymore, so here I am telling you the truth in case you still read this silly thing.

I suppose for now I’ll just hope that you decide to contact me one day and I’ll keep working on the same thing I have been doing for 4 years: getting over you.

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Last night I was sexually assaulted. I stayed the night at a male friend’s house, let’s call him John, because my roommate was having a secret sorority meeting early the next morning and I wasn’t allowed in the house. John and I went out with some friends and had a really good time. We went back to his place where I was going to sleep on the couch, but the dog had peed on it. John said I could bunk with him. I told him nothing was going to happen and that I just wanted to sleep, which he said was just fine. Apparently, however, he thought I was joking or something.

The next thing I know, he is lying behind me, his arms around my neck and waist, and he is biting my neck. I kept telling him to stop, and I kept trying to push him away. He eventually let go and called me a “buzzkill” and “no fun”. He told me that he knew I liked it, I was just being difficult. I tried to get up and leave, but he pulled me back and wouldn’t let go. He kept biting and biting and I thought, maybe if I just stop struggling he will stop.

So I did. I stopped struggling, and he eventually stopped, calling me “boring”. I tried to get up a few more times and leave, but he kept pulling me back, biting me and trying to put his hands down my pants. Eventually, he fell asleep and I managed to slip out.

The funny thing is the sexual assault from someone I trusted isn’t the thing that is really shaking me up right now. What is getting to me is the fact that I am blaming myself.

As a former RA, I was trained on how to handle sexual assaults. I was trained on women’s right and how “no” means “no”. But I can’t help but think to myself, “This is on me. I put myself in that situation.” Maybe I could have been no forceful with my “no”s. Maybe I could have avoided the situation by sleeping in my car. Maybe if I was more clear with my lack of desire. He kept calling be boring and a buzzkill and no fun, and I honestly felt bad for ruining his time.

My friends want me to go to the police, but I won’t. I know I should, but what will they say? Will they believe me? I wasn’t even raped, and the only thing I have to show is bite marks and hickeys. What if I am being over dramatic or remembering it wrong? And I don’t want to ruin someone’s life over this. But on the other hand, I don’t want him to ruin someone else’s life if he does this again.

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