December 18th, 2012
My life is hard. Not the kind of hard that makes it difficult to get out of bed in the morning, but the kind of hard that sort of wears on you for days on end until you eventually become a blunted stub of what you used to be. The kind of hard this country has deemed as "normal" and is expected to be felt. But I don't wanna feel that, I never have. I've never wanted to be full of secrets or weighed down by anxiety. And every day I try so hard to be happy. Because I still have faith that the pursuit of happiness isn't just a pursuit. Well that was quite the introduction now, wasn't it? I try my hardest on introductions and conclusions, I think they're the most important parts. That being said, I'll try to make my middle as interesting as possible, but no promises. My name is Brittany Pierce. I'd tell you my middle name but it's generic and I kind of hate it. I don't know why I'm writing this but I think it's because I'm not really myself anymore and I'm trying every possible way to figure out why. I know that's what therapists are for but nobody has the money for that, including me. I'm a second-year college student at the University of Louisville. They say college is the best time of your life and I'm really hoping that's not true. It's not like I'm unhappy there, I just don't like limiting my happiness like that. I'm applying to be a Family and Human Services major so I can devote my life to the improvement of the human race. People think it's noble but I just think it's necessary. My mother thinks it's stupid and my dad doesn't seem to care. I like to say I don't really take my parents' feelings into account, but I do. I love them with a lot of fibers of my being (not all, though) and I want nothing more than to make them proud. Just to get it out of the way now, I'll tell you that alcohol ruined my mother and thus, conversely, my brother, sister, and me. I hate writing the word "alcohol." It's so fucking ugly, ya know? My father saved us and he is my hero, but I don't really know how to talk to him. He's more socially awkward than I am! My family is broken but I guess that's what gives me so much compassion, ambition, and empathy. I've also been told I can write, so I can probably accredit that to my blistered past as well. Why is it that the best writers are fucked up on the inside? I think it's because fucked up people are the only people who are REAL. That's a word I value. Real. Old music is real. Poetry is real. The look on someone's face when you've just shattered their world is real. I know that face all too well because I've worn it too many times. To be honest, I don't really know what I'm going to write about or if my entries are even going to be cohesive. But I know for a fact that my words are real and that the ink that flows from my pen is an anchor tying me down to the present. I think that's my biggest problem, not being present. I spend a lot of time dwelling on the past, contemplating the future, or worrying about what others think of me. It prevents me from actually living, which is bad of me. But I'm working on it. I hope you're not expecting a love story, because I really don't know if it's going to happen any time soon. I pray and wish all the time for someone to come and save me but aside from that, there's not a lot I can do, right? I think I'll go read now, my sister just bought a new book I've really grown fond of.