This One Goes Out To You

Wanna hear quite possibly the most ironic thing of all time?

When I was a little girl, my mother used to play a lot of music in the house and in the car. I have to give my mother some credit for exposing me to a lot of media and helping widen my knowledge of pop culture, especially when it comes to music, so. One day, the song “Sweet Child O’ Mine” by Guns ‘N Roses came on, and I can’t remember where we were or what the situation was, but I distinctly recall her saying to me:

This was the song your father and I picked for you. This is your song.

If you’ve read my blog, and you know anything about my parents, my childhood, my relationship with my family or anything pertaining to that, you’d recognize this statement as full on fucking hilarious. Like, Emmy Award Winning Best Writing in a Comedy Series type of hilarious because it evokes so much foreshadowing and irony that nothing beats it. My parents are NOT the kind of people who believe in the lyrics portrayed in this song.

My mother, back in the day, was fairly okay. It wasn’t until she really got re-married when I was about 8 and started living with a psychologically abusive stepdad that she took a turn for the worse. There was a time when she was rather enjoyable and loving, but that all quickly changed and now, no matter how much she swears up and down she has changed, I cannot believe a word of it because I’ve been at the firing line firsthand. My father has never cared about me, at least not outside the abstract sense. He cares that someone exists who will carry on his last name (Taylor is not actually my last name), but seeing as I’m infertile, there’s hilarity in that as well. He has rarely reached out to talk since I was a young adult and often left me wildly depressed and disappointed as a little girl. I was usually nothing more than a bargaining chip between the two of them growing up, especially for my father, and it’s taught me to be extremely wary of people in general when they say they care for me.

When you dedicate a song to someone, you do it because you honestly, genuinely believe that song encapsulates how you feel towards the person you’re dedicating it to. We’ve all heard it said, that couple that goes, “Oh, this is OUR song!”. The song they play at their wedding, that they had on the radio on their first date or something. That one tune. But to dedicate a song, especially one as ultimately schmaltzy as “Sweet Child O’ Mine”, to your newborn daughter and then turn around and abuse her for years to come is completely insulting to the entire concept of dedicating songs to people. I mean, imagine taking lyrics like this:

I hate to look into those eyes and see an ounce of pain

and turning right around and inflicting that pain on your own child. You hate to see an ounce of pain? Then stop fucking hurting me. I know. I know. Every kid grows up to hate their parents and eventually realizes how much they loved them and blah blah blah. No. Some kids actually grew up in a broken fucking home. My home might’ve been lavish and we might’ve had money, but that didn’t make it any less goddamned broken, alright? My parents often fought about me right in front of my bedroom door so I’d feel bad, they often allowed my stepsiblings to make fun of me openly without defending me one bit, they often made fun of me THEMSELVES, which was hilarious, given that I actually put in the effort to get to know my stepfather and we shared more of the same common interests than his own children shared with him, and yet he STILL treated me poorly. Gee, I wonder why I don’t get close to people anymore? Hey, Maggie, why don’t you open up and let people in? Because if my body is a temple, then you fuckers are here to desecrate it.

…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get that emotional. I’m just sometimes in utter awe at the fact that people can be that two faced. That deceptive, especially to themselves about themselves. I was a scared, somewhat challenged little girl. All I wanted was a mom and a dad, any dad, who loved me. Who believed in me. Who supported me. Who wanted to be with me. You know what the end result in this is? By dedicating that song to me, and then not following through on loving me themselves, sometimes it feels like Guns ‘N Roses loved me more because, oh, it’s MY song. Think about that. I’m a 28 year old woman now, and I have a more parental connection to a fucking 80s rock ballad than to my own paternal figures. How is that ok.

I am nobodies sweet child.

Especially not yours, mom and dad.


I Hate The Sound Of Your Voice

It’s amazing how easily you can forget someones voice.

I spent a lot of years with people, be them step-siblings, pretend friends or family members, and yet…yet I cannot recall a single voice for so many of them. Some of these are people I spent so much time with, a number of years close to, and still…I can picture their faces clear as day, but their voices…it’s impossible for me to recall them. Perhaps it’s because humans are more visual than auditory creatures, that would be one reason at least, but I still think it’s interesting because some of them were people I did care about. If this was just happening to people who hurt me, people I hated, people I wanted to forget, that’d be one thing. Blocking them out so I could move on. I’d accept that. But this happens to people I loved, like my grandparents. Ex girlfriends. It just confuses me is all.

But maybe I’ve just got a rather shitty memory. I mean, I obviously can remember some things with perfect clarity, like rooms, but when it comes to other things, I can’t seem to even remember what I ate yesterday. The thing is, I can remember songs with no problems, I can recite entire film scripts from memory, I can recall whole podcasts after listening to them a few times, but when it comes to just voices, and only voices from people I’ve known, I can’t remember a single one if I’m not still interacting with them on an audio day to day basis. The worst part is that I hate my own voice, so being online for as long as I’ve been since the AOL days, texting, chatrooms and more all are a godsend to me. If I don’t have to listen to myself, I will feel so much happier. Why do I hate my own voice? Well, part of it’s because I wish it sounded more feminine, but also because for as long as I can remember, people have been telling me to shut up, be quiet, or some variation of those sentiments. Because of that, I feel like if I open my mouth, it’ll somehow anger somebody somewhere.

What really sucks is the people I love the most are the voices I can no longer remember, and the people who’ve hurt me are the voices I still hear to this day, like my mother or the friend I lost this past summer. It’s like my brain has been conditioned to believe that I deserve to suffer and feel uncomfortable, partly because people have told me that I deserve to suffer and be uncomfortable, so those are the voices it does remember. But the people whos voices I want to remember? My grandmother? Old, close friends? No bueno, senorita. No. I must, at all times, acknowledge those who’ve hurt me, even if they aren’t hurting me anymore. I think, the only positive I can parse from this, is that my brain does this so I don’t let my guard down. So I go, “Ok, I remember how poorly I’ve been treated, and I am not letting myself be treated that way anymore by anyone again.” That’s the only conclusion I can come to that has a happy ending to it.

So I don’t remember the voices of those who loved me, those I cared about. But…sometimes, when I dream, I see them, and I hear them, and it’s like they’re there again, and for a little while, I feel okay again.

Like this post? Then you might like some of my other stuff, like my depressing space webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry” or my new site “Sad Party”, where I encourage people to share how badly they feel so others can not feel so alone. If you like this stuff, you could also maybe donate to my SquareCash. It’d be greatly appreciated. Thanks!


The Nothing Sandwich

I am so convinced that everyone hates me, even people who go out of their way to tell me they don’t, which only emboldens my belief that they’re doing that so that they don’t seem as obvious with their hatred towards me. Guess when people tell you your whole life they hate you, you just start to believe that everyone will forever.

The worst part is, I can’t even be mad at them for hating me, because I understand. I’m clingy, and ill and vanilla. I’m everything nobody wants. I am the nothing sandwich. A boring, unexciting white bread exterior holding in the most plain meats and cheeses one has ever encountered, topped off with a condiment that nobody else would ever dare to touch. I sit there on the menu, and sometimes someone comes along and orders me either by accident, mistaking me for a sandwich they thought they once had and enjoyed, or out of curiosity, because from a distance, for a moment, I can seem intriguing. But once they’ve taken that first bite, or even just see me arrive on the table, their faces shrivel up in disgust or disappointment, and without even attempting to try me, they just push the plate away from them and order something more appetizing.

I grew up getting hate from every angle; my friends, my own family, other people at school including teachers. Hate has been the single most common feeling directed at me, so much so that not only do I not begrudge others for hating me, but I also hate me because it just seems like the right thing to do. Who wants to openly enjoy The Nothing Sandwich? There’s nothing special or original about it. I’m not physically interesting, I’m just a pale redheaded asthmatic lesbian. I don’t have very intriguing interests, I like tap dance and ballet and literature. Order a better sandwich. A more appealing sandwich. A sandwich with something more than two ingredients. And those who have taken the risk to like The Nothing Sandwich are often belittled by their friends.

“How can you eat that?!”

So they order something better. Something more socially acceptable. Something people order because they enjoy it, not out of pity. I’m not looking for sympathy. I’m simply explaining how my life is, how I am, and how everyone has always seemed to view me. And don’t give me that tired old expression: “Well, nobody will ever love you until you love yourself!” Great, so I’m not deserving of love? That’s bullshit. My girlfriend loves me and I fucking despise myself, so I know for a fact it’s bullshit. I’ve had multiple girlfriends through my life, all while hating myself with a passion, so don’t even try and sell me on that faux positive platitude.

The thing is…despite all of this, every now and then there’s someone who is excited to order The Nothing Sandwich. They actually enjoy it. They looked forward to having it again. These are the people who matter.

It’s not so bad being The Nothing Sandwich.