Be nosy.

I’m sad and no one cares enough to notice, so I’m just writing feeble posts on Tumblr. Pathetic.

God created me for companionship, I know that I’ll make a fine wife for someone someday. But my fascination with the idea is overwhelming. It’s not only what I want for myself, but for others. I want God to speak through me to couples who are stuck. I want to help people and make a difference in the lives of the committed. What is my preoccupation with marriage all of a sudden? I’m trying desperately to be realistic about it, but I can’t help but feel swept away by the romance of it all. I want that, but also more. Deeper. I want to be solidity for someone else. I want to bake for someone, to do someone’s laundry, to make someone happy. I want to be myself completely, as cliche as it may be. I want love. Real life, every day, cutting to the core love. But I feel like I’m not allowed to want all of these things. You see, at seventeen years old, I am not supposed to want this. I should be single and have fun! I’m told that I should enjoy my youth while I have it, but what’s so wrong about wanting to share my youth with someone else? Am I an idiot for having these thoughts as just barely a high school graduate? Conflicting emotions, faith, and influential people. The likelihood of divorce for young couples is about a billion times more than that of older couples. What a terrifying prospect for someone, like myself, who’s always envisioned herself at the altar in her adolescence. Perhaps this all just makes me sound crazy. Perhaps I am just that. Don’t get me wrong, I will follow God’s calling. And I won’t marry the next guy I see simply for the sake of a young wedding. I’m far more thoughtful than that. But I need guidance. Desperately.

Dissatisfaction is what I see. Feeling low and unloved Because of what this body does. I refuse to indulge in God-given cravings. Denying myself the beauty that He provides. Beauty only exists in sallowed cheeks, prominent rib cage, and jutting hips. Exhausted and on edge. All of the time. Can’t stop resisting. Pleasure sneaks up on me in my control. I want desperately to enjoy once again, but the idea seems far fetched at this point in time. I wish someone would care enough to notice, to tell me to stop, to tell me that I’m lovely as I am. Because I’m frequently reminded of the exact opposite. My heart will shatter along with my weakening bones. My body is only a shell, encasing something that I’ve grown to loathe.

Why have I done this to myself? I need Jesus.

Mash up of adolescence.