4.5. Old School

When did family become old school? It boggles my mind how many times I see people who are so dependent on social media to be social that they miss the true opportunities to reach out to those they know. Or better said, those they knew. Because you lose touch with people and their realities.

When did family fights lead to a Facebook delete? And when did this delete decide whether or not people will ever reach out to each other? People can tag others on posts but won’t bother to make a phone call.

Huge life moments happen and friends can’t reach out to one another. Family can’t reach out to one another. People don’t pick up the phone, put in the effort to have a five minute conversation. Everything is from behind a screen, whether it be the phone or the computer.

I’m not really sure when communication became old school. I’m not sure when talking became old school. I’m not sure when the default button, for lack of a better term, became the go to. The button that gets slammed the minute there is an issue. Instead of humbling oneself and moving forward, we stay waged in a war we aren’t even sure why we’re fighting.

Social media was created to socialize but instead dictates and controls whether people will allow bonds to flourish or fail. We are quick to deny, delete, ignore the “requests” that should matter but we accept any and everyone who will fuel the fire our ego needs to stay warm.

Too often, I hear people criticize the Christian who only attends church on Easter and Christmas. “Chreasters.” And yet, aren’t we all fair weather friends, fair weather family? Aren’t we all guilty of only reaching out when the time is fitting?

Set aside the obligations and requirements. Instead, reach out to those who matter and make an effort. Take an extra moment out of your day and reach out. Because one day, people will be gone. And the opportunity will be lost. The only thing worse is to ask a child if they want to call someone and the child responds “who is that?” Because that child should know. But he doesn’t. And it wasn’t our choice.

I’d give anything to hear my dads voice again. I can look at pictures of him, a piece of paper with his handwriting on it. But there is nothing that compares to the sound of his voice. And only those who can appreciate the old school way could understand that.

3.5. Letter To The Boys (An Online Dating Rant)

If you’ve ever stumbled upon any of my “random guy messages,” you knew this was coming. This is definitely a big middle finger to the typical, those who play the game, those who scheme with false advertising, those who make it damn near impossible for a girl to hold out hope for a good catch to come along.

And before you decide to judge any of the following and manifest some “epic rebuttal that will not this girl off her feet” about how women are no better…I don’t deny that girls play games, enable the ridiculously crude garbage spewed, and are highly capable of being overly sexual in order to get what they want. That being said: I’m a woman who is attracted to men and so I don’t feel the need to address the sex I’m not aiming to attract. That is a rant all its own but this one is for the boys.

Don’t get me wrong…I know for a fact that no guy will read this and be epically changed. It doesn’t work that way. I don’t think this post is going to move anyone. It’s a rant (see the title), which means I’m writing this for me to vent. I’m getting out all of the garbage that’s racing through my head. If one woman reads this and attempts to raise her baby boy to be a better man in the process…hell yeah, I won! That’s about as much hope as I can have for this thing.

I’ve been on a dating website for just about two years. In those two years, I’ve gone on less than a handful of dates and have never had a second date. I’ve had phone conversations, texting, skype conversations, and singular dates. 99% of my online interaction have been me hitting delete or “block user.”

Yes, I’m picky. A girl needs to have standards and though I will no deny I have, in fact, lowered my standards at times out of pure boredom…they always return. I read messages on a daily basis in which a guy shoots straight for the sexual innuendos, carries one conversation before asking me to come over, or wants to talk marriage and babies after a week. There is no middle ground. There is no courtship. There is no actual dating process.

Less than five dates in two years? What’s wrong with me?

A LOT!

I am messy. I have a very chaotic mind. I get bored easily. I have trust issues. I have a temper. I am territorial. I want someone who will give me attention when I want it but go the hell away when I don’t. Mentally, I am sexually driven but physically, I have little desire to actually have sex. I am always attracted to the type of guy that doesn’t want me. I’m loud. I’m far too outspoken for my own damn good. And that’s just what I can think of off the top of my head at 1am.

Well, no wonder I’m single, huh?

You’re right. I’m not going to argue with it. But pause. I asked a guy, the other day, what his flaws were and his answer: nothing. Nothing. NOTHING! That’s a crock of shit and that just made a list of flaws for you boo-boo.

I’m a bitch. I own it. I embrace it. Is it an awesome personality trait? No. But it’s a part of me. I can turn bitchmode on in .05 seconds and slap you so hard with some venomous words…ya damn head will spin, make you cry and curl up in a ball while you internally question why you weren’t aborted. Yes, I can be a viper.

This is probably detrimental to whether a guy will talk to me. Well fellas…so is swearing “I’m a good guy.” “I’m different.” “I’m not like other guys.” Do you know what all of these things say to me? You are a douche bag. You are exactly the same as all the rest. I’ve seen your type before. Call it pessimism. I call it experience. A good guy doesn’t have to say what he is. He just is and it’s undeniable.

Why are you clearly a 3 and you’re messaging someone who is definitely a 7+? I know this sounds superficial (search for that post in which I address the hypocrisy of guys saying what they want physically but girls saying the same things and being considered shallow) but I could care less. You might be a 5 on a good day. A 6 if I’m intoxicated but you seriously posted some pictures of yourself looking like a convict. Not an ex-convict. Current. Present tense, sweetie. No and thank you.

Also, feel free to shave your face, clean your mirror for that selfie, stop shooting all your pics in hats (do you have hair), stop shooting group shots so I can’t tell who you are, no club shots with five girls on you (are your slut days over yet), and stop checking fit/athletic with your keg and four chins. BE HONEST!

If you’re looking for a hookup/friends with benefits – don’t message a girl who clearly states she’s looking for a relationship. It’s a waste of time and though you may be fine as all hell…you want something different. It’s asinine to be upset with the girl when she doesn’t want to talk about her favorite position if she was honest about her intent. I get it. We’re single and we’re shopping. Some people want discount material, some people want BOGO deals, some people are bringing coupons, and some people are holding out for the best quality stuff. If you buy cheap – you will have to return to the store sooner rather than later for a replacement. Some of us want to make one trip and be done with it.

Try consistency. Try chivalry. Try honesty. Try being genuine. I know it sounds simple but it works. There is someone for everyone and though your honesty may not draw in every girl…it will attract the one for you.

Baby boys – stop messaging a woman 10 years your senior bragging about how you could sexually satisfy, provide, blah blah blah…I’ve already stopped listening. That shit might work on the Beverly Hills housewives or the ragged but the smart ones are unimpressed and have no desire to be your sugar momma.

Older men – stay in your lane and don’t assume every woman younger than you wants a sugar daddy. Shop age appropriate and stop looking for arm candy or the next incubator for your seed.

Online dating didn’t work for me. That’s not to say it doesn’t work for other people. It’s 2014 and more people are meeting their future partners online than you think. Maybe the pickings are slim everywhere and I’ve just observed the best of the worst  online. Either way, I’m over the game. I’d rather not play and just say I did.

P.S.  A special note to the guys with kids who immediately act like a complete and utter piece of trash – you should be ashamed of yourself and I hope your child learns what a man should be from SOMEONE ELSE!

Here’s to being single.

I’m out.

3.3. Then and Now: A Reflection of My Reflection

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Like everyone else, I was born quite unaware. Eager to get here, I was born premature to someone who admittedly engaged in…let’s just say some “less than motherly habits.” With a ventricular septal defect (a hole in my heart), my battle started pretty early on. Though it is literal, I can’t help but feel like that hole represented something lacking in me from day one…a piece of me left in another world…wherever my soul originated from.

20140106_153042 Never comfortable in my skin, I was self conscious from my first memories. I knew we didn’t have much…a truth no child should know so early on. My sister and I got our heads buzzed as kids because of a lice outbreak. It happens. Some parents just don’t have the patience to comb through the locks. I can still remember walking down the stairs at the museum and a woman telling my mother, “your son is adorable.” Apparently, I made a cute boy but an unattractive little girl because I didn’t have long flowing hair. I didn’t wear frilly dresses but instead lived in sweaters and jeans that were never long enough. The standards were set quickly and by the time this picture was taken…I was already failing.

While being a pretty little girl didn’t work for me…so was my transition into weirdness. Being odd suited me and though it didn’t make the years any better or merciful, it gave me something to cling to. An identity. Even if it was a strange one. By this time, we were moving around a lot. I can’t even keep track of all the people we lived with for short periods of time but I know it was a time that gave us an intense feeling of detachment. Don’t get comfortable because you’re not going to stay long. Don’t get attached because you’ll never be as important. When you’re inconvenient, people will leave you. An internal void, evidently unattractive and unwanted…it wasn’t easy. 20140106_153114

20140106_153053Fourth grade was the first time I became aware of death. This was a type of leaving I could accept though the thought of it sucked. But it seemed easier to understand since the person who left didn’t do it intentionally. By this time, I knew I was the “ugly kid.” Children can be cruel and they were. My clothes screamed how unimportant I was despite my house being filled with thirteen animals (that upkeep isn’t cheap), and shelves upon shelves of porcelain dolls and expensive figurines. My childhood home was a shrine to all that was materialistic. I was no doll and showed no signs of growing beauty. I wasn’t like the other kids. I could feel it. My mind ran with vivid stories and games propelling me into a fictitious world of happiness and appreciation. I admired what others had and pretended, in the confines of some random inch of space, that I had it all. I was forced to be a dreamer. Reality was an ugly world.

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I searched for God. I went to Spanish service at a catholic church with desperation in my heart. That hole was growing and it haunted me. The practices that were happening behind closed doors were eating my soul and gave me nightmares that seeped into daydreams. My imagination was being tainted and violence soon took hold of my stories. “Please make me beautiful, God. So they will love me. Anyone to love me.” Love me enough to rescue me from the terrors that occurred in a closet, on railroad tracks at 2am, in a room with so many witnesses and no allies. But God did not hear me and it all continued. Alien. Ugly. Unwanted. Forsaken. The forecast was bleak.

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 The teen years set in. This is the inevitable time of self-loathing, poor self-esteem, and massive self-deprecation. To say I bashed myself would be an understatement. I wasn’t developed like the other girls. Thirteen and I wasn’t a “real girl” because I hadn’t started menstruating. This was the start of my ghost-writing. I admired many and yet, was left unseen. But I made for a good friend. One that could get the girl for you. Because, somehow, I knew what to say. Knocks on my door made me feel important. Knocks from boys I crushed on…asking me to write another poem for their latest conquest. And I did it. Because being useful was better than nothing at all. I was a dork. A nerd. A bookworm. Basic. Average. Below average. Ordinary. I was everything that can crush a young girl. Yes, I read a lot but damn it just think I’m pretty. Please. See something great in me. Please think I’m beautiful. Please care.

20140106_152940Maybe setting would do the trick. Maybe if I started over…someone would appreciate me in a way I hoped. Location changed but the story remained the same. I was the secret friend to some…helping them get the girl…useful but unseen. Even worse, I was seen and unwanted. What personality would I take on? Who would I become so people would accept me. I tried many and all of them failed. So, I did the next best thing. I settled. At 16, I dated a 24 year old because he showed me attention and he liked me and he said I was pretty and it was all I wanted. Hindsight says I just allowed earlier abuse to repeat itself…to allow the word “love” to mask the hurt and damage that was being done. But hell, to be beautiful was worth it to me. At 16, beautiful was the only label I could dream about. The only one I could never truly attain. But damn if I didn’t try.

20140106_152849And then something happened. I relocated again and was still seen as a nobody. This was expected. What wasn’t was the type of attention I got. I would never be the “girlfriend” but I could be the secret. The one you wanted to know on Friday at 1am. I was the girl who visited old friends back home, friends who expressed my ugliness dead on…only to have them ask for physical engagements. My body was just flesh to satisfy a primal hunger. Can’t lie…I basked in being wanted for a bit. But lust is not love. It’s not even as nice as like. It’s cheap. It’s disposable. It’s short-lived.

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I didn’t want to be seen. I wished for invisibility.  I was born broken, my flesh is tired, and my heart aches. My mind cannot handle any more lies. My soul wants to quit.

My high school years consisted of three high schools, seven homes, very few lasting friendships, a sickening eating disorder, a short lived relationship with a man far too old for me, a miscarriage, a stolen identity, and one hell of a culture shock. It all added to my personal disgust…I hated who I was.

20140106_152903Old habits die hard. The few relationships I’ve had in my life have been that of an abusive nature, whether physical/mental/emotional, all the while…I questioned my worth. Why couldn’t I do better? Where was my unconditional? The one that would look at me and love me and know me and see me and mean it. And not leave. He didn’t exist.

I stood in the mirror and despised the reflection I’d been running from since day one. I pulled a sharpie from the drawer and drew on that mirror. I added all of the details that I thought would make me lovable. I colored over the flaws and morphed what was wrong into what I thought others would accept as right. By the end of it…the mirror was a picture perfect image of something…someone. I was somewhere in there. I was certain. I just couldn’t see it. I lost myself and for the time being, I thought that was the right thing to do. I’m an alien and I need to fit in to this world. The only way to do that would be to put on the costume and play the part. 20140106_153009

But I was never a good actress. Slowly but surely, my sadness seeped through and I hated the picture I painted. I hated that fake bitch. I hated the bullshit smiles. I hated the loss of voice. The loss of self. The death of the creative mind and heart. I lashed out and became a beast. Having an opinion meant I was argumentative. My creative mind was run by the devil. My heart was stone and my soul never existed. I was broken glass…unfixable. I hated the world that didn’t want me. And all of the occupants in it.

PreggoMy father loved my mind. Nico loved my soul. They both had to leave. I will be reunited with them some day. But until then, I remain with the one that loves my heart.

I spent my ENTIRE life wanting to be beautiful. Wanting to be physically desired, craved, needed, pursued. Ironically, that is all anyone seems to want from me as I near 30. Now, I would give anything to have someone knock down doors to talk to me…to engage in conversation that lasts all night. To be enthralled by laughter and dialogue that stimulates the mind and the soul. Yes, I want to be seen as a beauty. But more so…I want the words of my heart, the creativity of my mind, the passion of my soul…I want these things to be my beauty. I want to be defined by the iceberg that lay beneath the surface. Waiting…hoping…dreaming…wondering…

Will that hole in my heart ever be filled.CAM02045

I walk away from the mirror. I’m tired of seeing my reflection in this pool of tears. I’m tired of seeing the caricature I have become in an attempt to be loved. I avoid the waters that scream a truth I cannot hear. Not anymore. Maybe, on another day, I will look and see something amazing. Until then, I close the door and live in shadows.

mommy

But the light touches my skin and I think…the hole in my heart was filled. Just not in the way I’d anticipated.

In a way that has been so much greater.

3.1. I Write…

Because the ink is my air

And the words are my breaths.

Because it hurts to stifle the gypsies that dance in the catacombs of this mind.

Because the thirst is vampiric

Primal and raw.

Because nothing is so delicate as the clacking of keys

Stroking of pens

Slide of paper

Visions of a visionary

The bird that soars within me

Free to speak and preach and be

Free

To give and tell and share and project

Images onto the wall

Because they are real

Each character and place

The plot has happened within me

The souls linger

Begging to be recognized

Acknowledged .

Forget the rest. This is not about poetics but the dream within the dream that runs from a brutal reality of living nightmares.

This is my ladder out of the dark hole. This is my rope of redemption. Pulling myself from the grave I was shoved into from the womb.

Because of a family tree that has rotted and withered in the darkness of secrets.

Because I want to be more than a dealer, a player, a con, a liar, a manipulator, a thief, a criminal, a user, an abuser.

Because these words are the seeds to plant new trees.

Of shade and fruit

That will bare the souls of stories and stories of souls.

Because my son will NEVER go to sleep hungry.

Because my son will NEVER know the shame of monopoly money.

Because my son will NEVER hide in a school bathroom, stifling his own cries within a stall as the remnants of their words bloom into scars upon the fleshy self-esteem they devour.

Because my son will NEVER will never be asked to be a part of the con so tomorrow can be easier. And I still wonder if those debilitating migraines stem from her wicked demands of bashing a broken piece of wall against my adolescent skull because “you’ve got to make it believable so we can sue.”

Because my son will NEVER curl his toes to fit into a shoe two sizes too small while I live lavishly.

Because it is my job to use what I know, those voices, those stories, that pain, and the creative juices that flow through my veins like the blood that trickles from their lips to make something beautiful.

To keep a promise that his tomorrow will be the rainbow to all of my yesterdays.

Because the pain of my past is worth the glory of his future.

Because I will make this life count.

Because I will build the foundation of his greatness.

Because he will NEVER know those types of tears.

My hands slam against the keys with purpose.

With conviction.

Because my hands will do for him what no hands have ever done for me.

I write…

Because I have to.

2.47. The Gun ~ False Accusations

Recent events have led me to become far more aware to my triggers. It is no secret to those who know me well, to those who have read some of my work, and to those who have shared late night conversations that I am the survivor of multiple acts of abuse over the course of my life.

Triggers can send someone into a flashback, force them to live a repressed memory, to be frozen in a traumatic moment until the moment has passed. I can stop these flashbacks just about as easily as a soldier can stop the images of war replaying on a sleepless night. A trigger can be anything from a smell to a scent to a word to a bodily gesture.

In the last two weeks, I have identified two flashbacks though the triggers have varied. The latter flashback is something that fully came about a day after the actual trigger. This is a bit disheartening and scary but something that I am learning to work with.

When I young, a movie came out by the name of KIDS. Back then, and even now I’m sure, the movie was graphic and explicit in it’s sexual content and drug usage. It stared HIV dead in the face and addressed the issues facing youth at the time. I was 11 years old. 

While most kids were watching the movie in secrecy, against their parents wishes, my father said we would watch it together. He wanted me to get the message and we would talk about it afterwards. He encouraged dialogue and for me to feel safe in talking to him about anything involved in the movie. We talked afterwards and I had a million and one why questions. The sex didn’t seem important to me. I wanted to know if that was like real life and my father said, sadly, it was. 

My mother came in after the movie ended and erupted once she found out what we’d watched. She snatched me from the floor of the living room and forced me to put on shorts and tuck in a shirt for my bed attire (normally, I wore a long shirt). She berated my father and called him a pedophile, a molestor, a rapist, a sick fuck, a disgusting pervert, a piece of shit, a no good piece of garbage, a pathetic man, a waste of air…and the list went on for hours. “He’s not even your real father,” she screamed, as if that would somehow make things understandable. She had me hide in my room and I was not allowed to talk to my father. She walked beside me from the bathroom to the kitchen and every room in between to “protect me” from the “pervert living in our home.” I watched my father cry each time she had me march by him, “you like that, you sick fuck, you like little girls?” 

I didn’t get to talk to my father for almost a week. After a week, she decided she had punished him enough and life went on like “normal.” It didn’t elude me that if she really thought he was a pedophile, she’d just allowed him to stay in our home. It didn’t elude me that once payday came, she suddenly felt inclined to forgive him. Looking back, I find it ironic that she was quick to label my father, the one person who NEVER ONCE put his hands on me in any harmful way (he only cursed at me twice in my life and both of them were ‘damn its’), all the while I was being molested right under her nose. 

I remember the pain in his eyes. The sadness for such labels. I remember feeling like I trusted this man more than any of my own blood and yet, I was being torn from him. He was being punished for the sake of my mothers insecurities as a parent. She wanted to drive a wedge between us because she knew I idolized my father. Her jealousy turned to venom and she tried to brainwash me that my father was hurting me. But I knew he wasn’t. He knew that talking to me was the best way to keep me smart. To keep me aware and safe. That if I could watch this movie with him and have no shame about asking questions, I would never have shame when it came time for me to face the world of peer pressure, teen angst, and sexual dialogues. 

That was 18 years ago. And yet, it was crystal clear to me just a day ago. I relived that moment and could only respond with “oh my god.” I could not stop my father from being berated. I could not stop someone from being embarrassed. I could not stop a physical gesture that my body instinctively recognizes as a threat. Since I was five, when someone put their hands near my face…it was to punch me, slap me, pull my hair, or push me down. A hand near the face had never been a peaceful sign to me. And it never will be.

I am working through my triggers. I recognize myself as a person living with PTSD.  As do the multiple doctors who have diagnosed me (I’m not a web diagnosed individual). I have about 24 years of therapists, psychologists, psychiatrists visits under my belt and with good reason. I’ve had some pretty ugly things served to me on a rusty platter. Sometimes, new things literally take me back to those horrific moments, those debilitating memories, those scary moments of programming. But I AM STILL a work in progress. And there is hope for me that I will be able to create new memories, new bonds, new moments of trust. I cannot control what other people do or say. I cannot necessarily keep every trigger silent. This should petrify me. I have to remain strong and remove all toxins from my life. No exceptions.

I may have flashbacks but I will not set up a zip code.

Pull the trigger but your bullets will not scar me anymore.

2.37. In All Honesty

Spring is near…hell it’s Kansas so Spring may show up in August for all we know, but the overall symbolism of the season has set into full blast…kinda. Actually, it should be the opposite…the beginning of Winter. When life is ending, things die, everything is cold, quiet, and gloomy.

People say divorce is comparable to a death. And it is. The death of something you thought would last forever. Now, don’t have me mistaken with someone else; I chose to go through with my divorce…I asked for it. But I imagined it would be a rebirth. An opportunity for two miserable people to find their happiness again. What has manifested is a full blown war…a spiteful display of tyranny and a chaotic concert with nothing but hate blasting through the speakers.

 

I recently attended a class called FOCIS. Focus On Children In Separation. Sadly, that hasn’t been the case in the demise of my union. It has been an icy exchange. Something embedded with vengeance. Something VERY hard to deal with.

Before I go any further, let me make it very clear that I have no clue what I’m doing. That I’m making tons of mistakes. I am emotionally screwed right now. I have no idea how to have friendships, family ties, interactions with the adult species. The epitome of my understanding is with that of a three year old (my son) and even then…I get lost sometimes and just wish he would understand that I want to cry, to hide, to fade and not deal with the agony of breathing. But he will not understand my pain. He shouldn’t have to. He didn’t choose this. He sure as shit didn’t choose me.

During that FOCIS class, the instructor went over the 5 stages of grief, first really introduced by Elsabeth Kubler-Ross in her 1969 book “On Death and Dying.”

  1. Denial and Isolation
  2. Anger
  3. Bargaining
  4. Depression/Guilt
  5. Acceptance

According to the instructor, the journey through these stages…on average…can be between 18 months and 4 years. 4 YEARS!!!! I slip into each one of these stages, depending on the day.

I have isolated myself despite playing the open book. I have walked away from friendships without so much as a tear. Because these people will leave sooner or later. It always happens. It always will happen. So fuck it. There is no use in holding on to people who will throw me away like garbage.

I become so angry, it’s sickening. I hate people who are happy. I hate people who complain about petty shit. I hate people who have it all figured out. I hate people who have no emotional understanding. I hate people who assume I should just deal. I hate people who pass judgement on my every fucking move. I hate people who think, for one second, they could deal with this pain. I hate people who have never been single a day in their adult life telling me to not feel completely lost. I hate people who have no courage to be alone telling me to stay strong…ALONE. I hate people who use that bullshit line, “you think you’re the only one in the world who…” No shit I’m not the only one going through shit. But I’m living my life. Is a rape victim supposed to think, “well, someone else went through this and worse so I should just get over it.” UM, NO! I hate the bullshit optimism and then the continuous “whatever” mentality when everything doesn’t go as fucking wonderfully as you’ve tried to convince me it would. You were wrong. Accept it. Admit that being a part of my life was a mistake and walk away. I’m giving you the option. Because I hate, more than anything, anyone who will stay in my life and is miserable because of that connection. Just walk.

I have bargained. I will do anything. I will die if it means peace for my son. For people around me. I will shut up and take it. I will forget. I will forgive. I will pretend to be happy when I’m not. I will do whatever…if only…

I have fallen into depression. I feel guilt every fucking day for existing. For just being alive. Wouldn’t people be so much better off if I were gone? Wouldn’t they all just be happier if I never existed? I have cried myself to sleep and screamed to a God I don’t believe in. I have begged for mercy. I have prayed on the phone. I have called hotlines. I have puked out the remnants of an empty bottle. I have lost myself in the pure feeling of being a mistake. I have been ashamed of my feelings because I have a child and I should never think of my own end. What kind of mother am I if I don’t want to jump out of bed every day to look at my beautiful boy? I feel guilt that he got such a pathetic ass excuse of a mother as me. I feel guilt that I am not better. That I don’t even know how to be better.

Acceptance is supposed to be that one when things make sense and there is a sense of peace and clarity. But in my acceptance, I have come to an understanding that none of this pain will EVER go away. My life is meant to be shit. And it will never change. It will always be this hard. It will always be this dark. It will always hurt this much.

Feel free to have a rolling of the eyes session, a “this bitch swears” moment…I seriously don’t fucking care. These are my emotions. These are my thoughts. This is my life. It is not and does not have to be a part of yours.

In all honesty, there is only ONE thing I am certain about…just one…but it is the most important thing for me to know – I love my son. I love my baby boy with every ounce of my being. I do not care if not one single person on this planet cares about me as long as my son knows I love him and I live ONLY for him.

In all honesty, my son is the ONLY thing I’ve done right in my life. The ONLY thing I am proud to be a part of. The ONLY reason I have the tiniest glimmer of hope in my heart that this life can be beautiful. As hard as the days get, I know this life has possibility…for happiness, for love, for laughter, for growth, for beauty…ONLY because he is in it.

I am a flawed human being. I am struggling to find peace in this battle. I am lost, scared, uncertain, feeling broken…

BUT I am willing to continue my journey, no matter what, because my son will always know I kept going…despite it all…FOR HIM. Here’s to healing, to growing, to figuring me out. To fixing me. One stage at a time.

2.35. Humbled But Happy

 It’s all about POV. 

I’ve spent the past year or so thinking…he has a home, he has a relationship, he has a great paying job, he has vehicles that work, he has family that lives in this state, he has everything I don’t. How did this happen? What’s the point of me trying…

I have a one bedroom, a car that doesn’t work, a job that pays fair but nowhere near what I realistically need, no family in this state, and no one that cares about me on a romantic/relationship level.

In speaking to a friend today, reflecting on the situation, recognizing how much I’ve been smiling lately…

He has stuff. Lots and lots of stuff. And is still a miserable, bitter, angry person. And that saddens me.

On the other hand, I have my son. I have genuine people in my life. I have a clear head and an open heart. I have so much more than I could have ever hoped for. I’m not to my destination but I’m definitely on my way.

This life is about your POV. I may have “nothing,” to many but my “nothing” is absolutely everything to me. And I’m happy.

Can’t say that about the other side. And with no ill will do I hope he gets there. I hope he learns to enjoy life a little more, smile a little more, appreciate a little more. Because the stuff doesn’t matter. The stuff will all go away.

In losing all of the “stuff,” I’ve gained my life back. Knowing just how hard these past two years have been…I wouldn’t change it. Not at all.

My POV is not about what I have or don’t. It’s about cherishing every single awesome moment with my child, every personal accomplishment (no matter how big or small), knowing genuine gratitude for beautiful friends and family, finding peace in myself, spiritual calm, and learning about the ability to take life as it comes.

It’s not going to be perfect here on out. That’s not the really real world. But damn if I don’t feel optimistic about tomorrow. Because each day has grown to be better than so many of my yesterdays.

It’s all about your POV. Do you have the right one?

2.34. Sister Sister

Are you there, sis?

It’s me. Writing to tell you one thing. To tell you I am grateful. To know you. To call you my friend. My family. My crutch. My mirror. My reminder.

Of what forgiveness is. Second chances. Redemption. Unconditional. Truth.

Are you there, sis?

It’s me. Calling to say that I know we wasted too much time in this life. We let years fly and missed out; caught up in ourselves…in the darkness of mistakes and stupidity…in the whispering of others…and we lost sight…

We crossed lines and fought wars against each other – bloodshed being our intent. We didn’t care and could have stayed on the battlefield until the onset of our own demise.

Are you there, sis?

It’s me. Writing to tell you that I know we both miss him. We’d bring him back if we could. We’d give it all up to hear his voice again. To have our second chances. But he left us for a reason. He was tired. Tired of waiting on us to figure our shit out. He knew we were stubborn and self-absorbed. And he did the one thing he knew would wake us up…he walked away.

Are you there, sis?

It’s me. Calling to say that he left us with a void on purpose. Because he knew only we could love each other they way he loved us. He made room for us to need each other again. To remind us that we are stronger than our demons. That we are soldiers on the same team. Fighting the same war. A war we can, and will, win together.

Are you there, sis?

It’s me. Writing to tell you that I see you. I see the real you. I see the woman that works so hard to  provide. I see the little girl that just wanted to be heard. I hear the young poet who lost her voice and came back screaming. I hear the songstress who sings the tears of her heart. I know the woman who is scared to fail, to disappoint, to be lost. I see behind the quiet, the cold, the show, the mask. I see you. I see you. I.See.You.

And you are a beautiful soul.

Are you there, sis?

It’s me. Calling to say that you’ve made mistakes. You are human. You are not your yesterday. You are human. You have room to grow and you are doing so. You are human. You are worthy. You are beautiful. You are strong. You are kind. You are intelligent. You are a person worth knowing.

Are you there, sis?

It’s me. Writing to tell you that I understand. Even when there is silence. Even when we disagree. I understand. Because no one knows our battle but us. No one knows what we’ve seen, heard and felt. But I am here. I am always here. I am never, ever going to leave you. I am never, ever going to walk away. We will not fixate on those who chose to disappear. We tried. And that’s all we can do. But it is you and I.

I couldn’t wish for a better person to stand beside.

Are you there, sis?

It’s me. Calling to say I am grateful we got a second chance. To remind you that Daddy loved you. That Daddy loves you still. That your children have every reason to be proud of you. That my son loves you. That I love you.

Are you there, sis?

I ask but I know, in my heart, I don’t have to.

Because I know you are. You are there. And I am here. For you.

Always.

2.33. He Kissed Me

And I felt like putty

Like the sky at 7:53am on a Tuesday while Bob Marley played in someones car…”No woman no cry.”

Like an empty bottle of creamy baby oil left atop an unused counter…waiting

Like a cool bottle of wine, uncorked but owned

Like a valley unpaved by mankind.

He kissed me 

And I felt like an orgasmic tigress

An unleashed heathen

A closeted slut

A pornographic master

A willing submissive

An intrigued Dom

Waiting Prey

The hungry predator.

He kissed me 

And floodgates opened

Unfaked

Unprecedented

Untouchable

Unknown

Unsure

Unleashed

Lips to lips

Exhales

Lips to throat

Inhales

Palms to palms pressed, fiercely, against cold brick

Lips to chest

Whimpers

Dreaming

Pleading

He kissed me

With every intent of staying

And fleeing

Gasping for more

My oxygen in his lungs

My everything in his hands

My world in his words

Anywhere

Anytime

He kissed me

And I was something else

Someone else

A vixen

A kitten

A little bit of both

A culmination of what shouldn’t be and what had to be

Lips to stomach

Staring at the back of eyelids

Familiarizing scents and tastes

Tongues sway

Linger

Hover

Lips to inner thigh

He kissed me 

And I watched him beg

To feel pretty lips

Below the hips

For one thrust

One drink

One…

One…

One…

2.32. We Are An Angry People

We are an angry people

Overpowered by the necessity to grow with the propensity to thrash in oceans of muck we created. Erratic manifestations overflowing from pores of the poor onto the feet of oblivious caricatures strolling through the scene.

I’m dead, I’m dead, I’m dead…

But very much alive in thought and ideas. Continuously moving and flowing, contaminating the sparkling water that caresses the tips of lips and coagulates before the throat has any idea dysfunction has seeped in and claimed a home.

A sanction in this new body, this new place…where we can be any fucking thing we want to be. Taught to morph and manipulate through the cracks until you believe we are everything and nothing you want us to be.

Quiet and easily unseen; we are those shadows. Domineering and self assured; easily played and often easily assumed. Smart enough to enter a circle of false prophets and million dollar penguins…done without a second thought. Dumb enough so you’ll reveal your secrets to semi-deaf, but not really, ears…always.

We are an angry people.

But quietly waiting for our moment

Mutiny

When chains will be launched and blood will be shed. When tears will cleanse away oceans of blood. Yours and yours again. So giving…the foolish tend to be.

We are an angry people.

Lost in the memories of who we were. Who we thought we should have been and who we can’t seem to explain. BUT we fight. We fight on, no matter the personal anguish, because we are cold. We will turn off switches and lash them against your back in the same notion. Not two breaths or two beats will pass in hesitation because we can give the pain we know all too well.

We laugh when they cry and sulk and crumble. Because we have lived that life. We have seen that road. Fuck, we paved it. We know the feeling…

Mother, where did you go?

Father, why did you go?

Liars and thieves sculpted from first occupancy…created as soldiers to enable, to secure, to pawn, to prostitute, to manipulate, to convey, to sway, to torture, to shatter…………………………..

We are an angry fucking people.

Tired of broken promises. Lies upon lies upon lies upon…silk bed sheets where more false promises are molded, pushed, prodded, molested, raped, skinned, burned, pressed, slapped, punched, shunned, scoured, dragged, beaten, bruised, hung to dry until the next time.

We recall the baggage, the pain of yesteryear because it’s simpler, more familiar, than your smiles and whimsical moments.

Your happiness scares us. Terrifies us. Instills the deepest, truest sense of fear in us.

We are an angry people. Hoping to get out of the darkness, hoping to taste life for the first time before it’s over.

But trembling with fear at the prospect.