2.46. The Wounded Soul – My Proudest Failure

This post is not about the many known names who have died over the course of this year from apparent suicide. Their deaths are sad and a loss to the world but there is nothing that can be done for them.  Their chances have ended. It’s sad but what can you do about it now? This is not about the unknowns who are gone from this world. Their story is no different. This is about the ones we can save. 

When I was 26, after my son was born, I suffered from postpartum depression while simultaneously suffering from an infection, which caused me to lose part of my right breast. The fake glue that was holding my doomed marriage together melted away. My world crumbled very quickly. I recall sitting in a bathroom and penning a letter to my child in which I apologized for failing him, for not being strong enough to have the desire to continue. I remember calling a crisis hotline while sitting on the curb of a dark street and telling some stranger I was a horrible piece of shit because I had a child but I wanted to die. I remember going to a hospital and asking for an evaluation. I sat in a cold, bare room, and waited for someone to tell me I was insane. After talking with Tom, he informed me I was suffering from PTSD, from events earlier in my life,  and Postpartum. When I said I wanted to die, he explained, I was simply asking to sleep…for rest…escape from pain I could not seem to get away from. I was released and attempted to pull myself out of that darkness. 

When I was eighteen, after being caught in the act, I admitted to battling Bulimia. It was a slow way out but I often hoped I would just become extremely frail and collapse and that same sleep would come. My mother told me to get over it. 

When I was 13, my father found me in our trailer in Clintondale, New York. I’d swallowed a ton of his painkillers and anything else I could find in the medicine cabinet. I was ashamed of my life. I was scared of being a nothing. I wanted to quit. 

When I was 11, I was admitted to a mental health ward, against my will (and my parents) for a mere 16 hours (a lifetime to an 11 year old btw). I’d gone in after a referral from a childhood therapist. Because I wouldn’t discuss things that were happening but implicated myself in several acts of self-harm, I was held for evaluation. I can still remember the screams and belligerent rants of those held in rooms next to me. After those 16 hours, I conned my way out of that hospital, claiming it was all an act and absolutely nothing was wrong with my home life. I learned how to lie on that day. 

When I was 5, a sibling found me on the ledge of our apartment window. When asked why I was up there, I said I wanted to die. My mother beat the ever-living piss out of me and sent me to bed. 

I have tried to die, thought of dying, hoped for dying…TOO MANY times in my life. I’ve purposefully put myself in dangerous situations, in the hopes that I would find release. Through those years and failed attempts…I never found it. 

I’m not telling you this because I want pity. Because I want you to think I’m epic and strong for “surviving.” I don’t know why I wanted to die from such a young age. I don’t know why I wasn’t “built” to better deal with the hardships of life. I don’t know why the unknown seemed so much better. 

What I do know are two things. 

  1. I was already dead. My body didn’t have to perish. TRULY, I believe I was a walking tomb. My son gave me my soul. I still struggle. I still panic. I’m still a hot mess. But I have never hoped for another breath the way I do now…as I have my son in my life. 
  2. Someday, I will die. I will not try. It will be against my will. And I will not want it to happen. I will feel pain as it all slips away because I will not see the tomorrows of my child, his children, the life I will miss. Someday, I will not have a choice. 

All of that being said…

I AM NOT AN EXPERT but I know the helplessness. I know the desperation. I know that feelings of sad hope that the damn phone will ring and someone…ANYONE will pull me back from the ledge and say, “I care about you. Please don’t go.” We all want to know that someone wants us to stay. That someone NEEDS us to stay. That our fire lights another persons world. We all need a reason to have no desire to step on that ledge. It’s ALL about love. 

The trauma that happened in my life, very early on, stunted my growth in MANY ways (so the doctors say). There are many times that I am stuck back in that mind frame of a child and I am terrified. I am frail. I am lost. It’s a fight to not go back there. To train my brain that I’m not reliving those traumas. That things are not repeating themselves. That I am capable of dealing with it IF they are. 

I am telling you all of this because we all know someone who struggles. Who is fighting. Who may be too quiet. May say the wrong things. May lash out at the smallest occurrence. May come off so angry. May push people away. May be an emotional punching bag. May live a lifestyle that is reckless. May be unaware that they are begging for help. May be pleading for rescue in their eyes but not their words. 

If you are that person…tell someone. ANYONE. Talk until your blue in the face. But keep talking. If you’re talking…you aren’t dead. AND THAT IS BEAUTIFUL. If you know someone like that…listen. Listen and really hear. You don’t need to fix it all. Just listen. Sometimes, that is all a wounded soul needs. 

Dear Suicide – I am proud to have failed you. 

Sincerely not yours…this girl. 

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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.

1.164 – Saying A Whole Lot of Nothing

Not even sure how to start this post. Not feeling very inspired at the moment. Pretty fed up with the human species as a whole. I have no inclination to deal with sarcasm or poorly aimed wit, stupid people or fair weather individuals.

Not much seems to be going my way, as of late. As of the past eight years. Maybe the past twenty-eight. Who the hell knows. Just another emo moment in the emo life of yours truly.

I’m hoping better things will come in June. All I know is I have to get my ass in gear and make things happen, in all aspects of my life. I’m running out of fuel and the journey hasn’t even started yet. It’s only going to get a million times worse.

I’m just hoping there is a light at the end of this dark, dank tunnel.

1.151 – Film in Life

This post is a lot harder to write than I thought. So I’ll just start at the beginning.

I watched a movie tonight, under the recommendation of someone I know. The movie had many odd moments and an intense racial moment about midway through. I actually stopped the film at its halfway point…unsure if I could carry on.

I’ve seen some harsh movies dealing with race, gender, orientation, etc. I’m always hesitant on whether I can view certain images. However, I wasn’t prepared for the ending of this film. Something told me it wasn’t going to end well. But I pressed play. Mind you, I’ve seen much more graphic scenes (the curb check in American History X to name just one). But this one still struck me.

It wasn’t the brutal beating of the Jamaican character. It wasn’t the use of “Nigger” or “Coon.” It wasn’t the kid crying in the hallway while the Jamaican man remained still. It was the moment the kid helped the attacker move the Jamaican mans body and the attacker kept saying, through his tears and the childs sobs, “don’t look at his face.”

As if not looking erases the fact.

As if me not watching this movie will turn such hate into make believe.

And I rewind to eleven years ago when I moved to Kansas. When I enrolled in my senior year of high school. When I was met with questions of “have you ever been shot at?” “Do you own a beeper?” ” You smoke weed, right?” “Are you legal?” “Do you have a green card?” “What exactly is Puerto Rican? Is that some kind of black?”

I rewind to eleven years ago when I stood at a gas station and watched a car drive by as the passengers screamed “Nigger.”  I rewind to all of the nights when I could hear people throwing bottles and garbage at my house. I rewind to the morning I scrubbed the word “Nigger” off my front porch.

I rewind to the moment I witnessed a group of ten year old white boys gang up on a little Mexican boy and hit him in the face repeatedly with a basketball. To the moment when I stood up for him. To the moment after when one of the other boys went and got his mother. To the moment after that when this woman stood in front of me and justified her sons actions with someone I considered family. When that supposed family member admitted to using “wetbacks” in her everyday speech.

I rewind to the moment I sat at a dining room table and awkwardly tried to explain what a Puerto Rican was. To explain politics and geography to a table of ignorant people so they could understand what commonwealth means.

I rewind back to the moment when I was forced to hide in a backyard so my ex-mother-in-law could explain to her mother that her son was dating a “colored girl.”

I rewind to every moment I had to fight to nullify a dead end conversation in which every Spanish person is responsible for the fact that “real union workers can’t keep work.”

I rewind to the moment he said “well, I thought that’s what spics did – suck dick and eat sardines.”

I rewind to the moment in the hair salon when the woman repeatedly questioned the texture of my hair because she mistook me for being black and thought my hair was relaxed despite me explaining I’ve never had to.

I rewind to every moment I have been put in that awkward, uncomfortable situation in which my race is a punchline.

I rewind to the moment when a 16 year old snob gets away with calling me by my race instead of my name and I didn’t take the opportunity to knock his fucking teeth in.

I rewind to the moment I had to reprimand someone I thought to be a friend for playing the race card when he was losing an argument against some guy I didn’t even know.

I fast forward and hope that my son doesn’t have to know what I’ve known. I fast forward and hope that my son will never see what I’ve seen. Because I’ve seen the face of evil. In so many forms. In those that spew hate in ignorance. In those that spew hate with conviction. In those that spew hate under the name of their god. In those that equate pride of their own with hatred of others.

I want to shield my son from the reality that is much more horrific than any film. No matter how much I say “don’t look at his face,” the face of hatred will always loom in the shadows…waiting for the moment to stick it’s venomous fangs into the innocence of my boy. I can’t say “don’t look into his face…don’t look into her face,” because in this sad world…you never know where the hate will come from.

I can turn the film off. Sadly, the same cannot be said for the flaws of man.

1.145 – Did You See Her 2.0

This is not about being caught between a rock and a hard place. This is about those that freely violated the soft space of my mind. A cerebral vortex of shame and stains left behind where my imagination was supposed to develop. Instead it’s homicidal sperm, that’s spermicidal fluid, sent to ruin the chambers of this tomb because I’m the walking dead. A corpse painted semi-pretty so you cant see all the stains they left upon me.

This one says I’ll always feel broken and this one is a self-deprecating spot that has soaked into the very core of my being. This one shouts how much it still hurts and these record the number of times my demise was a real consideration. Up for deliberation is my worth, my beauty and the lack thereof. Wondering how many can see the target and how many will attempt to score. Because I was never a women to caress but a child to molest and a sleeping beauty who woke up to a pillow on her face. Disgraced in explaining that I’m not quite sure if it was rape because he was my boyfriend but I didn’t want to.

Did you hear her tears as she wept

Did you see her?

Did you feel the pain in her heart

Did you know her?

This is general and this is specific. This is for every man and for no man at all. This is the rage of a gender and the plea of a woman. This is the voice of a tear and the echo of a child’s feet. This is from me to you, from us to them. This is for mothers with sons and fathers with daughters. This is for every person who wants to feel beautiful and for every person who took away that chance.

Did you hear her tears as she wept

Did you see her?

Did you feel the pain in her heart

Did you know her?

This is for the Queens of the world. In every shade and every shape. For the scarred and the scared. For the bold and the wise. For the revolutionary and the traditionalist. For the swell of your breasts as you feed our kin and hide in closed quarters in shame. For the stories of your tongue, the stories of your hips, your eyes, your hands. This is for your battles lost and those you’ve yet to win. But you will. This is for the eccentric thoughts in your mind, your hopes and dreams.

Did you hear her tears as she wept

Did you see her?

Did you feel the pain in her heart

Did you know her?

This is for our sons, our future Kings. Know that your manhood is not measured by your dick and what you do with it but the heart you so genuinely share. Love her and know her and speak her name with honey on your lips. Tell her what this world could be and shield her from what it really is. Give her a piece of you and nurture every exhale she shares. Use your hands to wipe away the tears versus inflicting them. Kiss away the bruises versus gifting them. Call her name – call her name sweetly so she will come to you with eager anticipation. Remind her, every day until the end of days, that she is your equal. Your matching puzzle piece. Your mirrored image of hope.

Do you believe in God sir? Well, if you do…”God took a rib from Adam to create Eve…so she would walk beside him. He did not take a bone from his heel for her to be beneath him.” Ask your God to clarify.

This is for our daughters, the soldiers of capturing the voice. Where we have failed, you will triumph and persevere. You will flee from cages of insecurity, you will dance freely and know your body and express your individuality with certainty and conviction. You will not be his slut or his whore or his conquest. You will not be his angel captured on a harpoon, dangling off cliffs edge while he gloats of his barbaric instincts. You will soar. You will taste the stars and make love on clouds and touch sands of far off places and sway in the eclipse of time into sunsets of days yet created.

Did you hear her tears as she wept

Did you see her?

Did you feel the pain in her heart

Did you know her?

Does it count if it’s marital, family, a female? I’m a woman so you take my pain as fact but if I were a man screaming of my violations, you’d be thinking “well, how the fuck is that” but sadly it is, not something to be dismissed because it’s happening right now. And some wife somewhere is saying “please don’t” and some husband is saying “what’s mine is mine”

This is for that man…you know who you are. Not under one name or one face but one type underneath it all. You have tainted rich soil, conquered and pillaged sacred plains, delved into the deepest corners of unexplored caverns and declared ownership. As if her pussy was property. You have created superiority in your name and claimed sanction in corners of the world, yet you are everywhere. You will tower over the beauties of this land and profess false prophecies of a God like stature because of your dick.

Did you hear her tears as she wept

Did you see her?

Did you feel the pain in her heart

Did you know her?

You will hide behind money, power and muscle mass. You will press her body down and take what is not yours. You will crush her bosom and pierce her lips with your own as you inject anguish into her every crevice. You will rape her mind far longer than her body. You will ravish her in dreams and eat away at her until she is skin and bones and bones and skin and skin and skin and scarred and ruined and pained and lost. You will shadow her eyes and teach her that this is it; she will die today. No man will love her, hold her, cradle her, and forgive away every flaw upon her name. You will stomp out her light, snuff the candle and make a film about it.

This is about the bruises left unseen, scouring my skin but I’m still unclean.  On the inside. Was I too weak, too soft, too vulnerable and how much of this was my fault. But how does a child ask for it? She doesn’t and yet we question a girls slut rating to deem if there was probably cause probably cuz we are too busy telling our girls to clean up their shit instead of teaching our sons not to be rapists. And with each new agenda, we pretend our offenders are just men and mistake perversion for homosexuality. Because this isn’t about sex or gender or orientation. This is about a sick stimulation, a war waged on an unsuspecting country.

Did you hear her tears as she wept

Did you see her?

Did you feel the pain in her heart

Did you know her?

She is my future, my past. She is me and no one I know. He is every man I have ever met and every man I will avoid. He is what I will teach my son not to be. And in some other realm, I see her and she is free. She is without shackles and without daggers. She owns her essence and is euphoric in splendor of possibility. And there will be one, one to defy all others. One to touch her cheek and melt away those stains. He will whisper and elevate. She will taste the salt of tears seasoned with wonder.

Did you hear her tears as she wept

Did you see her?

Did you feel the pain in her heart

Did you know her?

Be a light to the woman you know. Be that man. The one I know exists in dreams. For her, I will write him into life. He will touch one. Just one. She will be his country and he will be her soldier. And this moment, this one lost moment will not be in vain. My prince will be a King someday. And she will know beauty again. Whoever she is…she will know and never have to.

1.123 – The Letter

To my beautiful baby girl….. On Feb-16-1984 I gave birth to you in an unconventional manner. First you came into this world too soon and too little, weighing only 6 pounds and 1 ounce. At 6am in the morning, after they made the incision in my stomach, I didn’t care I just wanted to look at you and hold you. But I only had a glimpse and I kissed your head. You stared at me and I felt small. It didn’t matter that you weren’t a boy at all only that you were so small. My love for you knew no height. My guilt was even greater. Why did it happen? How did it happen? When you were inside of me I loved you, I didn’t take good care and that was wrong but no amount of self indignation can ease this pain. The next day I went to see you and I knew fear. And I prayed. God please…don’t punish me this way…its not her fault she’s so tiny, It’s mine. Tears wouldn’t make it better but every time I see you they just come out. It hurts because you’re so special. I dont want to lose you. I’m so afraid I wish that I could take your place and let me go through the agonies that you are going through now.  I need to hold you very very bad. I need to kiss your tiny body, to hug you tight. I want to give you my life, every ounce of breath. Please….fight because if anything happens to you, some part of me will die. Please….understand that I love all of my daughters the same but you U love all the more. And every time I visit you without ….incubator and see you all I have put you through I want to break every damn thing around me. And those needle marks do not help to make mother better. Love, today I visited you and saw that you had gained a tiny portion of weight but you were under that infernal light and I still had no pride because I shouldnt have allowed for you to be brought into this world so easily in time and with so little defenses.  …..you’re my last child. The baby of the lot and I don’t care that you’re my fourth girl only that you’re health improves and you come home but until you are really stable, I will have to be able to leave this pain and need to hold you. 

This is the first page of a four page letter my mother wrote to me after I was born. It is a letter that I have kept for 28 years. It is a letter I can’t force myself to throw away. It is the letter that tortures me. Angers me. Saddens me. For so many years, I couldn’t figure out why my mother had so much guilt. What had she done to be so remorseful for? It took many years and many conversations to figure out. Someone recently said it was hard to believe that I had avoided a drug infested life because of the odds against me. This is true. I was a junkie before I understood what walking was. My mother brought me into this world dependent on her drugs and alcohol. Her addictions forced my out of the womb, into a world that wasn’t ready for me. And a world, based on my many months in the hospital, that I wasn’t ready to be apart of. For so many years, I thought I should have been a boy. I needed to hold on to as many masculine attributes as possible. Because thats what everyone really wanted…what everyone really would have loved. It’s okay you weren’t a boy…doth thou protest too much. This letter saddened me for a really long time…how could this apologetic woman never really love me? Forsake me for any man that looked her way? Ignore the mental/physical/emotional anguish I was battling? Inflict so many scars? But now this letter just angers me. I am not a perfect mother. But I will not knowingly inflict pain upon my light and then say my bad. If my son says someone touched him – I will believe him. If my son needs me – I will be there. I will love my son unconditionally without trying to live his life. I will not inject my son with poison. Period. This letter gets me all fucked up. But I hold onto it as a reminder. Of what not to be. A reminder of why I fight every single day. A reminder of my goals, my duties, my privileges. Some days, I question whether my son was blessed or cursed with having me as his mother. But this letter pushes me to be the best damned mother I can be. That was the best mother she could be. Was it good? No. Was it right? No. Did it hurt? Yes. Does it still hurt? Of course. Am I a fucked up 28 year old because I have mommy issues? Probably. Will my love for my son surpass my hatred for those who abandoned me? Ya damn right it will. I wasn’t planned. I wasn’t wanted. I may not be wanted now. I’m okay with that. Because this life aint about me. Never was. Never will be. This life…this one is for my boy.

1.118 – Searching For Something

The only thing standing between you and your goal is the bullshit story you keep telling yourself as to why you can’t achieve it – kushandwisdom.tumblr

Someone posted this today on Facebook and it caught my attention, with good reason. Self reflection is a bitch. A bitch I don’t like but one that is continuously all up in my face.

The other day, I had an allergic reaction to food I should not have eaten. It wasn’t that serious – easily fixed with three shots. It was actually quite embarrassing. No one wants to be THAT person in the middle of the scene. Jesus H. Christ, just give me a pill and Ill be fine…and stop poking me with shit. No, I don’t want to pay far too much money for a two minute ambulance ride. It all seems very silly – people have heart attacks. People have seizures. My throat burned and tightened up and I had trouble breathing. A couple of hours later and I’m doped up, passed out on my couch.

All I could think about was my son. I’m not supposed to go out like this. I’m not suppose to stop breathing because of a piece of fruit. My son is at daycare and expects my ass to be there, bright and vibrant at 5:30. But the fact of the matter is…if something did happen to me…something triggered by bad footing, eating the wrong thing…a life changing moment unforeseen by anyone…life will go on. With or without me.

I can tell myself that I have all the time in the world to get my shit together. To reach my goals. To pull my head out of my ass and face the demon that is my self deprecating low self-esteem…but I don’t. I might only have today. I might only have this hour. I might only have this minute.

Will I teach my son…will my legacy be that I was a quitter? That his light wasn’t bright enough to push me through the dark hours? Fuck that noise.

I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what my career is supposed to be. I don’t know if I’m ever supposed to be an accomplished writer. I don’t know if I’m supposed to ever be in love again. I don’t know why I’ve beat the odds as many times as I have. I don’t know why I let my fears get the best of me.

I may never know that magic of love with another adult. I may never get beyond working at the level I’m at. I may never be on a bookshelf. Those are all maybes. But what is certain is that I’m going to die someday. SOME DAY. But I’m breathing today. I have a voice today. I have feelings today. I have thoughts today. I have love for this life in my heart today. I can teach my son something today.

I’m not dead yet. So I need to stop acting like it.

I laid in that ER room and scrolled through my phone, searching for someone to come and get me. “Do you have a ride,” the nurse asked a million times. And I was ashamed. Because I didn’t. Because if something had happened to me…who the hell would they call? Who would answer the phone? Yeah, I’ve got friends. Yeah, I’ve got family. But who would…who could drop it all for me? Staring at my phone…scrolling aimlessly…that was hard. Realizing I havent made that deep of an impression…

But hell if someone didn’t help me out. And I’m grateful. I may not have any ONE person who would drop the world for me. But I have ONE that I would drop the world for. And if that meant walking to my car, drugged up and all, I would have.

I’m not dead yet. So I need to stop acting like it.

I’ve still got time to make that impression. To be the light to others that my son is to me. I don’t know how. But…I want to figure it out. That, alone, is a step toward something.

Something more meaningful. Something connected. Something magical. Something worthwhile. Something better.

1.89 – Jagged Pills

2012 is about swallowing the pill. Self-evaluation. Growth. Progress. No matter how bitter the pill tastes.

I generally don’t need anyone to impose harm or judgement upon me. I have a condition, which does that all too well. It’s called self-sabotage. It is a sickness that tears me from potential happiness, and that growth I profess so much to want.

Nothing is off limits. Nothing is safe from the plague. It usually starts with small things and grows swiftly to engulf those things that are near and dear to my heart. They never intended to…he must be lying…he favors the other one…why bother, nothing will make it look better…this is not your year…prepare to be alone…they didn’t because they really don’t…it’s all just a game…there’s nothing special about you…why would anyone bother…it’s not that good anyway…your time is running out…he’ll see you for what you are soon enough…

It’s a soft voice in the back of my head, much like my own but hateful. To me. To the world. It’s a drop in the pit of my stomach, a racing of my heart when I realize nothing is what I thought it was. It tells me to push everything away. Because, then, it will have been my choice versus the alternative. That which burns the soul.

And I struggle. Because I want to believe that there is no truth to it. They do want me to succeed. He’s telling the truth. He loves me equally. It looks just fine. This is my year. There is someone out there who wants me for ME. They really do care. It’s not a game at all. I am special. Someone doesn’t see me as a bother. It’s quite good for a first. He isn’t going to stop seeing me as a good person. He will know my heart is good.

I want to believe that. I want something to snap me out of the self-deprecation. I want something to click. To show me something brighter. Possibility. Growth. Progress. Worth.

She’s just a writer writing about her life. She’s just a girl sitting in her apartment writing about nothing. Synonymous.

1.48 – NaNoWriMo Coming To An End

Today, someone asked me if I would be willing to write a script for a chance to win 1K.

My immediate response was “I don’t know if I’d consider myself good enough to win 1K.”

Yep, self doubt is my writers block.

I’m kind of kicking my own ass over this whole NaNoWriMo thing. I’ve worked every day, ranging from 50 words on the page to 5k and yet, I’m suddenly getting the self-doubt syndrome. I feel stupid that I talked so much about it because now that means people will want to see it when it’s done. Hell, I’m petrified to share even a portion here and this is my blog.

I don’t think I’m concerned with the critiques. Things that worked and things that didn’t. I’m scared to get those smiles and the “that was nice,” comments. Because that means “it sucked” and “I pity your ass because you really think writing is your calling.”

I’m so close to completing this thing and now I’m getting scared of it. People say nice things, to be supportive, to not come off as jerks. One girl asked me what the story was about and I gave her the most ass backwards description of it and she did the “oh wow, that sounds exciting, I’d read it,” response. But would you really? You might think I’m cool or a nice person, a good mom or a hard worker…but will you really think I’m a good writer?

I guess I’ll soon find out.