3.7. No Good

She’s that girl you didn’t quite know was a girl because of the hard shell, the dirt and grime caked on top of the shame instilled by venomous vixens and perilous perpetrators looming in the distance and yet, ever so present. She’s that girl you didn’t realize was crying because the salt was hard against her thick skin, prepared to fight and hate and wait and hope and succumb under the gun of pressure set forth by villainous harems of soothsayers. She’s that girl you wouldn’t miss upon her deathbed because she kept trying but never really got the whole dead thing down pact. She’s that girl you wouldn’t assume prayed to God for salvation behind an orange recliner so the screaming, beating, seething, bleeding would stop. She’s that girl you would laugh at for her imperfections and all the while she thought, “I’d be pretty if I had money to show it,” but she didn’t because poverty lived on the vines of disgrace, which strangled her as she sat in the back of the classroom hoping to not be seen for her stains but damn she wanted to raise her hand because she knew the answer.

She’s that girl who said yes when she meant no because being close was better than being unwanted. She’s that girl who wanted to be a banana and peel away the skin to show something else since she was dark but not hard enough and light but not dainty enough. She’s that girl who wanted to disappear and hit a reset button so she could start all over and do it all differently. She’s that girl who would mute herself for years, convinced she had demons that possessed her because that’s what the woman said and that’s why they beat her with that damn whip. She’s that girl that can relive the trauma because she knows how to deal and she’d rather take a punch to the face than to be told she’s not good enough…again.

She’s that girl you think is confidant and secure and certain of what the hell she’s doing with her life but she’s really just guessing and cries every time she looks in the mirror and once attempted to cut away her full lips and considered slicing through her breasts so there would be no choice but to fix them and maybe they could add a pound or two but only after she lost some via her throat in a bathroom while everyone slept because purging in an outhouse made more sense than actually having the will power to not binge in the first place.

She’s that girl who prayed for death and stopped believing in God when he wouldn’t take her away. Not because she didn’t believe but because she thought he was punishing her by leaving her behind. “Take me to a better place, Lord. I’ll do anything you ask. Save me. From myself.” Because she was poisoned before she left the womb and how do you accept what you are if you are so easily hated by those who should have felt otherwise.

She’s that child that needed to be smart because beauty eluded her and somehow she turned into that average adult that people wanted to touch but never feel, a secret, a mistake, a regret, a “maybe I can have you on the side until something better, paler, prettier, funnier, nicer, more acceptable comes along.”

She’s that bitch. A pit bull you made assumptions about and fueled until she lashed out and then said “I told you so.” She’s that chick that hides behind the brick wall because there had never been a strong foundation that lasted, that didn’t have motives, that didn’t have ill intent. Mortar and stone to block out the sun that will scorch her fragile vessel. But they assume she’s something tough, something to fear while she feels like a dying bird in a cage, shivering with broken wings, caked in mud and bodily fluids.

She’s that thing that’s unbelievable because she’s inconceivable. 

She’s that woman who will run from all that is good because she’s convinced she is a curse set upon this earth and yet she silently hopes she will fall in the mist and loving hands will touch down and lift her from murky memories into brighter, promising days. But she runs because reality says things like that don’t happen to people like us. 

People like us…

people like us…

people like me.

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.

2.46. 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. 

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…

2.29. The Stars Shine

This post gives me great joy to write. But it also has a deep rooted past. And so, we travel back to the first year I moved to Kansas.

Working for an in-home mental health care facility, I spent hours upon hours with a new set of people while our clients slept soundlessly in their beds. Between bed rotations, medicine distribution, and breathing checks…the staff would hang out in the living room and chit chat or play hours of card games. 

J and I sat in the living room for our first overnight shift together. We had eight hours to burn before our clients had to be woken for their daily activities…all we had was time to burn. He told me he’d had one girlfriend but that was it. And without skipping a beat, he divulged everything about his deepest secrets. He was gay. But his family had raised him Baptist and his father was a preacher; a man respected in the community for his devotion to God. J had tried being with a girl to “fix” himself. But it hadn’t worked. 

“So, have you come out to your family?”

J looked puzzled. “Why would I do that?”

He explained that he knew his feelings were wrong. There was no reason in coming out because he would never live that sinful life. He would never betray his God or his family. He would not burn in hell for the lust of the body. 

“So, you’re just going to be alone forever?”

He laughed at my “ignorance,” and explained that he wasn’t alone because he had Gods love. 

“But wouldn’t your God want you to be happy?”

He said he was but his eyes said otherwise. 

Fast forward more than a decade.

An attractive, Jesus loving hipster enters my world. I immediately lean on him for all of my Godly questions. But the world that we live in can’t understand why someone like him and someone like me would ever really talk. So the rumors started. I was trying to tempt him. I wanted to bring him over to the dark side. We were probably having secret kissing sessions when no one was looking.

And it pissed me off. Because no one knew the conversations we’d had. No one knew that we stood in a parking lot at 4am talking about his love for God. No one knew that he’d revealed, he too, had felt things for the same sex but couldn’t act upon them because of his love for his Lord. No one knew that I cried for this boy and told him the story of J. That my heart broke to see someone so amazing trapped by their own love…only to be left deprived of love.

A distance built between us and I will admit that I grew to dislike him immensely. I felt betrayed. How could he open his world to me in such a way and yet distance himself from me as if I were a fucking leper? I hadn’t judged him or told him what he felt was wrong. I had embraced him and he’d turned the other cheek.

I had a moment when I thought he wanted me to shun him for his revelations. When he wanted me to be like everyone else. That would have been easier. But I hadn’t and instead…I’d been thrown away like garbage. What a friendship, I thought.

The boy moved away. And I shouldn’t care.

But I am beyond happy for this boy. I have learned that in his move…the star found his puzzle piece, has grown even closer to his God in his new love, and has learned to be honest with himself and the world he aspired to change. I watch from a distance and I am elated to see pictures and posts of pure, genuine love. My tears were not in vain. Everything turned out the way it should have and someone who is truly a gift to this world now knows it’s possible. To love with your whole heart AND to be loved wholeheartedly.

When he became a star

2.25. Like A Stone

“They always leave. Everyone always leaves.”

Not one of my finest moments. Not one of my happiest. But definitely a moment that has replayed in my mind over the last couple of days.

I’ll be turning 29 in just a few weeks. No, I’m not one of those people that feels gross because I’m getting “old.” I’m okay with my age. I accept that nine times out of ten, people can’t even guess my age appropriately. When I’m 40, I’m sure I’ll appreciate that even more so. But I do feel…something.

As a kid, I was awkward. Physically, mentally, emotionally awkward. I was the girl that had crushes on the neighborhood boys and wrote poems so they could give to their girlfriends. I was the girl, in high school, who stayed up all night pep talking the guy I had the biggest crush on ever so he could go to school the next day and say just the right things to his crush.

“Hey, how you doin? No, not you, your friend.”

I couldn’t dance. I couldn’t dress. I couldn’t talk to the opposite sex in a way that compelled them to want to know me. I was the secret friend who gave advice (why anyone took advice from me…I still don’t get it). The only thing they begged me for was to know what I wrote about them in my journals. The pages filled with wishes and hopes and dreams. Pages filled with what-ifs. Wondering what it all would have been like if my life was…not mine.

And that was who I was. That girl that read books on the fire escape. That girl who tried so hard to impress and failed time and again. I tried different identities to appease new faces. Still failed.

And now, I’m going to be 29 and still have no clue who I am. Who I want to be. It’s sad, I know.

After being married, I was informed that the only reason it happened was because “it was the next step.” (And I was told this during the good times). Not out of desire but out of obligation to fulfill the timeline of life. You meet someone, you can deal with them, you marry them. I now know, that situation was not love. And I’m okay with that.

Looking back, I know the greatest love I ever had. In such a pure, untouchable sort of way. And that person died. It wasn’t by choice and I understand that. But the part of me that has always wanted that unconditional is still broken from it.

I tell myself to not be vulnerable. To not show anyone my soft side. To remain a “I don’t give a fuck,” type of entity. But, at that, I have failed, which only makes me feel worse. Weak.

I don’t really know where I was going with this one. Who cares. No one reads these things anyway.

My life has always been the fear of people leaving me. But I have to accept that. Everyone IS going to leave. No one is meant to stay forever. No matter how much my heart wants it. Wants to believe that it’s possible for me. Because maybe it just isn’t.

Do I allow these realizations to harden me? To turn my heart colder than it already is? I want to say no but I already feel like a stone.

2.21. I’ll Take That

“If you can’t accept me at my worst,

you sure as shit don’t deserve me at my best. 

Call me crazy

For every outlandish, brash, bold, blunt verbal vomit I will lay on the land. For every lapse in judgement and weakened moment. For the insecurity that beats in my chest. For the endless array of questions as to what and why and how and when and what-if?

Call me crazy

For wanting love despite the madness. For believing in a pure, true, and deep connection based on something other than violent thrusts and faked endings. For dreaming about love stories even greater than the sun and moon leaving letters of adoration in the stars. For anticipating something so profound, the world just won’t know what to do with us.

Call me crazy

For expressing the happiness, sadness, joy, horror, thrill, worry of what this life has to offer. For being a cryptic read. For wanting effort, loyalty, honesty, integrity, passion, romance, intensity, forgiveness, growth, inspiration, laughter, conversation, sincerity, hope…and more laughter.

Call me crazy 

For feeling frail after the world I called forever crashed down upon me. For not being as strong, as tough, as bold, as brave, as resilient, as optimistic as the next one. For feeling just a tad broken after the glass castle broke. For not healing to your liking.

Call me crazy

Call me what you will. A failure. A disappointment. A mistake. A burden. I’ve heard it all before.

I am a beautiful chaos. Not meant for just anyone. Not meant for those weak of mind and heart. For some, a blessing to never know. To each his own. Souls like mine aren’t meant for the world to love. Being me comes with the risk of loneliness and labels.

Call me crazy. 

From a cowardly lion, that’s a fucking compliment. 

2.18. For The New Year

Dear 2013,

Your predecessor sucked. I have high hopes for you and the possibilities you may bring.

  1. Finalize this divorce. 
  2. Move into a larger space so Hunter has his own room.
  3. GO TO DISNEY WITH MY FAMILY!
  4. Visit NYC with Hunter
  5. Get a better paying job.
  6. Take (at least) one college course.
  7. Start working out on the reg.
  8. Take a cooking/dancing/something class with my bestie
  9. Start a savings account solely for Hunter
  10. BUY HUNTER A DOG!
  11. Kiss the muse aka submit my writing for critique/publication
  12. Give Hunter everything he deserves.
  13. Be happy.

Sincerely yours,

…..

2.11. YTT

December 9, 2010.

4 missed calls. And then there was an answer. And her voice was shaky. The tears came. And I knew.

My best friend. My confidant. My puzzle piece.

He woke up and told the people in the room that he couldn’t open his eyes. And they knew he was close to the end. Because his eyes were open. He had gone blind through the night. His religious aunts called for the priest and they gave him his last rights…something I know he would find funny since he was an atheist. He spoke, his thick Italian accent flowing in his home language. He showed gratitude for his sister, forgiveness for his brother, and a message for two people so close to his heart.

A message that is mine to savor.

I can’t explain to small minds how a friendship can be so genuine, so pure, so beautiful, so intense, and so everlasting. How love can become synonymous with friend and the heart can care so deeply.

I was lucky enough to know someone who understood me, didn’t want to change me, listened, was proud of me, encouraged me, pushed me, inspired me, and taught me to never settle. I was lucky to know this person and hear words of wisdom, humor, and truth. My truth. Our truth.

It’s been two long years since that magical man left this earth. And the pessimist in me would say, “well, it’s just my luck that someone who knew me so well would be forced to leave me behind.” But the optimist in me will say that I will see him again. When it is my time to leave this earth, I will join him amongst the stars.

Because this earth wasn’t strong enough to support the bond that we had. The friendship, laughter, and love only we knew.

I miss you, Nico. I thank you for the lessons you have taught me. Someday, I will find you again. Until then, you are always in my heart.

Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow.

2.8. Quotes

Some are mine and some are borrowed. All are true.

It is of wasted body and breath to want to fix the world. It is with great respect I look to those who walk off the beaten path because it is never easy.

I am here not to validate or condemn a soul. The life I’ve chosen for my time here is mine alone and the only one that is my business. You take care of yours and I’ll take care of mine.

It is the human condition to love and want to be loved, it is the human curse to hurt others and to be hurt. We judge one another relentlessly yet wish not to be judged, a never ending cycle that shall bring us to our end.

Please don’t ask me about someone elses feelings, opinions, judgements, actions, etc etc as I am only one person and therefore I can only answer fully and without bias, for myself.

On that note, don’t ask me why I do what I do. If I thought it important enough to discuss, I would have by now. I do EVERYTHING for a reason, I just don’t feel the need to consult with ANYONE.
That is all.

“We must see all scars as beauty…take it from me, a scar does not form on the dying. A scar means, I survived.” – Excerpt from Little Bee by Chris Cleave.

If my mind doesn’t intimidate you, my mouth probably will, not for the faint of heart.

“Like uncharted territory, I must seem greatly intriguing…you’re not allowed, you’re uninvited.”

“I only care about the words that flutter from your mind. They are the only thing you truly own. The only thing I will remember you by. I will not fall in love with your bones and skin. I will not fall in love with the places you’ve been. I will not fall in love with anything but the words that flutter from your extraordinary mind.” – Andre Jordan

You must never shout at the concrete
You must always shout at the stars
Concrete cant hear you.

“Words need not endorse the obvious.”
AE2

I love life and the strange people in it. No two alike, eccentric and chaotic, mellow and mysterious, everyone is a story waiting to be read and Im the avid reader. I am continuously enthralled by the wonders these people show me, teach me, allow me to see, blessed to learn more about our universe everyday from the living stars amongst us. Don’t be afraid to know these people, to care about these people, to love these people. It is the divine gift we have been given which makes us human. Enjoy.

“To enter the mystery of timelessness is to enter the sanctuary of the here, where we are given a chance at every moment to begin our lives again. Not one of us is perfect, and sorrows press upon us all. But, the universe is a merciful one, in which unlimited opportunities for new beginnings are built into the very essence of things.”

Let us take our head out of the clouds and into the light. Dwelling on fears of loneliness only creates loneliness, rage begets rage, and chasing a dream only makes it run faster away.
“I know my destination, I’m just not there…”
YET

I always say something wrong
I always speak right when the thought hits me
I always offend at least one person in the room
I always talk too loud, too long, too fast
I always make people >.< o.O or =O
I always second guess the last 5 things I just did
I always do them anyway
I always share how I’m feeling, even if its ugly
I always fuck up
I always say I’m sorry
I always mean it
I always fall
I always get back up
I always want to win
I always lose
I always dream the impossible dreams
I always come back to reality
I always live in the past
I always want to be in the future
I always forget the present is the gift
I always care…even when I don’t.

It’s not what you say but what you mean
It’s not what you give but what you hold back
It’s not who you were but who you are
It’s not who you are but who you’ll be
It’s not what you do but why you do it
It’s not why you care but when you show it
It’s not what you know but what you don’t.

1%
That’s exactly how much of me you know. Judge that 1% Label that 1% Hate that 1% because not even blood knows the 99. It’s all in my head, all in my heart, all in my soul and you aren’t welcome there. These are the places you can never molest, never dictate, never contaminate. This belongs to me. *Locks the door and throws away the key*

You are full of fatuity…and so I forsake you.

“The writings easy, it’s the living that is sometimes difficult.” – Charles Bukowski

Dont play dead before you have to.” – Wally Lamb – The Hour I First Believed –

Sometimes, we sacrifice who we are for who we think we should be, who others will accept us as. In seeing friends/family/strangers battle this, in seeing myself battle this, I know nothing is greater then having self. Flawed; work on it…but don’t lose you. I wont. This is my face in my mirror, and I’m alright with seeing me.

“We’re always looking in the wrong direction. We ponder the stars while burning the earth, the bullet we’re running from is almost never the one that hits us.”