Hurricane

You're blowing through,
like a steady moving hurricane.
You leave a trail behind
a thousand memories wide-
Yet, you place the blame
At my feet, the same ones
that haven't felt the ground in quite
some time,
Still there you go, walking away.
But, just far enough that I can't
leave you behind.
Quick, you remind me that
I must stay
Under lock and key, and your
watchful eyes,
Tied up, bound beneath all
your lies.
And the promise that things
would get better with time.
But, the victim shouldn't pay for the
criminal's crime.
So, I'm flat on the floor,
with the dark skies above.
And, I tell myself hate isn't a
measure of love.
Because the winds will calm,
and the skies will clear,
And I'll be so much better-
Without you here.

#RandomRant

Why is it that I’m always doing things so much differently than other people? Why is it that I try and try, but still don’t reap the same reward? Why is it so hard for me to do the simplest things? I ask myself these questions often, but mostly in vain. I feel like I’m on this teeter totter. And I’m shifting- back and forth. Up and down. Between places that I terrify me, and places I long to be. But, I want so badly to just stop, and be in the place that makes me happy. Most people would wish for money, or fame, or for a new car, or for a loved one to be returned to them. Me? I just want to be happy. I just want to be content. What is it about me that makes that so hard to find within myself? I just don’t know. And, I wish I did. My mind knows that happiness is a state of mind. Something you choose. But, somehow I'm still trying to figure it all out.

When I Get There, I'll Let You Know

I’ve always known that change was something I feared. Something that I would shy away from given the opportunity. But, I never knew why. See, when forced into it, I adapted easily, and was relatively well-adjusted. But, it has never been something I chose to do. Big changes, little changes, it mattered not; they plagued me with trepidation. Just this constant, nagging sense of foreboding that I couldn’t seem to shake. Almost as if each one of those little changes somehow created this gigantic domino effect that tumbled into much larger, big changes- all crashing, pushing, collapsing on one another finally culminating into this massive situation of change that I wasn’t sure I could deal with. Suffice to say, I raged against that at all costs.


A lot of things have changed in the last three years. Some, for the better, some for the sake of learning, and some for the sake of merely knowing it is something which can be survived. I’ve changed too. There are times when I find myself reflecting back on everything; on the significant amount of transformations that have happened to myself. To my body. To my heart. To my mind. And…I don’t know what to do with it all. In some aspects, I feel I have grown more than I ever could’ve comprehended three, or even just a year ago. Yet, in some ways- I feel stuck. As if I’m at the edge of this great precipice in my life, and I know it’s time to jump, to make that leap, but I don’t. Because I can’t find the courage. The not knowing leaves me paralyzed with fear.

I’ve often heard that people who have to move back in with their parents for whatever reasons, face a lot of struggles. It’s hard to go back. To stay there. College students say how excited they were to return home for break, but then realize they are home-sick, yet not for the home in which they grew up. And I really think that’s what terrifies me the most. That it’s not just leaving, it’s losing everything that I have. And this unrelenting fear that I won’t get it elsewhere. I don’t ever want to feel like this isn’t the one place I belong, because I sometimes get scared of not belonging anywhere else. And I know that sounds like some weird circle of contradictions.

I always said that I didn’t want to cease to jump just because I might fall. Or just because it might not work out. I’d like to think I’m stronger than that. I shouldn’t need someone to force me to grow up. I shouldn’t need to be pushed. I wonder if sometimes people can see the unsteadiness in my eyes. Does it reflect in my actions? I guess sometimes, I just feel…really out of control. And I have these moments, where I see myself making a choice I shouldn’t make, allowing my Ego and Super-Ego, the silly feigns, to turn a blind eye whilst my Id runs amuck throughout my life. I just feel exhausted all the time. Not necessarily physically, but emotionally and mentally. And somewhere this turned into a journal entry, but I’m just going to go with it. I just had to get it out there.

It’s not the act of change that’s scary. It’s the lingering possibilities that follow that are truly terrifying. The “what if’s” the “maybe’s”. The “if I had only’s” that keep you awake at night. Or at least…it keeps me awake. But, perhaps that’s the issue.

I Found Myself Today

I found myself today-
a little shred of who I
used to be,
tucked fast away amid the
shambles of the person
I'd momentarily become.
Bound and gagged,
yet flailing-
struggling past the
pain and fear that ripped me
of joy.
of hope.
of control.
I see it,
but it's all so foreign to me now.
So mysterious.
I look upon it like a small child
might look upon a lightning bug-
Surely something this beautiful can't
be real.
But, part of me remembers it to
be true...
remembers it to make sense.
I can be happy...
even as I pick up the pieces.

The Morning that You Wake Up Good as New

I read some of our emails today. You know I saved them all, right? I did. A funny thing began to happen as the words jumped off the page at me. I smiled. Hell, I even laughed. Then, it hit me: I’m healing. I’m realizing our relationship as something beautiful and lovely- a period in my life that was filled with wonderlust. Do certain things still sting a little? Sure. But, they don’t make my heart ache. You cared for me. You saw me in a way that no one ever had. We were good together.

I called you this afternoon. I haven’t talked to you in over a month. I had thought of picking up the phone and saying hello, but the moment would pass and I would move on to yet another thought, and another. I believe more than anything- I just wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready to have you in my life again, not in the way I wanted. I had to give myself time to let some of that lingering desire fade away into soft pastels of love instead of bright, neon signs screaming want me!!! You couldn’t talk when I called, but said you would return the gesture later. That’s fine. Really. I’m not hurt. I’m not shocked. I’m not waiting by the phone. It shocks even myself. There was a time when I just knew the shadows of hurt and longing would suck me in, no matter how much I yearned to have days filled with laughter and sunshine. But, I blew bubbles. I took some risks. I bought a bathing suit. I laughed with friends. I allowed myself to hurt, forgave myself for past mistakes, and I made myself get back up. I moved on.

I can talk about you now with a smile at the corners of my mouth. I can reminisce of the memories we made, and all of the things you were to me- and not shed a tear. We didn’t make it. The future moved on too…without us. You. Me. In the same place. But, it doesn’t mean I have to give back the experience. Pain robbed me of that momentarily, but I took it back. We were supposed to happen. We were not a mistake. We were good together. But, now we’re apart. And, finally…I know I’m going to be okay. So will you. You were such a beautiful experience. No one will take that away from me.

The Spaces In Between

Between my brain and heart
so much remains unknown.
I can be a stranger,
even to myelf.
Therein lies a place
where questions go unanswered,
and tears yield no purpose.
A place where dreams
linger on reality-
where not much sense is
made of anything,
and no one seems to care.
In the smallest corner of this room-
where logic falls to waste-
It is here that
I love(d) you most.

Total Eclipse

I can’t figure out if it’s the not talking that hurts the most, or the fact that when we do talk there is the constant, lingering reminder that you are no longer mine. I know it’s real this time- it all feels different. The tone. The permanence. The shallow, empty feeling that follows after having once been so full, then ravenous, now numb. You pop up in my life in the most abrupt, unsettling ways. Images that used to be pleasant rabbit trails of thought are now intruders, obscenely infiltrating a lunch break. A good joke. A quiet night. You’re the shadow behind my lips, the strings at the corners of my smile, keeping it from reaching my eyes. Meanwhile, I’m drowning in memories of a time when you were the light that helped me to shine. Perhaps brighter than I ever did, but maybe not as bright as I ever will. Maybe?



I went to the beach, and I stuck my toes in the sand. I smelt the salt air. I felt the sun against my skin, fragments of waves tossing me, gently, in the cool water. But, suddenly- there you were, creeping in and taking me back. We stood together on that beach splashing and smiling, the gray skies ominous above us. The day you just ripped me from was much prettier, but this one had everything the other didn’t. This one had you. So, I lingered a while in the thought, thinking if I just closed my eyes and wanted it bad enough, I could transport back there. The sounds around me, recently engulfing, slipped away; and I was neither here nor there. Stuck between past and present. And I want to cry, saddened by the thought of myself as a voluntary prisoner of a mind and heart that raged against me.


It would be much easier of you were a jerk. Or if you had treated me wrong. But, there was no wrongdoing, no betrayal. Just a guy who was brave enough to say that what he had to give just wasn’t enough. I stood, heart quivering, knowing I would take whatever you offered, and I would make it enough. I would’ve settled for that. But, not you. No, you wanted more, yet I had nothing more to provide. I was spent and exhausted in every sense of the word. So, I watched you walk away, forbidding my feet to follow, still knowing full well that a part of me was going with you.


Finally, it seems the ride is gradually coming to a stop, but I still haven’t gotten permission to free my arms and legs from the confines of the vehicle. Danger still lurks, teeming in the shadows; waiting. Coiled like a serpent- ready to strike, but I’m aware. I’m aware that I can stay in that cart, slowly taking me to no place in particular, afraid of the sting that might come. Or I can stand up and move on, knowing the sting will hurt, but it will not kill me. Now, if I can just find my feet…

Breaking Free

Nothing fits, and I’m railing against my skin. I want out, but you just can’t seem to notice. And, I told you fifteen hundred times that I didn’t want that picture there, but you hung it anyway while my back was turned. You set your footprints over my room, and like a nymph high on Mr. Clean you transformed it from chaotic to pristine. But, I never wanted that. No! Don’t you listen to me anymore? Do you hear the words that come out of my mouth? The ones I’m feeling rest unsaid, seething in the back of my throat. They linger there because I know they’ll serve no purpose here. I’m drowning, my hand raised above the surface that’s slowly drifting away, but you just watch- looking up from your section of the sand momentarily to make sure I’m just drowning, not dying. But, why didn’t you ever think to teach me to swim? And, should I start to drown, you are at my side. My knights in shining armor. Yet, don’t you see? All that metal turns to rust from being in the water. You don’t belong there. It’s my ocean. That’s your land. I’m trying to make it in this scary place, and instead of watching me suffer, and tarnishing your shine, why can’t you just support me enough to release my anchor?

Getting Over

No one ever prepares you for heartache. No one ever tells you how it has this power, this inexplicable ability, to completely and totally infiltrate your life- peppering it with tiny shards of pain. There are moments when I feel like the whole world is falling apart in front of my eyes: the blueness of the sky cracking, fragments falling and disappearing, leaving only blackness. The forests and suburbs collide as they pass into nothingness. The ground, finally crumbling, collapses beneath my feet and just goes down…down…down…until I can see it no longer. I can’t even remember a time when it was there. And I just exist.



I can still hear her name floating from your lips- the lips that used to kiss mine. I can feel that same violent surging in the pit of my stomach. I feel ill at every thought of you kissing her, holding her, wanting her. The way you used to want me. And, I can’t fault you. I can’t be mad at you for moving on. But, I swear all I want to do is scream and plead with you- beg you to choose me. Want me. Be with me. Crawling. Kneeling. Praying. Come back. Please, please, please, p..l..e..a..s..e.. just come back. It’s weak. It’s pitiful. It’s pathetic. And, I have to stop my heart from doing it every day.


I know the logistics of it all: distance, timing, life paths, wah-wah-wah. But, it’s as if there’s this whole ocean that exists between the rational thoughts of my brain and the irrational feelings of my heart. One wants to remember, while the other begs to forget. One wants to return your request for friendship, while the other cautions to cut ties and heal. One wants to push away the world, while the other says to be wary of pushing away those who care- they just might push back. But, as usual- the former wins.


I remember everything, often. How you brushed the hair out of my eyes, leaned in close; kissing me for the first time. Riding shotgun while you begged me to rub your back, turning to kiss me when I least suspected it. Splashing in the ocean and watching the storm roll in, not caring if it rained. Waiting for the night to come. And those moments. Sometimes, not being able to wait. Just being perfectly content to lie in your arms and…be. Our many conversations about everything and nothing, your voice so close in my ear, but physically so far away. I remember it all. And it hurts like no pain I’ve ever felt. Everything seems to hold this memory of you, and it’s a constant battle not to give in and tuck the world away. Just fold it up and press it between the pages of a random book. Someone else will stumble upon it there- let them worry about it for a little while.


Meanwhile, I just want to stop hurting. I just want these shards removed from me. Then, I’ll deal with the wounds. I want to sleep through the night without waking to the thought of your name and a flood of memories. I want to get up in the morning and not struggle to breathe in and out. I want to get through a day without thinking that if I was just a little better, just a little prettier, perhaps a little smarter, or a little more appealing; maybe then I would still have you. Maybe, then I would be worth fighting for. Those words, when reiterated for you, made you ill.


Stop it. Stop saying that. It’s just not true. I never said that.


You told me more than once.


Sometimes, there are circumstances that are beyond our control.


Circumstances.


I hear the words, yet I find it difficult, so difficult, to believe them. Still, what choice do I have, really?


So, I go to bed and try to sleep. I wake up and try to smile. I live and try to dream. I wear masks to fool even those who know me best. Sometimes, I manage to fool myself. I know one day I will be okay. I will be happy again. But, for now- I have to get through.


No one ever prepares you for heartache. Not the true kind. The kind that grips you at your core and leaves you stumbling around in a world of “If only…”, “What If?”, and “I wish…”. I guess no one really can. I guess it’s one of those things you have to find out on your own.

Possibilities and Reflections

You said, “There’s this place right behind the library and close to the cafeteria-the place with the statue. Do you remember the statue?”


Do I remember the statue? Of course I remember the statue. I stood beside it, with you. I remember so much about this day. The sun hung brightly over us, enveloping us in its light. It was only April, but in central Florida this already constitutes a high of 90 and air you’d swear you could swim through. I felt sweaty and gross, but you looked at me as if I was beautiful. And I felt it. You told me about the statue being in commemoration of one of the professors you had introduced me to, and I stood amazed, taking it in. A smile crossed your lips and you let me in on the secret: the statue had been there for years. It had nothing to do with the professor who bore its likeness. I glared at you playfully and we laughed. I loved the way our laughter mixed together and bounced off of the walls of the buildings that surrounded the perfect circle in which we existed at that moment.

But, for reasons I can’t explain, the thing I remember most about this day, the weekend as a whole; is the smells. The grass that we walked on, freshly cut. The interior of my car upon turning on the air after it sat in the sun all day. Your room. The wind. The faint smell of smoke in the hotel room that was designated to be non-smoking. My shampoo mixed with your soap, lingering in the bathroom. The gummy worms and sweet tea, breakfast of champions. The body spray you liked me to wear. I remember them each differently, but with one unique commonality. They reeked of possibility. In them each lay newness and this sense that anything could happen- and did.

It’s been a long time since that day. We’ve come a long way- grown and shifted in ways we might not have imagined then. There are times when the wind blows just so across my face or the sun skims across my shoulders in a certain way- I can close my eyes and be right back there. In that circle made of buildings and filled with laughter.

But, now- in this moment- you’re still waiting for my answer. I know I’ll never be able to fully express it the way I feel it, so I simply hold the phone closer to my ear and say, “Remember…? How could I forget?”

Stray



By: Elizabeth Alexander


On the beach, close to sunset, a dog runs
toward us fast, agitated, perhaps feral,
scrounging for anything he can eat.
We pull the children close and let him pass.


Is there such a thing as a stray child? Simon asks.
Like if a mother had a child from her body
but then decided she wanted to be a different child’s mother,
what would happen to that first child?


The dog finds a satisfying scrap and calms.
The boys break free and leap from rock to rock.
I was a stray man before I met your mother,
you say, but they have run on and cannot hear you.



How fast they run on, past the dark pool
your voice makes, our arms which hold them back.
I was a stray man before I met you,
you say. This time you are speaking to me.

    I adore this poem by Elizabeth Alexander. The first time I stumbled across it, I must have read it two or three times- one right after another. I was (and am) enamored by its deep, passionate message delivered in such a simplistic way. There aren't a lot of words- not a great deal of stanzas. Just pure emotion. It's one of those poems that paints a mental image like no other. I can close my eyes and see it all play out in my head...it's lovely.

     I must admit, as far as what I want in a relationship, it's a bit of a stretch. The poem is built around the analogy of the husband being much like the feral dog: fierce, perceivably dangerous, running, searching, scared, lost. That is, until he meets his wife to be. "I was a stray man before I met you," he says to her. And it's so romantic, such a riveting ideology. Every woman wants to that to someone- the person who draws you back from the edge. The person who saves you, or helps you realize how much life if worth living. To have your presence be the sheer force behind all of this- well, it must be amazing, right? Amazingly stressful, I'd say. I don't want the pressure of being someone's constant source of happiness or to be the sole person they depend on to give life purpose. I've always said that I am not on a quest to find someone who "completes me" because to do so would be to imply that I'm not a whole person on my own. You have to know how to be a whole person on your own- to find happiness and a sense of purpose within yourself. I just want to find someone who loves me unconditionally for who I am now, as well as who I will become. I want someone who enhances my life- not someone to define it. I'm looking for someone who feels the same. I don't ever want my husband to say, "I love you so much because you make me who I am." No. I want him to say, "I love you so much because you make me want to be the best version of myself."

     I don't want that to take away from the sheer beauty of this poem. Because I do love it, and when I read it, I don't really get the feeling that he is saying, "All I am is dependent on you." I feel more that he is saying, "Everything I am now, I owe to you because you empowered me to be a better version of myself. You helped me understand my purpose." But, as I mentioned- it kind of goes without saying. When you truly love someone- sometimes the best things don't have to be spelled out.

Lucky...

Being sexually abused, in any way, places you in a club no one wants to (or should be) a part of. I know. I’m a member. I was reminded, as if I could ever forget, recently when I picked up the autobiography of critically acclaimed author, Alice Sebold. She was beaten and brutally, brutally raped during her freshman year at Syracuse University. She tells the story in such a way that grips the reader and forces them to not only witness the hell she’s enduring, but to endure it with her. And you do. You can’t help it. I usually devour books in hours, days FLAT. But, not this one. Not because it was anything less than stunning, but because it was raw. And real. And I felt it. I felt it more than I had prepared myself for feeling it.


When you experience being sexually violated in such a manner at such a young age, you have no idea how to process that. No way. You deal with it the best way you can. For years, I felt that the coping mechanisms implemented by my four year old self, my eight year old self, my fourteen year old self, my eighteen year old self, my twenty-four year old self- that they were all just weird rituals I held myself to because I knew no better. I thought they made me weird. It wasn’t enough that I felt damaged in the most immeasurable way, I also felt I wasn’t even normal in my own ability to be damaged. But, reading Alice’s story, hearing her words- her own misgivings and nightmares…well, it let me know I wasn’t.

I have vivid memories of playing in the yard one afternoon maybe about six months after the incident, which is weird in and of itself, as I wouldn’t venture out of the house alone. I remember imagining him coming to get me again. I remember saying, No! No! You can’t hurt me anymore. You can’t hurt me anymore. And I ran around my yard saying this- whispering it really- to myself. And I thought, even then, how strange this was of me. Why would I wish that on myself again. While reading about Alice’s own battles of wishing her rapist upon her again, I realized it was all about asserting some form of control. Control that has been ripped from your grasp, leaving you reeling.

But, the difference in Alice’s imagination and my own, is that mine came true. He did appear that day, walking down the road towards me. And suddenly any control I had tried to summon was gone. Vanished into the humid air along with the heated breaths escaping my mouth in my attempt to get to my front door. I knew if I could just get there, I would be okay. I reached for the knob, but it was locked. I panicked even more. I began to beat my small fists against the door, screaming. I screamed with everything I had. My childish mind didn’t allow the thought to run to the back door, for now, this was my only escape. My sister and a friend were inside and heard me beating on the door. Truth be told, I could be a dramatic child, and my sister had no idea of what had happened to me during the months prior. She thought I was just being bratty and refused to let me in, taunting me. I remember seeing her face and thinking she, this time, would be the one to save me or let me die. In my little brain, that was it: live or die, right then. My mother, having discovered what was going on, pushed them aside and let me in. I rushed to her arms, and I shook. I screamed and I cried and I shook. I don’t remember how long it took for her to calm me down. But, I do remember the way my sister looked at me when my mother explained to her what had happened. I remember the way she hugged me and told me she was sorry. I remember the anger and sadness that dwelled together behind her eyes, and I knew she had never meant to hurt me.

I hurt along with Alice as she constantly worried where she would next see his face. I lived that worry every day for sixteen years. My mother and father decided it was best not to press charges, as not only were we very close with the rest of his family (most of which never knew about it), but I couldn’t even talk about it without breaking down into a heaving, sobbing, mess. It would be my word against his. A child. It was futile, they agreed. He was a part of my life- a nightmare in the flesh only one hundred yards or so away from my own house. I watched him come and go as he pleased. I watched him drink until he couldn’t stand. I watched him laugh and attempt to talk to me. My father had sworn he would never be allowed on our property again, but slowly, I watched him walk right back into my life.

He eventually did come back on our property. He helped my father build a shed. He had a beer in my backyard. He tried to make small talk with me, and I found myself making the effort to do the same. I wanted so badly to just be who I was before. I thought, maybe, if I was a good girl and I could talk about things like school and why I didn’t like Muscatine grapes with the man who had pushed his fingers so far into my small body that I couldn’t go to the bathroom for weeks without my mother holding my hand- that maybe, just maybe I could be who I used to be. Maybe we could all just forget about it. But, it’s never that easy.

I read along as Alice destroyed her body with drugs and booze in the attempt to “destroy” her feelings. She hated her body. So did I. Part of me, I know, still does. It is a fact that most sexual abuse victims either dramatically gain weight or lose weight to alter their body. I did. Unconsciously, I truly believe, initially. Everyone used to tell me what a “pretty little girl” I was- that I would, they were sure, turn into a beautiful young woman. He, himself, nicknamed me his Princess. I thought if I could just be unpretty, then I couldn’t get hurt. He couldn’t hurt me again. It worked- kind of. People never remarked what a pretty young woman I was. I was “smart”, “kind”, “sweet”. These adjectives, though well meaning, became words I still resent to be associated with. But, as I was pointedly told by a member of my family a few years back, being overweight won’t stop someone from hurting you. There are all kinds of sickos out there that like your type. It doesn’t mean you won’t get hurt. Why, thank you for that dose of reality. It had never dawned on me.

I cringed and cried along with Alice as she experienced her own sexuality after the rape, wondering if she was truly broken. If the sadness and pain, though not physical, would ever really go away. When do the flashbacks stop? We train ourselves to focus on different things. I thank God that my journey was drastically different from hers, here. I was cared for, understood, held with patience. She was not so fortunate, but I knew the path she was training herself to walk. Private moments are never really yours again. Not for a while, at least. You still feel enslaved- owned by the person who stole your innocence.

Unlike Alice, who fought bravely and with a passion I have yet to see in any other human to place her violator behind bars, I never got that luxury. When I was 20 years old, he went missing and was later found to be drowned after falling into a pond while inebriated. My initial reaction was FREEDOM. I had never felt so free, not in a very long time. Then, I felt guilty. I was raised in the church, and I felt I was being sinful to engage in such delight in another’s passing. I felt like a horrible person for celebrating his death. I did not go to his funeral. I grieved for his family and for his mother mainly, who had been like a second grandmother to me. She had lost her son, the second of which she had had to bury in her lifetime. I knew it was hard for her. But, I had to dismiss myself when she stated to the preacher that, I know he hurt a lot of people, but I don’t think he ever hurt anyone as much as he hurt himself. That was a lie to me. I would never share in that sentiment. He chose to drink and drive behind the wheel of a car that killed his wife and nearly killed his young son. He chose to do drugs and ruin what brain cells had remained. He chose to live the life he lead. I did not choose for him to put his hands up my shorts. I did not choose for him to clasp his hand over my mouth. I did not choose for him to violently, aggressively assault me as I screamed. I did not choose for him to whisper vulgar things in my ear, his temper flaring and showing in his actions as I whimpered: I want my mommy. No. I didn’t choose for him to do any of those things. I certainly did not choose to be a twenty five year old woman, who still shudders when I hear a voice familiar to his, or I smell the brand of cigarette that he used to smoke. So, I win. I hurt more. If you want to call that winning.

Looking back, I have so many unanswered questions. I am hesitant to be angry with my parents. They loved me more than enough and neither children nor life comes with a manual. They were just doing what they thought was best for me. But, still- my heart burns and my throat tightens a little when I ask why. Why? Why did they let him come back into my life? Why did they make it seem like it was okay for him to just be there in the only place I felt safe? Why did I have to pretend to be grown up about it? To keep being told that even if I did run into him, I was older and he couldn’t hurt me anymore? Did they not realize this made absolutely no sense? That every time I saw him, it mattered not whether I was 4 or twenty- that the fear was paralyzing? I’m most hesitant to ask what kind of parents expose their child to that. Because I know how it makes them seem. But, they loved me. More than I have ever been loved by anyone. And I love them, immensely.

In all honesty…I am resentful. I’m resentful that I have to figure out, after all this time, how to live my live despite this. How to pull in the reins and not let it control me unconsciously or otherwise. I resent that there are times when I feel the only person I will every truly attract is a pervert like he was. And I most resent the fact that when I found someone who did, and was not, he haunted me still. I resent that I felt the need to play nice, to destroy my body, to be a “good girl” in order to ever be worth anything or anyone. I haven’t really, truly cried about this for a long time. It hurts, but I mask the hurt with other pain. But, as I sit here reliving this through her experiences, I cry. I don’t just cry- I sob, I weep, I feel it…all over again. Am I resentful? I’m so resentful. But, I’m trying to move past that.

Alice, I know you’re not reading this. You probably never will. But, I have to say: Thank You. Thank you so much for not only your book, but for the courage to live the truth you so boldly wrote about. Thank you for helping me realize I am not alone. I am not weird in my ability to be damaged. And that I will not always be damaged. It means more than you could ever know.

The Couple

They sit in the little, black, four door sedan. The fingers on one of his hands fiercely drumming the steering wheel, the other entangled in conversation with hers, resting on the console. He’s singing a song, his thumb tracing tiny circles on the tender part of her hand- the soft tissue between the area that forms the “L”. Her head bobs back and forth, gently to the music. Coldplay. I can see her mouthing the words, but that’s all. It’s the kind of mumbling you do when you don’t know all the words, but you love the song anyway. She breaks her grip from his, pumping the window lower with both hands and Chris Martin’s voice suddenly becomes louder beside me, but not obnoxiously so. She pulls two cigarettes from the pocket of her cut-off, blue jean shorts, places both of them, simultaneously, between her lips and inhales while holding a lighter to the end of each. Talent. She extends her arm in an unspoken invitation to him to take one, before placing her feet against the dashboard.


I can’t help but think of the marked differences between them. Him, in his plaid button down, khaki shorts, and hair groomed to perfection with just the right amount of gel to maintain his masculine stature yet tip-toeing on the edge of metro-sexual. He looks like he’s just stepped out of the fresh pages of a J-Crew catalogue. She, on the other hand doesn’t really fit into anything. Bare feet, accentuated by bright blue toes tap against the dashboard. Her shorts, bearing holes with various patterns of material peeking through are accented by a flowy, floral print top. She wears a belt over the shirt, the buckle forming the shape of a skull. It seems she’s fond of bracelets. Both arms are nearly covered from wrist to elbow with them- all kinds. Some plastic, some look home-made, others are thick and have words etched on them. Words I can’t read. They dance up and down her arm and she twists the tendrils of her long, brown hair.

By this time, it appears the light is stuck. We’ve been sitting here for a while. It didn’t seem to be an issue at first, but now…I guess wherever they’re going, it’s suddenly of greater importance that they get there. Soon. Or maybe they’re just tired of wasting their gas.

Jesus Christ. What the fuck is taking so long? We’ve been sitting here for ten minutes!

She’s right. Coldplay, The Weepies, Vampire Weekend. Three songs. We’ve been sitting here for the duration of three songs, so roughly, ten minutes.

I don’t know, but this is ridiculous. Where are the fucking police when you need them? God- I hate small towns. For this very reason. We don’t have to deal with this shit at home.

Home. I wonder where home is for them. Obviously somewhere far removed from the inconveniences of rural life. Maybe they got off the interstate too early and found themselves in the middle of a real life Mayberry. Maybe their GPS lead them through Here on their way to There based on their instructions to find the quickest route. Her phone rings.

Hey- yeah, we got off to get gas, and the GPS changed and said there was a shorter way, and now we are stuck in some goddamn hick town because apparently Billy Bob or Bubba-Joe one doesn’t know how to fix a fucking STOP LIGHT. I swear to GOD, I’m taking this bitch back to the store. It’s defective. But, yeah- we’re on our way. It’ll probably be late tonight before we get in. I’ll call ya and let ya know.

She hangs up the phone. They are separate beings now. No touching, no singing to the music. But, they are together in their anger and frustration. He pecks at his own phone, mumbling something about having to iron his suit at three in the morning, hoping the place has an ironing board. She doesn’t care. She is so beyond caring at this point, it’s so clear to see. It’s as evident on her face as the tattoos are on her bare shoulder and feet.

A familiar song starts to play forth from the stereo in their car, but somehow- it just doesn’t fit. Suddenly and inexplicably it fills the air around them and they start to laugh. Hysterically. She reaches over to turn it up and soon the only thing audible is the voice of Miley Cyrus, screeching out from the speakers. They laugh some more.

What in the hell is this doing on your iPod? She says, playfully punching his arm.

Don’t hate! It’s catchy. Everybody likes this song! He’s a little embarrassed, but hides it well.

No- everyone most definitely does NOT like this song.

They both sing along now. And they both know all of the words. He gets out of the car.

Chinese fire-drill!!! He screams.

She follows and as they round the car, he catches her, her squeels of excitement filtering the space. He pulls her in close from the waist and picks her up, kissing her there in the middle of a town they did not know and a moment they did not foresee happening, but one they’re making the best of. I notice a small tattoo on his left hand- the one I hadn’t been able to see before. It said simply “live”. She reaches up and pulls his face closer and I see the same word on her own left hand. In the same spot- the same section his thumb had traced earlier. I realize it’s more than just a word to them. It’s a belief. It’s these similarities that tie them together, and in some situations differences can seem more noticeable to the naked eye, but they serve their purpose too.

I imagine them going back to their lives in the city, whatever city that may be. I picture them walking down sidewalks, hand in hand. Eating brunch at a little Jewish pastry shop. Reading books on a blanket in the park. Cooking dinner in a tiny apartment. Sleeping, each knowing that the other loves them for who they are already as well as whoever they are yet to become.

The light changes now. They’ve returned to their designated seats in the car, and are now driving away. Moving on to make memories I can only imagine. And maybe I should be offended at their scoffing of my home, the place I grew up. The place I make memories. But, I’m not- I can’t. They’re just people, like me. Just different people from different places, all of us having lives to be lived.

Once

I had a story once. A long time ago when life was fresh and unscathed from the numerous things that have since left me with this unbounded, unprecedented feeling of being damaged. I’ve often looked back in an attempt to gauge where, exactly I tripped. Where did I make a misstep so seemingly small in the moment that has left me in a free-fall ever since--searching for a lifeline that had, over time, ceased to exist? When? Where? Why? How? These are questions that plague me.


I had a parachute once. Not so long ago when I thought I was figuring things out. When I began to think of myself as less damaged and more of a beautiful disaster. I had wonderful friends, an amazing family, a life I was so content in living. I was learning. I was growing. I was changing. But, I wasn’t moving on. I wasn’t truly believing the lovely ideologies I was writing about- at least not for myself. All of that wonderlust was for other people. I was different. I was trying really, really hard to believe otherwise. But, in my heart, I was still unworthy.

I had this guy once. Just a little while ago. We spoke in the wee hours of the morning as the world – our world- slept around us. I fancied his laugh. He complimented my accent. We splashed in the ocean. He wet my dress. He kissed me when I least expected it. He held me close. He chased my fears. He let me in to see he wasn’t perfect- he had fears of his own. I learned to trust and he disassembled walls I never knew I’d built. He saw in me things I never saw within myself. He made me question. He made me think. He challenged me. He didn’t just accept my excuses and feed me lines to placate my senses. He never asked me to be anything I wasn’t already, just to always be the best version of me. I loved him. But, he was damaged too, and sometimes despite love…things just don’t work out.

I had a heart once- a whole one. The timeframe comes and goes. It varies depending on the day, the hour, the moment you ask me. Yet, the catalyst of it all remains undetermined. Yes, I miss him. Yes, it’s killing me. But, there’s so much more that predates him. I could never be the best version of me if I didn’t know who I was in the first place. I couldn’t do what made me happy if I was only ever doing what I thought I was supposed to do. I could never believe I was not damaged if I was merely relying on affirmation of this from others, putting all of my self-worth in their hands-all of it- with nothing left for myself.

I knew who I was once. At I time I don’t remember, but feel it to be true. I had an identity all my own and a heart that knew no meaning of broken. I believed life was limited only by the boundaries I put on myself. I danced, I sang, I skipped, I laughed, I ran, I was zany, I wore what I wanted, and I never cared what anyone else said. When did I stumble? Where did I fall? Why didn’t I pull the chord? How do I learn to fly? When? Where? Why? How? These are questions that plague my life.

The Plastic Bag Diaries

I saw a plastic bag. It was floating in the wind. And I remembered that part in American Beauty where she films the movie about the plastic bag and she says it’s one of the most beautiful things she’s ever seen. I’m driving down the road and I fight the urge to pull over and linger there for a while. I don’t. But, still it meanders in the back of my mind. All day- as I sift through paperwork and peck at my keyboard like a well trained chicken performing desk work rather than off tempo renditions of “Old McDonald” and “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.”


I can see it moving aimlessly. Its motions vary- sometimes it’s soothing and calm as it climbs up in the air, sighing as it draws the mouths of smiley faces on its way to the ground, but never settling completely. Other times, it skips jovially about on the pavement- a tap dance of sorts. I try my best to avoid running it over, more out of my longing to let it dance uninterrupted rather than the still-small voice of my mother in the back of my mind.

Never run over a plastic bag. It could get stuck under your car and melt to your engine.

Or muffler. Or exhaust. Or some other hot piece of metal down there. I only ever half listened to the statement anyhow.

As it disappeared underneath the body of my car, I held my breath. I looked in my rearview window, but saw nothing.

Oh, man. I killed it. It’s probably melting at this very moment.

My heart was breaking as it was melting. And maybe it seems silly to anyone else- getting so upset about a stupid plastic bag. But, it wasn’t just a bag. It was life. It was my life. So much of me existed in the journey that bag was taking. Floating aimlessly about with no sense of direction, just taking life as it came- every core of your existence relying on the next gust of wind or a car coming along to either thrust you in a new direction or put you out of your misery. It all seems so romantic. Quite lovely and mysterious. And maybe that’s a wonderful life for a bag. Or a hipster. Or a college student backpacking through Europe. But, not for me.

Just then, I saw an object emerge sharply from the back of my car. It moved in a squiggle towards the sky- an upside down question mark. It wasn’t dead. It hadn’t melted. It just took a little longer to get where it was going. Is it where it intended to be? Who knows? It’s a bag, so I’m guessing it had to pre-existing notions of exact location. But, there was the positive. There was the idea that would make the moment worth remembering- worth writing about. Sometimes it’s okay to be a little lost. It’s okay to not be 100% sure where you are, as long as you have some idea of where you’re going. Maybe you’ll get there when you planned. Maybe you won’t. But, I assure you, you will get there right on time. It won’t kill you. You will not melt. You’ll just be stronger.

As for me? I have to remind myself, too. So, don’t worry- if you’re lost, you aren’t alone.

It's All I Have to Bring Today

It’s All I Have to Bring Today
By: Emily Dickinson

It’s all I have to bring today –
This, and my heart beside –
This, and my heart, and all the fields –
And all the meadows wide –
Be sure you count – should I forget
Some one the sum could tell –
This, and my heart, and all the Bees
Which in the Clover dwell.

I’m giving it everything I have, and somehow- it just doesn’t seem to be enough. But, for whom? For the world? For the stories I dream that remain untold? For the love who’s wounds are still so fresh- bleeding. Perhaps for those who cast judgment like a tree in the sunlight casts shadows? Or am I the only one measuring myself against Aphrodite? Trying desperately to make that fish climb the tree, and breaking a little more each time he falls to the ground- gasping for breath. Maybe it’s all of it. Maybe I am the leader of the bullies against myself. Maybe all I’m bringing...is already enough. Maybe...

Life On An Axis

The time-span of my life is broken now-

interspersed into segments of

“before you”

“during you” and

“after you”.

Dates are never just

dates anymore.

Everything

(oh everything!)

traces lines to you,

turning them to circles

that all lead right back to

the same place.

It should be so familiar,

but somehow- it’s not.

I guess you have to know where

you’ve been,

to remember when you return.

As Yet Untitled

There are so many things
I want to say,
But someone smarter and
far more creative
has already penned them and
put them to a melody-
such a haunting little tune.
Meanwhile, I feel robbed of
my experience to create
something meaningful out of
this disaster I'm enduring.
And it's not beautiful.
It's not beautiful or lovely
or any of those other
bull-shit terms people use to
try and create a false juxtaposition
between love and pain.
No- it's not any of those things.
It's heart-wrenching.
It's destruction.
It's the most complete sense of
being broken
that I've experienced.
And I wait for it to
pass me by,
like a stranger in the night,
whose name I used to know,
but somehow can't recall.
It's not you that I yearn to forget.
Never.
It's not the memories that
leave me fractured.
It's the fact that they are
but mere memories-
instead of moments yet to be lived.
And there's a part of me-
yes a part of me-
that would give all of
those memories for a
life-time of happy moments.
With you.
Yes you.
Who else?

Strange Seeing You Here

Hello, stranger.

It’s been a while-
So good to see your face.
The days have worn you down,
It seems your smile is hard to trace.
Your heart has gotten hardened,
It’s not just your bed that’s cold.
You don’t have to be the brave one,
When the cards aren’t meant to hold.

So, cry a little, let it out.
Don’t be afraid to fall.
Falling isn’t as tragic
As no movement at all.
Just break a little, own your scars.
There’s beauty in the disaster.
‘Cause every bit of you
Can come back from
What’s been shattered.

Quite Myself Again...

Oh, When I Was In Love With You

A.E. Housman

Oh, when I was in love with you,
Then I was clean and brave,
And miles around the wonder grew
How well did I behave.

And now the fancy passes by,
And nothing will remain,
And miles around they’ll say that I
Am quite myself again.

Sometimes, the need to cry is sudden and insatiable. It crawls out from beneath the laughter and happiness that has just started to feel normal, rather than arbitrary, and it grabs hold of you. The worst part is that you never know what exactly triggers its arrival. Those familiar notes, the alto of his voice looming softly. The smell of my shampoo, wondering if it will ever smell as sweet as it did when my head rested beside yours. As I cook your favorite meal, adding each ingredient, and wishing you were standing beside me. Soon, it becomes easier to count the things that don’t remind me of you, but even that seems to leave me shattered- the shards of my own regret, cutting me deeper. It’s an optical illusion of pain that my heart falls for every time. Like those stairs that look so perfect, but really lead to nowhere. And when I was with you, I was perfect. I was prematurely brave and arrogantly presumptuous. Wonder did grow, plentiful and fragrant, like gardenia in the spring. But, the beauty turned blinding and the fragrance left me sick. That much adoration should never be bestowed upon a mortal. Their human nature will only serve to disappoint if it is to be compared to the thralls Eros. What’s to be expected after that? Maybe one day I will be quite myself again. If I can remember who that was…

Plateau of a Week

It’s been a week. And sometimes I thrill myself with how okay I am. Others, I’m a memory away from falling apart. I don’t want to lose you, but I simply don’t know how to be your friend. You called, and the song played, and my heart- involuntarily- skipped a beat. Old habits die hard. I wish my heart followed suit. Days pass, and I wonder if you miss me, like I miss you. Could you possibly? You don’t know how to be my friend either. It always turns to something more. I wish, quietly and much in vain, that today would become the day before and everything would be as it was. But, does that not mean that tomorrow would never come? No- it doesn’t. It is inevitably evident to all others, but my heart. My heart…

It clings to you like a small child wraps around its mother’s legs, possessive and unapologetic. It claims you as its own, as it has been accustomed to your presence for too long now. It molds itself to every memory, every physical trait, every little bit of you that is left within me. I try to fool it- pacify it with warm thoughts of summer and happiness. But all it senses is your absence, not altogether removed, but not in the place you’ve always been. It’s running, full-force, towards something the mind knows is only a mirage. But, that’s the thing about the heart; it doesn’t care about appearing foolish or vulnerable. It just wants what it wants, regardless of the damage that could occur as a result. Maybe we could all take a lesson in love from the part of us that knows it best.

Yellow Flowers

I was waiting for the bottom to fall out from underneath me. I do that a lot- you know? Wait for the inevitable to happen- the proverbial piano to come crashing down or the bus to slam into me when I least expect it. And that’s what happened. Your words echo like ghosts in my mind, haunting my thoughts.


You know I care. But for now-

No sound. No other noise than your voice.

I think it’s best if we’re just friends.

My heart stops. Seriously. Did I just die? No…? Well, it feels like it.

I can hear you talking about timing being off, how you feel bad about not being able to give 100% of yourself. Our lives are just going in two different directions. We’re underwater, now. How did we get here? Your voice is soft and fuzzy- but, my mind is already a thousand thoughts away.

CRASH!
SLAM!!

They hit me at once- a cataclysmic force crushing me whole. And I realize you’re still there, waiting to know that I’m okay. That I’m not falling apart. But, it’s too late. You know I am. I was never able to successfully hide my emotions from you. So, I cry and you listen. You’re so patient, and I know it’s hurting you just as bad as it’s hurting me because in the end it’s just not fair to either of us.

There are all these little pieces of you speckled haphazardly over my life. Everywhere I look, there you are. And I’ve never had to do this before. I don’t know how to do this. Memories float about like fruit flies loitering the air after a picnic. They’re a reminder that something beautiful was once there, but remains no longer. What am I supposed to do with them? Part of me wants to lure them into a jar with golden honey and thick molasses. You know- keep them near and pretend it’s not happening. Another part wants to close them up tight and place them on the highest shelf- protect them from being ripped away, or worse- finding them dead. Little black dots of disappointment and despair.

I have to figure out how to be the me that existed before the us was even a factor. But- how? There are so many steps and somehow I’ve lost my feet. How do I move on without replacing you? How do I wake up every morning and breathe in and out? How do I not break a little more every time I have to explain the status of you and I? Or keep my heart and stomach from lurching as I remove our captured moments from my office wall?

Yellow flowers take the place of our faces on my computer screen. Yellow flowers are nice. They don’t make me smile. Maybe, they never will. But, perhaps, in time- they might make the sadness just a little harder to find.

A World that Once Was- Will Never be Again

Did I know happiness before

you?
Ah, but I did.
Content and Laughter
were acquaintances, too.
There were movies and
sunsets-
landfills and
broken records.
Things went missing,
to be found again.
The Earth spun,
and still it spins
with a slightly skewed
perspective.
The stars reach a little
closer.
The sun feels a little
warmer.
And I feel like a fish with
big eyes, but no gills-
In the place I’ve always
been,
yet not able to breathe.
It’s foreign and menacing
Though beautifully so.
And I know if the world
between us falls
away,
I will not cease to exist.
I will go on.
But, the world that once was-
will never be again.

L-O-V-E (You just spelt that in your head, didn't you?)

What does it mean to love someone? Can anyone really answer that question definitively? I’m not so sure. Love is a very subjective feeling stemming from so many things going on within our brains: past experiences, memories, ways we have conditioned ourselves to feel about love. Some might argue that, yes, love is experienced differently, but there is only one way to truly love another person. And I can’t answer that either. Not for anyone else, at least. Some people love like the flick of a lighter- hot, quick, and then it’s over. Some people love like a wild fire- quick to heat up, intense, and raging out of control, ultimately burning everything in its wake. Then some people, they love like an ember- a small speck of heat growing slowly, with nurture and nature coming together, building, building, BUILDING until the warmth is all encompassing; all around them. It’s honestly contained and quietly passionate. Some of these are harmful and destructive, but each one serves a purpose in our lives. Sometimes, we love quickly because we are happy and naïve and we think tomorrow can’t catch us if we live in today. Other times, we have that kind of love that is dysfunctional and overbearing, but fulfilling in some strange way. Like a bittersweet candy- a lemon drop round and yellow- stuck in the crevice of the tongue. It wreaks havoc on everything you are until there is nothing left. But some people are lucky enough to find real love more than once in a lifetime. Some might say that you cannot love, the truest of love, more than once in a lifetime. But, I would venture to say they are wrong. See, to me, true love is not something that has an expiration date or something you can try to dictate.


So, I guess it comes back to the original question: what does it mean to love someone. It’s hard and wonderful, complicated and beautiful, but in the end- really so simple. Loving someone means wanting what’s best for them, even if it’s not what is easiest for you. It’s about accepting someone for who they are at their core and not trying to alter it or change it to conform to your needs. Who they are already should be enough for you. Loving someone means bringing out the best part of them and allowing them to do the same. You should love them for their attributes as well as their faults. Love means compromise. Love means being honest and vulnerable, even though that means letting someone see your weaknesses. Love is not jealous or vindictive. Love involves being humble. It is communication even if it’s three in the morning and you feel like you can’t keep your eyes open. Love is letting your pride take the backseat. Love is the bravest, yet scariest thing you will ever do. Love is unconditional- you cannot with hold it just because someone isn’t ready to give it back. Love is finding someone who makes you feel like you are at home in any given place.



Yeah, it’s hard. We’ve established that. But, it’s not impossible. And I certainly don’t feel it is impossible to find more than once. You just have to open yourself up to it. That’s the hard part- realizing there are no guarantees. We might hesitate to say that we love someone for fear that it might not be returned. But, if you don’t take the risk- you’ll never know. And life is too short not to say it out loud.

Tales of a Duplicitous Heart

The Woman Who Could Not Live With Her Faulty Heart
Margaret Atwood






I do not mean the symbol


of love, a candy shape


to decorate cakes with,


the heart that is supposed


to belong or break;






I mean this lump of muscle


that contracts like a flayed biceps,


purple-blue, with its skin of suet,


its skin of gristle, this isolate,


this caved hermit, unshelled


turtle, this one lungful of blood,


no happy plateful.






All hearts float in their own


deep oceans of no light,


wetblack and glimmering,


their four mouths gulping like fish.


Hearts are said to pound:


this is to be expected, the heart’s


regular struggle against being drowned.






But most hearts say, I want, I want,


I want, I want. My heart


is more duplicitous,


though to twin as I once thought.


It says, I want, I don’t want, I


want, and then a pause.


It forces me to listen,






and at night it is the infra-red


third eye that remains open


while the other two are sleeping


but refuses to say what it has seen.






It is a constant pestering


in my ears, a caught moth, limping drum,


a child’s fist beating


itself against the bedsprings:


I want, I don’t want.


How can one live with such a heart?






Long ago I gave up singing


to it, it will never be satisfied or lulled.


One night I will say to it:


Heart, be still,


and it will.

It never ceases to amaze me when an author can put themselves so directly into the psyche of anyone who reads their material. That's what Margaret Atwood did in this piece. Ah, the duplicitous heart...how well we are acquainted. Especially as of late I have felt it tugging at itself, longing to burst through its metaphorical restraints. And it is confusing and upsetting, frustrating and paralyzing. The last adjective might seem mildly dramatic, but I assure you- it's not. When you are trying to make tough decisions or decipher a situation you need your heart to be on your side. It's the one thing you should always be able to count on. If it doesn't even know what it wants, how in the worldl am I supposed to figure it out? You have no idea what to do, and that, my friends, is paralyzing. It makes you want to repremand it, like a child wailing about on the floor: "You know better than to act this way. Now, get up and pull yourself together. Don't make me have to tell you again." And I would say that to it...if a heart actually listened and I wouldn't look like a paranoid schizophrenic who'd gone off their meds.
But, you can't make your heart listen. It's just a muscle. But, a heart can be conditioned. It can be trained and taught to do what you want it to do, both physically and emotionally. I've said it before and I'll say it again- I'm a big believer in choosing to be happy. Your heart might be breaking, splitting into fragments of its former self and you might be too. You can either lie there on the floor, content to let the pain slowly erase you, or you can stand up and begin a new chapter. You can smile. You can dance. You can sing. You can create. You can breathe. You can laugh. You can dream. You can begin again. Do you understand? You can begin again. One of the most important things to understand about hearts is this: you must know when to condition and when to just close your eyes, suck it up, and listen. A heart doesn't always say what we want to hear, but somtimes it says the one thing we truly need to know.

Rediscovery

I go to bed and my heart aches a little-


Just a little.

I can hear your voice and see your face,

And I want to believe everything will

Be okay.

But, I lie there pretending to sleep,

And my mind keeps spinning

Like a race car about to crash

Because, ultimately, it all comes

Back to me.

I reach for the phone,

Press a button for your name.

Hesitate.

Put it down.

Pick it up.

Try again.

..The crazy wall is strong as ever.

And part of me feels it shouldn’t be this way.

But, I’m utterly lost in this place

So commonly familiar to everyone but me.

You’re the moon and

I’m the tide-

Following blindly-

Every rise and fall of my core

Hanging on your words.

And it’s suffocating-

But, the pillow rests not in your hands.

No.

You’re lovely,

And we’re fine,

But, me-?

I’m a mess of emotions-

Making great whales

Out of guppies.

The phone glows silent, beside me in the darkness.

I leave it.

I close my eyes and focus on me.

Think of things that make me smile.

Try to remember who I am.

Why, hello there, stranger.


It’s been a long time…

It’s been far too long of a time.

Laying the Foundation

It seems like everyone is trying to chase happiness these days. But, we do it such a clumsy way, like toddlers who have just learned to walk- stumbling about with a direction of where we want to go, just a bit perplexed in our ability to actually get there. We think, maybe, if we just have the Newest Gadget or the House on the Hill or the Relationship or The Career or any of the other bazillion things we relentlessly pursue that then happiness might be achieved. The simplists might long for more emotional things over the material. Seeking praise for a job well done, hearing those 3 little words from someone special, or just enjoying laughter with friends. While those certainly attribute more to true happiness than any finite thing can, that's still not its root.

Happiness starts with YOU. It is a state of mind, rather than something to be achieved or attained. It is a place deep within that must be forcefully, whole-heartedly protected from people who wish to rip past the veil and taint it with negativity. It is somewhere that must exist with or without the presense of others. You should be able to find happiness in a room full of friends as well as an empty space. You have to find that within yourself or you will only ever be relying on other people to make you happy. And that, my friends, will never suffice. So many people try to lure happiness by shining a light on themselves. They go to extreme measures to try and convince everyone that they are, in fact, happy when it's all just a facade. But, when you can find that place within you (and it is there, I assure you) you have to kindle that fire and harness that light. Then, you will shine from the inside out and you won't have to convince yourself or anyone of your happiness- it will be all too evident.

Concurrently, when you choose to harbor anger and hatred- it's like putting a pin in the hand of your enemy and waiting for the worst. The hole in the veil might seem small, but the smallest amount of negative thought is enough to destroy everything magical, golden, and loving that lies beyond. Forgive. Choose to be happy. Choose YOU.

Surely, the laughter of children and the love that lingers after the words are spoken are both things of happiness. As are sunsets, the scent of babies, holding hands, the chirping of birds, and walking barefoot in the sand. But, let us remember: those are things on which happiness is BUILT. They are not the FOUNDATION. The foundation is YOU.

Traces of Lavendar and Poppy Dreams

I remember what it was like to be young. Your whole life- heck the whole world- stretched out before you like some enigmatic road to nowhere. All you can think about when you’re ten is how it will feel to be thirteen. When you’re thirteen, you just long to be eighteen…then twenty-one…then you just want to reach the point where life will start to make sense. Funny thing is- it never really does. Ninety-three years have passed me by and I’ve yet to experience one day where life made any sort of sense at all. Happiness, sadness, laughter, contentment, anger, desire- they’re all so random, so fleeting. They come about on flits of wind and drift away with the blink of an eye, never lasting the way we want them to.


The metal leg supports of my wheel chair are cold against the thin material that remains where my beautiful, ivory skin used to be. I look at the other poor souls sitting around me in the day-room- an atrocity of space really- decorated to make us feel as if we are at home, instead of this prison garnished with floral wallpaper. My home looked nothing like this and I want so badly to be back there, though I know it’s not possible. I don’t want this fake living room with its plastic protected furniture and sandpaper carpet. No- I want my living room with my art on the walls, coloring both the space and my thoughts with a rich vibrancy. My home with a fluffy couch, my wedding picture hanging above the fireplace, and the sound of my grandchildren’s feet running throughout. But, as I said- it’s just not possible and I dismiss the thought before my heart discovers it and becomes attached. Time is a terrible thief.

It’s “Family Day” here at the pris -oh, I mean “Golden Horizons Senior Retirement Facility.” I guess that looked better for the brochure versus “A Place to Sleep Until You Die Because You’re Old and Burdensome and Society Functions Better Without You.” But, I’m not bitter or anything.
I watch as the faces around me change (or don’t depending upon their condition) at the recognition of familiar voices and smells suddenly surrounding them, the sensations bringing light into eyes that I had long thought dead. Toddlers pushed in strollers, teenagers- some eager and others listless- trailing behind their parental counterparts; all thrust past the lobby entrance and congregate there impeding all forward motion. Arms are extended, hands grasped, cheeks pinched, and kisses exchanged- forcefully or otherwise.



I sit in the corner and watch from a distance. I know no one is coming for me. I’ve been here over a year and it’s the same every time. I can’t blame her, really. Poppy that is- she’s my only daughter and I can’t imagine the task has been easy on her. Still, I cared for her when it was difficult and nearly unbearable, so to say I’m not the slightest bit hurt that she hasn’t been to see me-not once- would be a lie. Agnes is parked across from me with her young grandson perched in her lap, but her features remain blank, icy. She’s younger than me by a good twenty years and is the unfortunate victim of Alzheimer’s, so I’ve heard the nurses mention. I look on as a woman, appearing to be her daughter, speaks to her, trying and failing to resurrect any memory that might be hidden behind the wall that the disease built. She smiles and speaks softly, but the pain is visible in her eyes. The pain is visible and real, and yet here she is… in spite of that. My heart stings a little and suddenly I find myself wishing for some sense of realization or familiarity- something to cross Agnes’s face. Anything at all to make this pain worth it for her daughter- to give her a small bit of hope, or at least peace of mind that she is not a forgotten character in a life that her mother used to lead. But nothing ever does. Her eyes remain, unfocused, on the white tile floor as the now fussy child is removed from her bony frame and cradled in the arms of a mother who knows him. I can’t bear to watch, yet I can’t look away and see her lean down to kiss her crying child, a tear slithering down her own cheek in the process. The sting in my heart turns to outright pain and I’m forced to tear my eyes from the scene in front of me. I turn my chair and head towards the opposite end of the hall, away from the busy lobby and the heartbreak I just witnessed.

I glide past entryways where patients show off their rooms and art projects, a kind of weird shift in roles taking place. The children, suddenly in their parent’s former position, are having an experience somewhat a kin to visiting a five year old in college.

Look how big my room is! I have my own bathroom and everything- isn’t it lovely? Oh and look at this macaroni picture frame I made in arts and crafts last week…

Weird. Just too weird for words.

I move past it all, seeking solace in the cool shade of the garden just outside the double doors at the end of the hall. But something’s not right. The only thing lying past the glass doors before me is the hot, black concrete of the parking lot speckled with cars.

When did that happen?

I must have gotten turned around somewhere. I had been so upset.

But why?
Why was I upset?
Why…..?

My pulse is racing as I take in the white walls and sterile environment around me. It looks like a hospital. Am I sick? I don’t feel sick. It hits me suddenly, unmistakably and I realize I have no idea where I am. And I am so frightened. The feeling engulfs my entire body and panic washes over me. A young woman in purple slacks and a shirt with kittens on it approaches me with a smile.

“Hello, Francine! How are we doing today?” she asked.

“Why am I here? What is this place?” I begin to cry, overwhelmed with emotion.

The young woman moves towards me, but I realize I don’t want her to touch me. I don’t know her and I don’t know where I am and I just want to…I just want to…oh, god- I don’t even know. I swat her away.

“Do not touch me! I am a human being and I have rights! Don’t touch me or I’ll scream, I swear it!!”

Nothing feels safe. Nothing feels familiar. It’s like I’m in some alternate universe where I have no past or future, only the present- but it makes no sense. I’m already screaming it seems, as shoes begin to screech on the floor and make their way in my direction, placing restraints around me. I feel the sharp, pointed metal go into my arm and a sense of calm overcomes my entire being.

I wake up to find a woman sitting in a chair beside my bed. Her strawberry blonde hair is twisted into a loose spiral at the nape of her neck with the slightest flecks of gray showing around the wispy pieces framing her face. Her pale blue eyes are set on my own and there is so much kindness there.

“Hello, there.” she says.

“Hello.” I reply, slightly skeptical. “Who are you?”

Her features flinch slightly.

“My name is Poppy.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Poppy.” What a beautiful name. I say it a few times in my head, liking the warm thoughts it evokes. I decide to tell her about it.

“That’s such a pretty name.” I tell her.

“Thank you. My mother always said she chose the name because it made her happy when she thought about it. She said it made her feel all warm and fuzzy inside, like the feeling you get on the last night of summer.”

I look back at her, intrigued by how comfortable I feel with her. There is something so familiar about her, but I just can’t put my finger on it. The soft, steadiness of her voice seems to ease my fears- quieting ghosts that seem to always be clanging about, hangers-on to a life I don’t know how to live.

“I had a daughter once.” I say to her, letting the words escape before I am fully able to remember whether this is true or not. It feels true. Here with her, it feels so true. I give in to the peaceful feeling as she reaches to hold my hand in her own. Her face softens more as she pulls it to her mouth and presses her lips against my frail, skeleton of a hand.

She stays for a long while, showing me old pictures of her mother and father, newer ones of her children and tells me stories about their most recent adventures. I’m not sure what she wants with me or why she isn’t actually visiting her mother. Perhaps she was dead and her daughter still came to spend time with other patients in honor of her. She didn’t say and I didn’t ask. I was just glad she was here. We both fall quiet, but her hand is still entwined with mine and I can feel her thumb stroking the top of it as she begins to hum. The sound is hushed and pleasant- the kind of content humming of a lullaby perhaps. The various notes dance around and ricochet off the walls. It sounds so familiar and I think I might have heard it before, so I join her- the voice coming from my throat much less beautiful than hers.

She turns to me now, her blue eyes the color of a clear, spring puddle; and- I notice- just as wet. Something churns inside of me as she raises my hand to the side of her cheek and holds it there. We hum the song over and over until I feel sleep beckoning me once again. I try to resist, but soon find I can’t.

When she stands to go, she bends down and kisses the corner of my mouth, her lavender perfume filling the space around me. I don’t want her to go, but I know she must. Sleep still has me in its clutch, but I can feel her beside me, her breath on my neck and I hear three faint words whispered- almost inaudible- in my ear.


I love you, Mom.

My breath catches in my throat, and I keep my eyes shut tight. I sense her moving away from me, breaking my hand from hers and resting it on the bed beside me. I can feel her distance growing with every step she takes and I long for her to stay. Her last words both scare and comfort me, but I can’t figure out why. I hear the door click shut behind her and I’m alone again.



I think I had a daughter once. Yes, I think I did. I wonder if she thinks of me. Sleepiness makes my eyelids heavy and as the world around me falls away, the scent of lavender remains... subtle and sweet.