barefoot beggars.

The changes in seasons are weird. Or more so the ways they make me feel.

Like something about the warm air, cool breeze, and sprouting leaves drags me through time and space until I’m in a nonexistent place.

How now I’m instantly transported to my old backyard. Outside throwing softballs at the pitch-back in attempt to strengthen my arm. I’d gladly flex if you asked me to. I’m hunting for bugs to fill my little cage. Or I’m playing basketball with my dad in the interim between the March Madness games. I’m admiring my grandma’s freshly planted garden. I’m wondering if I will ever be that talented. If I will ever be that patient. I’m wearing no shoes and letting my toes feel the earth again. I’m dancing in the rain and making a show of it to anybody willing to watch or listen. I’m taking sad-looking selfies again. Ones that I will later mutilate and upload to Myspace. I’m holed up inside, tethered to the computer even though the scent of the spring breeze wafts in and reminds me of so many things.

It smells like falling in and out of love. It reeks of change and growth. Like there’s no more room for stagnation. Everything is bright and new and the cracks can’t be covered up anymore. And just as my mind rushes backward in the same breath I’m capitulated forward into the unknown. What the smell of spring will mean for me in the next year, in ten, in fifty?

How everything is compounded into a birdsong, an inhale, a foot grazing a blade of grass.

How seasons are less like divisions and more like unifiers to the things that we never consider to remember, yet lie dormant in our minds just waiting to come back to life.

crawl out.

I remember the first day of 2016. As the ball dropped and the new year rushed in I felt all I felt was emptiness. I couldn’t parse out the particular swirl of emotions but as I looked around the living room, surrounded be a couple of friends and my boyfriend at the time, nothing really seemed worth celebrating. It all felt so fake.  Everything was in a different galaxy or maybe I was the foreign object that didn’t belong. The black hole sucking the life from the small gathering that should be only fun. I wasn’t just sad or confused, I was depressed and I didn’t even realize it.

Later that day my boyfriend dropped me off at the airport. I was going to Rome to study abroad for a few weeks. Italy. A dream that I’ve always had. I wasn’t even excited necessarily. I was scared. I knew that I was going to die in a terrorist attack or get kidnapped and forced into the sex trade. It’s the only thing that made sense. I was anxious and I knew that, but I did know how bad this anxiety actually hold on my brain.

I don’t know where to go from here, honestly.

I was depressed in Rome. The land of death. Ironic or telling? Time took on a new meaning in this ancient land. I was aware of the past in a way that never before could have occurred to me. In the churches, amongst the ruins, stepping on the thousands of years old cobblestones, wandering around cemeteries, staring at the beautiful repurposing of bones in the Capuchin Crypts. I wasn’t any better but being so immersed in the past I was able to come to the terms with “death” as a part of “life”. The present began to feel more like a home then it had in a few years. I realized that it’s all we ever have and that I wasn’t really a part of it. I was home sick.

I was depressed until June. It wasn’t major. I could get out of bed usually. I thought about the what-if’s or how-would-i’s of ending my life but I never planned anything or hurt myself. Just engaged in sick mind games that did seem better than the reality I was living in. A reality where I was doing well in school, had loving friends and family, and recently gained recognition on quite a few things I’d written (One of which was about a man suffering from depression. Sometimes I express myself through my characters before I’m able to admit their predicaments are my personal foils).  This didn’t mean that the world was okay. That we weren’t treating the planet like shit. I would freak out about every single piece of waste I created. This meant that I was contributing to the terrible state of things. Where we don’t value human existence. Only money. Only power. What’s the point of anything at all? What’s the point of me being here if all I’m going to do is hurt and contribute to the hurt of others who are hurting just as much?

All I’m going to do is label my days “good” and “bad”. Bad being relatively normal. Good being the very rare exception. Good meaning getting by without crying or staring blankly ahead at the wall. Charting out the days trying to figure out what exactly it is that’s making me feel so low. Is it my diet? Or stress from school? My birth control? PMS? My relationship? My living situation? My grandma’s cancer? My unworthiness? Maybe it’s everything swirling, swirling in my brain. It’s all the truth, isn’t it. A reality that I can’t handle.

I’m better when I’m alone in bed. Then I can’t make a fool of myself trying to respond like a human when I feel like a zombie. “Let’s go out!!”, finally 21 and going to bars or leaving the safety of my bed seemed like the worst thing and it wasn’t only the cold I was afraid of. I can feel all of the hurt and curl into it. Paralyzed. And if I do go I’ll be the first one home. Interacting with people at all is completely draining and only a part of keeping up the charade. I’m fine. Things could be better, but couldn’t they always?

As I walked home at nights I’d wish for the shadows to swallow me whole. For the greenery to wrap its vines around me and pull me back into the arms of Mother Earth. For my feet to leave the ground so I could sail into the night like a balloon.

Finally spring came and so did hope. It wasn’t a pretty flower that I spotted and plucked. Magically gaining access to the beauty of life. Whatever it was, it was already wilting when I first saw it. From there it only continued to die until the petals fell off and grew crunchy. In fact, crushing them in my fingers was the wake up I needed. I opened myself up. Instead of just continuing to say I would get through “it”. Meaning make my mind be okay.

I finally told the truth to my therapist: “I’ve thought about it”. It being suicide. The end of me. Everything. Not worth it. But I wanted to fight. To get back to the place that I used to be even though it seemed impossible. But who was “me” even. I felt like a shell. A “she” not a “me”.

Go to a doctor. That’s what she said. I felt like I’d been granted permission to acknowledge that I wasn’t okay. This wasn’t just something that could be fixed by exercise, self-love, and a bi-weekly hour-long conversation with a professional. This was bad and it wasn’t my fault. I had to be vulnerable to get better. And for me that looked like admitting that I needed help. That I couldn’t do it all alone. That it was not my fault. I wasn’t weak but I was sick.

I got lucky. All it took was one trip to a doctor and about a month and a half of adjustment time to the medication. I doubted that this one would work and continually searched online and saw stories of both the good, bad, and in between.

The summer is a blur. As my mind started to clear from the antidepressant I moved into a new apartment and realized the strains that the old environment had on me. I started to feel the distinctive difference between dread and excitement that for so long were swirled together in apprehension. I could now single out my relationship as increasingly unhealthy and breaking it off became the only answer. Getting myself better was a priority and I realized that can mean making all types of uncomfortable decisions that will be worth it in the long run.

The rest of the year was me gaining back the self-confidence that was depleted by my battle with anxiety, depression, and recent betrayal by a best friend. This was still a struggle, but without a constant voice to catastrophize everything. I’ve learned what thoughts are valid and which ones are a product of my anxiety disorder. Something I will have to live with, but something that doesn’t make me any less valuable as a person. I’ve lived more in the moment. Respected my body more. Appreciated my own point of view. Realized that I’m not a failure. I’m worthy. I deserve to receive the type of love that I know I can give. I deserve to be honest to myself and not feel shame for what I want. Or feel guilty for those days that I will panic or feel worthless.

These will all take work and living to continue to master but I’m lightyears ahead of where I was a year ago. I’m hoping when the ball drops tonight I feel a mix of gratitude for what I’ve been through and a jolt of excitement for what’s to come. Maybe I’ll be angry at my country or fearful of my post-grad future.

I just hope to feel anything but empty.

closing.

When, polite and firm,
She asks you to leave,
Your hands wrap
Tight around her neck,

Digging into the crux
Of her Adam’s apple
As could the dullest edge.
You squeeze out her breathe.

Habit forces to the tongue
Sputtering sorries,
Crammed against her throat
In an attempt to open up.

But nothing can leave,
Spawning stoppage,
And yet she can’t tell if
She’s empty or full.

The room vignettes
As she accept this
Punishment for her
Selfish transgression.

Shock gives way to shame.
You weren’t ready to strike
And her catching you off guard
Makes this thing a suicide.

comfortability carvings.

We carved spaces out of one another
And when we parted?
They drained.

Slowly I’ve filled mine up
With the pieces of myself
That I’d lost or never knew.

It’s not completely healed
but I’m getting there.
I’m more me than I’m used to.

But what about you
Who’s filled the hole with another
Instead of taking time to patch your soul.

I wonder if you’re sinking into comfortability
The way I did with you.
Is that something that you’re used to?

Are you at home in your bones
Or have you moved on to slice space into another
So you don’t have to fill your own?

sidewalk séance.

I’ve been walking taller these days.
And the funny thing is how I haven’t even tried.
I’ve noticed because of the way people look at me now
Or really the way I don’t flinch when we meet eyes.

I remember slouching around,
Shoulders hunched.
Feeling dirty and useless,
Staring at the ghost in the passing windows.

Windows passing because I was scared still
And thinking that today might be the day that I finally feel better
And I won’t lie and say it was,
But tomorrow does come and now it is today

And I’m standing erect,
Chest pushed out with pride
Wearing my womanhood as a badge of boldness
For all that I’ve encountered and all I’ve yet to do

And those things are now possibilities
No longer chained to unknown creatures that utter
“You are not enough and you never will be.”
I can look into the flecks of that stranger’s irides

Without the comparisons quaking quite like they used to.
I feel my differences sloshing in my stomach
But our similarities they seep through my skin.
I mean they’re swimming through our goddamn veins,

Us humans are all really the same
And I’m out of my mind and back into the world,
Proudly passing windows
And this time I’m the one that’s moving forward.

aftertaste.

I’m shaking. An attempt to numb myself for the time being. You see, I’m at a desk at work behind a computer and I don’t think it’s really the right time to curl up in a ball and let myself crumble. I was already saving up a good cry from finishing this book. The ending was so hopeful and made me want to run away and do so many things that I’ve been wanting to do.

But in an instance everything changed when I decided to I simply look up this author online. This hero. And find out that he “was”. That simple past tense version of existing disorienting my every atom. Now my blood cells feel like they’re prickling the insides of my veins and my stomach is sloshing over itself like a ship caught in a goddamn hurricane.

I momentarily feel betrayed.  Taken advantage of. I can’t decide if I should hate this man for lying or praise him for his gift. Now my mind is spinning and fumbling over all of the people (so much like this man) who will read the book and for a second feel this punch of hope. What if they too search him out and find that he no longer “is”. That even his own success in helping the cause of his own demons wasn’t enough to keep him from spiraling back down into the shrouding shadows.

What fucking right do I have to be angry. He made a difference in this world. In some way he must have left an imprint on the darkest parts of any who collided with his words. Clearing away the dust from those that keep their heart stored away in the attic and opening the blinds so those trapped inside their bed can escape the prisons of their own head.

The shadow of death follows us all and manifests in many forms. We might see it on the knife sitting on the counter. An accidental slip or an intentional slice.  In the creases of our grandfather’s sunken eyes. In the rotting stems that curl around the small white cross as we make our way to the volleyball game. In the bright sun as our mind turns to black and we picture every last thing burning out. In every 7th time we handle raw meat and rightfully mistake it as flesh.

It’s as shitty for me to sit here and romanticize his death as a sacrifice to my generation as it is to pretend it didn’t happen and walk away with the aftertaste of false optimism.

I don’t have an answer. Just so many more questions instead. Questions I’ve been asking for the past year and a half. I think it hurts sometimes just feeling like you didn’t get a chance to try to save them. It’s not a selfish feeling. If it was it would be easier to overcome than the beautiful burden of empathy.

I didn’t know this man. I did know my friend but not enough to feel his pain until it was too late. One thing that I do know is that I wish that a long hug were enough to pull somebody back up. In my mind I feel their warm bodies pressed into mine. I crush them so tightly that they slowly turn to sand and run through my fingers.  This hero, this friend, all of these artists, every person that’s ever left us too soon. They pool around me onto the ground and then I begin sinking into their pieces. The sadness is unavoidable and it is okay to keep it with you. But what is most important is to find the grains that gleam the brightest. Let them blind you. Allow their beauty be what weighs you down.

 

Not Buying It

disclaimer: long personal post/I realize my privilege in the scope of the world

I’ve spent the past few years struggling with various self-image and confidence issues. A big part of this was the notion that I had to be a certain “type” of woman. I had all of these categories in my mind and was wondering where exactly I would fit it. This became harmful to me when I started to question my sexuality. I realized that I was attracted to girls and instead of that being a victory it became a burden. This spurred worries that I wasn’t who I thought I was at all. I began to shuffle between presenting myself as more “femme” and more “butch” and worried everyday when I looked in the mirror that I wasn’t accurately representing myself. This lead to social anxiety and the feeling that I was never going to be good enough. I wore boys clothes for the majority of elementary school and this never seemed to bother me or anyone. I never took it as an indication of anything other than the fact that I wanted to be comfortable to play kickball/basketball at recess. Now I was in college and things were different. And it wasn’t even society’s perception of me that was the issue, but my grappling with who I saw myself as.

It took time but after awhile I started realizing that I was buying into what society wants: an easy answer. This or that. Different ends of a spectrum. If you know me you might also know that I’m in between on a lot of things: I’m agnostic, bisexual, struggle to decide between my favorite films, and (god forbid) I love cats AND dogs. It’s been a process but I’ve started to feel I can express myself again without be burdened by these expectations in my mind. I’m becoming more comfortable in my skin and learning to balance my “femininity” with the “boyishness”  (excuse the terms I don’t know how else to describe this at the time being) and started to feel like I’m just myself and not a version of who I have to be.  I’ve stopped dressing to impress anyone other than myself. Yeah, compliments are nice but I’d rather be comfortable. This image really has minimal to do with the clothes I’m wearing but more with the way I carry myself.

With this realization came  confidence and less of the crazy racing thoughts. I don’t have to think about any of this nearly as much anymore. I’m free to focus more on things that actually matter. (And worry about a gazillion other things that don’t matter. But hey, it’s one less thing to worry about so let’s count it as a win?)

The confidence issue has always been weird with me. Some days I am the most confident person in a room and other times one little comment will affect me when it shouldn’t. While I’m sure this is the same for many men out there, women are often the ones that are told they can’t do something. I’ve been blessed to have family, friends, and a wonderful boyfriend who always remind me that I can do whatever the hell that I want. But the media and other people in my life are not always sending the same message. It’s not like I think “I can’t do this because I’m a woman” but more like “this isn’t for you, maybe you should do something else” because that’s how women are often treated when they fail. Dusting off the dirt from you knees and getting back up is never easy, but it will make you stronger for the next time someone tries to knock you back down. Don’t we all wish we were Weebles?

I’m a girl and I’m proud. A certain shade of pink is becoming my favorite color. I love drinking wine and crying at sad movies. I’ve recently fallen in love with doing facemasks. I care about my hair too much sometimes. I’m better at communications than science or math. I’m tender and caring. I know that I want to be a mom someday. When I PMS I get moody and even depressed. I let my boyfriend carry heavy things sometimes. Chocolate is a thing from the heavens (If they even exist. Wait maybe chocolate is PROOF that they do). These aren’t the only things about me, but I am not ashamed of any one of these facts.

The real thing I’m trying to say is that none of these things make me weak. It’s been a journey. I’m finally starting to be able to celebrate my own version of being a woman and I hope– to all my other girls out there that you can find peace in being a woman in whatever way suits you best. Buy into as many norms as you want or throw them all into the trash. Whatever makes you feel like your strongest and most authentic self.

Two Doors Down

Dear Chris,

I’m sure you wouldn’t know that I’ll be forever trapped at your home. It’s the gaps and returns in time that keep me tethered to this place. I’m climbing. Up the jungle gym and falling down the slide. I’m climbing into the treehouse. It was never yours. I’m in the living room. I’m watching Hocus Pocus but suddenly it’s Rob Dyrdek’s Fantasy Factory. I’m doing laundry in a house that was never mine. I’m alone. And lonely. But there is no one to miss. I’m hauling wood to make a fire. He sprays Axe to make the flame catch. That adolescent-lady killer and outdoors-boy. He’s gone and I’m struggling from the shed to the center of the yard. Why don’t I just go home? But whatever is there is no longer mine. I’m here and now so are you and so is she. We are eating cheese puffs and then you are gone. I’m outside and it’s night. I bite into a s’more in celebration of her birthday? Or maybe it was his. Why would it matter now that I am… wait how old am I? You are 7 and he is 14 and my next notch is 21. Line us up and divide us by the number of truth. You asked me to show you mine. He held my hand but only one time. I see my body in the dingy, dirty bathroom. My body. Stretched into that of a woman. Like the one that tucked you into bed. Like the ones he searched for late nights with a blue glow on his face. Hips jut. Breasts pout. Hair is just as long. Or was it short? I’m always in between and now you’ve become a cliche and even more so has he. I’m still here. I’m looking into this yellowed mirror. Freckled with toothpaste. Down at my feet are dirty clothes. That I had never worn and that I can never clean.

Preface to Posts:

Hello, followers! I recently traveled to Rome for a creative writing course. I will be posting some journal entries and possibly a short story in the near future.

Just a warning so that if you see weird things you that’s probably what I was talking about.

Buona sera!

In Which I have Insane Dreams that Probably Definitely Mean Something

September 21, 2015

Last night I dreamt of spiders. They were brown and ugly. I killed two. Squished them dead. They were too ugly to save. I needed them gone. I scraped up their gooey bodies with tissue.

Dreaming of a spider refers to a powerful force protecting one from self-destructive behavior.

I squished them dead.

September 22, 2015

I cried last night.  Agonized over agonizing over every little thing.

And then I dreamt of mice. So many mice. Some were cute and I wanted to hold them but I was too afraid. One was feral. Red eyes, teeth jutting out, an ugly grey. The mice crawled out from everywhere. They ran over my legs and all around me.

Dreaming of mice indicates that one is spending too much time dwelling on insignificant matters.

Last night I mourned the past. Worried about the future.

I also dreamt of my first grade best friend. She was grown up, but I noticed her front was flat. She pulled up her shirt to reveal her breasts. They were small, misshapen, and on her back.

Dreaming of childhood friends means one longs for a time in the past with less pressure and responsibility.

Last night I needed somebody to hold me and tell me I was something. I need the reassurance of knowing I would be okay.

Dreaming of breasts indicate a need to be cared for and nourished.

The breasts were misplaced and malformed.

My mind is aware of its own perversions.