Even The Worm Will Learn @eventhewormwilllearn-blog - Tumblr Blog

My Clothes Have Outgrown Me

My clothes have outgrown me many times over, but this sadness never does— it’s one size fits all. And, sometimes I wish there was a way for this sadness to have an obituary— for me to have an obituary. Not everyone that has left, and especially not you. Sometimes I just wish that these bruises within my skin and all of these aged scars could’ve been replaced by a reality check— by the words, “You chose to exist” instead of “Stop thinking so negatively” or “You’ll get over it” or “You’re the strongest person I know.”

I didn’t choose for all of this to happen. My thoughts aren’t like light switches. I can’t turn the negativity on and off. And, really, I’m not that strong. Just because I carry it all doesn’t mean I’m not struggling or that I’m fine. I mean, most of the time it’s overbearing, but I still carry it. I have people who depend on me and I have people I depend on; I’m not strong— I’m just human, even when I feel more monster than human.

I mean, I can’t count how many times my name has caused a sigh to escape from one’s lips. Sometimes it just feels like hospitals are birthmarks in my brain more than my actual birthmarks exist; I was born into this sadness, and I can’t, for the life of me, trust time for what it delivers. I can’t trust many things, let alone myself. People always applaud me for feeling things so deeply the way I do, but with every second that dies, there’s a shift in my heart because I know this world is not tender. I’ve not wanted to be here before and now people think that’s so poetic— that suicide is so damn poetic. I don’t understand it.

I don’t understand how after all this time, and all of this loss, that I’m not afraid to die. I mean, death scares me for what it’s taken, but I’m not afraid for the day I can acknowledge the footprints my soul made. I’ve learned how to live very well with the dread of my beating heart and with the desire of not always wanting to be here. But yet, here we are.

We’re all in the same room— that is, if we consider this planet one big room. I don’t understand how people can stand to be in the room with me, especially when I can’t stand to be in the same room as myself. But hey, maybe we’re all in the same room because we don’t want to be in the room with ourselves. And maybe that’s what this is all about. Maybe that’s why we outgrow things and grow into others. Or maybe that’s why we’re consumed by our sadness— because we outgrow the things we once thought would last. Because things don’t last. People don’t last. Lives don’t last. But they can be remembered. And what we outgrow, we can pass down to others— just like those old hand-me-down clothes I outgrew, too.

What Ink Yields

The subtle cross between intersections,

a life of blurriness, through crossed t’s

and neatly dotted i’s I removed

from the phrase, poetic form—

trying to spell it without crossing

myself back into it.

I wonder if my own identity is written

in pen— everyone wants it typed

and edited, yet I’ve taken the plastic keys

off of my computer and made them

into refrigerator magnets,

putting them in order on my own fridge,

scrambling them back the way they were

because there is no order;

we’re only told that so we can sing a song,

but I know now that I can use my own voice

and sing my own songs— there’s no need

for pre-described ones, not when I’ve written my own

in my own words.

I look back and have pages of songs

nobody else asked for or decided to write.

I’m in class and pocket my songs into stories

and my stories underneath my grades,

underneath my teacher’s request for MLA format—

I thought of that stuffed caterpillar I played with in my room

and how people, always, only write about butterflies

and wondered how the caterpillars felt about that,

so, when I asked my friend to write my story into her book,

would she ignore me because I was a caterpillar,

only choosing to open her mouth and write

when my story became beautiful

and socially acceptable—

when it grew out of pubescent disliking of itself

and stained the sinks of society, out of a hot pot

of queer and quarantine until the broth

of my own being was down the rabbit hole?

If these songs were anything I could write down,

again, and again, in pen, ignoring the requests

to write neater, to type faster—

to put my words into an envelope I already broke,

shove it into a mailbox decorated with things

people disagree with, my pages bleeding ink

few people can touch without being soaked—

when they ask me what to file me under,

I don’t say “minority fiction” anymore;

I say file me under “road signs”

at the intersections, file me

under caterpillar.

From Day to Day

From day-to-day, I struggle with the constant affliction of self-criticism— the voice in my head that tells me to stay up past the point of exhaustion to work on things, the voice which focuses on my character flaws and berates me for being awkward, shy, selfish, etc., the voice that reminds me of my incompetence and the need to constantly improve in order to feel some sort of validation, the voice that tells me everything that I am is wrong.

Over the past year, I’ve changed more than I probably let on— or maybe it’s completely transparent— but many things have come to an end, and many things have just begun. Part of this is because I’ve been so tired of hiding who I am, and another part is because of all of the wonderful people I’ve been privileged to meet and/or get to know, from my professors, friends, family, and etcetera.

Building self-confidence and being able to love yourself is key before loving anyone else and as time moves on and I look back on everything, I realize how much that is really true. For all of you that have been in my life or are in my life, I want to apologize one last time for not giving you my complete confidence and being honest about the person I am.

Growing up in a small town with very conservative views and not very many friends, I was always afraid to be myself, and truthfully, I hadn’t realized how much that has impacted me, amongst my personal experiences, until I started college.

Throughout my primary and secondary education, I was very reserved, mostly kept to myself, and struggled with self-confidence and self-care. The one good thing I had going for me was my time in band from fifth/sixth grade to twelfth grade— it was the one place I felt like I could let loose the restraints I had put on myself and work as hard as I possibly could, and I did. In turn, I learned as much as I possibly could from a teacher that played more than the role of a teacher, and music became the vessel in which I could express all that I’d hidden away.

I was bullied, never felt that I quite fit in anywhere, and was very bad at taking care of myself. Playing music always made me feel outside of myself and happy, but after I graduated from high school I’d gotten into the habit of hiding again. So, trying to stick to the theme of self-acceptance and care, it’s only appropriate I’m honest with you all (even though it scares the hell out of me)....so keep the already long story short, I guess this is my way of coming out to those of you who don't know it already:

I’m an autistic, gay, music-and-poetry writing, and pun-loving hot mess of an individual who is trying to figure herself out ten seconds at a time, and I'm not, nor will I ever be, ashamed about it.

I know that not everyone will like the person that I am and my views, and that’s perfectly okay. I firmly believe that anyone should be able to feel whichever way they want, and while I may not agree with those opinions, I respect and recognize them. However, I also recognize that being visibly queer is choosing my happiness over my safety, but I’d much rather take the risk by being myself than to have never been at all.

It’s taken me almost twenty-two years to realize this, so in case any of you are hiding who you are, need a reminder, or know someone else who is: Never let someone else tell you who and how to be— that is up to you.

If you ever feel alone because you’ve chosen yourself over them, I’m here to remind you that I’m proud of you and you should never feel guilty for being yourself.

Sending you all every bit of my love.

“Love is all around”

So, it’s been a while. A lot of things have been happening, either for myself, for friends, and so on. Here’s a poem inspired by one of my close friends’ experiences, written from her point of view.

“Love is All Around”

love is all around me

they tell me

despite me blaming myself when she

stopped going to my chemo sessions and instead

spent her time with her friend with the long,

flowing, chestnut hair—

despite her closing in on herself

in the kitchen where she scrolled furiously

on her static screen to find what

she must’ve been missing.

she wants to believe—

i want to believe that

love can exist, even when she sees,

only, my absence.

#cancer #absence #poetry

Visit Original Link

This past academic year, I spent around half of the year studying the Pleiades, which reside inside the constellation we know as Taurus, the bull, for my Creative Writing and the Environment class at Ball State University. (This, by far, has been one of the best and most intriguing classes I’ve had during my time there.) As I studied the Pleiades, I wrote poems, short entries in my notebook, anything that I came up with. By the end of the semester, I ended up writing seven poems and seven songs to go along with them.

As I look back on everything I learned, I didn’t think of how I might have been able to draw in connections from where I stand to the stars millions of miles above me, yet I did. Today, after a week of no poetry/narrative writing, I’ve finished an original piece that takes me back to all I learned. This piece is a little different than what I’ve done in the past, so I’m glad to explore outside of myself, as well as right around me.

#music #pleiades #seven #creativewriting #taurus #originalwork

Because the Stars Were Hiding

Because the stars were hiding,

I traced my every thought and

slipped inside my eye’s mind

to the time the moon was here.

Because it loved without fail,

its gravity had pressed me

into oceans, so that I

could try to find them once more.

Because the moon wasn’t there,

I understood loneliness

to be a measure of space

between both myself and

sanity— brokenness was

a constant state of being.

Because time is always here,

the day is always shorter

and every light grows dimmer

as impermanence thickens.

Because of dissolution,

because of the lack of time,

because of the stars and moon,

I told you that I loved you

as you journeyed to the sky.

I still look for you up there.

#loss #stars #moon #astronomy #astrology #poetry #life #death #time #love

More Ink

I feel like this story is coming to an end.

This pen is almost empty.

I’d like to believe the end was never in sight—

it was, of course, more of a vague feeling.

I’ve been writing the same thing for so long.

Over and over.

My mistakes were permanent.

When my hand grew tired, no success was unveiled,

only the crushing weight of an impending doom

fabricated by emotions:

love; logic I thought I was in control of,

when really, love wasn’t logic at all.

I feel like I’m alone

and I’m the only one that feels

that way, but in reality,

everyone feels the same way

I do. Yet, every day I wake before that

rising sun and pray I had more ink to write.

Before College

Before college, I had many passions. These passions drove who I was as a person. They brought me happiness, inspired me, and gave me a reason to keep going when things got rough. However, as college edged closer and closer, my passions got put on the back burner. If I’m being honest, I hardly noticed.

Though I have many passions, I constantly find myself being drawn back into music. I devoted so many years of my life to music that at times I don’t remember my life without it. I spent 8 years in band before I ever joined college, and a previous 2 years to chorus and handbell choir. I was nose deep in everything that had to do with music. I was in nearly everything the band had to offer. Even when I found myself lacking sleep, constantly being exhausted, spending my entire off-days practicing, I still loved it. I gave my all. For many, band was a class so that they didn’t have to take study hall. For me, it was my safe haven.

Music has been so much more than just playing an instrument to me. It has been a way for me to communicate with others without being utterly uncomfortable. It was the creativity I needed to be the best student I could be. I haven’t quite found something as meaningful hobby-wise as band was for me, but I can’t ever forget all the memories and fun I had. How much I learned about myself. And, I want that for my students, too.

What I Want to Teach

Many people ask me if teaching is the route I want to go with my life. Sometimes, I get hesitant to say yes because it is a route that scares me, but I know I wouldn’t want to take any other road. I need the challenge, the motivation, and the love it has given me. So, here’s a poem about what I want to teach:

What I Want to Teach

When people ask me,

why do you want to teach?

You make so little.

It’s not worth it.

I smile.

You want something that is worth more,

but do you know what I want?

I want to teach my students

not to fill in circles

but to think outside the box.

To stain their minds with the words written by authors

and their hands with the ink of their own words.

To appreciate the beauty of words not spoken

and then how to write them too.

To compose the songs and lyric they often dream of

and to spend their lives learning to love.

To smile

and to make their lives worthwhile.

To let words pain

and seep into the deeper, darker corners of their minds.

To set out upon the roads that inspire them

and to inspire others around them.

To accept everyone around them

and to love them all the same.

To include those around them

and to do the challenging and uncomfortable.

To know their disabilities do not define them

and to know they are beautiful and loved and amazing.

To know how to laugh, to have fun, to enjoy

and to never abandon those who aren’t.

To be thirsty for knowledge

and hungry for the unexplored.

To believe in the impossible

and to know nothing can constrain them from reaching it.

You see,

it doesn’t matter if I “make so little”

because this is worth so much more than the paycheck,

and guess what?

I get to follow my dreams.

#whatteachersmake #teaching #whyIwanttoteach #dreams

Dear, You.

Last month I lost someone close to me and as I try to understand the loss, I’ve decided to write letters. This, I guess, is one.

Dear, you.

I stopped eating again. It’s ridiculous. I know. I can see myself telling you this, just as well as I can see your reaction, clear as day. I can

see your chest rise, see your eyes. I still

know the way your body moves after all this time. I know the curve of your lips. I know the dimples in your face when you smile. I

know what you’d say if you knew everything I’ve done since you left me here. I’d swallow your silence with toast to keep my stomach from aching. I’d wrap myself up in your pity like gauze and reflect on my faults while you stare at me through the hair in your eyes that’s growing oh-so-fast because

I did exactly what you told me not to do the last time we talked. I’m comfortable with the fact that I’ll never be able to tell you because

I know you know. I’d recognize the feeling of your eyes on me anywhere. I think of you when it hits the back of my throat and I laugh when I gag because I know you would too.

I check the clock and it’s 3:33; five minutes pass and it’s 6:00 in the morning. Time isn’t concrete like a lot of things aren’t and now I snort when I laugh because I got used to the feeling. Sharp inhale, drag forward, slow. If you saw me like this, you’d just laugh in my face and

I decide to take a walk at 5:34. 40 minutes and it’s 5:46. Time isn’t concrete like a lot of things aren’t and I wonder if they’ll remember my birthday this year because I’m finally turning 21.

You’d never catch up to these 21 years.

If you saw me now, you’d remind me I’m better than this.

Three Choices

When something bad happens, you always have three choices. You can either let it define you, let it destroy you, or let it strengthen you. Ernest Hemingway once summed this up by saying that the world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken pieces. Yet, those who are seen as being strong at their broken pieces tend to have the most difficult time attempting the very thing. They give pieces of themselves until they become broken yet again and have to piece themselves back together. There’s no reason to ever apologize for how we survive, as that’s the most difficult part about living— to keep living.

For me, personally, I think my choices change upon the situation I’m in— whether I’m struggling with my health, whether I find myself strong enough to help others, or whether I find myself distracted and confused. I find that the actions of others tend to influence my own actions. Without attempting to sound self-conceited, I do my best to be kind to others. We never know the situation another individual is in. The biggest problem I see in our society today is us turning our heads at people in need, ignoring those who need help, and becoming so drawn into the unimportant details that we deter ourselves from the things that really matter— the people around us.

Today, I went out for lunch with my mother and grandmother, which was refreshing after several weeks of restlessness. I happened to go grab my cup of ice water at the same time an older gentleman was coming, and he looked at my mother, who is recovering from a shattered elbow, and said that he felt as bad inside as her arm looked. While I didn’t know this man, or the circumstances that brought him into the place, I felt some empathy and sadness for him and was heartbroken by his words. After all, I think I’ve been in the same place he has during several walks of my life— even to this day. As we left, we were sure to tell him that we hoped he’d have a better day and that he begins to feel better.

I think in today’s world, we need to ask more people how they’re doing. I know that means breaking out of our shells, going against the norm, gathering up courage. I have met and lost several people due to the tragedies mental health can cause. I’ve been there myself numerous times, and unfortunately, many people have. This is an issue that only is heightened by our actions. It’s easier to give up than to exist in a society and world that only tells you what you do wrong. Instead of shouting out all the bad, choose to be kind. At the very least, ask how someone is. We never know the walks of life another person is in, and you could very well make the smallest impact that causes a better chain of events in their day.

Though we are given those choices, we need to make the choice of being strong at the broken pieces. Everyone has some form of brokenness, but if we hold those pieces together, we create art. We create relationships with the world around us. We learn how to move forward, to keep moving on. Even though we may take two steps back and one step forward, asking a simple question can show someone else that they are not alone. That everyone and every piece of us is significant.

#awareness #mentalhealth #choices #significance #kindness #forward

Do You Know What That Makes Us?

The great Brazilian lyricist Paulo Coehlo once summed up life by saying that it has many ways of testing a person’s will, either by having nothing happen at all, or everything happen all at once.

The thing is, life is a weird culmination of beauty and chaos— beautiful chaos, if you will. There will come plenty of times in your life where it feels as if everything hits you all at once, and it will, but there will also be times where nothing will happen at all. The real truth? Things may never get any easier for you.

It’s too easy these days to lose hope, and it makes sense. We always carry the very word in our dreams, on our shoulders, on our hearts, but we are easily deterred and scared. We become so easily caught up in the minuscule details of everyday life that we believe we don’t possess any worth, but, this is why we are really here— why we exist.

We were born to mess things up, to leap with our eyes closed, and to act on impulse. We don’t care about the consequences that come with these stupid mistakes that are so easily inevitable for us to make because, that’s what makes us human. We hurt the people we are supposed to love because we think it helps them in some way, but in all honesty? We don’t know any better because there’s no certain way to live and no certain way to be.

Sometimes, it’s the feeling of something we can’t quite pinpoint, or the feeling of being so unfulfilled with our lives that the only things we do feel are brokenness, depression, and fear. Something is wrong with us and we can’t quite figure it out, so, we shut down. We pretend to be fine and happy, but, do you know what else that makes us? Strong.

We wake up every morning and get out of bed. We go to school, to work, do our homework, go to therapy, go to the doctor, talk to the same people. We do the same things every single day. We put up this façade that we have so we don’t show how much pain we are in— that we have been in. It’s the same routine nearly every single day without variation. To get through what life throws at us? That’s a great accomplishment. But, to do that and be ourselves in a world that is constantly trying to make us something else? That is the greatest accomplishment. That is what makes us strong.

At times— many times— we may feel weak, frail, broken, scared, lonely. In these times we need to remind our hearts, as Coehlo says, that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. Keep fighting. Keep working towards the impossible. And most importantly, keep being yourself, because, no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dream.

Beginnings

The proverbial phrase “even a worm will turn” was first found in John Heywood’s glossary in 1546 as “treade a worme on the tayle, and it must turne agayne.” This roughly means that even the humblest and weakest creature will retaliate if it is provoked sufficiently.

I’ve named this blog “even a worm will learn” not just to play on the phrase itself [because who doesn’t love a good pun], but also to show you that even the quietest people— those who choose to stay in the shadows, do what they’re told, and never fight back— eventually learn that they must do the very opposite.

This is my story, my life, my words— poetry about life’s challenges and joys, musings about learning and teaching, and stories about finding the courage to become myself in a world that is both joyous and heartbreaking. Sit down, enjoy a nice hot cup of tea [or coffee if you’re into that] and come join me on this journey as I write about the things I’ve found that life has to give and take.

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

Even The Worm Will Learn