I need to write things for practice, so here I am. I'm not a professional, I'm not published, and I'm not pretending that I'm good. This is just a place for it. Necesito recordar: Querer es poder
I've turned my love into hate so I can stop feeling the pain and confusion. All of things I used to love about you-- the things that used to make me feel flutters in my torso-- are all things that I now roll my eyes at, let a warmth of anger and hatred simmer. Because it's easier to say, "I hate you" rather than "I love you" because then no one will see the wounds I still lick or the missing pieces. I mask what could have been with anger towards you because of what never will be. All of your deeds, I see them as self-righteous because I can't stand the thought of you still being a good person. I would rather admit that I was wrong about you than admit that maybe you're still the same person you always were, but it still hurts every day that I think about you.
another excerpt from that same piece. the timeline is out of order for these exercepts. also the instructions on this piece were to pick an object or substance that has been important to you for at least 3 significant moments in your life. I chose a childhood blanket.
an excerpt from the story of my heart getting smashed to smithereens.
In December 2012, she turned 21. She invited a small group of friends to go to Myrtle Beach with her for the weekend to celebrate. The 6 of us piled into her mother’s minivan and drove the 4 hours to the beach. We scouted out a hotel on the beach that was cheap, which wasn’t too difficult to do since it was the middle of December. The first night, everyone drank while playing Cards Against Humanity. The next night, they drank again and then we all took a walk on the beach letting the ice cold ocean water run over our feet. As we got nearer to the hotel, everyone else went inside to get warm, but she and I stayed outside. We stood for a few moments shivering against the wind. We looked at each other and laughed.
“You want a blanket?” she asked.
Through chattering teeth, I nodded. She got a wool blanket from her mom’s van, and we wrapped up inside of it and sat on the beach under the stars. We still shivered against the cold breeze coming off of the ocean. The cold pierced our toes since they didn’t quite fit under the blanket. We entwined into each other and stayed like that as she sipped alcohol from a water canister. We watched the stars as the faded behind clouds. A couple of times, she leaned in and kissed me. I could still taste the Vodka on her lips, and it tingled. After a while, we got too cold to stay outside any longer and rejoined the group in the hotel.
I thought the distance problem would work out because I thought what we had was greater than the universe. We continued our letters because they seemed more romantic and personal than Facebook chats or text messages. We still called each other almost every day though and sent texts at random times throughout the day. When she had a bad day, I would toss my homework to the side and called her and listened to her talk, sometimes for several hours. I naively thought it was going to work. I couldn’t stop smiling most of the time because I thought I had FINALLY found the right person. I would have done anything for her. I was so stupidly and naively in love with someone who wasn’t ready for a serious relationship. I knew that, but I refused to face it.
She suddenly disappeared. I texted her every day and tried calling her, but it was like trying to catch a ghost. I called Catherine and asked her what was going on, but she just kept saying she didn’t know because they weren’t really talking either. I would have believed that she was merely a figment of my imagination created just to explain the confusion of my sexuality to me if it weren’t for Catherine occasionally texting me to tell me that she had seen her walking around campus or leaving her dorm room. I thought we were in a relationship, but it wasn’t until then that I realized that we had never specifically defined what we were. I thought it didn’t need to be defined, but I started to wish we had.
I wanted to hate her for what she did. I wanted to call her and leave her mean messages telling her how rude she was for not returning my attempts to contact her. But I didn’t hate her, and I didn’t leave mean messages. I couldn’t. I understood because I knew her mental state wasn’t good. Catherine had warned me, but I just didn’t think it mattered. I didn’t want to believe we couldn’t be together or that we couldn’t make it work. I wanted us to be different. I don’t know why I thought it could work. I thought if I loved her hard enough, it would be the glue that held us together. I was wrong. While I’m fully aware of the fact that life goes on after such things, I can’t deny what an impact she had on me. Most importantly, she led me to the discovery of my bisexuality. She taught me to take risks even though I had always been the type to play it safe. She taught me the possibilities of loving another human so much that you sacrifice an entire part of yourself to them, even against better judgment.
The night I accepted that it was over was a few months later. My roommate was out of town, and I had too much time to think and feel. I held out for her for so long, hoping that she would just call me or text me. I thought that maybe it was a just a really elaborate dream I was having because I was so afraid of losing her. She would call. She would write. She would text. But she never did, and one night, I just let myself come to the realization and pulled myself out of my denial. It felt like something in my chest snapped in half. I feel like up to that point, I had felt some kind of heartache, but those couldn’t compare to this. It hurt in a way I had not realized possible before. Every part of me hurt, all the way down to my toes. I couldn’t breathe, and my chest felt like it was going to both explode and collapse. There was a crushing weight on my heart, and I remember clutching at it, wanting to reach inside myself and just rip it out to make it stop hurting. Through all of my troubles, addictions, pains, traumas, anxieties, and losses, at the time, it was the worst pain imaginable. I don’t like to admit that to people, even now, because it sounds so ridiculous. A break up (or a not break up?) was worse than anything I had felt? How could that be? But it was. Even now, it’s a sore spot. I remember reading an article from some science journal about why it’s called “heart break” and about the chemical reactions in our brains that make it feel like your heart really is literally breaking, but the logical and rational were of no comfort. That was the first time I had ever truly felt my heart breaking.
As I came to that realization, while my body had to be going into some kind of shock from the pain, I reached under my pillow for Bankie that usually remained hidden so my roommate wouldn’t see it. I pulled it to me and held it as close to me as I physically could as if it was the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely.
excerpt from a memoir piece for my Senior Seminar class (it's been a while since I've posted here....)
This is really heavy, and it's 100% nonfiction, so....yeah. There's that...
It was New Year’s Eve, 2001. Catherine, my closest friend, stood beside me. We were 13. Her parents stood behind us on the porch. A few of their family friends chattered around us in the yard beside Tiki torches. Fireworks exploded all around us at the neighbors’ houses. At 11:59, the countdown could be heard on the TV from inside through the screen door. Catherine’s mom prepared a glass of champagne for herself and her husband. When “Happy New Year!” was shouted on the TV, we cheered, screamed, hugged. Catherine’s mom took a sip of champagne before handing it to Catherine to take a sip and then she handed it to me. I took a sip and almost gagged. It was my first sip of alcohol. It tasted awful to me, and the bubbles seemed to stay in my nose. I was glad I was only obligated to take one sip before passing it back to Catherine’s mom. It still amazes me how vivid this memory is in my mind—a night of clean fun and pure innocence, a sip of alcohol that meant nothing, and the fact that the taste repulsed me. I really want to go back to that night when everything felt so normal and innocent and happy.
In high school, I began to notice something changing in my mind. There was a darkness creeping in, and I had no control over it. It was a darkness that I initially noticed when I was 15, but I ignored it because I didn’t understand it. I didn’t realize that the heaviness in my chest and the fog in my mind wasn’t normal. I kept busy with schoolwork and extracurricular activities then, so I don’t think I had time to really focus on it. It simmered under the surface, watching, waiting, for the most opportune time to completely break me down.
I later learned it was called depression, but by the time the label had been stuck on my brain, it was too late. It had already taken over my mind—an incurable disease that made the simplest tasks feel like I was being asked to do them with 50 pound weights chained to my ankles. It felt like every new day was a curse. I got headaches a lot around this time as a result of the depression. It made me want to stay in bed and just curl up inside of myself and disappear. I felt like Atlas, carrying the world on my shoulders.
I tried to explain to my parents what was happening, but I couldn’t put it into words. All I could tell them was that I didn’t feel well, but the illness was in my mind. I couldn’t make my mind work properly. They didn’t take it seriously. They kept telling me that I’m a teenager, I’ll get over it, it’s just a phase. I wanted to believe them. I tried to believe them. I tried to believe that one day I would wake up and be a new person. One day I would wake up, and my brain would just suddenly start working correctly. But I never did wake up cured. I only woke up to find it getting worse, and the days had to march on.
As it progressed, I began toying with the idea of self-harm. I don’t know where the idea came to me. TV or a movie, maybe. I was scared at first. Seeing blood made me feel faint, but the mental weight told me I would be fine. The first time it happened was with a safety pin. I didn’t want to do anything drastic. I wasn’t suicidal. I just wanted something to make me feel better for a few moments, so I took the safety pin in my hands-- just close your eyes, and don’t look at it— and dug it into my arms as hard and fast as I could. I opened my eyes and was surprised at how the blood didn’t really bother me, so I continued. I remember how my heart raced with adrenaline and how I almost started laughing as some strange neurological response.
This continued for a while until the top part of my arm was covered in somewhat deep scratches. They weren’t deep enough to scar except for maybe one or two, and that made me feel good, too. I could do it without the fear of permanence. I could get that adrenaline rush, that high, and my secret would never be revealed to anyone. Until my mom found out.
My mom was taking me to school one morning. She thought it was a real treat since she knew how much I loathed riding the bus, but the truth was I would’ve rather been anywhere but in that car with her. We had a strained relationship to say the least. We stopped for breakfast at a Hardee’s a couple minutes from the school. We ate inside, and when we got back out in the car, my sleeve came up a little. She happened to be looking over at just the right moment. She grabbed my wrist and pulled up my sleeve the rest of the way.
“What is this?” she demanded. She was angry.
I panicked. “I don’t know. Nothing. Cat scratches.” I wasn’t expecting to have to explain it to her.
“Our cat is declawed. What the hell is this? You’re not becoming one of those emo cutters are you?” She had been watching too many episodes of Dr. Phil and Oprah.
“No, Mom. Let go. It’s nothing.”
“You better stop this crap. Do you want me to tell your dad?” Instilling the fear of the father figure. Classic scare tactic of the Beavers. It worked when I was little because my dad would be the spanker if I did something wrong. My mom was just the scolder.
“No. Just forget about it. It’s nothing.”
“If you don’t’ stop, you’re going to be grounded, and I will tell your dad.”
“Fine. Whatever. I’ll stop.”
It was all about appearances. Grounding me from seeing the friends I didn’t have and taking away the phone I didn’t use was clearly the answer to a teenager struggling with depression and self-harm. She didn’t want to have to tell her friends and family that her daughter was one of those “emo cutters” because it would reflect badly on her as a parent. She wanted a perfect life and a perfect daughter. I could never be that for her, and it made my mind slip further and further away from being “cured.”
There were a few times when she would drag me to church and take me to Sunday school. After church, she would drag me to the altar. We would kneel. She would tell me to pray for my sins to be taken away. She made me believe that my sadness was as simple as God punishing me for something. I needed to be forgiven. She would also pray. I don’t know what she prayed about exactly, but I could only guess that it was something along the lines of, “God, why couldn’t you have just given me a better daughter?”
Part 2 of stream of consciousness exercise for class. I really hate these because they bring up a lot of shit I don't want to deal with.
Therapy, talking, psychology, psychiatry, doctors, medication, depression, antidepressants. Everyone needs it at some point-- even me, even you. Feels like I’m talking to a goddamn brick wall. Common sense. Frustrated, insurance companies, sinking into debt for bills that can’t be paid for sessions that don’t matter. 3rd time is the charm? Hardly think so. “It’s okay to need help; everyone needs it at some point.” There’s truth in that. Everyone I know is broken. How do we fix the fallen, the broken, the spiritually lost? Do those that are broken ever get put back together? Humpty Dumpty is not a good example. Worry and anxiety and feelings of being lost. Wanting to help but knowing you can’t. Lack of understanding, lack of listening, lack of opening up. Everything is just lacking. Do we need this? Or can a journal accomplish the same thing? Milligrams, big pills, lots of pills, cold turkey because we weren’t meant for this. You have to want to help yourself. You have to want to get better. Therapy is probably about as worthwhile as a motivational speaker.
We wait for something more. Something better. Something good. We spend eternities waiting. I waited for you to get better. You waited for me to save you. Yet we spent our lives wrapped around each other's negativity, and neither of us saved the other. We fell harder that way. We fell together. And I know we never fell so hard. Your hand around my heart, my hand around your hand, trying to save you at the last moment, but it was done. I was too late. I still looked for answers in the emptiness around me.
But bodies lying on the floor...the answer is there already. We found the answers. Hearts break. Bodies ache. I didn't know it was possible to feel that way. I thought I had felt pain, hopelessness, emptiness, but no. No. In that moment, I felt pain. Hopelessness. Emptiness.
And are there reasons for anything? "Everything happens for a reason." Does it? It implies that something out there controls this. I refuse to believe anything can be this cruel.
Dedicate (donate, give all) your life to something larger than yourself and pleasure-- to the largest thing you can: to God, to relieving suffering, to contributing to knowledge, to adding to literature, or something else. Happiness lies this way, and it beats pleasure hollow.
Annie Dillard, from the Introduction chapter to In Fact: The Best of Creative Nonfiction
idk what this is. it's very incomplete and i stopped in a weird place because i didn't want to write about it anymore right now.
I remember she turned to me one day over a girl's night meal. She was calm, and I didn't expect what she said, but I wasn't surprised either.
"I'm going to leave your dad. I don't want to keep you in the dark."
For a lot of people, at least from my experience, those words could shatter the very world they were living in. For me? No. I was relieved and unfazed. I knew it was for the best. I took it calmly as I could.
My therapist thought the divorce was the reason for why I am the way I am, and perhaps it's part of it, but just not in the way she thinks. Not in any way anyone thinks. Because the rest of the story is something I chose to hide and swallow.
My days were filled with lies and secrets, both things kept from me and things I kept from others.How could I explain to anyone the feeling mounting in my throat as each day passed? That feeling of lead in the soles of my shoes that made the walk downstairs and to the bus stop feel like a reenactment of Gump’s light jog across the country.
From the outside, everyone always scoffed. They saw the privileged white girl who was an only child go home everyday to a pricey suburban development home whose parents were still together (at the time) with nice cars and fancy TVs. I let them believe that my life was as perfect as it seemed on the outside. It was easier than explaining the depression that plagued me. I bit my lip against screaming the truth at them because, even then, they would accuse me of exaggerating my problems. And maybe I did. But that didn’t change the hurt that built up every day. But I had legitimate problems didn’t I? Didn’t everyone?
this is an exercise for a class. i'm not going to explain the context other than it's just a stream of consciousness.
Exploded, gone, boom, let it go. Pushing buttons, can't take much more, swallow your words until you can't take it anymore, keep everything inside, it's safer that way, let them push you around, firework display, pop, clash, boom, everything is worse inside your head, they shove, you take it and take it and take it and take it until you can't take it anymore, and then suddenly it all breaks down, inside, inside your mind, nuclear warfare, mushroom cloud, fire, TNT, splitting atoms, uranium, power plant meltdowns, they take you and take you and take you. a ludicrous display of colors, lights, sounds, word vomit, breaking of masks, breaking of dishes, words hurt. You shoved back.
excerpt from a novel-length work i've been working on for a while. this is Chapter 4
On Sunday, Tom dressed a bit nicer than he usually did. He wore a tie with his collared shirt this time and black slacks instead of his usual khaki work pants. He even wore a cologne his mother had gotten him years ago for Christmas. It was a little strong for him, but he spritzed it on in hopes that Sally would find it alluring. He got to church early to claim his seat even though it was never occupied even if he was running late. The congregation recognized it as "Tom's seat," and they never took it from him. He checked his watch every few minutes. When it was 5 'til 11, his mouth grew dry, and he wondered if she was even coming. She said she would. What time had she gotten there last week? Tom couldn't remember. He looked around the sanctuary to see if she had come in but sat down in a different seat, but there was no sign of her. When the organ started playing the procession music, Tom feared Sally wasn't coming, but suddenly, there she was. She came in the left side of the pew and practically stumbled into the seat beside him. Tom squeezed his hands together in his lap and smiled shyly at her.
"I made it, thank God," she said with that smile of hers.
"Traffic?" he asked.
She shook her head and removed her cardigan. She wore a white button up blouse made from a similar material that her blue dress was from last week. It hung off of her nicely. It was long sleeved and semi-sheer on the arms while being solid on the torso. Tom tried to look away from her chest, but his eyes were pulled down when she turned to her purse to get her Bible out. The coolness of the sanctuary had made her nipples more prominent. They hardened under her blouse, and Tom could see their outlines beneath the thin material. He crossed his hands over his laps, and his cheeks burned. When she opened her Bible on her lap and looked up, he quickly snapped his face back to the front. He wondered if Sally saw the redness that crept from his neck up to his ears.
"Is something wrong?" she asked, almost slyly. Tom wondered if he interpreted her tone correctly. Was she flirting? Tom couldn't remember the last time a girl had payed that kind of attention to him, much less a girl that looked like Sally.
He shook his head and looked down at his hands, which still covered the center of his lap.
The service started and several times, Tom caught himself thinking about Sally's breasts under the shirt. By the time the Holy Communion started, he had no idea what the sermon had been about. He couldn't recall last week either. He took the Communion and almost asked the pastor for extra to cleanse his sinful thoughts.
By the end of the service, he had the urge to run out the side door like he did last week, but he lingered briefly in hopes that Sally would talk to him again, but just like last week, too many people surrounded her. Defeated, Tom walked out the side door, skipped the luncheon, and went home. He made his parents sandwiches and soup again. They were pleasantly surprised.
"How is your little lady friend?" his mother asked.
Tom thought about the men surrounded her at church and the man that had stopped her in the grocery store parking lot. Then he thought about her smile and the way her blouse hung off of her and the way the navy blue dress fell from her hips and the way he could see the outline of her nipples today.
"She's doin' great," Tom answered, trying to keep his voice neutral.
"When can I meet her?"
"Oh, I don't know about that, Mama. We ain't even been on our first date yet."
"Well hurry up, Tommy! I ain't gettin' any younger in case you haven't noticed." She laughed at herself which broke into a cough. She coughed into a hanky that she kept by her bed. It was spotted with blood. Tom winced and grabbed his mother's free hand until she finished. "Oh I'm fine, Tommy," she said.
Tom nodded, but he didn't let go of her hand. He knew she didn't have long now. He looked over at his father who gazed at the ceiling as if he saw the universe painted there.
"Mama, I know you don't like to talk about these things, but you need to write your funeral arrangements into your will," Tom said quietly, looking at his hand clutched around his mother's.
She waved him off. "There's still plenty of time for that yet."
Tom looked up at her face, and there were tears in her eyes. He didn't know if they were from her coughing fit or from the fact that even she had to know that what she said was completely false.
"I'm gonna call up the lawyer tomorrow morning, okay?"
His mother patted his hand, trying to keep the smile on her face. "You're a good boy, Tommy. You always will be," she told him hoarsely.
Tom kissed her hand. It had been a while since he had thought about the reality of losing his parents, especially his mother. His father had been a good man, but they had never had enough in common to be close. His mother had been the person to always be there for Tom and to care for him throughout his life. Now, he was returning the favor. He wondered if they knew how grateful he was to them.
"I love you, Mama," Tom whispered and kissed her hand again.
That night, Tom's mind wandered everywhere. He had trouble falling asleep. In the room beside him, he heard his mother go into one of her coughing fits. He could usually ignore them, but tonight, it reminded him of how frail she was and how little time she had left. When her coughing fits calmed down, he thought about Sally. Several times, his hand slipped into his briefs. It started with imagining the things he had already seen about her-- her curves, her collarbone, her pretty smile, her neck, her breasts beneath the clothing. Then his imagination painted different pictures. She sat beside him in church, the very lower part of her thigh visible. Her porcelain skin created a stark contrast to the red velvet pew. He imagined his hand touching her knee and slowly lifting her skirt as he ran his hand along the inner part of her thigh until he felt the warmth between her legs.
But then his mother would go into one of her coughing fits again, and he found it too difficult to concentrate on these things. For the first time in many nights, he did not satisfy himself, nor did he really sleep.
I just came across your blog while searching writing tags and wanted to let you know that youre extremely talented. I'm a writer myself and your works that youve posted so far touched me deeply. i cant explain what it is but its so naturally beautiful. I am still in the beginning stages of writing but I hope one day I can have the flow and ease of writing that you seem to have. i really hope that one day you will be published soon. (:
Holy fuck. This is honestly the nicest thing anyone has said to me. You don’t know how much this means to me because I have zero confidence in my writing. And all I can say is that I hope you keep writing and never stop and good god almighty be better than me.
BLESS YOU FOR THIS THOUGH
HERE HAVE A PICTURE OF A BASKET FULL OF KITTENS AND DUCKLINGS
a concept I've been playing with for a while. I've been considering calling this "Message in a Bottle" since it's supposed to be a letter type thing, but there's a shitty Nicholas Sparks novel out there with that title so nah man.
The concept for this came from looking at this picture that I found online. Source
We held hands by the sea, and I thought I could see through eternity. I looked up at you. The breeze blew your hair in front of your face, masking it long enough to hide the tears that were falling down your face. You wiped them away with the back of your hand, but your hair tangled around your long, piano fingers.
"This is the end," you said.
"End? End of what?"
You released my hand and stepped into the warm water. The tide splashed around your ankles, but it only made contact with my toes. I started to step forward to stand with you again, but you held up your hand and told me to stay. I obeyed.
You waded through the water, your drenched navy blue skirt sticking to your legs. You stumbled as a larger wave crashed down and knocked you aside. You caught yourself.
I watched with confusion as you continued to go out farther and farther until I could no longer see you. The sea swallowed you up, and I still wonder to this day if it ever spit you back out.
I was 5.
---
I stand on the shore of the place you did it.
When I was little, I didn't understand. How could I? You told me to stay, and so I did without question. I was always obedient. I didn't try to go after you because I was afraid I would get in trouble for going in the ocean. I didn't have an understanding of the concept of what you did then. When I got older, I blamed myself, but rationally, I know now how silly that is. I was a child. Dad blamed me, though. Still does. You broke him. He calls you selfish still. I don't know if he has ever mourned for you, or if he has just stayed angry all these years.
I've never believed in the concept of selfishness as an answer for what you did. Pain plagued you in more ways than one. A darkness hovered around you for so long, and now...now that darkness is gone. You saw the chance for freedom, and you took it. How can I be angry at you now for that? If I had the guts to reach for freedom, I would do it, too. Your pain was released.
I sit down in the sand, and I curl my legs into my chest, resting my chin on my knees. I have been here many times before and each time I see your ghost. Not so much in the sense of a tangible being, but rather, the memory of that day plays in my head over and over again. Sometimes I think I hear the sounds of your laughter, but then I realize it's just the ocean pushing ashore. I can only imagine what your laughter sounded like because I don't remember a time that I ever heard it. You stayed alone in your room most days with the door shut.
"Mamma's just really sick, baby. Go outside and play," you used to say.
Dad always vented about her phrasing of that because, he said, "you mind can't be sick." But he's wrong about that. The illnesses of the mind are frightening and real. Your illness made you end your life before it was time. Or maybe I'm wrong about that, too. Maybe it was your time. Maybe that's why some minds get sick just as it's time when an old person gets an incurable disease.
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