Tiny Thin Lines

Great Big Words

[tinythinlines]

The Boy with the Wild Hair

Ruffling comes down the hall from my brother's room. I could have sworn he already left. I press my ear flat against his door. There is a shuffling of papers, the quick opening and closing of cabinets, and some more ruffling sounds.

Did he leave something behind?

When I turn the knob all sound ceases.

His room is empty, aside from the papers now scattered on the floor. At the far end of his room a window is left opened. Wind must have swept in and knocked his papers on the floor. I make my way to the window to close it, but as I do, it slowly dawns on me that wind can't make cabinets rustle.

I fling around.

To the left of the door stands a slight framed boy. He looks no older than my brother, his head full of wild unruly curls. As my eyes meet his unnatural golden eyes, his body gives a start. His spine becomes rigid like a cats, but his eyes dart around the room frantically looking for an exit.

"Were you looking for something?" I calmly ask. For I recognize the boy. He has always been trailing on rooftops, staring at my brother from afar.

There is silence.

Suddenly the boy flicks his hands against the wall and flings towards me with a splintering force it becomes apparent that he will not be answering questions. His hands collided with my shoulders, knocking me down. He does some sort of feline somersault out the window, reminding me way too much of my own cat. I am in too much shock to get up. When I finally do rise and look out the window he is no where to be found.

I'm not sure if I should even mention this event to my brother. He never wanted to talk about the boy on the rooftops.

“Who now?” he had once asked when I brought up the boy.

“The boy on the rooftops. The boy that follows you.”

“There is no such boy.”

I can't stomach the event or even make sense of it. When my brother finally comes home he just picks up the papers off his floor, he whispers not a word. Why. Why does this not bother him like it does me?

[maggie-stiefvater-deactivated20]

I feel like I ought to do a final clarification here, seeing as I’ve seen dialogue swirl around my leaving Tumblr.

Very well intentioned readers have said I was bullied off Tumblr, and I’d like to preserve that verb — bullying — for more concerted efforts, more intentional efforts, more malignant efforts. I’ve seen other internet personalities bullied off the internet, and I’ve been in the midst of bullying myself, and it is a different experience than just existing on the internet as a public person.

I’m leaving Tumblr after years on it because it is a very distilled version of the things that are hard about being a person with any fame/ exposure. There are two things I’ve always found difficult about being a (very minor) celebrity: 

1) people decide who you are based upon partial or third hand information, both bad and good, and build up a totally new person — a MaggieStiefvater Dot Com rather than Maggie — to react to. One of the themes in my books that comes up again and again is pleasure of being known, and the displeasure of being seen incorrectly, and the internet encourages the second.

2) You’re outnumbered. So you cannot be a polite, normal person and respond cheerfully to every kind and interesting interaction, as you would in person or even with fewer followers/ readers. Instead you have to either pick and choose, or just shout out information and never reply to anyone, which makes you appear even less like yourself, perpetuating #1. 

This isn’t me-specific. Everybody with any kind of platform experiences this to some degree. 

Tumblr really hones this. It has a very specific fan culture which means creators are definitely put into a Creator Box, which can be both joyful and searing. 

I’m leaving it not because of any current spate of negative or critical comments, but because of many years of #1 and #2. I’ve been on here long enough that people have invented a very strange and unpleasant MaggieStiefvater Dot Com, one that I don’t recognize as having any bearing on my day-to-day reality, and they interact with that person accordingly. I’ve gotten hundreds upon hundreds of these sorts of messages, and while some are absolutely hideous, most are just minor. It is a stranger walking up to you on the street saying “I think your hair looks really awful from the back.” And then another stranger walking up and saying “I know you think you’re funny, but you really are not.” Another walking up and saying, “please just stop writing books.” Another saying “you’re a weird lady and I don’t like you.”*

None of these are soul-wrenching on their own. I like my hair. The people I need to find me funny find me funny. I’m not going to stop writing books. I don’t need to be liked by everyone — no one can be. But eventually, it just becomes stressful to walk down that particular street. Even if it’s also lined by friends, one just knows that every five feet there will also be someone whispering “you’re homophobic because Adam doesn’t have freckles.”

And as I was restructuring my life this year through the lens of my health stuff, I realized: I will just stop walking down that street. There are other paths I can take on the internet, and am taking on the internet, that are more peaceful, and that’s what I need at the moment. 

So to all of you who have ridden to my rescue and have taken time to express care for me, I’m genuinely grateful. But please know the answer of why I left Tumblr as a creator is a little more complicated than one incidence of bullying. It’s a general culture that puts individual creators into the same box as studios like Marvel, and interacts with them in the same way. If you shake your fist at a 747 in the sky, no one expects the 747 to notice. But individual creators on Tumblr aren’t in 747s. We’re barely flying any higher than individual fans, we’re just floating along clutching the string of a really motivated balloon, or something. If you shake your fist, you might actually knock your knuckles on my ankles as I float by. 

But I’m not asking Tumblr to change, because I think Tumblr likes Tumblr, which is totally fine. I just have to float elsewhere. 

I hope that clears things up and also calms things down. Internet drama is one of my least favorite things, and I don’t like thinking my parting is at the heart of any of it.

urs,

Stiefvater

*ETA: And to the folks who tell me “yes, these are the comments of those who are young and figuring things out.” Yes, in many cases they are. But as per #2, there are always going to be hundreds of folks coming of age and cutting their teeth on the internet, and I am outnumbered, and I have too many well-meaning bite marks on my scarred hide. :D

further ETA: any long form blogging I do from here on out will be on my own blog on my site.

[tinythinlines]

The only reason I was even here to begin with was because of Maggie Stiefvater. I wasn’t sure which blog website to try, as such I just looked up one of my favorite authors (Maggie Stievater) and followed into her footsteps.

Her leaving Tumblr matters to me.

1. I was only here to read her blogs.

2. I only posted here because she inspired me, being one of the few authors that dabbles in art and shares it too.

3. I’m not sure if I want to be here because Tumblr is a hella of a nasty clumsy interface. (at least for me, everybody has their taste though.) On another note, this is why internet bullying should be taken more seriously. Some people don’t understand that if you wouldn’t say something to somebodies face, don’t say it  behind the guise of the internet. And hell, if you would say it to their face, then maybe you should double check your personality.

Because it sucks.

Grow some empathy, because you’re lacking it.

Authors, celebrities, and even strangers on the internet all have one thing in common: They are normal people. 100 percent normal people. Just because they have a fan base doesn’t mean they are less of a person. It doesn’t mean you can bully them (or in this case just say slightly awful things.) It hurts. Anybody. No matter how many walls sit inbetween you and them.

[tinythinlines]

Just Coffee

She said the girl would appear, and touch my heart. Nothing else. Not that the girl will complete me. Not that we'd live happily ever after. Just that a girl would appear. And touch my heart. I thought the fortune teller meant figuratively. Until now.

Out on the streets, a girl stumbles into me. Long brown hair cut into blunt ends, that fly wildly about as she looks up at me. She tripped. Right into my arms. Okay, that's pretty much how any love story can start. But it doesn't start there. It starts when she looks up at me with her chocolate eyes, the light catching in them just right. I briefly think of caramel. My favorite caramel coffee I liked to order at a mom and pop shop just down the road from where she stumbled into me. The kind that is so sweet, it shouldn't even be called coffee, just a bucket of caramel slathered in the taste of caffeine. Her hand is pressed into my chest, just right above my heart. I don't know what she was thinking before she bumped into me. Maybe she wasn't thinking anything at all. Maybe she wasn't even here, but in another world just right inside her head. She didn't grasp her surroundings at least. She could have dodged me seconds before impact. And okay, maybe I saw her, and I thought to myself 'Wow. She's pretty. I would like to meet her.' and maybe, just maybe, I purposefully bumped into her. But that is beyond the point. I wasn't expecting her to touch my heart. With a blush, she apologizes. Her voice is honey sweet and soft. I am right. She's no different than the caramel buckets of caffeine I order from the coffee shop. As I watch her leave, I think she's perfect. I can't let her out of sight.

It turns out this girl's name is Catherine. Cat's aren't really my thing. Luckily, cat-like doesn't describe her at all. I begin to wonder where humans go about giving themselves names that don't describe a single trait about themselves. Peaches aren't actually peachy, and I once met a Sunny who was the polar opposite of 'sunny.' Catherine has a smile, so thin and apparent, I wonder how anybody can take it for real. When it is not. But yet she gives it, at each and every customer. She's a bagger at the local grocery store in town. One I tend to stay away from. But now, I am intrigued by. Maybe I should come here more. Maybe I should actually purchase my essentials, or I don't know, icecream. Icecream would be good. Her bagging itself is perfection. She puts frozen first, canned goods with each other, raw meats to their own bag, and of course the bread gets it own separate one with either eggs or chips depending on what the customer is purchasing. This is a rare talent. So much care at each clinking can; so much care in making sure products don't get cross containment. The bread isn't going to get soaked; the eggs unbroken; and the vegetables clean with their own like kind. Her smile might not be genuine, but at least her care is. When she is done with her bagging duties, she goes about cleaning. As everybody else in the place just watches her. Not a customer in sight. A few employees frozen in place, only moving their mouths. Catherine is taught the essentials on the cash register. As she takes the next few customers, she becomes fluid. Her hands are fast, her fingers faster. The only thing that slows her down is the register itself, as it thinks and calculates. She can pull out the correct change with barely a thought; flinging her fingers up and out the register with the exact amount. Customers are awed, and she just smiles. She is perfection itself.

I watch for a long time, shrouded in my own magic. It keeps me invisible to human eyes. I float just right above the sidewalk, because even though I am invisible—they could still feel me if they bumped into me. I stay outside the store, because it's only proper. I stay outside the store, because I hate anything security camera related; for fear my magic might falter and they'll be a glimpse of me in their videos. Well, not that anybody even watches security videos. I take a breath in. Decide it's now or never. I can let this rare unicorn of a girl escape me, or I can capture her. The first step to breaking the ice is always going to be that first simple 'hi.'

I don't know what to buy. There is so much variety. Cans with greens. Fresh produce. Foods that come in packs. Foods you just add the water, and even ones that are so frozen solid you must heat them thoroughly. I am a meat eater, or a sweet eater; never in between. The greens are easy to push away, but the huge selection of snacks, sweets, and fresh meats, entice me. There are caffeine loaded juices, coffees you just add water to, and even the already cold brewed and bottled variety. I have my head in the freezer, enjoying the cold as I pick my flavored coffee. I think of ice cream too, and why not coffee flavored? In the end, I'm not sure what I'm buying, just a whole cartload of sweets. I pick the right register, register seven, where Catherine sits in wait. Upon seeing me she straightens up; her normal procedure for work just within sight. I am just work to her. Which is alright, because I can play this game, and I play it well. She gives the normal spoon fed lines. 'Hello sir. How was your day? Did you find everything alright?” Each of which she doesn't expect an honest answer to. They are just there to put up a front of  caring for the customer. It is the customers choice on whether or not they choose to have a follow up. I could wave the questions away and answer them all with just one word. Or I can pick and prod. “It's just great. I've never been here before, there's such a vast selection of foods I ended up with more than I planned.” “Oh?” she says, as she briefly eyes a box of premade marshmallow puffs doused in chocolate. It probably isn't a great pick, health-wise, but she doesn't point that out. “Have you had those?” I ask. Her eyes flicker to mine. “No. They look good though. But I can't have them due to health reasons.” With that, she leaves an opening, and I grab for it. Much too desperately. “What sort of health reasons?” I could add 'if you don't mind me asking,' or 'I hope I'm not proding.' But I don't. Because I know I am proding, and I know I don't want to be dissuaded from the answer. I want to make a connection with this girl, health reasons or not. She looks me over, wondering what all to say. Finally she sticks with the more simple answer. “It's a female related issue, but it leaves my intestines rather sensitive. I can't eat wheat. And I must be careful of preprocessed foods, because unnatural ingredients do not set well with my stomach.” “So basically allergic. And to everything?” “Almost.” But not quite. The price is more than I want it to be for this little exchange. But I'm too embarrassed to put back anything. I give her a larger bill on purpose, and watch the quick seconds she takes to grab the bills, count them, and pass back the exact change on queue. Then, I sit in the parking lot with my five bags, waiting for the exact hour they close. I try not to be too conspicuous. I pull out my easy vape which comes in fun fruity flavors, and just smoke. When it runs out I just pretend to smoke. It isn't worth using another vial on it. They stay open much longer than I would like, and it is so late that it doesn't matter what I do. I'm a suspicious guy, alright. All passerby's look at me; from the drunk and mischievous, to the silent onlookers who are just trying to get home. And safely. They all make wide curves around me and my bags. Well, don't mind me. I am only buying groceries. I'm too suspicious for my own good, and maybe there's something to it. Maybe they can all sense my fox-ness; My harsh eyes, my canines. Maybe they can even sense my three tails, which I have pushed hidden behind a cloak of invisibility. That is the fault of my species; although most of me appears human, I must cloak and hide the parts that scream to them I'm a monster. My three tails. My fox ears. I let my eyes go though, because there's no use hiding their majestic yellow behind magic. On this world they at least have contacts, and too many humans run around with eye colors that don't belong to them. But my teeth, well, I've never hidden them. It's important to at least hint to humans what you are; that way they can make their own decisions. Run, and scream. Or be intrigued. Who would mutilate their teeth into sharp jagged fangs? A few humans. But only a handful, just enough nobody questions it, but enough that it's just a tad bit normal. I wait in the dark for the girl. My fangs enclosing around my vape. I am all pretend; my pretend vaping, and my pretend humanness.

[tinythinlines]

A meeting

I swing the door open but instantly regret it when I see a tall man crouched in a chair with his back facing me. His figure is stark. His back, rigid. His fingers clicking away on an electronic device in front of him.

The door makes contact with the wall, and a loud echo reverberates across the room.

The man turns; I am suddenly exposed. His brown eyes stare through me piercing my soul. My nostrils flare as I become aware of the scent of leather. I immediately think of belts, the thick kind that can leave welts on you. The ones that create scars so painful, your skin will never heal.

His right eye is off, dark hues swirling around swallowing any color in their path. Almost as if a black hole has been eating away the brown of his iris.

[tinythinlines]

Momnapped

Angelena begun to nod off on the couch, her chocolate milk eyes slowly closing as her head drifted downward. She had just found the most comfortable slouchy position on the couch, and she savored it. She was at the awkward age where she was just old enough to help mix the ingredients for yummy chocolate chip rainbow cookies, but just young enough to sit out on the couch while her sister and Mama put the cookies in the oven. With being older came responsibility. With responsibility came more work. Responsibility is boring, Angelena thought as her mind slipped into oblivion.

Crrraaaaaasssshhhh! came a sound from the kitchen.

AIEEEEEEE! came her Mama's voice yelling.

Angelena immediately flung herself off the couch, stumbling to her feet in a daze. "Who-Wha?" she mumbled. She pressed her hand against her slick forehead, where her tangled curls hung in her face. She must had fallen asleep because the kitchen looked dark, a dim light flickering in it. How much time had passed? Had she imagined the sounds? Was she dreaming them?

A burnt smell slammed into her nostrils. She couldn't help but gag. Oh no, had Mama burnt the cookies? She ran towards the kitchen, her little legs fumbling over the soft brown carpet. As she got closer she could see thick clouds of smoke fuming out of the kitchen, it was so thick it created the illusion of dreary night. There was something off about the smell. . . and a little bit garbagey. As if somebody rolled nasty burnt cookies in the foulest garbage possible, then set the cookies out on the counter to cool off.

As her foot hit the tiled floor her eyes became wide and fearful. Before her stood a large creature, black and ghastly, as if he was made out of smoke itself. The form of this creature swallowed the whole kitchen as it towered over Angelena. It's head was dotted with two little red eyes, its beak long and pointed like a predatory bird, its talons sharp like little nails, but huge vile nails about the size of Angelena's hands. Was what she seeing a reality? Her hair blew away from her face as the creature flapped its large black wings, and took off into the air.

She stood frozen in place.

Too terrified to move.

Too terrified to even think.

She saw a limp black form clutched in the creatures claws. Angelena couldn't make out what it was until she squinted her eyes—she recognized Mama's limp form laying unconscious, like a little rag doll being flung here and there as the creature flapped it's wings darting from one wall to the next. Mama's hair flowed like a raging river, curly long tangles switching direction at each sharp turn of her head swishing back and forth.

Angelena suddenly knew she must do something. Anything. "No one messes with my mama," she dashed to the counter and grabbed the nearest mixing bowl. It was leaking gooey unbaked cookie all over her head as she put it on like a helmet. She grabbed a silver spatula and ran towards the black beast. She started swatting angrily in the air before she realized she was too short to reach the creature. So she did the next best thing, and tossed the spatula straight at the creature, smacking him right dab in the forehead.

She wasn't ingenious like her older sister Eliza. She only realized after she tossed the spatula and it clunked to the floor that she threw the one weapon she had. Horror swelled in her heart. Why hadn't she thought this one through? Had Eliza been here, Eliza would had outwitted the creature by now, saving Mama in the process. Angelena bit her bottom lip. Where was Eliza when she needed her?

The spatula Angelena threw only served to anger the beast, it's sharp beak opened up revealing a flicking red tongue, the screech that came from the beast was so unbearable Angelena flung her hands up to cover her ears. She watched in horror as the creature dug its talons into Mama's back, piercing her skin even deeper. The creature bashed and thrashed against the roof with such a ferociousness, Mama became a blurred shape, her unconscious body blurring with intoxicating motion sickness. Angelena could feel that sickness, wanting to collapse to the floor and release the acid climbing up her throat. But she swallowed it down, her eyes narrowing at the creature.

Tears crawled up her eyes, trying to push past the brim. Nobody treats Mama like that, she thought, as she clenched her little hands into fists. She was more than determined now, her eyes glancing around the room for a new weapon.

She found a salt shaker, pepper shaker, all kinds of shakers, some weird objects she wasn't sure what they were for, and even the cereal boxes laid out on the counter for morning breakfast. She shoveled all of them into her arms, pegging one item after another at the beast, hoping one of these weapons would do the trick. The salt shaker smashed the creature in the eyeball, and it snarled like a one-eyed pirate. Birds can snarl? Angelena absently thought as the salt shaker made contact with the tile floor, smashing into a billion tiny fragments. Next came the pepper shaker, the shaker that looked like rice was in it, the shaker that smelt so bad Angelena wanted to puke, and than the one with little red dots in it that reminded Angelena of little red ants. Soon her arms were once again empty, the floor littered with pieces of broken glass, cereal bits, and powdery stuff.

The creature looked the same, just more enraged. With it's fiery red eyes that wished to engulf the whole room. The beast smashed its head again and again into the roof, forming little cracks in the off white ceiling. Craaaaaack, craaaaaaack, the sounds radiated through the kitchen. First there was one, then there was two, then there were about 50 little cracks all interwoven together creating a little web. SMAAAAASSSSHHH! and the tiles fell to the floor, creating a spotlight for the beaming afternoon sun to peer through.

The beast was freed, flying into the clear blue sky with Mama in tow. Angelena screamed, reaching her hands out towards her mama. If only I could fly, she thought. She watched in horror as Mama became a little black dot against the sky.

When her Mama disappeared from sight, Angelena collapsed onto the broken roof tiles and remnants of her shattered weapons that littered the floor, gasping and heaving into her hands. Mama was gone. Mama was long gone.

She hadn't noticed the oven, and how the fumes still poured from it, or the little beady red eyes that peered at her as she fell to the floor sobbing.

[tinythinlines]

Excerpt from the last day of class

This is my last day here. That's the last thought on my mind before I see him on the wall; all brisk and dark against the lively plants. His hand falls from his guitar when he sees me, the melody cuts short. At first I expect him to say something, anything, like “why are you so late, Lily?” or even an, “I thought you already left.” But as he grins, it hits me. The terror that this has happened before. The pure horror of what's about to happen again. What was I thinking, putting my hair up? If the first day of class wasn't memory enough, it all plays in painful, slow detail again. His skin is already dark to begin with, but it becomes pure shadow as another grin rips through his chin line. His eyes are on one thing and one thing alone: My ponytail. “No!” I manage, “No, No! Orthus!” This time, knowing his name and who this boy is doesn't help me. It all still happens. Before he can even fully morph into a hellhound, he is ontop of me, pinning me to the concrete. I try my best to force his drooling muzzle away, but it's of no use. He catches the ends of my ponytail in one set of his jaws, and the next thing I know my hair is slick with drool.

No.

No.

The last thing I wanted was to smell like drool.

One sharp heel crunches into his side, blasting Orthus against the brick wall he was just sitting on. He makes a crazy sound as he clashes into the wall; half wine and half gasp. Then he is him again, well, the human side of him.

Miyako bares her fangs. If her sharp heels weren't warning enough, these are.  “Orthus!” she says, “Haven't I taught you anything?”

“Um . . .” he says, “just that human food tastes really yummy.”

“Bad! Bad dog!” she says.

This is what I've been going through for weeks now, well, minus the whole being attacked by a hellhound part. Orthus was a special kind of monster, unable to control his morphing from human to hellhound. Beautiful girls and good smelling foods set him off. Or so, that's what he said to me the first day I met him; when I ended up on the pavement just like this. He was awfully sorry that day, but today he seems to not care that he just crushed me into the pavement.

Miyako turns her attention to me, pulling me off the ground. But that is all she does before she walks away into the little hut we hold our classes in, and I am left trying to clean the drool off my ponytail. I sniff my hand, and to my disgust it smells like puppy breath. Great. Ezthli's last memory of me is going to be that I smelt of dog.

“You look nice,” Orthus says from his position still on the ground, “It's been a long time since I've seen your hair up in a ponytail.”

“I wonder why that is.”

He grins. My sarcasm flies right past him.

This ponytail wasn't for him.

[tinythinlines]

Honey and Lilac

She woke up in a ditch, not recalling a thing. All she smelt was grass. Grass for miles and miles, and the soft scent of lavender. She remembered subtle things; like the touch of the grass against her thighs, like soft velvet encompassing her. She remembered flushing, but not why. As she sat up, she wondered: What am I doing here? Here of all places.

It was just a ditch, right behind the school she attended. A ditch that wasn't all that remarkable, and certainly never looked as soft as it felt. She got up to go home, that is all, just home. Home where her memories laid. Home where her parents were. Home, where the only people she ever talked to lived.

She slept in her own bed, only to remember a small sly of a smile. A smile, in ruby lips, a smile, and long dark hair. The face, she could not recall. But she gasped; startling awake. Her thighs felt warm, just like her cheeks earlier in the day. She got up, ate, went back to bed.

There was nothing remarkable about her life. It was so boring, so bleak, so draining. Real draining. She remembered cold fingers. Eyes. Something wrong with the eyes. She woke up in class, only to see a girl in front of her staring her direction. Had she snoozed? During class? Class, of all things?

Oh. What did it matter?

There were tiny things she did that brought her small pleasures in everyday activities. First, there was the coffee she drank in the morning. Laced with a certain herb her species adored the taste of. Tart. Lemony. Like death itself. After drinking death itself, nothing else would bring her pleasure for hours, until lunch hit. When lunch hit, she would be off running to the outside. Outside, where the dark dim caverns only portrayed the brightness of the topsoil. Her world was nothing compared to ours, but it was magical, and it intimated everything we knew.

She lay in the grass again, only because it brought her pleasure. It warmed her thighs, her heart, and the silvery linings of her eyes as they snapped open. Somebody else was here, rustling through the grass. A soft, thin noise. Like a predator.

She was the prey.

Lilac remembered everything. From the way this girl felt, to her golden golden eyes, even to the way her thighs tasted. Salty, like the sea. As this girls eyes snapped opened, she thought one of two things. 1. Her eyes are golden like the sun. The sun she would never touch. 2. She looked so innocent, so small, just laying there. But most of all. She would never. Never remember.

“Do you mind if I join you?” Lilac asked in a soft but stern voice. Behind it was the gruff hint of sexual attraction. Not only was Honey worlds apart from Lilac, but they were different; different minds. Different species. Everything about this was off, and unbelievably unbalanced, but it was so so tasty.

Honey was just as startled as the first time Lilac played with her heart. “Yes.” She nodded her head. Her soft ears swayed to the side listening for anybody else. Somebody to laugh at her. Somebody to point fingers and giggle. Because both of them were not only girls; but different. Different different different.

Where Lilac had scales, Honey had fur. Where Lilac had beauty, Honey was just cute. Cute. And tasteful. Lilac wished Honey tasted like the human condiment she was named after; something sweet and syrupy. But that was alright, because Honey still tasted good. Like the bitter, salty, drink that was made of herb, sunsets, and all things all things wild. Honey didn't look wild, but she sure tasted like it.

Lilac took a seat. The weight of her sitting down made Honey shift. Honey was just being courteous, but there was no need for it. There were plenty of times that Lilac's bare flesh had touched Honey's bare flesh, but Honey will never remember it. Any of it.

“Do you have classnotes from Topsoil 101?” Lilac tried casual conversation, not really understanding why she bothered. Honey would never be a girlfriend, but it was nice to pretend like everything was right in the world.

Honey turned her big golden eyes on her. “Did you—did you not take any?”

“It's hard for me to stay caught up with the teacher,” Lilac admitted. It wasn't entirely untrue, after all.

Honey sighed, grappling her bag between her legs and pulling her notebook from it. It was a soft fleshy notebook, made of some type of creature's skin, but Lilac did not know what. It was dyed a soft pink, whatever it was, the color that most represented femininity. Honey was always like that; dawning herself in pink. Light pink lipstick, bright pink cat bag (the fluffyness of which matched her own ears and tail.) Lilac was pretty sure Honey owned several different pairs of pink undergarments; from the soft pink bra with a shell like design, to the more provocative one, that barely made it over her own breasts. But that was the style, Lilac was sure.

As honey passed the notebook to Lilac, Lilac made sure to touch hand to hand. A soft, gentle touch that mimicked everything her voice had when she first spoke. Honey didn't pull away, not right away. She let the touch linger there, until she realized just what Lilac intended.

Lilac gave a small, grim smile, like a tiger would to it's cornered kill.

Honey recognized the smile; the same one she dreamed of. She thought of touching it. Of pressing her own lips to it, give it a light kiss. Whatever she wanted to do, she didn't have time to think. The next thing she knew, it was happening. Lilac was leaned over, her hair tickling Honey's cheek, their lips already touching. Not just touching, but entwining. As if they have done this again and again, and it was only instinct to match them together like two lost jigsaws in a puzzle.

She didn't know what to do with her hands, so she put them up startled, as if she was going to push Lilac away. But the reality of it was she was enjoying this. Oh well if somebody was waiting around a corner to mock her. Oh well if Lilac was playing a cruel unkind game on her. She loved it. For the moment.

Honey pushed bad things from her mind. Like that one time she admitted her love for another bakeneko, flat chested and thin. Something about her tiny framed made Honey crave her. But you know what people in this school thought about girl on girl? Even if it was with the same species? They hated it. Despised it. Once, there was a girl who killed herself because she was mocked in the same cruel terrible ways Honey had been.

They put stuff in Honey's bag; from chewed gum, to dirty stocks. Once, somebody even put shit in it. Where it came from, she didn't even want to think about. There was always those cruel words written over her locker, those mean letters slipped into it, written in cursive so she will never know who they came from. “Fag.” One said. “Lesbian.” “Whore.” Whore was the one that always got to her. How was being a lesbian the same as a whore?

Honey couldn't think anymore, because Lilac pushed her into the grass. Her fingers were entwined with hers, spreading, and opening just like her thighs. Lilac was rough, but Honey liked it. Every second of it. From the moment Lilac bit Honey's bottom lip making it bleed, to the moment Lilac started tugging off Honey's shirt. Up, and over her head.

For a long time there was just the two of them. Desires written in their language. Tongues intermixed.

It had been hours, when Honey finally lay back panting. She was exasperated, shocked, but yet, so so happy. Lilac was too. She turned to Honey, and Honey exchanged the same glance.

It can't be this way, Lilac had written over and over in her journals. Although we touch, embrace, desire each other, we can never never be happy. Lilac was fine with being a lesbian, but she was not fine with being attracted to another species. A bakeneko of all things. One flash of her eyes was all it took to erase this moment like all others. Like it was nothing but a dream. A dream to Honey, but oh so oh so real to Lilac. She had no regrets as she stared Honey right in the pupils. First came the small, slick smile, to approve what they had just done. Like a small secret. But that secret was erased as soon as Lilac's powers flashed through her eyes.

And in an instant, Honey forgot.

Stone powers, humans had called it, because it freezes a human in one moment of time forever. That moment of time before they did something drastic, devilish. That moment of time before they've seen a creature they weren't supposed to. That human would be expended forever in time before that final moment; everything in between then and now was erased. Like chalk on a blackboard. Like the sun diminishing across the horizon. Like coffee when it was slurped in the morning, even with your favorite herb.

None had the power to evade the memory loss, other then other basilisks.

And honey, unfortunately, was nothing like Lilac.

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The original beginning (of my story)

God created a Man from the soil, and named him Adam. There are stories upon stories of his wife, Eve, but than there are stories of a wife before Eve. Legend has it that she was named Lilith. She was made from the same soil Adam was created from.

Being of the same Earth, Lilith, refused to submit to Adam, and wanted nothing more than to be his equal. It is untold of whether or not Lilith left Adam, or if Adam shunned Lilith due to her disobedience. It is then that God created Eve so Adam would not be lonely. Lilith was banished to the underworld and went down in history as being a demon.

Out of spit, Lilith killed; she killed newborn children, and stole men. Blood was on her hands, she was blamed for any turbulence happening above the soil. Earthquakes, floods, plague; She was always blamed. No body knows for sure how many of these calamities were actually Lilith's doing.

When disasters lessened in the world, Lilith was soon forgotten. She faded from from both history and myth.

But she is still here, and she wants nothing more than to be an equal.

She spent centuries bearing children. Monstrous children with wings, claws, fangs, that were as far from humans as possible, they weren't welcomed on the topsoil. It is in dim dark caverns they suffered and lived. As centuries passed these children evolved. They begin to look more and more human like, and many possessed the ability to look human, and hide their monstrous self. It is than that Lilith decided her offspring should see daylight.

It is now that her subordinates help her achieve her plan. The children of Lilith are to hide who they truly are, and mate with the children of Eve. They will live out 'human' lives unnoticed—and when children born with strange limbs, such as wings, a horn, or fangs—become so common place, it is than that her children will merge with humans. They will claim their rightful place on the earth, once again, and forever. And they will do it with no more bloodshed.

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Why am I here?

This blog is here for my own benefit, to cope with my anxiety of writing. Recently, I had to put into terms just why I love writing. I don't write for anybody but myself; and I love writing so much so it makes me feel complete.

On the other side of that spectrum, when my work is so poorly received, I second guess myself. I doubt myself. One of the worst things you can do as a writer. Because once you doubt yourself, so does everybody else in the world.

Being a writer, is fighting that doubt. Consistently.

Instead of moaning about a bad critique (because they are, after all, there to help you improve) I am going to regurgitate that self doubt into something more blossoming.

I built this blog to not be afraid and just share my work.

On Wednesday I plan to share unique stories. They will almost always be from one of two worlds; The world of beautiful dreams. Or the world of monsters (which is much like our own, but monsters exist just right underneath our feet.) If you ever have questions about environment, the way they live, or even something as simple as why a certain character does this or that, please feel free to comment.

On Friday I'll share what I call 'canned goods.' I have written a ton of unique stories, and while I'm in the process of editing I'll find myself scraping lines that really hit me in the gut. Sometimes I'll even have full scenes that will wind up never getting used. So this will be the day for those bits of work that would never see the light of day otherwise.

On the off chance I felt like drawing rather then writing for the week, I'll share the drawing instead. I am both an illustrator and writer, so I have trouble doing both at the same time.

That being said, be aware, the main thing I love to write about is romance. This means things as simple as a kiss, or full blown sex; it is part of romance, so it doesn't bother me. As such, please feel free to let me know if a scene ever makes you, as a reader, feel uncomfortable. I am still trying to bridge that gap between "holding back," and "saying inappropriate uncomfortable things." It's harder then you think.

For the most part I'm a romantic; and not somebody with a keen interest for blunt anatomy. I'll usually go the lyrical route rather then the pornographic. That being said, if it ever does reach that far, I will always put a warning.

This blog is here to improve my work. Critiques are 100% welcome.

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Pink and Black Pink and Black Won’t you take a look at that. Watch your mouth Watch your tongue The words you speak Can pack a sting

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TL;DR

Most of my words

Get thrown away.

It’s not that I don’t

Have anything great to say.

It’s that what I have to say

Is too great,

For just a few words.

Nobody wants to hear passion

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Death of a friend

There’s a puppy in the yard,

where a Siberian husky once was.

A collar hung on the mantle,

never forgotten but always missed.

Leaves behind a part of their soul,

like a shedding of a skin.

Dark shadows in the corner,

constantly watching over.

Animal friends who have seen,

but never say a word

of the remnants of a beast,

that once walked the earth.

Human eyes rarely see,

but when they do,

They do not comprehend.

the missing piece,

the missing fragment,

that once was whole,

but now torn apart.

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Fear

I fear failure

I fear never being heard

I fear having words on a page nobody can relate to

Words that ring true only to me

and not the whole world

Words people will mock;

Words people will laugh at

Words that just sound like gibberish

But the true gibberish is not even trying.

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When I first begun writing, I experienced my first sense of a character actually speaking for themselves. Something that was only 2D, only a means to a plot, became three dimensional.

The only thought I had for the character was sexy, distant, cold shouldered, a means to an end. That sexy sultry boy that a girl gets devastated by in a love story. But suddenly I caught him thinking the words “as painful as the smell of leather.”

Why does the smell of leather affect him so? It hit me. Suddenly I knew something about this character that had not been there. He was cold shouldered because of the way he was raised, distant because his father never loved him. In denial of his own feelings because to accept them was to be beat.

His life flashed before my eyes; all of it. From the moment his father disdained him, traumatized him, to the moment the rest of his family shunned him, to his flat out denial of his true feelings for a girl he must not love.

Because to love her reminded him too much of being beaten. Of being something his father had not wanted. I never had intention of writing about an abused character, but it came out all on its own, and it was too gold to dump it.

He wasn't the only character that told me his past in one simple sentence.

When you write what you hear, what you feel, you'll come back to your work knowing more about your character. They are no longer just a thought, a two dimensional fictional character that only existed to meet a means (support character, a character to advance the plot.) They become three dimensional all on their own.

There are a few other characters I accidentally created that turned on me and wanted a bigger, tastier part of my stories.

One was just a sister. A black sheep that did nothing but support her brother. That was her role, to support the one other black sheep, all while bad talking their whole family. Only, at one moment I find her flinging herself back with in the story, seeing circumstances she didn't want to just let be, and the next thing I know, she is swinging her hand at her dad, hitting him on the back of the head with a lamp knocking him unconscious, in probably one of the more emotional scenes I have ever written. From that scene alone I realized I could write drama. Drama so thick with a girl's hormones, I was in tears just thinking about her and what she risks.

She wasn't supposed to be anything but a side support character. The next thing I knew, I wanted to know more about her. So she took the reigns once again and entered her own story; she became one of the only girls I have ever written about that I could actually relate to.

The third character I've seen this happen with, was also just a support character. He was meant nothing more than a side plot that furthered a main plot into a girl killing herself. But; I found myself enthralled. At first, a character that seemed so cold hearted and ruthless, reveals his demons. His dark side; his side he refuses to ever accept. His side that hurts this girl.

He was nothing to me, not then, when he seduces this girl into having sex with him, just to hurt her in the end. But at the end of the chapter (where he is meant to be dropped all together from the story) I find that he just does not want to go.

Because he had his reasons. So did she. And between them really was love.

Suddenly a character that meant nothing to me shows his other face. His shy, hermit, awkward phase that only this girl understood. The sweet boy that only she ever saw, and loved, but only as a friend. How much that hurt him. How much that brought about his other side.

He shouldn't have existed once the girl I needed to get killed off, dies. He should have bleeped out of existence with her. But the next thing I know he is laying her body to rest with her brother, telling her how much she meant to him, how sorry he is. But most of all, he loves her so much that he does not feel at peace until he seeks revenge. And this basis itself leads the whole main of the story about a totally different character that he soon meets.

I guess what I'm trying to say—is that when I write, I don't mean to write half of the words I even do. Some of them are crap, and yeah, some of them get dumped. But some of them are words, simple words I do not deny or double think about as they come through. I let them flow. I go back. I edit. I find that suddenly this two dimensional character has all different sides to them. That is the fun about writing. Just writing, just letting it be. Just letting your characters talk, scream, and even throw lamps if that is really what they want to do. Oh fucking well if they are just a side character. They aren't anymore.

[tinythinlines]

Relevant

There's a trying time in my life I don't like to recall. For a good year or two I literally spent my life sitting at home. I was without a car, with no transportation I had neither job nor school. I had been sexual harassed—no matter where I went, just walking down my own neighborhood I would receive cat calls from guys overall being assholes thinking I wanted to be judged because of my body. Thinking that I wanted to fear simple things like walking out my own front door with the possibility of rape, or another episode of sexual harassment. I let my anxiety get to me. I let the cat calls run my life. I couldn't step out the door for fear of being harassed. Even when I had my own car (a small time frame during this time period) It ended up going to my sister, because I couldn't even do the simplest thing like drive myself to my job down the street at Hancock Fabrics that I had shortly before they closed that location down. After that is when shit really hit the fan. For the longest time I would depend on one of my parents to get me to and from school. I quit college, no longer having a means to get there (My dad and my mother started working the same hours, wouldn't you know it, it was a 9-5 job.) I had brief episodes where yes, I would attend one or two classes at night, or online, but the basic majority of what I needed all ran during the daytime hours. I sat at home, fighting a depression I don't want to recall. This is where my life felt like it came to a stand still. I felt so useless, so depressed, and didn't understand the meaning in life.

Thankfully, at the time, I had a laptop. I was able to reach out to people I normally wouldn't be friends with. I threw myself into Facebook, and the loads of apps it has on it. At the time, there was a cute little app called “Pet Society.” It was an app where you could build your own pet, dress him, feed him, and have him visit your “neighbors” (Facebook friends that also had the app.) There was a wonderful forum where all of us that enjoyed the game interacted with each other. We would get to know each other and befriend each other. I made friends with people all across the world, as well as in my own neighborhood. Pet Society also gave me another outlet, not just a social interaction . . . but it helped me hone my skill as an artist. Ever since I was little, I dealt with my depression by drawing. So when the Pet Society forum had vast amounts of drawing contests where you could win clothing, furniture, or even money for your pet, well, I was game. This is where things get funny. Because my digital skills were trashy, at best. I didn't have access to high end programs (since I had no job) so I messed with low grade programs that would take me hours to build upon a skill. I had one program where I actually had to literally go in and delete all the white pixels it put around my lines I just drew so I could color in my picture with no problem. To say the least, it was a hassle, but I was determined. After realizing the program I was working with was terrible, I started to research other programs. I happened upon Paint tool SAI (it's a lot like Photoshop, but works with your tablet great.) I soon got a tablet on my birthday, and I started making progress. I drew, nearly on a daily basis, during this great depression of mine. I drew like no tomorrow—but still, I felt like something was missing. I felt like my life was at a dead end. I felt useless. Like progress in my life is constantly at a stand still. I mentioned, very briefly, my feelings to my sister. About wanting to go to school again (for illustration) but having no means to get there. She told me to apply to school again, that she would help me get there. What she didn't tell me is that she was going to teach me driving all over again.

Ha.

The first time she came over for what I thought was to just simply drop me off at college, she made me drive there. Okay, so the first couple of times she drove me so I would get a feel for it. Around the third time she told me to have at it, and I had a mini freak anxiety attack before driving. The fifth time, she made me drive alone, without her in the car. The following times I just borrowed her van to get to and from school. This is where you come into play. Because, out of all the vast influences I had in my life, you were one of the many. You were one of the most important. As I sat there, feeling like those two years of my life were a complete waste, you taught me otherwise.

You were one of my first classes. I have no regrets signing up for a class ran by Berne Smith, a little man with a big voice and vast influence. Our very first project was a terrible project, playing with the screens in photoshop. I missed half the classes for it, because of one of my favorite uncles passing away, so I came back with my project and was surprised that everybody else's project wasn't a cookie cutter example of six-seven boxes showing the same picture with different screens on it. Everybody elses projects were elaborate, and got ride of the table idea. There were huge pictures, with slices cut out that showed the different screens on the same images, there were some that had an interact networks of frames and lines showing the screens, but not in such a simple boring manner as mine. As I got up to present my work, I said as much. You stopped me, right then, and there. “Never ever present your doubts. Talk your work up, don't talk it down. Let the audience do the critiquing, don't tell them what to think.” Those words, are probably the most important words a teacher has ever said to me. Because out of all the pictures I have ever drawn, I always always labeled the flaws to the audience. I always voiced my doubts. The first thing I learned in your class, is to let my work speak for itself. If there was something I didn't like about it, well, don't say it. Keep your mouth shut. See if other people find the same flaws. If not, you are probably looking too far into your work. Judging it too harsly. Had this been the only lesson you taught me, it would have been enough. But you just kept on being a teacher, one of the greatest teachers in my life. Every time we did a critique on our projects, you would make sure to voice what we were doing right. You would never ever throw down somebodies dreams. infact you would always push us, and encourage us. Our second project went a lot smoother. You told us to research the overpopulation of the world, and it's affect on animal habitats. I recalled a time I had to drive with my sister in the car and she was listening to a christian radio station screaming about how fetus' are human too, and abortion is wrong wrong wrong. That this lady that got raped HAS to keep the baby, because its the right thing and what God would want. To say the least, I felt very emotional about this project. After having to drive to a station I wouldn't even listen to that went against 100 percent of my beliefs, I threw my emotion in my artwork. And it showed. If a screaming lady giving birth to thousand of fetus' landing on the earth, burning it, was not enough, and a half dead deer leaping from the the frame of the picture . . . well, the whole class stopped short. You stopped short. “Who drew this?” Being the shy person I am, I tentatively lifted my hand. “It's great!” Suddenly I felt like I mattered to this world. Like I had a voice. I was able to explain my piece. You critiqued it and even notice the small details like the harsh lines meant to help lend emotion to the piece. You noticed each and every thing I did, and your approval of my work didn't stop there. How can I tell you that each and every project we had, I threw my 100 percent into. That it felt great to be seen, and told I was doing everything perfect, when before I had so much doubt about my work. It felt great, because I felt like I was somebody. Like I could actually manage my dreams and achieve them. I got to the place I am, BECAUSE of the troubles of my life, and what I did to cope. My skill as an artist only grew because of my depression and those two years it came to a standstill. I learned that not all time is a waste, even if it felt like that. In the future I made sure to sign up to each and every one of your classes I could, dang, I even took typography, and I hate that. But somehow you taught the beauty in it. Even after I graduated, your opinion still mattered to me. I took a couple more classes after graduation, focused on painting. Each time I painted, I thought of you. I thought, “what would Berne Smith think of this?” I was only a few buildings away from you, but I never did reach out to you. I guess that's what kills me on the inside, because four years after graduation I hear you are going into hospice. And I think of this world, and you silently disappearing from it. It kills me, because you made me who I am today. It kills me to think of all the students you won't have an influence on. It kills me to think of so many people not being able to be influenced by you. But then I remember. You did influence lives, like mine. Frankly, I'd be surprised if you didn't touch each one of your student's lives in some way, shape, or form.

You taught me that it is important to dream. To strive for the impossible, even when it feels out of reach. You taught me to dream, and I'll teach others to dream. Your influence on the world will never disappear, and I just want to say that, for myself, and for you. All those lives you touched, well, they will go on to influence others. You are an example of a perfect teacher, and why it is important for a teacher to connect with their students. Even as I sit here struggling with another stand still in my life, I think of you. It is hard for me to find hope as I struggle with a disease that has no cure (Hellooo Endometriosis,) and I find myself having days where I literally can't get up thanks to the pain or the depression. Once again I am using my art as a means to communicate. I created a logo, “End of the line,” all about my disease and helping to raise awareness so that one day, somebody like me wouldn't have to suffer and that there will actually be a cure. I use my arts as a mean for a voice. I am here to say, that even when the impossible seems unreachable, you can make it. You can reach for the stars and touch them. You taught me that.

I am sad to see you go from the world, but I know it is your time. I want to thank you for each and every one of our lives you touched. I will go on with hope in my heart because you taught me to dream, so I will continue dreaming.

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Strong like a lion

I tell myself to be strong. Which is hard, especially when it feels like my life is crumbling around me. As I sit here writing, I am so exhausted I could just about pass out. I live in pain, 24/7. Well, some days. But the days I am not constantly in pain are so few and far between that it's hard to remember that there ever is a time I am not in pain.

I tell myself to be strong. And even when I am not strong, when I find it difficult to have strength because all I want to do is sit down, bawl my eyes out, and give in to the world, I understand. I understand that people can't be strong 24/7.

I tell myself to be strong like a lion. To roar. On some days I wake up with so much on my mind; the things I need to do, the art I need to make, the words I need to write. But by the end of the day, after I have done my daily activities, I feel so sapped of energy. I don't mean the normal kind of sapped.

Endometriosis takes a beating on you. Sometimes it's hard to remember that your body is in a constant fight from trying to destroy itself. It's hard to remember, that unlike most people, I bleed on the inside. Loss of blood leads to lack of iron, and yeah, who knows what else.

I live like this, yet I am expected to live a normal simple life.

I can't.

That's the truth.

I will never find a 9-5 job that will support me and my needs. I will never find another job as understanding as my own part-time work place has been for me. I will always run into people who will never understand my condition, because what's a bit of blood loss and pain?

It is everything.

It means the lack of energy to continue doing my daily routines. Simple chores from cleaning, to cooking, to even taking care of oneself. It means forcing myself to push through the days daily activities, and hopefully I'm not so exhausted I oversleep the next day.

It means the means to my dreams often feel non-existent.

They aren't. But they feel that way. And even though they aren't, I still have to push 100 times more than normal people my age. Because when you live with an invisible and incurable condition that constantly drains you (emotionally and physically) It's not easy to live a normal life.

It's not easy to put on a smile and show it to the world.

It's not easy to hide the pain.

Yet I do, and move on. Because I tell myself everyday that I am strong, like a lion. I am a leo, born on the same day as J.K. Rowling and Harry Potter themselves. So that must mean one thing: That through all the trials I will face, I will always prevail.

Because there is no such thing as failing if you never give up.

It may take myself 20 times longer to get to my dream, but I will still get there.

Because I am a lion.

I am strong.

Endometriosis doesn't make me weaker, it just strengthens my resolve.

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ENDometriosis

It begun with the worse cramps I experienced in my life. It was like somebody was jabbing a knife into my side over and over again. I was left on the floor feeling broken, left on the floor feeling like I'd been put through the wringer. Like I am cookie dough and somebody roller pinned my insides. I only wish it was that poetic.

Imagine being in so much pain you think to yourself “I'd rather die then experience that amount of pain again.” Well. That was me. The sad part is it didn't just happen once. It happened again and again.

But nothing was wrong. At least, according to the doctors I saw.

Now imagine having to fight for your life, because you know something is wrong. You know something isn't right. You wake up every morning feeling on the verge of throwing up, but each and every doctor you see tells you the same story. Nothing is wrong with you. Nothing is physically seen in scans, nothing is physically detected in blood tests, but most of all, with no proof that anything is wrong, they disregard your word, your thoughts, and send you home making you think it's all just anxiety. It's all just in your mind.

This is how I lived ten months of my life.

When I was twelve, I hadn't a clue what my adult life would hold for me. I got my period and it hurt badly enough that my mother used to let me stay home from school. She told me the pain was normal. I'm not so sure it was. Talking about blood is taboo, I'll spare you most of the details, just know that my periods were so heavy they would soak through my pads, soak onto my bed in the middle of the night, and once even soaked through my jeans all over my chair while I sat in class. As an adult, I once made a joke to my fiance pointing out the “three months supplies” caption on a box of kotex and laughed. I told him, “yeah, right, more like one month supplies.” They never lasted me that long at least.

All this, nobody, ever, pointed out as being abnormal.

It wasn't until my adult years when things took a final drastic turn. I had been having freak anemic episodes year after year; where I felt so weak I could faint.

This didn't ring alarm bells for anyone. Nobody cared about how I felt as my tests kept coming back as “normal.”

It wasn't until last year, in January, where things really started to hit the fan. I had two episodes of the “stomach flu” that came with the double whammy of a period. A period so painful I remember grabbing my stomach, kneeling on the floor and thinking to myself “I don't ever remember periods being this painful.” I didn't put two and two together until my body really started to do me in. After those two episodes of the “Stomach flu,” I developed a chronic condition where I was constantly in pain, every single day. It hurt to walk. I had a stabbing feeling in my gut. My stomach felt bloated. Every time I ate, I felt like I could puke. I went to my family doctor, and after having a pelvic exam, and explaining to her my symptoms (burning, pins and needle feeling) she told me I might have ovarian cysts.

Yes. Answers, I thought. Now here's where things became really painful. I took a bunch of tests (Ultra sound, Cat scan, even more blood tests.) All of them came back negative. I think this was the worst part in all of this. Each time I saw a doctor, each time I took a test and still didn't have answers, I felt defeated. I felt like I would NEVER EVER have answers. Do you know how it feels to have pain every single day of your life and just be told that you are “fine.” That you are imagining these symptoms? Because tons of females every year get told just that. My favorite doctor by far told me that I obviously had anxiety, and that all my symptoms stemmed from my anxiety. If I merely calmed down and relaxed, well, I would be living normally.

I wish.

My second favorite doctor charged me 3,000 dollars out the butt just to tell me that all my pain stemmed from constipation. Because they took a cat scan, and all they saw were not cysts (which they believe I self diagnosed myself with) but constipation! The lemon to this story is that I used to drink coffee every single day. I used to have bowel movements every single day, but the moment when my periods became so painful I couldn't bear them, I did the hardest thing I ever did in my life, and quit coffee. Low and behold I developed constipation. But I know, for a fact, that not a single one of my symptoms were caused by constipation. Constipation was a symptom, not a cause.

However, not a single doctor would listen to me when they had my catscan of constipation in their hands. No OBGYN wanted to see me. Infact, I was mocked by the vast majority of OBGYNs when I brought up “could this be Endometriosis?” Endometriosis was a word I didn't even understand at the time, but after my mother described to a family friend about everything that had been going on, our family friend turned to her, looked her dead in the eye and told her “Tell them to check for Endometriosis.” Because, it turned out, this family friend had Endometriosis, and everything I was experiencing this family friend went through themselves.

I educated myself after that appointment. What exactly is Endometriosis? It means that the lining of your uterus grows outside your uterus. Put that way, it sounds simple and painless. But those lesions can grow everywhere—from your lungs, to your intestines, to even your bowel. Every month you get your period, these lesions bleed. Imagine all that blood with nowhere to go. It's painful. If your unlucky enough to get Endometriosis on your intestines it'll feel like your intestines are falling every time you use the loo. It will feel like your ovaries are tugged down over and over again. Heck, your whole stomach will feel like it's caving in, every, single, month.

Even being armed with answers, not a single doctor would listen to me. Even after researching my own symptoms, and matching them up with other people with Endometriosis, not a single doctor wanted to listen to me. Well, that's a lie. I should say not a single OBGYN wanted to listen to me. Because the sad reality of the matter is: Even though Endometriosis affects one out of ten women—the disease is still wildly unknown, even by the professionals in the field. My gynecologist tossed me to the wind, told me to see a GI specialist, because the pain I was experiencing was “too far up” to be OBGYN related.

I saw a GI specialist, took more extensive tests (Colonoscopy, even more blood tests, and even a stool sample.) Guess what? I was diagnosed with IBS, which is a blanket term that describes a condition, but not a cause. A blanket term merely stating that I have intestinal issues. This entire struggle was over seven months long. It started in January, and I was cleared in July (my birthday month) with my GI that there was absolutely nothing wrong with me GI wise. I grew adamant that my Gynecologists were going to hear me roar.

During this entire time I just felt like I was getting worse and worse. Imagine a pain so bad that after the episode, however brief it may be, you end up on the floor the rest of the day so sapped of energy, all you can do is just lay there, on the dirty mud stained carpet. Because that was me. Not every day of my life, but every day my period hit. And if it was one day, well, I think I could have stood it. But no, this happened again and again. This happened so often that every two weeks I scheduled a new appointment with a different gynecologist in hopes that they would here me out. It got to the point I was so sick of describing to everybody my symptoms, because I had said it all too often yet it still felt like I was talking to a wall.

Doctors are only human, I get that. They can make mistakes, they can misdiagnose, but what bothers me is how the vast majority of us that suffer with Endometriosis never get heard. That for some of us it takes years for us to finally find a doctor willing to do a laparoscopy on us, because an invasive procedure where they stick a camera down your bellybutton is the only way to be diagnosed.

I spent many days on the floor crying. I spent many days contemplating suicide, because I thought a life with this type of pain wasn't worth living at all. The most painful part is I would call my mom when I had these fits. I would tell her again and again these very words. Imagine your own daughter telling you she no longer wanted to live. That is probably the hardest thing for a mother to hear, but it was the truth, and I needed to tell someone, anyone, the truth. My mother has always been a firm support in my life. My mother was the one I confessed all these truths to. If there's one thing I can say about a chronic pain, is it makes you realize just who you have there for you. It makes you see the people who love you, the people who would do anything for you. The people who would sit through these episodes again and again with you. The people (because my dear mother was one) who would rush you to the ER in the middle of the night because the pain was so bad you really thought you were going to die.

Living with Endometriosis teaches you that even if you are pouring out blood, and in so much pain you feel you could die, you should just sit at home and wait it out. Because not a single doctor can, or will help you.

The day I was heard, was the most unbelievable day I experienced. Can you imagine booking Gynecologist after Gynecologist just to have people scoff at you? Just to have people tell you you have IBS, just to have people tell you “Oh, if it is endometriosis, then birth control will take away the pain” (this is not the truth, but many OBGYN's state this, because, sadly, they don't know better.)

Can you imagine an invisible disease you feel all the negative effects from, but not a single proof shows on your body? Can you imagine a disease that makes you feel like you're crazy? Because nobody sees anything wrong with you? But you feel it all?

The day I was heard was because I wanted to be heard. I booked another gynecologist, and after a bad episode of pain where I layed broken on the floor, I thought to myself enough is enough. This is the last time I will experience this. 

The day before my appointment I wrote a six page essay about everyone of my symptoms, and my “journey” from doctor to doctor. How I felt every single day of my life. What helped, what didn't. I was vivid, expressible, and didn't spare a single poop episode, because, honestly, endometriosis has a lot to do with pooping episodes and feeling like your intestines have been punched out.

The day I was heard was because I wrote a six page essay. How sad is that? It took me ten months to finally be heard. I finally got the laparoscopy I wanted on 10/10. I was hoping that would be the end of my journey. But it was not. Most females take years to even be taken seriously, some can take as long as ten years to finally get a laparoscopy. Everyday I count my blessings, because yes, after my laparoscopy my pain is 1/10th of what it used to be.

But it is still there. Everyday.

I spend some nights staying up until 5am crying my eyes out because I have pain. I spend some days wondering if I can ever hold down a stable job like a normal person, because I am hit with bouts of pain, bouts of pain people will never understand. I work in retail, and once upon a time somebody came into the store while I was having such a bout. Because you don't show any outside proof of the pain, people honestly don't get it if you're not screaming in agony unable to move. I fought through the pain to help this guest, having to kneel at one point as I searched up an item for them because the pain was so bad it knocked me off my feet. This very same guest decided it was okay to tell my manager that I was a horrible employee that proceeded to sit on the floor and not help them as fast as I could have.

This episode will be etched into my mind, because afterwards my manager told me that next time I have such an episode to hide in the back and let it pass. I thought to myself, well if I did that, I would never be out on the floor to help our guests. I never got in trouble, because my managers know me. But I just wish the world had more of an understanding of Endometriosis overall. There is no cure for Endometriosis. There are treatments to help with the pain, but nothing will ever cure it. I've been offered Lupron, a shot that can send me into temporary menopause, with the possibility of life long side effects (brittle bones. Being sick all the time.) This is also used as a cancer treatment. Endometriosis is not cancer. I refused this treatment and am currently trying to find a way to manage my life and pain.

Today I am writing to you because I want more awareness of this disease. I want people to not have to go through the struggle I did just to have somebody listen to them. I want a cure, however obscene that sounds. If this disease affects 1 in 10 women, then tell me, why isn't there a cure? Why does the only treatment seem to be something that can have lifelong side effects, that in all reality doesn't feel useful?

I am writing to you today just to let you know that I spend every day of my life trying to find the bright side in life, which is a struggle when I experience pain probably 80 percent of my day. I consider myself (and all the other people that struggle with endo.) the strongest people I know. Because to manage life when you're in so much pain, well, that's a miracle. But why, why do we have to be in pain? Why is this something that we must live with? Why is this something without a cure?

Why is it that I have these moments of doubt when I am in pain that I will never ever be able to live a normal life again? I constantly fear that I never will. I constantly fear that I won't be able to continue my retail job. I constantly fear that I won't be able to achieve my dreams. I constantly fear, but through all this fear I constantly dream.

I dream that there is an answer. I dream that nobody will have to go through the type of struggle I did. I dream that one day there will be a cure. But for now, I dream that the entire world may know about this disease, so that if there is some one somewhere out there struggling with the same things I did, that they know they are not alone. That they know we are all Endowarriors..