Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“I’m failing. Everything that I am; body, mind, spirit, and all the other shit in between, I am a failure.”

I can’t resist the urge to break. It’s almost like a need, a physical itch that demands I scratch it with a freshly sharpened pocket knife.

I hate this feeling.

I am filled up with things and stuff instead of love and warmth, and it hurts. I want to cry. Every day I want to do nothing else but cry. I scream at myself in the car until the stares from strangers drives me into a deep enough shame that I choke on my stupidity. I want to be numb, so I take these pills. I want to forget, so I do these drugs. I want to erase myself from this world, so I spend as much time as I can on my own. I want to die, so I research methods of suicide and write notes for the police, my parents, and everyone else. I want to suffer, so I make sure God can do nothing but hate me. I want…I want out of this cycle…I want to live and smile and have hope…I want to not eat until I’m sick, throwing up in the bathroom, returning from every meal with a fever…I want to stop being so lazy and tired, to find the motivation to move my stupid body, to make it react, to force it awake…I want to find love for myself, any reason to love me at all…I want to do something with the love others have given me aside from ripping it up in front of their faces…I want to be proud, to make others proud of me…I want to exist without wishing I didn’t exist…I want to exist without thinking I have to suffer for my existence…I want that, all of that…but I did it again. In the time between my millionth plan to become a better person and lunch, I’ve tossed it all away again…again and again and again…all that planning, the time and energy and effort, and all of it wasted again…once again I did nothing…once again I managed to find a new low…again and again and again…I don’t want anymore, never again…I don’t want to suffer, and I don’t want to die…and I don’t want to live…so what can I do?

What can a loser like me do…

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

I expected him to change, because he said he would change, and I am in the habit of believing bad people when they tell me they’ll do something.

I think it started back when I entered High School, and I would spend entire nights just staring at my arms, wishing there was some sort of magical lotion or bandage that could erase all these obviously self-inflicted cuts. I would be so ashamed, I would write myself an angry letter, boldly declaring I would never cut again!

Of course, that isn’t how things went.

I cut again.

And I let the shame build up, balanced on top of all my broken promises to myself. So, when somebody else promises me that they will change, that they won’t hurt me again, I believe them.

I have to believe them.

If I can’t believe that bad people can change for the better, I have no more excuses for why I’m still here…

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

Her shadows are shorter now, seemingly eaten up by the clouds. I know she’s still here on the ground, but the more I search, the more it feels like she doesn’t want to be found.

I pluck away at my feathers

And scatter them to sandy riverbanks.

Some find a home in stray branches

While others fall only to drown.

My hope is that you will see me

Before both of my wings are gone.

I’m giving up my open skies

To walk the same Earth as you.

 

But I am also well aware

That you never sought me out,

That you never glanced at the clouds

And wished to sail amongst them.

I’m giving away my hope,

Betting my everything

That I can survive this fall,

And that you will return to me

A reality better than my dreams.

 

 

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

I have my own wings, but still relied on you to carry me. Even when it’s all handed to me on a silver platter, I’ll find a way to fail.”

Did her fire inspire you to change?

Did her words make an impact,

Driving you towards that cliff,

Closer and closer to the edge,

Beckoning you to trust that she

Would be the wings you longed for?

 

You wished for daring adventure,

That breathless sensation

Of fear mixed with desire,

That chemical reaction

People call love.

 

Unable to contain that heart,

Which longed for a reason

To abandon all reason,

You wished for a second chance

To earn your wings

And fly.

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

Every day is a cloudy day when you can’t even be bothered to open your blinds.

I love the smell of water in the air. It’s so fresh, and it makes the air feel soft as I take a deep breath. That scent adds some sort of fluffy tail to the lasts wisps as they trickle in, tickling the back of my throat, making my lips curl towards the sky. It’s amazing how different my entire body feels when I’m wearing a genuine smile. It’s a feeling I recognize and cherish.

But just as quickly as that familiarity invades my bones, it also begins to seep right back out. That smell of water clicks with other wires in my brain, and I’m rushed into a common scene; me, in front of my bathroom mirror. My clothes lie all around me, and my eyes are focused only on my reflection. I’ve done a good job hiding the scars for years and years, but I can’t hide them for more than a day from myself. And the image I see in the mirror, it always hurts so much…

I love the smell of water, because I love being in water. I love swimming and floating in a lazy river. I love cannonballs and diving into the deep end and going down the waterslide 1 million times. I love playing catch, making insane dives off the pier thanks to the soft landing the water provides. I love relaxing on the beach, sprawled out on a towel, working on my terrible tan lines. I love chowing down on watermelon and popsicles and cans of root beer. I love all of that…I loved all of that…I loved the water when I was a kid. I looked forward to going to Turkeyfoot Lake every weekend. I couldn’t wait to spend an entire day swimming, followed up with barbeques and backyard baseball. I loved catching fireflies at dusk, and lighting sparklers when it finally got dark. I loved my summers.

I loved being in the water, so of course I love the smell of water. But now those memories make my stomach cave in, because I know what will happen now, if I tried to relieve any of those moments. So many questions would be asked, and I wouldn’t be able to answer more than a few.

“When did this start?”

Before my first trip to the lake, I was already cutting, but I was just starting. I made sure to keep things small and in more hidden places, like my thighs and legs, places people wouldn’t see so readily. I already understood at 9 exactly how fucked up this shit was.

“Why did you start?”

I don’t have a good answer for that. The best I can do is this: I started cutting after I stopped peeling my skin and biting my nails. I would pull the skin from my fingers in 1st grade, I remember. I peeled that skin until they would all bleed, and it drove my parents and teachers insane. So, to avoid being yelled at, I progressed to more subtle, accurate methods. A pen prick here, a tiny slash there. It was just easier to maintain.

“Why do you feel the need to hurt yourself?”

Does a cut hurt? Honestly, I don’t know. I’m sure a deep cut would sting. I’m sure if somebody stabbed me, or a samurai sliced my stomach open with his katana, I would be in pain. But these little lines running the length of my arm? Those don’t hurt. They are shallow, hardly breaking the surface. They look worse then they are. But to answer your real question, I don’t know why I feel like I have to hurt myself, especially when I know my scars will hurt others much more than they hurt me. Lately I think it’s because I know the more scars I have, when someone finally does see them, they will see so many scars that the hope they can help me will immediately be lost. Basically they have become a sort of insurance, a fail safe to ensure that I fail.

“Why do you want to fail?”

Because I want to die.

“And why do you want to die?”

Because I can’t fix me. I can’t fix who I am. Dying won’t make up for the horrible existence that is me, but I can’t make up for it by continuing to live either. So my choices are to either keep going, or call it a day. I need to call it a day. It’s what’s best in the long run, for the world and me.

“Then why are you still alive?”

…because no matter how hard I try, I can’t completely give up dreaming that I’ll find a way out someday…

“So what will you do next?”

I’ll think about change. Then I’ll talk about change. Then I’ll plan some changes. Then I’ll make some changes. Then I’ll slip up. Then I’ll slip up again. Then I’ll give up on changing. Then I’ll find myself at the bottom again, in awe of how the bottom just keeps getting deeper, and I’ll start the whole process over again.

“And what happens, when the bottom never comes?”

It will mean I’ve either grown some wings and taken flight, or I hit the bottom, broke both my legs, thus making it impossible for me to ever climb back out.

“And when you can’t climb back out?”

I stay down there, and I starve.

“And then?”

And then…. I can finally accept myself…. and I will finally be able to die…

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“You remind me of apples during lunchtime, afternoons spent outside, and better days…you made those days the best days.”

I don’t like dancing. I have nothing against dancing as a means of self-expression, only that I don’t like expressing myself through dance. I never wanted to go to any school dances, but I had a girlfriend who wanted to go, and I wanted to fit in, and so I found myself at a number of semi-formal events hosted in the gymnasium. The songs they played were songs I knew; pop hits, rap singles, and some classic ballads to balance the mood. I like to tap my feet or nod my head in rhythm, but that’s about the extent of my desire to move.This, of course, did not fly with my girlfriend, and so I found myself swaying on the dance floor, trying my best to smile.

I hold nothing against my girlfriend of the time; she wanted to dance, and I wanted to make her happy, so I danced. I could have said no and she would have accepted that, but she would feel let down. I figured it was a small price to pay, being uncomfortable for an hour to see her blush and smile and laugh. She liked to dance. My friends liked to dance. My parents, aunts and uncles, brother and sister, they all liked to dance. I know I’m the odd girl out here, and it makes me think I was missing something that everyone else had.

Once I was out of high school avoiding dancing was easy. My college didn’t host any dances, and I made friends who would rather play Pokemon on a Friday night over a trip to the club. Again, nothing against going to the club, it just wasn’t my cup of tea. I loved my weekends, staying up late to finish heated games of monopoly and cooking breakfast for everybody, to help them nurse their hangovers. I felt like I belonged, and I didn’t have to do anything outside of my comfort zone.

Then I met her.

She was just like me; a Pokemon master and lover of all things breakfast. We talked for days about our favorite shows and movies, arguing over what fictional couples we wanted to see and contemplating nicknames for our cars. I talked and talked, more than every year prior to her, and I listened, always prompting conversation, because I loved her voice. I loved the sounds she would make when she was annoyed. I loved going out for burgers, because she would give me her pickle, and she would take my tomatoes, and both of us avoided ketchup like it was the plague. I loved holding hands everywhere; no matter how short the walk might have been, you would seek out my hand, and I felt safe and warm and like forever wouldn’t be long enough with you.

It was during a trip to New York when it happened. In the subway station, waiting on our train, there was a musician playing songs on his violin. He was playing classical music, and was wrapping up one song while people shouted suggestions for the next. I didn’t recognize most of the songs being requested, but when he finally settled on one, it was a familiar tune; Stevie Wonder, Isn’t she lovely. God, I love that song. It’s catchy and romantic and sappy as hell, but it’s the perfect amount of audio sugar to satisfy my sweet tooth.

I found myself tapping my feet. A second later I was nodding my head. One more second, and we were both rocking back and forth, fingers laced. I wrapped my free arm around your waist and swung you around, and you giggled at my overacting. We twisted and turned and we were shaking our booties like nobody was watching. But there were plenty of people watching; this was a New York subway station after all. Still, in that moment, I could have sworn we were the only 2 people in the world. I couldn’t get enough, and we went all out, ending our frenzy in a huge twirl and dip. I honestly didn’t think I could dip you without dropping you, but I felt compelled to try, and luckily for us my arms held on.

The whole thing lasted less than 3 minutes. We weren’t good dancers; nothing we did was impressive. We had a few people laugh and clap as we bowed, and the violinist was smiling, and we throw him a $20, because I didn’t have any small bills, but I refused to leave this man without a tip. Our train arrived, and we packed on with the rest of the crowd, and away we went.

It wasn’t until we got to our next stop that it hit me; I was dancing. Just now, unprompted, in a situation where dancing really wasn’t expected, we danced. It wasn’t a school event. I wasn’t trying to dance to make her smile and laugh. I wasn’t trying to fit in with friends and family and society. I was dancing…just to dance with her.

Dancing can be for passion or art, to make a statement or let off some steam. Dancing can be done alone, in a duo, or an entire ballroom full of people. You can dance to jazz or country, polka or rap. I never clicked with any of those. I never felt a desire to dance. I figured it wasn’t a big deal, and it never bothered me at all.

But with her…I didn’t want to dance as a statement or as art. I didn’t care if we were in a crowd or all alone. I didn’t care about the genre of music, nor the talents of the person making that music. I just wanted to take her…I wanted to take her anywhere and everywhere…and dancing with her made me feel like we were floating, that nothing was more than a few heartbeats away.

I have been out dancing a handful of times since then, for various reasons and with various folk, but that feel of floating hasn’t come back yet. Maybe I just need more time, or more practice. Maybe I need to make it a weekly thing or sign up for dance class. Maybe I should explain this feeling to my family and friends, to see if they can help me. Or maybe…maybe it’s time I just admit it…I don’t like to dance…but I want to dance with you…

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“Real love is always chaotic….The greater the love, the greater the chaos. It’s a given and that’s the secret.” – Jonathan Carroll

I truly hate how people use the term chaos to define things, anything at all. Chaos is wild and unfocused, being family to disaster in general.

“Real love is always chaotic.”

No, just…no. Not even remotely close to being an accurate statement. I see love as being fairly subjective, different for every person. Even so, I disagree with this sentiment on a fundamental level.

To start, the term “real love” is already a misnomer. Love is love, and if it isn’t love, then it’s not love. That’s how words work. You don’t eat an apple and say “Yup, that’s a real apple.” It’s an apple, because if it wasn’t an apple, we wouldn’t call it an apple. So if something’s not real love, we wouldn’t call it love. People do, of course, but in those cases we aren’t dealing with love at all, right? If it’s not a real love, then it’s not love, so we should simply call it whatever it is.

“You lose control; you lose perspective. You lose the ability to protect yourself.”

This might be the worst way to describe love that I’ve ever encountered, and all because of one word. Well, in this example, it’s actually three words; lose. You lose control?  You lose perspective? You lose the ability to protect yourself?

Fucking.

Garbage.

If you are trying to define love by what you lose, you clearly have no idea what love is. Love is not defined by what you have to give up. In fact, if you think you are in love and you’ve lost basic faculties, such as control and perspective, then you are most definitely not in love.

Love isn’t all rainbows and sunshine. Love does mean some sacrifice, but never a lose. Whatever you sacrifice you do so because it will equal a net gain. Love should be defined by what you gain, not what you lose. Love might only be one letter away from being lose, but when it comes to their definitions, they are polar opposites.

“The greater the love, the greater the chaos. It’s a given and that’s the secret.”

If chaos is a “given” in your experience of “real love”, then perhaps you should re-evaluate what you are doing. And since when does chaos have a correlation with anything? Isn’t chaos, by its very definition, unable to be correlated to anything?

Chaos means, and I’m quoting the dictionary here, “complete disorder and confusion”. In even simpler terms, chaos means not knowing what the fuck is going on. Are we to believe that the greater the disorder and confusion the greater a love? How does that make ANY sense AT ALL?!

Answer: IT DOESN’T.

To be fair, I’ve never read anything by Jonathan Carroll, nor have I ever heard of “White Apples”, but I saw this quote floating around the internet on various blogs, Facebook feeds, instagrams and pinterest boards.

And I am worried by that.

This is a dangerous idea to put into people’s minds and hearts. They will adopt an unhealthy idea of how love should be. As I said before, I think love is very subjective, but all love should still share some common elements, and the very bare minimum would be that love is defined not by what you lose, but by what you gain.

In summary:

Chaos is not a good term to define anything except for…chaos itself.

Love is not stronger because of the presence of greater confusion.

Apples are apples, and that means they are not white. White apples are not, in fact, “Real” apples.

Please, if you have any friends or family you have an unhealthy idea of what love is, make sure to challenge them. It’s for their own good. Reference back to this post if need be. Hell, just send them my way and I’ll rant for hours until they wake up to reason.
Finally, Jonathan Carroll, if you ever end up reading this, please know I am not attacking you as a person. I am simply attacking your idea of love expressed in this quote. Because it’s really, really stupid.