I almost forgot I had this blog but here’s a vent post from yours truly

So here’s the deal. I think I have officially lost the right to call myself anything remotely close to a creative and artistic person. I have definitely foregone any right I had to call myself a writer. Which is such a damn shame because those things used to be such an important part of my identity. They were things that calmed me, excited me, made me feel good about myself and want to rage and scream at my open word document or canvas all the same. I don’t even fucking read for fun anymore unless it’s bullshit short stories because that’s all my pea brain has the attention span for these days. It’s like, with the complete and utter lack of motivation I have to do any of that now that I am either working 9-5, going to classes and sapping my brain dry with coma-inducing legal reading and writing, or too drained to do anything else.

The sad part is that I know, if I were a stronger, more disciplined person, I could make the time. After work, between classes, whenever. Instead I spend that free time watching mindless YouTube “Top 10” videos, drinking until I fall asleep assisted by the spare bottle of vodka I always have stashed away in my room so that my roommate won’t see me constantly back and forth in the kitchen to get to the alcohol cabinet and recognize that I, quite possibly, have a problem (side note: come back to this, it’s a big fucking problem), or, most often, staring into space and doing absolutely fuck-all. I don’t even run anymore. It’s like, now that I’m thinking about it, I’ve lost everything about myself that made me a person in the first place, all of my go-to topics when asked about things I loved. Now, if someone asks me what my hobbies are or what I do for fun, I genuinely draw a blank, because I really don’t do anything anymore. Nothing that brings me any sort of joy, at least. Sometimes I still have the gall to say “reading and writing and running” because I can’t say “more often than not, literally nothing” as if I have any right to define myself by those treasures anymore when I haven’t actually connected with any of them in years.

And I get that people change and interests change and that’s okay, I don’t have to define myself by the things I did five or so years ago. The problem is that those things weren’t replaced with any new hobbies or joys or healthy interests, they were filled with nothing and nothing and more nothing, and the occasional really fucking bad habit. I just miss being me, or at least knowing who “me” was. Having things that brought me joy, things I was decent at, things that I miss so fucking much but can’t find a way to bring back. It’s like the life’s just been sucked right out of me, and the world is much less beautiful looking at it through these eyes. That all sounds super-fucking-dramatic but that’s where I’m at right now. Might revisit some old writing in the hopes that it might spark something but who knows. Anyone else have these kinds of problems? If so, did you ever get past them? I just want to rediscover the things I used to love — the things that made me, me.

while you were away

February 1^ST, 10:00 p.m. and feeling sorry.

When you left, it was cold—and not just because of the freshly settled snow or the bitter chill of winter, not even because the heater was broken and we still hadn’t gotten it fixed, even though I kept promising you I would take care of it. I remember thinking that I would never feel warm again, as though someone had sucked the heat right out of me and left me numb. I bet you didn’t really think about that, did you? What you were leaving behind? Or maybe you did. I don’t know. Maybe this is hurting you just as much as it’s hurting me. Look, I don’t blame you—I never really have. At least not half as much as I blame myself. I know things have been hard. I’m sorry about the things I said. I just wish we could have talked about this more. I wish you hadn’t stormed out the way you did. I wish I hadn’t pushed you away. Most of all, I just wish you would come home. Come back, okay? I’ll be here waiting when you do. And I promise to get the heater fixed.

***

(I’m so sorry that I left. I’m so sorry that I’m not ready to come back, not yet. I need some time to figure things out on my own, and I think you do too. I won’t be gone forever, I promise. I promise I’ll come back.)

***

February 28^th, 2:35 a.m. and thinking of you.

Your birthday was last week. I celebrated it for you, without you— just me and Spot. Sad, right? I lit candles and everything. The house felt so empty, and the cake tasted like dirt. It was your favorite, though—that weird vegan recipe you like. I let the dog eat most of the leftovers, but I still have a piece waiting for you in the fridge, just in case.

***

(Thank you for the card. I should have known you would figure out that I was staying at my sister’s place, trying to get myself together. Thank you for giving me space. I miss you. Say hi to Spot for me. I miss him too.)

***

March 14^th, 5:15 p.m. and missing your kiss.

I was in the makeup aisle at the store the other day, looking for another tube of concealer to hide the bags under my eyes. I go through them fast nowadays; turns out I can’t really sleep right without you by my side. I found myself drawn to the rows of lipstick, a sea of reds and purples and pinks and everything in between, and I couldn’t look away, even though I never use it. I saw your favorite brand, that long-lasting, cherry-red stuff you love to wear. I’ve never seen anyone pull off the color quite like you do. But I remembered how you said you liked the way it let you leave your mark—on coffee cups, on paper napkins, on me. I liked it too, the way that it showed I was just as much yours as you were mine. You would always say how it looked much better against my skin than it did on your lips. I just hope that I’ll get to wear it again like that, someday soon.

***

(I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry. I hope you’re doing okay. I’ve been looking for a new job, like I said I was going to. Trying to make a fresh start. I’m trying to make things better. I will make things better.)

***

April 30^th, 7:00 a.m. and feeling frustrated.

It’s starting to get warmer out. The trees are regrowing their leaves, the first of May’s flowers are starting to poke their way up through the soil, and everything is looking a whole lot greener. But I still don’t feel warm. Not at all, not without you. It rains a lot. You know, like that saying goes: “April showers bring May flowers?” Everyone keeps saying it, but I couldn’t care less about flowers. Unless those April showers bring me you, I don’t care, I just want it to stop fucking raining. Oh, by the way—I got the heater fixed last month. Just in time for the air conditioner to break in its first foray into the spring. I can’t ever win, can I?

***

(I miss you. I love you. I’ll see you soon.)

***

Feeling happy, feeling relieved, feeling warm.

It doesn’t matter what time it is, what day it is, what week it is. It doesn’t even matter what month it is. I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care. Because you came home today. You came home and walked through the door as though you’d never left, suitcase in hand and a sad smile on your face. You seemed nervous, but to me you looked like you belonged. You should know that while you were away, I tried to make some improvements, really tried to make do with what I had, but the house is still pretty much just as shoddy as it was when you left. But even though the ceiling still leaks and the paint is peeling from the walls and it’s somehow always dimly lit, the second you stepped back through that door it was like the place was so full of light. Like everything was suddenly somehow so much brighter, so much warmer, so much fuller. It finally felt like home again.

Spot recognized you right away, bounded over to you, nearly knocked you off your feet and slathered you with kisses—he was so excited to see you. I felt pretty much the same. And even after all this time, even though you left, even despite everything you put me through—the worry, the heartache, the sleepless nights and the tired mornings—you came back. And I still love you. You came back and I love you, I love you, I love you.

***

(I’m home.)

vodka & butterflies

There’s not enough room in the cab we cram ourselves into; four open seats and six of us. She ends up sprawled out on top of us in the backseat, her head nestled in my lap as she squirms to get comfortable. My face burns, my thoughts feel fuzzy and too-loose, and all at once I wish I wasn’t wearing shorts, I wish I hadn’t sat on this side of the car, and I wish her head hadn’t ended up in my lap. I’m so glad it did.

Her hair fans out across my legs in wild curls, tickling the skin on the inside of my thighs all the way to my knees. She smiles up at me, the corners of her eyes crinkling, the moonlight glinting off her teeth. I can’t look away, even though I know I should.

She laughs at nothing; I am too busy staring at the way her mouth moves to really hear it, but I can feel the way it shakes her shoulders, and I can’t help but laugh along with her. Right now, even though we’re driving along in the dark, everything seems just a little too bright. I think if I concentrate hard enough, I could count the freckles that dance across the bridge of her nose, so I try really hard not to. She smells like strawberry shampoo and alcohol, and it’s making me dizzy, because I can’t breathe without her filling my lungs. I sit as still as I can, but my skin is too warm and feels like it’s buzzing, and I wonder if she notices.

Her eyes are sparkling. Her lips are very red. I want to kiss her.

I don’t. I can’t.

But at least I can admit to myself that I want to.

Standing Tall

“I pledge allegiance to the flag
Of the United States of America
And to the Republic for which it stands
One nation, under God,
For liberty and justice for all.”

In this country we are taught before we can even read to memorize these words, know them by heart, and embrace them without question. We are told to savor the taste of them on our tongue and recognize how lucky we are to be here — in this land of opportunity, freedom, and equality.

We are trained recite the words “with liberty and justice for all” with a smile on our faces, with pride in our hearts, and most importantly, with the knowledge of this nation’s greatness. Without ever really asking ourselves why we should always be willing to bleed red, white, and blue.

Years after year of repeating the same words, until they became securely embedded into our consciousness. A set of beliefs we were programmed to repeat, a reminder that we were never to question, to wonder, to realize, that “liberty and justice for all” has always really meant “liberty and justice for some.”

To the woman whose assaulter, the one who left her beaten and broken with his dirty hands and his heaving breaths and his voice in her ear telling her to be quiet, to silence herself, to stop struggling, walked away a free man, while her life was forever tainted. While her heart remains trapped in a cage far worse than any prison as they kicked her while she was down, told her she was asking for it, tied her hands behind her back and watched in silence as she burned.

To the young black teen whose murderer, the one who sentenced him to death for the color of his skin and left his body to paint the asphalt red, walked away a free man, while he will never again open his eyes to see the world that was always working against him. While he will never get back the life that was stolen from him, and his mother will never see justice for her baby boy, forced instead to watch as her son is painted as a thug, a criminal, told that his death was not even considered a crime, that the man who killed him should not be held accountable, that his life did not matter, anyway.

To all of those who will not be given the justice they deserve against those who have wronged them and the society that has failed them. Whose liberty has only ever been conditional, whose voices are silenced, whose bodies are beaten, whose souls are broken. Put on trial in front of the world for the very crimes that have been committed against them and found unworthy, unimportant, undeserving, all because of who they are and things they cannot change.

And all the while we are told to look the other way, turn a blind eye to their suffering and repeat those words that have come to feel so bitter on my tongue. I have long since learned how to spit them out after keeping them pressed against the back of my teeth, searing the back of my throat like acid, tasting foul with the knowledge of what they really mean, and who they really stand for.

But now, I have learned to use my voice for better things. Things that I believe in, things that have meaning, things that hold truth. Now, I refuse to be silent. I will make myself heard. I will not stand by idly and watch as injustice occurs. Not anymore.

waging a war when the enemy is yourself

I fought a war today. I tackled hidden battles raging beneath my skin, standing valiantly against my opponent. I wrestled with anxiety, shot down thoughts of hopelessness, riddled negativity with bullets, and clashed with the jagged edges of apathy.

I fought a war today. And all the while I felt my resistance crumbling. With each passing moment, I felt another chink in my armor, another crack in the walls that I have so carefully constructed. But while I may not be unscathed, I am still here.

I fought a war today. I struggled to escape from the clutches of sleep, so laden with false comfort, so full of the promise of nothing, so safe from the threat of combat. But I broke free from captivity, and I patched up my wounds, and I counted my scars. I soldiered on.

I fought a war today. I learned that my opponent does not intend to fight fair, waiting to strike when I am most vulnerable. Forcing me to steel my skin, to strengthen my resolve, and to always be vigilant.

I fought a war today. And I am tired, tired, tired. But still, I press on. Still, I pick up my sword. Still, I spar with my enemy. And still, I make it through another day.

I fought a war today. I fought the same war today that I fought yesterday, and that I will fight again tomorrow, and next week, and next year. Maybe even the rest of my life. I still cannot tell whether I am on the winning or losing side, but I am fighting.

I am always fighting.

—waging a war when the enemy is yourself

for all my girls out there who like girls more than boys; you are not alone

You are six, and you are still at a stage in your life where you are convinced that boys have cooties. You wrinkle your nose in distaste at the thought of them, and one day you find yourself asking your mom why girls can’t just be with each other instead. The idea seems nice enough to you–girls are nicer, prettier, softer, anyway, but you watch as she goes pale at the question. “It’s just not natural, sweetie,” she says, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear and plastering on a smile that’s clearly forced. “Just you wait, you’ll like boys when you’re older.” She sounds so wise, so sure. And since when is your mom ever wrong? You do not know any better. You are only six. So you nod, and you believe her.

You are nine, and you come up with a new game to play with your friend. You pull your shirts up to cover your mouths, and you pretend to kiss, because it’s okay if your lips aren’t really touching. You laugh, and you do it again. When your friend’s mom comes to pick her up, she sees, and then your mom sees too, and they tell you to stop, stop, stop–you can’t play that game anymore. For the life of you, you can’t understand why they look so horrified. It was just a game, after all. Maybe, you think, it’s just another one of those things that you’ll understand when you’re older.

Hello world!

I’m new to this site, so I’m not totally sure how it works, but I wanted to make a space where I could write, and post my writing, whether it be original little stories or just writing about my thoughts, feelings, experiences, etc., sort of like an online journal or something. I’m at a point in my life right now where I’m really not doing well, and I’m definitely not in a good place–mentally, emotionally, you know. Depression is a real bitch, and depression coupled with severe social anxiety and self-hate is an even bigger bitch. And know it sounds dramatic, but sometimes I feel so insignificant, so convinced that things, especially looking at them from where I am now, are hopeless, that I could just disappear without a backward glance. What scares me more is that sometimes I want to disappear, sometimes I want to be able to just stop, you know? Stop thinking, stop fighting, stop existing. Because every day for me isn’t living, it’s just getting through to the next, wondering if I’ll ever stop feeling so goddamn tired all the time. But, yeah, back to the point–which is that for most of my life, I’ve felt invisible, for one reason or another. Insignificant, insecure, invalid, unworthy. But writing sometimes helps me that, it helps me remind myself that whatever else, I’m still here–for now, at least–and I have a voice, however big or small or pointless or meaningful that might be. And so…yeah. That’s about it. This is basically just me talking to myself, I guess. This was just supposed to be an intro post, so I’m just gonna…stop rambling now.