HastyWords's Blog, page 19

I JUST DON’T KNOW

I don’t know what eliminates wrinkles or what food plan works best for what body type. I don’t know how to do math problems in my head, how to use apostrophes correctly, or what the heck a semicolon is for. I can’t tell you where Kentucky is or where most of the other 50 states are in relation to each other. And I have the most extreme opposite of a photographic memory.

The point is there are so many things I don’t know. There are things I’m not wise enough to be right about. I have a million limitations and in one way or another I am humbled by those limitations everyday.

And yet… here I am a functional adult (with a cute dinosaur stuffie my daughter bought me) making my own way after a friendly divorce, raising a daughter mostly alone (a teen nonetheless), maintaining a long distance relationship, and navigating a world in which I don’t know much about anything. And…. there are hundreds and thousands of men/women doing exactly the same.

Thank you for the support. Just a few I’ve sold the last few years ❤️

Thank you for the support. Just a few I’ve sold the last few years

I MISS YOU

There is a quote that says “Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal”. ~ Richard Puz

So many hands holding fingers holding hands

I look at mine holding tears, holding sand

The tomorrows seem scattered, they seem sad

I can’t reign in the fear that keeps swallowing you

There is a real solitude to grief the color of blue

Just enough light that the shades filter through

Only Otis Redding could understand this

The loneliness of missing you

-For a friend.

INPUT/OUTPUT

Do you spend more time inputting or outputting? Absorbing or creating? Is there something you love doing but you’re always far too busy to do it? I’ve been outputting a lot. At work, with art, with parenting, and thankfully by boyfriend reminds me to input.

I listen to books all day long so I feel like I’m inputting as much as I output BUT input really only works when you sit back and listen, watch, feel, and dedicate yourself to it. Taking a relaxing bath and really feeling the water hold you and warm you, listening to music and feeling how every note bounces of your thoughts, watching a movie and appreciating all the artistic decisions so many people made to make it.

Balance.

Input changes and inspires you. Output is the result of the input. What you output inspires and changes others.

Just a few thoughts I had on my way to work.

WHEN LOVE DIES

I’ve been reading some poetry from a woman I’ve followed for years and I swear she’s been speaking from a place I left many years ago. I thought I wouldn’t survive. I did. And so can you.

There are people out there who are a better fit. When you are in a storm you can’t see beyond it but there is a rainbow that comes after.

Metaphorically it’s an earthquake

It feels like total destruction

Disaster has been striking

And you won’t survive it

Only… hopefully you do

And the debris that’s left

Can be dealt with

Sifted through

And cleaned up

Some of it though

Stains you

You’ll never be brand new

You’ll forever be

That person who hurt once

That person who tried once

That person who failed once

That person who almost died

But if you almost died

That means you survived

WORKING IT ALL OUT

When I was young I was scrappy and brave. I was a tomboy. My knees got bloody from performing dangerous feats on skateboards and bikes. I bit into a smelling salt capsule and survived. I’ve stepped on broken bottles. Cut my toe off. Kid stuff. All my injuries came from my own reckless behavior. I was a tomboy and could take physical pain but I was also always super sensitive emotionally.

I kept worms in my pocket because they were cold and I wanted to keep them warm. I even left them in the sun on my window sill once and I cried for days because it was my fault they died. Crispy dehydrated worms.

We had an anthill in our driveway full of red ants. One of my neighbors, a boy smaller than me, was playing at our house and he stood right in their nest. He ran all the way home screaming and his mom hosed him off in his front yard.

Another kid told me snails would eat the ants so I spent my time after school looking for snails and when I had three or four I carefully placed them in the ant hole. It wasn’t true. The ants killed the snails. I cried for days because I killed the snails.

I let friends convince me to use my coat on our asphalt playground to pull them around. We had a blast. All laughing and having the BEST time. I didn’t realize the coat my mom had been saving up to buy me was now covered in horrible holes on its back. I still feel guilty and sad. I didn’t think about what could have happened to my coat.

In 6th grade my best friend liked a boy. He had just broken up with someone else and asked her to date him. She was so happy. And I was happy for her.

When his other girlfriend said he only did it to make her jealous and a few hours later everyone laughed because it was true I felt terrible for her. I tried to comfort her but she said I should have told her not to fall for it. She didn’t talk to me for a week. Then one day on my way home she followed me. Screamed at me for not talking to her. She punched me a few times before I turned around and let her cry. I cried too. Because I was a terrible best friend.

In 7th grade the first guy I really liked met me at the skating rink. When the slow dance came he danced with other girls. I learned that day I wasn’t important and pretty enough for him. That’s when I started trying to be pretty enough. We were still friends though because I couldn’t blame him for wanting more than me.

So… how to be pretty enough. Pretty in Pink. I decided to be a girl and wear mostly pink. I felt pretty. I wore dresses. Lipstick. And it wasn’t long before people noticed and laughed at me. So I stopped wearing pink and I wore black.

If I couldn’t be Molly Ringwald I would be my own version of Cyndi Lauper. Black with tons of colorful makeup, hair and my own homemade jewelry. I guess this is when my creativity started. I wouldn’t care what people said about me. I did. But nobody would know. It’s also when I started crying behind closed doors.

The next year I discovered poetry. I wrote so many. I wrote my heart out. My hurt and my anger. My anxiety and frustration. I had a huge notebook full and someone stole it. I know who stole it but they just said stop being a freak and get over it. So I did. I didn’t write again really until I was much older.

I had a car wreck in front of school. I was so embarrassed. I was the girl in the red Camaro who wrecked her car and had to drive her dad’s baby poop yellow pickup again. (I loved that truck though). It fit my personality better. And I felt safe in it. But it also made people laugh at me.

My best friend at the time stopped talking to me. I thought she was embarrassed too. She later stopped me and was angry I thought I was better than her now that people were paying attention to me after the wreck. What people? I was more alone than ever? But I felt bad for so long because she thought I left her when really I was saving her from being embarrassed along with me.

See a pattern forming?

There are dozens more stories. Just to get through high school. You’re a tease. You’re too stuck up. You’re too trashy. You’re a bitch. I can’t get it right. Is this every person’s story? Does everyone feel this way? Are we all just stumbling through a maze of painful blunders or am I socially inept?

I want so much to be a good person. To leave people happier than before they saw me. How hard can that be?

It never got better. I would get involved with someone and they’d take what they wanted and that was that. Then I was in a relationship for decades that was just a series of me messing up, apologizing, and trying harder.

And then I started messing up because nothing mattered. I didn’t matter. I was just breathing.

Eventually I got sober. I stopped hurting myself mostly. And I decided the problem wasn’t just me. I found someone who helped me with that.

There are people that abuse others and their are people who turn their abuse inward. I am an abuser. I abuse myself. But I’m learning that by abusing myself I’m unintentionally abusing others. Isn’t that a kick in the pants.

There are a few things my therapist taught me when I was trying to come back to life. She said it doesn’t do any good to blame someone when in an argument. There are two people in the relationship. You carry equal weight in the responsibility. One person is wronged and one person apologizes and promises corrective action. It’s not often that simple.

Past experiences can get in the way. It’s good to hold each other accountable when it’s suspected past experience is in the way and to work away from that experience into the current experience.

Name calling isn’t helpful. Demands aren’t helpful. Level heads are necessary. And escalation is almost always detrimental.

Knowing these things doesn’t make doing them easy. Triggers. Old habits. Old perspectives get in the way of truth. Sometimes taking a break and giving yourself the space to remember the person you are with clearly is the healthiest way forward.

I don’t know if any of her advice was good advice. I still mess up. I’m still trying everyday to give everything I have to the universe to use. I’m giving everyday the best I have. That’s not a lot many times if I’m honest. Despite depression. Despite anxiety. Despite my self abuse. I’m trying.

And in the end… that’s better than giving up. I think.

DEPRESSION IS A DJ

Depression is a dj. Not only that but a director and a producer. A writer of lyrics. A master mixer. A brilliant organizer.

Depression is a prolific genius.

Depression will study quietly in a corner. Sift through every interaction in your life organizing them. And then he lays down tracks. Beats that will bring you to your knees. Loud enough to drown out the world. And the lyrics. They are so relatable they must be gospel. They sound like a cruel truth to be heeded.

There was a time I was angry for existing. A time I was desperately clinging to existence yet believing God must have made a mistake allowing my birth. Small moments here and there I have to remind myself I have a right to this breath I breathe. That I am worthy of air. This is where the record screeches to an abrupt stop.

I know there are a thousand hours of tape I could listen to and have listened to. I’ve broken dozens of the records that have tried to kill me. I’ll never break them all but I’m trying. One episode of depression at a time. Eventually, I hope the remaining records sit on a shelf gathering dust.

I may not be able to fire depression but I am learning how to shut down the show.

DEPRESSION IS

Depression is like

A taped up box

Easy to open

Packed full of

Past experience

Past mistakes

Come sift through

Remember this?

You should be ashamed

Depression is like

A spooky Cabinet

With no lock

Fragile China feelings

Ugly handmade dolls

Mascara black eyes

You should be embarrassed

Depression is like

An old jewelry box

Cheap broken pieces

Brooches covered in blood

Chains oxidized and black

All the treasures you deserve

Depression is like

A dusty old attic

Dark and empty

Yellowing old sheets

Hiding worthless things

Wire traps full of mice

And dozens of

Taped up boxes

China cabinets

And old jewelry boxes

NO MONSTER

I believed for awhile

The monster cried

That it was as alone

And broken inside

But tears never fell

Life never called

And death just

Stood alone

No monster

Just me

NOTHING GOLD

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Nothing Gold

Can stay

The leaves

Fall

The horizons

Melt

Reflections

Fade

Clouds

Evaporate

Mountains

Crumble

And the sun

It comes

And it goes

Because

Nothing gold

Can stay