Jaded

Ever since I grew to adulthood,

I hear the echoes

of everyone who told me,

“That’s not real.

That’s a fantasy.”

Most of the time, I silence them

With a wave of the hand,

And maybe a deep breath,

But then,

Sometimes, a wave of grief comes,

My heart begins to ask,

“Were they right?

Does God give us dreams to take them away?

Does He dangle hopes of a beautiful future,

Just to laugh when you are in pain?

There are times in my life when I believe them,

When the hope that God is listening grows as faint as a fading heartbeat,

The ache swells until my chest begins to cave into itself.

I cease to breathe in in terror of reality,

I force myself to breathe and anger overtakes me that God has turned His back.

But He hasn’t turned His back.

He is here when hundreds have told me He doesn’t hear me.

He is waiting for me when I can hear Him through the despair.

He hears me when I cry out in the pain of the skepticism that is our world.

Cast behind you the words of those who condemn you for belief in hope.

Cast behind you the belief that grief will win.

Cast behind you the grief that God doesn’t hear you,

And doesn’t love the real you.

There is a place for you.

Just because you haven’t found it doesn’t mean you won’t.

Use your wounds to heal others until you escape the chains,

And then free the slaves.

Sometimes God answers no, but not when it’s His promises to you.

If you are called to something, He will bring you to it somehow, I believe.

I believe.

I believe.

I believe.

Even here in the darkness.

I believe.

Lea Michele: What I wanted to say to you back then

Lea Michele,

I haven’t forgotten you. For years I have had the image of you plastered in my mind from the tabloids after you found out Cory Monteith had died. My heart bled for you. There was one that talked about what he said to you in his last voicemail. It struck me as cruel to report about such a sacred moment in your life. It still does. I have this image of you clutching the phone, crying, and maybe smiling, with paparazzi and flashing cameras all around you. I cannot imagine how hard it must have been to go through losing him.

Who knows, though? I don’t know you, maybe you were always fighting, and you wanted out of the relationship. Maybe he was abusive and you couldn’t stand him. Maybe you never really loved him at all and it was all just for publicity. Or maybe you loved him as deeply as I love my husband or any of the people I’ve lost, and maybe your entire world fell apart when he was gone.

The truth is, I don’t know, but I do know, that whatever the case, you deserved alone time to deal with the loss. You deserved the space to process all the stages of grief without every moment being reported. You deserved time to mourn however you needed.

I want you to know that I pray for you still. I don’t do it everyday, I’m not a stalker, but every once in a while you come to my mind. I think of what a hard time that must have been, and I hope that you have found peace and happiness now. I hope that sometimes you forget it even happened. I hope that it doesn’t hurt too much when it crosses your mind. I hope that you have healed as much as time can heal. I don’t believe time heals all wounds, but I believe it softens even the worst of them.

You may think I’m crazy for writing this letter, honestly, even I do, but I am learning to be true to myself and I write this to honor who I was when I wanted to cry for you, but I felt too silly. I wanted to honor the compassion that I was filled with back when everyone got angry with me for being obsessed with celebrities. I want to let the light I had shine, because I don’t know you, but I love you. I wish the best for you, no matter where or who you are now.

Love,

Me

Ecstasy

Have you ever felt so much pleasure that you thought your entire body might explode?

Have you ever stopped being intimate because you were afraid you might not be able to handle what was coming?

Have you ever submitted completely only to be racked by a painful pleasure that just won’t stop?

If you haven’t, you haven’t experienced all that the orgasm has to offer.

If you haven’t, you can’t understand Teresa’s expression in the statue called Ecstasy.

If you haven’t, then you haven’t yet had the best sex of your life.

I know, because I told an older married woman that I didn’t like sex, and I didn’t believe her when she told me:

“It gets better.”

Sabotage

It’s crazy to me how promptly my psyche starts to sabotage any amount of success I experience. I self-published a book last night, and almost immediately the chorus began. “You just self-published, that doesn’t mean anything, no one will ever read it anyway.” I even started feeling like I was ripping people off who decided to buy it. And that’s ridiculous! I know because the reason I self-published it is because I believe that the traditional style of poetry is no longer widely appreciated which is why I think I have struggled so much in selling the poems. I truly believe these poems are the highest quality, and need to be out there for the world to see. And yet, my subconscious has decided they are worthless. Probably because it decided long ago that I am worthless.

But what is making it do this? Is it some inferiority complex I have developed as a result of my upbringing? Is it laziness? Or is this just something every artist faces? I tend to think it is the latter, because so many other artists have told me they experience the same thing. So apparently it isn’t just me. It may be something in our make up as humans that creates this self-sabotage.

The thing that gets me though, is what purpose does that serve? In what way does it help an artist to immediately feel that they are and always will be a failure as soon as they accomplish something? Are the gods working against us? Trying to shut us down? Or is the devil realer than we ever thought, and he is frantically angry that we have defied his challenges to create something? I hope it’s that, though I often fear it is the first.

I guess it is up to us as artists then to keep going and pray that it isn’t the gods who are stopping us, but something else. Not necessarily out of confidence or certainty of which side we are on, but because we have to. Creators must create, it is in our blood, art begs to leave us like the river from our sliced open skin. I stopped breathing for a while and released I needed to open my mouth. So write, play, dream, so that you can breathe, I suppose, and live.

When Morning Sickness is not just Morning Sickness

Dear Reader,

I am so tired. I am here to talk to you about something that not many know about, and those who do know about it know it all too well. Morning sickness is an often joked about part of pregnancy. Women on television daintily vomit into a trash can and go on about their day. Then, second trimester they are fine. There are women for whom this is a reality, and I am so happy for them, but there are others who laugh at the term ‘morning sickness’ for its inept description of their 9 month personal hell. These women suffer from something called Hyperemesis Gravidarum, which means severe morning sickness, and I am one of these women.

I am lucky as far as HG sufferers go. Many spend multiple days in the ER getting fluids to keep hydrated enough to survive, let alone nourish their growing baby. I have only one HG related scare that I may have to go into the ER, but I experience enough of the symptoms to tell you that HG is no joke.

Imagine the first day of the flu, you are weak and nothing seems to sit well. You gag at every smell and food is the worst thing you have ever heard of. What if told you that was your life 24/7 for 9 months? I am on medicine for my HG and I still have at least one day a week when every inch of my body is in pain and I can’t even imagine eating. Part of the curse of HG, though, is that this is not just a couple days. You can’t let yourself not eat because you and your baby will starve. So I force down whatever seems like it might not make me nauseous, and not just nauseous like a tummy-ache, but I literally have to sit in a certain position all day and chew ice chips to keep myself from vomiting.(Though I recognize I am lucky that I don’t experience uncontrollable all day vomiting like so many women do.)

What’s worse is stress makes my HG worse. This means that the struggle of trying to figure out what food won’t make me nauseous, just makes me sicker, and feeling the nausea makes me sicker, and having an uncomfortable conversation makes me sicker. I hate myself sometimes for the loss of patience this causes in me with the daughter I already have. She is precious and so well-behaved, but her cry releases cortisol in me which makes me feel like vomiting. So instead of selflessly worrying about what she needs, sometimes I just want to scream at her to stop because it just hurts so much when she cries, and it won’t stop hurting for hours after. I have less patience with other members of my family too, people who normally mildly irritate me, make me furious because my short stressful conversations with them result in a whole day of mindful breathing and panic attack management from how exhausted I am, and again trying not to vomit.

People often say to HG sufferers, “Oh just get someone to help you.” Well, unfortunately our culture has created the do-it-all woman, so now we are expected to do it all. While this may be great for women’s advances in business and careers, family members and friends no longer crowd around any pregnant woman to help her with anything she needs. There are lucky women, and I am lucky in many ways, but there are moments when I hide in the bathroom sobbing that I can’t go on, only to do it again the next day.

I feel so much guilt because I should feel grateful for the help that I have, for not working during this pregnancy(HG at a new job is a nightmare) for family who helps when they can. I am grateful for all of these things. Incredibly grateful. It is impossible to have enough help though, when one spends every day in so much stress and discomfort. This isn’t meant to be a pity party, but just, be there for your pregnant friends and family. Be kind to them, you don’t know what they might be going through silently.

Motherhood DID Ruin My Life

I keep seeing all these posts from other women that are supposed to be jabs at “the liberals” for talking about how miserable having lots of kids makes them.(I know I know Stereotype but it’s not my stereotype it’s theirs!) Instead it just makes me feel like they are showing off how awesome their life is.

Now I know they aren’t doing this on purpose, but having kids has been the most miserable experience of my life. For 26 years I looked forward to being married. I was so excited for everything about it but a big part of how excited I was was the sex! So obviously hubby and I had sex every chance we got when we first got married. 9 times the first day, and at least once after that.

Until we lost Emma. Now, losing Emma was not as simple as it looks in the movies. I gave up a job I had been working for for 2 years to keep her safe, Hubby and I worried constantly and panicked about the insurance and taking care of her and where she was going to live, I was miserably tired and sick the entire time I was pregnant and SO fat. I gained a whole size the 9 weeks I was pregnant with her.

Then actually losing her was the most horrifying thing you can imagine. Huge blood clots, blood constantly steaming out of me, so much blood it just constantly streamed even when I was the shower, insane cramps, and panic attacks so severe you can’t imagine. Even most of the women I know who’ve had miscarriages don’t seem to have panicked as severely as I did. I was sure I was going to die.

Then she was gone. I did not even get to hold a beautiful baby girl at the end of it. I got nothing good, just loss and utter misery. And worse, now sex, which I looked forward to for 26 years, became a nightmare. Every time we are together it becomes about avoiding a baby, no simple love anymore. Charting, dating, recording, timing. All conspiring to make it really hard to just enjoy each other.

Then I got sick of it. We tried again. Lost Charlie at 3 or 4 weeks. I didn’t even get far enough to feel like I can grieve him. But I know he was there, and that was a miscarriage clot. I NEVER have clots at the time of the month, and that time of the month was way too early to not be losing my baby boy. That was followed by quite a panic attack.

Then, I find out that my religion forbids oral sex. I asked priests for 2 years if they did, but I don’t find out they forbid until it becomes the only way I survive our time avoiding. So my religion is in tatters and has become a weapon against my survival.

Now if I go to Church I have to listen to them talk about how great women are if they have lots of babies. And if I go to a Catholic young adults group my husband and I get stares, and glares, and other couples boasting about getting pregnant after “only 3 months” of being married. Well, I TRIED. I did not want to have kids, but I gave it a chance because I love my husband and my Church wanted us to have kids, and I did not want to do NFP. And only 3 months? We were pregnant within a week. And in that week we lost our chances for a blissful first year of being newlyweds.

And that is just a taste of everything motherhood has done to me.

So, motherhood didn’t ruin your life? Great. Good for you. I am glad you got so fucking lucky. But I didn’t. Motherhood ruined me. I am a completely different person now, and I don’t want to be her. This isn’t who I am. But now it is.

Meadows and Flame

I’m coming to you once again today,
Naked of soul in child’s innocence,
Robed in lavish scarlet of latent love,
And dying for just one moment of truth.

Years of whispering to the night sky,
Yield to the flit of a deer’s flaming tail,
Turning to defy bloodied hunter’s hands,
At the iminent threat to her romance.

The flames beyond beckon her forth
In fear and jubilation’s mysteried threat,
A monster or a dream far, far too perfect,
Driving her into the abandoned meadow.

Flit fair doe for flaws are waiting-
Faint, for the weary road you trod ends not.
It goes on, for the one not stout enough of heart,
The one not willing to sacrifice herself to either flame.

Fire Within and Without

Maybe it’s a desire for the end of the surreal
A craving for something beyond
comprehension-to become real.

Maybe its a vindictive self abuse
A desire for a pain that speaks
To others and your crueller self

Maybe its a question of worthiness
Am I worthy to be worried
Only if its me too

Maybe it’s even worse
A desire for the attention to center on yourself
A narcissistic disease

Maybe that ‘s why the fire crawls
Into the heart and begs
That you ask for the end of your own

Destroy my property, Destroy my house
Only  because its my real-est fear.
Just do it, So it doesn’t hurt so bad 
When it’s over.

Flaming like the fire itself
This violent desire creeps inside the ribcage,
All to be done is beg God,
Please don’t listen to what I ask

Circmstances Under Which Coming Home to a Clean House is INFURIATING…Part 1

So, background information to this story is that at the moment I am working two jobs, one of which counts kinda as play, because it is a PLAY 😉 Haha see what I did there?  and the other of which is retail. 

Now, I love retail, and I love theater, but one thing about retail is that you are running around all day, you don’t really take breaks and it’s fast-paced. Which is why I like it. Except that I hate the exhaustion that overtakes my body. Especially when I am tired, which I have been because I have been staying up late for the play.

You could say that all of this is made worse by a little demon inside of me eating at my stomach in the form of cramps, accompanied by little demons who want to make sure the rest of me doesn’t feel much better. (Note on this point: You know cramps are bad when, without realizing it you subconsciously stop breathing in some insane attempt to stop the pain. Yes, subconscious, I realize that it might be less painful to suffocate at the moment, but tomorrow you may wish you hadn’t done that. You know, side effects may be brain damage, or…DEATH.)

Anyway added on top of all of this I am moving in two weeks, which is the cause of great excitement and nervousness, and being the well-adjusted child of the 90’s that I am, I don’tmanifest stress well at all, instead my entire body takes up harmonies of SOMETHING IS WRONG WITH ME AND I DO NOT KNOW WHAT until finally my mind goes, am I upset about something? This actually happened to me in the middle of this week.

Anyway, so my body, mind, and spirit are all in leagues against me at the moment, and needless to say this results in a less than clean apartment. I share with 2 roommates, and 1 new one, but everyone’s gone for Christmas still, so no biggie, I’ll clean before they get back.

No.

So I get a message this weekend from New Roommate, “Hey, just wanted to let you know, I am coming back this week!” After all the hooray’s and super excitedness, I realize it is definitely high priority to make absolutely certain that I clean the apartment BEFORE she comes. And I do. Tuesday afternoon, the apartment is clean. 

Well, I have some extra time now, so I think what a great idea it would be to get some packing done, hooray. So I get some done, but then things end up sorted out on the living room floor. That night, I make mac and cheese, and I don’t do the dishes because by the time I am done with everything it is O late Thirty in the evening and I must get up at Crack O Dawn in the morning. So I leave everything.

This week my ONE social evening was WEDNESDAY. Which happened to be the night before new roommate came home, Fantastic right? Time to clean. Nope. Time to run errands, and then fulfill the cookie date I have pushed off for so long( I NEED CHRISTMAS TRADITIONS, like a crack baby needs crack.) SO I do that, and then I dye my hair, for the first time in my life. Which freaks me out, but was really exciting.

ALSO on Wednesday I got a miracle 23 piece dish set(story for another day) and it was AWESOME, but I opened it all over the kitchen table. 

Also, we had 3 tiny Walmart bags of trash that I put by the door to take out, but had forgotten. SO, picture the apartment when I leave for work that day.

New Roommate walks in, somewhat questionable smell emanates from the trash by the door(which I by the way thought was coming from the dishes, and I did not have time to do the dishes, otherwise I would have just taken the stupid trash out.) Then she walks in and the dining room table is covered in dish set, the dishes in the kitchen are not done and I have piles of sorting things in the living room. 

Oh and New Roommate’s stuff takes up LITERALLY half of the bedroom, so since I had no room to do stuff in there I decided not to bother figuring out where we could sort out all the stuff in our closet, and I would just move it all out. It’s only two weeks, and half the closet is empty anyway except for a tiny little drawer set. 

So, feeling terrible about myself, and like the left-brained person I am, I left her two beautifully painted sugar cookies, and texted her apologizing about the mess and promising to clean it up ASAP.

And then I came home from work….

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