Self Portrait

They can think what they want about me but I know who I am and who I am is better than they could ever hope to be. It’s not vanity if it’s the truth, right? I don’t hold myself above anyone else when it comes to status or looks or wealth, honestly I could care less about these things. It’s my attitude that riles people up and makes them an enemy before they’ve even taken a chance on knowing me, really seeing me. If they stuck around for a moment they would see me crying on the aisle we sell laundry detergent on while I remember how many times I was beaten as punishment for a faulty washing machine. It wasn’t like I made the damned thing, regardless, I was taught a lesson because of it. I find myself wondering if you think of me some frivolous airhead who is only worried about how it looks like and not how it really is, but rest assured, I have no alterior motives, I am drawn to beautiful things and it’s not my fault that you’re one of them. Would it offend you though if I told you that you’re not broken enough for me? I picture myself blackening your pure skin with my hard working hands and despite the cynical air you carry about you, I think it would disturb you. My dirty hands, I mean. I think you might be as crazy as I am, but yours is more a Norman Bates type crazy, quiet and trying to convince yourself you’re not while mine is more, well I have no one to reference to this, no one you would know at least. I never thought that you might be like Them, not when you’ve spent so long trying to convince me that you’re not, but life is full of surprises, sometimes nasty surprises. While you’re sitting in that little dark room, painting your skin with the images you see in an attempt to display the insanity you claim to have, I’ll be out here painting the world with mine.

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While He’s Here

Just more horrible news to top off my already funky mood. A friend from work told me today that one of our other coworkers is joining the military because he wants to work as a paramedic in less fortunate countries. He says he wants to do good in the world. He’s just that type of guy, you know, big heart, still believes in the good in people. He wants to make a difference.

I felt like I was going to cry when she told me. With the way the world is today, this news frightens me. I want him to be safe. True, bad can happen anywhere in the world, but he’ll be so far away. My chest hurts thinking about it. I wonder if my heart is breaking.

Maybe I’m what’s wrong with the world, believing that my friend’s presence would do a world more good here, where people like me need people like him. He has an optimism about him that’s contagious and uplifting. I think it’s because he has so much faith in God. Every day when I come in for the morning, he’s sitting down to breakfast and praying. It’s not something you see every day and I admire him for it. In a time where faith isn’t openly spoken about, especially not in the workplace, he stays true to his. I really think my heart is breaking.

A few months ago he and I were talking about my relationship with the Mister and he was saying how lucky he felt the Mister is for having been brought together with the kids and I. He says this is what he wants, to meet a woman who already has children, children he can be a father to. He says he would be happy to meet someone and fall in love and then have kids, the traditional way, but that he doesn’t deny he would be happier to come into a ready made family. I didn’t know what to do with that when he told me. I still don’t.

He and I chit chat in passing, sometimes we end up working together for the day, but not often. I know he enjoys motorcross racing, the adrenaline that comes with it. I know he’s not afraid of hurting himself in the sport. I thought he was crazy when I first learned this about him. I still think he’s crazy.

I feel horrible about not wanting my friend to go to countries that aren’t safe right now. I feel horrible that his words made me cry today. But mostly my chest aches with a tremendous heaviness because in a life with so many who come and go, I’m about to have another one leave and this news couldn’t have come at a worse time.

I still admire him for his bravery and for his big heart, his desire to do good. I’ll pray for him every night until I forget about him. I know that sounds horrible but in reality, he and I are not that close and as time goes on I will have forgotten these feelings I’m feeling right now. But that’s a long ways off, just like his departure, so for now I’ll appreciate his presence and his friendship and mostly I will pray for him.

Rebirth

I wanted to hear from you today, I could’ve used your words. You would have said some poetic shit about how nothing was meant to last forever, except maybe our words, but even those will be forgotten over time. Don’t think I’m saying your words are shit, it’s only how I talk when I’m feeling like this and too often I censor myself for the little ears and eyes that I don’t think could handle the vulgarity of it. I save those words for my bound pages. I thought about writing in those bound pages today, I almost did, but so far I haven’t tainted them with what I write that I feel is crap. I’ve ripped a few out and will probably rip out many more before I decide the book is useless. What I really want to do is let you destroy me from the inside out, not literally of course, unless it would make you smile, but figuratively, so that I can start the process of being reborn. I feel dirty and disgusting right now, it’s what the building rage does to me, and a total reconstruction of my soul is the only solution. But the process is so damn exhausting and while I crave solitude, I become lonely when I’m in the depths of it. I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I needed to talk to you today. I wanted to be reborn.

Broken

Just like that my whole mood has been turned around. It’s like storm clouds have moved in with icy cold winds and pelting rain. What is it about you that sets my soul at unease? Maybe it’s nothing but maybe it’s something. Maybe it’s everything about you, maybe it’s nothing at all.

You set the damn fire burning in me, an anger so intense it makes my teeth feel numb, much the same as they do when I’m about to have an anxiety attack. How the hell do you do that every single time? My rational side keeps telling me it’s nothing, that it’s just the PTSD trying to make something out of it. Or maybe I’m right. I don’t know. I don’t have the strength. You make me weak.

I don’t want to think about it anymore but that’s not how my brain works. It’s turning and churning and whirling and spinning, all the while the rage is burning deep inside of me. Rage over nothing, the nothing that might be something but that is most likely nothing. I’ll spend the next week wondering if it was something or nothing, blowing the whole incident out of proportion. My mind is my prison and it wasn’t your fault. You only found me like this, you didn’t make me like this. But you can’t fix me either.

In My World

It’s so hard sometimes, being like this, living with a mind that picks something out of literally nothing. Letting the paranoia and anxiety get to me whenever I don’t even have all of the facts. But that part of me is so good at picking up on the most subtle of things, my brain hones in on these things, things I could live without hearing and seeing and knowing.

Sometimes I blame it on my writer’s brain. I blame it on my ability to pick out the most obscure details and turn them into things that they most definitely are not. Maybe not even most definitely, but at least probably not. I blow these “maybe nots” up into “probably are’s” and then over time they turn into “most definitely are’s.” It’s an exhausting way to live, but it’s all I’ve ever known.

I’ve spent the past two days building a fictional world, taking the time to create a place that I would very much enjoy living in, people I would very much like to know, and it makes me like my own world  a bit less. That’s the problem with writing fiction, reality is never quite as sweet. Not for me at least. I find myself becoming lost in these worlds, waiting patiently for the next moment when I can return to it. It’s like a drug, it’s my addiction.

I am exhausted. There are too many days when I am exhausted. These days it hasn’t been because of my overthinking brain though, it’s been a normal, pleasant type of exhaustion. It’s been one of work and children and puppies. I have too much to do and not enough time to do it, which is always better than having too much time and nothing to fill it with.

Sometimes I read these beautiful words and I wish they could be about me. I find myself wondering what would happen, what would have happened, mostly what could happen, if I was given the opportunity to experience life in these places, with these people and their words. Would they write words about Me? Have they written something about me? I could only hope so. But I am not there and they are not here and we never, ever meet and so really all I can do is hope that something I’ve said means more to you than it does to those who don’t even take the time to read these words. Those who should already know these words but for some reason don’t care to.

Alive

Some days all I yearn for is a beer. Something tall and dark, something Irish. I daydream about a bar I used to frequent in my early twenties, I was there nearly every night after work in the summers. I’d have a few drinks, half watching what was on the televisions behind the bar until it was well past time to drag myself off home to a life that I should have appreciated but very much didn’t.

I didn’t write much back then, not at all actually. I was too busy working fifty hour weeks and living life. Did I search for love back then? Sure. I’m always searching for love but up until half a decade ago I never found it. I sought adventure and noise, noise that would quiet the one ever present in my own head. It was never really quieted, but many times it was overpowered by the exciting, frivolous life I was living.

I drank mostly. In groups, in pairs, alone. I drank alone more often than not, mostly because my appetite and tolerance for alcohol far surpassed that of anyone else I knew. I oftentimes outdrank even most of my male friends, which I think impressed and disgusted them at the same time. Drinking was the only way I could escape from life. The only way I could be free. The only way I could be happy. Drinking silenced the insecurity, the irrational fears, the anxiety, the depression. Well, it silenced the depression for awhile and then it hit me full-force once I was done.

Some days I would dabble in other substances. Those are the days when I would write. I would think of the caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland, the Mad Hatter, the Mad Queen, the White Rabbit. I would think of that magical world I had loved since I was a child and wish I could be there. I would chase substances and try to get as intoxicated as I could in order to just catch a glimpse. Never did I find it in my waking moments, but my dreams were always colorful. Now I wish I would’ve written more of those dreams down. It seems such a waste to have kept them to myself all of those years.

I can’t remember the last time I had a colorful dream. I can’t remember the last time I dreamt at all. The medication prevents me from remembering them. I can’t say this is a bad thing, I have more nightmares than dreams anyhow, but just for once I would love to remember one in detail. Something I could write about. Something I could share with you. I just can’t.

The pain has been unbearable the past couple of days, sparks of it that leave me convulsing. I’m not one for doctors so I suffer in silence. Yesterday as I was picking up last minute items for my daughter’s birthday, the pain nearly had me on me knees, right there in the electronics department. Sharp, stabbing pains and I convinced myself this was it, this was how it was going to end- in an aisle of a store, on my knees, only a few hours short of an early birthday party for my oldest daughter. The pain passed but revisited me early this morning. I’ll make it to a doctor eventually.

I want to write something that moves you to tears, that has you reflecting on your own life, that has you wondering more about mine. I want to fill you with words that have you pulling out your drawing pencils and sketch pads, bringing my words to life- magical places pencilled down for me to escape to when it all becomes too much, and it often becomes too much. I want to write something that inspires you to respond, inspires you to create, inspires you to remember. I want to write something to fill the space that drinking left, I want to write something that makes me feel alive.

 

Revisited

I once wrote a story, over 50,000 words and then deleted and destroyed it after a year. It was the most painful thing I had ever written because even though it was fiction, it was based on truth. The words I had written made me relive the past and I think this is when the nightmares started. The past is so painful and it’s hard to learn from it when you’re still trying to run from it. I’ve worked so hard to put the past behind me and the medication had helped a great deal. I’ve long since stopped going to therapy and no longer have anyone to share my pain with, except for You. I can’t remember the last time I had a nightmare, the last time I caught myself looking over my shoulder, the last time I had a panic attack, but today, the thoughts were too much and I don’t even know what started it. My mind tumbled and fumbled over itself, around and around and the anger overwhelmed me. I could feel the paranoia creeping in at the edges of my mind and your face was all that I saw, all that I could focus on. Your face is like that of an angel, although I’m sure you would disagree and maybe even laugh, but your face, it is heavenly. Everything about you sets me free, everything about you is all that I need to keep me grounded while still experiencing the beauty in the clouds. You know my truths and yet you’re still here, you keep coming back even though I can’t understand why. There’s nothing about me that’s particularly interesting, there’s nothing about me that’s particularly unique, yet here you come, once again, setting my soul on fire. Everything about you is all I’ve ever wanted, at least, the parts of you that you’ve let me see. Everything about you is perfect and I’ll never understand why you keep coming back when all I have to offer is Me.

Caged

Feeling so weary sitting on this couch. I’m exhausted. It’s not a physical exhaustion, although the physical demands play a part. My soul seeks rest. The places that I used to find it hold no comfort these days and I feel as though I am floating from moment to moment, waiting for when I can close my eyes. The anxiety makes all the sounds too loud and distorted, the lights too harsh and bright. I find myself longing for the quiet and solitude of my bedroom, although even then I rarely find some peace. The noise inside my head is the loudest, it will not quiet even for a moment. The thoughts roll around and around, becoming louder and louder and I turn to the words I love so much, the words that quiet my soul. I thank you then for creating for me a safe haven, even when the words aren’t so beautiful, even when the truth is dark and painful and rips open old wounds. I thank you. Your words remind me that there is another way to see this world, another way to see the beauty, another way to find release and this is all I’ve ever wanted.

The Artist

Looking at some older photos of him and once again becoming lost in his beauty. He destroys my soul while calling it love and I love every minute of it. His beauty is different. His is a beauty that I initially believed to be a mirage. When I think of him I tell myself that he proved me wrong by showing me how gentle he can be, how he just as much loves to watch the autumn leaves dancing in the golden sunset as I do. He demonstrates this by listening to the whispered conversations of the ocean’s waves, holding my hand while we dig our toes in the sand, the breeze ruffling that beautiful head of hair of his. He smells of cotton and detergent and natural things, not spice and whatever else is put in those sprays for men to attract a partner, a lover, a one-night stand. No, he smells pure. A smell that makes me feel at home. He makes an enormous effort to remember my favorite thing to do on those days when I cannot go on and he does this with me without judgment. He hums his favorite songs to me in a way that makes them sound like lullabies, even when they are the heavier bit that he listens to. He paints me a picture, his easel set up by the French doors that I don’t have, facing the sunlight, or the moonlight (which I much rather prefer), a glass of something strong and amber in one hand, a paintbrush between his teeth, a cup to rinse in his other paint-streaked hand. He paints me the worlds I dream of, the worlds I long to be a part of. He brings them to life for me through his colors, colors that only he can breathe life into the way he does. Beyond that, I’m not sure what he’s like, only that his heart is kind, he would rather die than hurt my heart and his colors are what light the way for me in my darkest of moments. I could be wrong about him. I usually am wrong about people. But this is how I’ll think of him, in those passing moments when I think of him.

When It’s Like This

When it’s like this, it’s almost like being reborn. I can’t help but think of the Phoenix, born out of the ashes. The depression is like this. I don’t know what started it, something in my paranoid mind, no doubt. A spark of something ignited a fire in me. It’s always the same- I’ve seen or heard something that didn’t sit well somewhere inside of me and it gnawed at me and gnawed at me. It’s snowballing. The anxiety blossomed into depression which is slowly dissolving into anger, red hot, boiling rage. I hate it when it’s like this. I hate feeling so out of control. I hate hating the things I usually love. I hate everything. I mostly hate feeling like this. He tells me I need to get some rest, that he’ll handle all of the errands on his own today, but he doesn’t understand that when it’s like this, there is no rest. My mind will keep spinning, my insides will grow more and more blackened by the second until I finally explode. He told me once that he would rather hear the craziness that bumps around in my brain because it’s better than wondering what I’m thinking but once I’ve told him what’s happening he gets frustrated and it makes me feel worse. This is why I’m a woman of few words. People say they want to know, but they really don’t. Not when it’s like this.