Letter Never Sent

Don't leave me feeling beautiful.
Don't kiss me one last time.
Turn away as we cut these strings,
give me a silent end; a last goodbye.

Remind me of the good times,
scare away the bad.
But don't leave me here waiting,
hoping you weren't the best I've had.

Your clock moves forward,
the seconds ticking down.
But me, I'm standing, stuck and lost
wishing you'll be there when I'm found.

Don't leave me feeling beautiful.
Don't smile and wish the best.
Cut the ties, say your goodbyes.
Don't worry, I'll burn the rest.

What's Left

Two to three years.

That’s our expiration.

I see the date stamped in the corner.

A ticking  clock, counting down to the end of life vacation.

28, maybe 29.

That’s the oldest I will be.

So much growing up left to do.

So much me that you’ll never see.

I wish I hadn’t asked.

I wish I didn’t know.

Didn’t have this number hanging over head,

A fucked-up mistletoe.

But that is all I know now.

That is all I think.

As I watch you disappear,

Water washing away ink.

We still have time, I hear.

I’ll carry on, push through.

I must, to create memories,

I will carry on for you.

Can I Explain?

If I could write a song, a prayer, a letter

To tell you all my hopes and fears- would it be enough.

Would it be enough to write every thought I have

Just so you would see a glimmer, begin to understand?

I could try. I could write for days.

But it would never quite explain.

The thoughts that haunt me, the nightmares I live,

The baggage I claim.

Jude

Don’t we all

Dream to fly.

Put our arms out,

Hug the sky.

Long to float,

Drift through space.

Tethered to nothing,

Tied to no place.

You felt weightless

Hung free.

But you were tied,

Stuck completely.

Circles never end,

Continue, on and on.

You’ll live in my head,

A faded memory, never gone.

Lost forever,

Our little boy.

Taken in darkness,

Our light and joy.

Live on in us,

Who remember you.

You’re always here,

Our lovely Jude.

Life's Flame

There’s less heat to the fire,

The sparks are diminishing.

And though the laughter still leads to coughing

And the jokes still come, but stumbled, there’s a missing piece.

The light still shines and is warm.

The joy is overwhelming and comforts.

But if you stare too long into the flame you can see it.

The bare bones are there, not providing the same heat they did once.

Now the sticks are thin and warn.

They lean on one another, attempting to keep up.

But they crumble, and they fall.

The flames consumed them quickly,

And though the spirit is alive and well – the vessel,

Is frail.

Stare into the fire.

Absorb the heat while it is still warm and bright.

Welcome it to feed your soul and nourish what sparks still light.

Carry it with you, for as long as it is there, a fire continuing to fight –

You can postpone the ever-looming night.

Dead Ends

The truth is, sometimes I start in one place with a strong idea, but then a tidal wave of emotions takes over and I lose all logical patterns and just write. In college, this would be critiqued. Write your work in a logical manner, make sure it ties together. But tell me, what is logical about this life I'm living? What is logical about everything I have experienced...not just within these last few years, but my whole life. If you find the logic within my last 25 years, if you find the purpose, the why - then I will write it. Until then, this is what you get. My thoughts. My ramblings. My search for order in the hoarder life my brain and emotions are living. This is me, trying to find an exit to the maze I live, only to find dead ends.

It’s funny. In preparation for graduation I bought a gown. Black, synthetic material, a little too long because I’m oddly proportioned like that, and yet the only gown a remember is the one I lent you.

Do you remember that? Showing up to my apartment door in only a slip, with confused shirt slightly covering you, and yet somehow you were bare? Perhaps that’s when I should have questioned. But that day was meant to be mine. Instead of reflecting, I laughed and praised fate that I procrastinated packing…I didn’t even question that you could no longer dress yourself.

And now I see pictures. Girls with their mothers, smiling with their tassels high. They will hold onto those memories for so long, but mine. Mine is a memory of pulling my family together one more time. Making sure everything ran smoothly. Keeping the world from falling apart so I could have one day.

One day. That’s too much to ask for now isn’t it. I can’t have one day where our life is normal. I can’t have one day when you remember my stories, you don’t interrupt my explanation only to ask the question again. One day where I can focus on who I am and show her to you, because I am too busy trying to help you find the pieces of who you were, and understanding them in the mess we are.

We are.  We are not one person. And yet it is our life. Our life that fell apart that day in March. Our life that continues to spiral. Too long has my life not been my own. I was 16 when I learned to be my own parent. Twelve when I learned to care for myself. Seven when I took care of myself after nightmares and sickness. There I am taking care of me. That’s when you and I became we. You needed me to take care of you. You needed him, he wouldn’t give, so there I was to provide you both with comfort.

Comfort that she would be alright on her own. Comfort that she was strong enough, mature, a force all on her own. At six, I was deciding my life for myself. At nine, I found comfort in a friend. At eighteen, I was older than many people are at forty. And at twenty-five I find myself exhausted. Every memory is reflected in a mirror smudged and broken. I see the cracks as they were, not the perfect collage of glass I always believed them to be. But ragged edges, meant to cut and hurt me. There is comfort in the reflection, but there is truth in the image that I never wanted to touch. There is pain I never wanted to be real.

Reality is, I can’t clean the mess until I acknowledge the existence. I can’t change, can’t build, until I realize it was broken. I try. I try to remember and pretend it was perfect. But the mirror isn’t what’s cracked. It’s me. It’s my life that is broken. And it’s not my job to fill in the blanks. But to pull my pieces together. Separate, I can still see you. Separate I can question and not fall apart. Separate I can give myself one day.

Rose's Turn pt. 2

I’m the audience to your life.

Commentary, useless background noise.

I get it now.

So that’s what I’ll be.

An aw here, and oh no! when things go wrong.

But I won’t provide a face.

I won’t offer words of advice or attempt to burden you with me.

When you ask, you’ll get an off-stage “great” and I’ll go back to cuing the lights.

Making sure you are center stage, that’s my job with you.

Making sure that everyone stays around you.

I’ll be background for your life.

But you’re sure as hell not going to star in mine.

Good luck pushing through the chorus.

Break a leg trying to enter my spot.

This world, the one I’m living in, doesn’t have room for you and your ego of two.

Your world, I will support.

In mine, I’m the lead.

And you can bet, I’m not backing down from this one woman show.

You can bet that I’m taking the bows that I owe.

You can bet that this time it’s all coming up me.

So, yea, I’ll give you your laugh track.

 But that’s all your getting…

yours is a role that aint’ coming back.

Repeating

Did it ever occur,

You could care about me?

Don’t just ask how I am or what is up?

But, listen instead of waiting to interject with your own pain.

Did it ever occur that I am here?

I have been here so long.

Listening, watching, hurting for you.

When you never felt for me.

You say I hurt you.

You say I am too out of control.

But the times I try,

You are never there.

You can’t lend a hand, because you have none to offer.

No wonder I lash out,

Desperate for your approval – attention because you use mine.

You mine me for support until I’m unable to care for even me.

No wonder I want to hurt you.

You are him.

You are him younger and disguised, but there he is.

You fill the silence with my voice.

Lean on me when the world is too much.

I am a jumping off point for your validation.

You are exactly him.

What am I supposed to learn from this lesson?

What am I supposed to change?

Do I address this?

And lose family in the meantime?

Or do I follow pattern?

And follow you?

Trying to keep my life from breaking in one more spot?

Or do I follow the crack and find the source?

No matter the cost.

What do I do,

When he is you?

"You've Lost Weight, You Must Be So Happy Now!"

 When I was fat, I had no idea.

 People don’t walk up to you and say, “oh, you’ve gained weight.” No one comments on your physical build or your shape change. They keep their thoughts to themselves, because when you’re fat, it is rude for them to notice. It isn’t their place to comment, no matter what they think. When I was fat, I didn’t notice. I didn’t care. I knew my clothes were fitting differently and that stairs took longer to climb, but was I angry? Was I ashamed? Did I look in the mirror every day and wish I was different? No, because I didn’t know I should.

I knew I looked different than other girls. I knew my body was not the ideal type. I didn’t know there was anything wrong with how I looked. I still dated, I still danced; I was still me and that was all that mattered. I wasn’t aware that I should judge the way I looked and hate it. The self-love I felt was genuine. I didn’t know I shouldn’t love myself until someone told me I needed to change.

As a child, I had moments of insecurity. I had moments where I thought “I’m too big” or “I don’t look like the pretty girls.” Then my family would step in, remind me I was unique, special, looks were never a focus. I was told I was smart. You are clever, funny, wise. I was never only told I was beautiful or pretty, there was always an and. “Pretty and talented,” “brave, kind, and have great eyebrows.” If you never hear that you’re not enough, you will always be complete. I was 211 pounds, and I was happy. I was secure. Then I was told I was too much.

Suddenly I had to change. The world would not accept that I was clever, a fast learner, and a great conversationalist. Now, I needed to fit a standard. I needed to look better, “feel better,” and to do this I had to change. So, I did.

Eight pounds, twenty, thirty -five, gone. The weight fell away and so did the security. When you’re fit or thin, suddenly your body is not your own. The world decides you are now “worthy” of their thoughts and opinions. “You look so good,” “you’re so hot now,” “hey girl, can I get some of that?” I lost my confidence, I lost the and. No one comments on your wit, your brains, your empathy once you’re pretty. It is only about how you look. Suddenly, if you don’t look perfect or right you are less than and there isn’t any other place your value can come from – there is only your looks. Although I once knew this isn’t true, I believed it. I followed the compliments, got addicted to the eyes and words, and began to believe that there was nothing else that gave me value.

Now I crave it. I send selfies so I can shoot up on the likes. I post “self-love posts” when my confidence is the lowest. I say that losing weight has helped my mental health, but I struggle eating a bagel in the morning because of the calories. I hate myself if I don’t go to the gym. I beat myself up for each mini kit kat I eat. Do I love the gym and feeling strong? Yes. Are there now so many extra, useless concerns rolling through my head? Yes.

How long will I have to work out to balance out this meal? If I eat this, can I eat dinner later? Are my arm muscles too big? Will I still be pretty if I am strong? Am I worthy of their attention yet? Am I finally enough?

Enough. I have always been enough. I used to believe that whole heartedly. Now, there’s a line that I will never reach, but will keep running toward. People always think someone who goes through a big transformation feels better after. When I was fat, I didn’t know I had to be someone else to be perfect. I was perfect. Now, I am the world’s property and they tell me what I need to be, and I am not my own.

And the best part is, the world says I should be happy. I should be proud of where and who I am; why? Because I’m starting to match their idea of perfect? Because I can wear clothes in a single digit size? Tell me society, what is happy about counting calories? About guilting myself every time I do something that brings me joy, even if it doesn’t bring me closer to fitness goals? Where is the happiness in fear that I will gain the weight back and become nothing?

 You created this fear. You fed it and starved me. You gave me small doses of approval, hooking me into the web of need, allowing me a taste of what it means to be validated by others and not myself. You took away my inner support, cut me off from the confident, kick-ass warrior within me and left me in the cold begging for one more taste of a warm gaze. You did this, and I let you.

I fell into your welcoming arms so quickly; didn’t notice the addict I became. Didn’t see how much I needed you. Now, I’m fighting back. I am becoming someone new. Someone who finds people to feed the girl within and not the girl I look like, people who grow the fire inside and not the hotness that is skin deep.

 I am fighting back. It will be hard. But you are no longer who I am trying to impress. Because guess what world, I am beautiful and. I am smart, funny, wise, empathetic, gentle, fierce, energetic, talented, loving, sweet, and kind. I can be all these things to myself. I can be enough.

Again

again
One word. Pretty simple, a word we use often, probably don't even think about the meaning anymore. Some of us, me included, have hated this word many, many times. It is a word I have often struggled with..."wasn't that good enough the first time?" "Why must I redo it," "why can't I be done now," "that's it, never doing that a second time." For most of my life I've lived in the idea that once you do something you shouldn't have to do it again or you can't do it again. Make a mistake? That's it, no more chances. Have a rough draft? That's actually your only draft, you're done. Everything had to be perfect. Everything was failed. There was never the chance to redo, correct, try again. But that's not true. This idea that I've had for so long is false. My mind made it up and lived by it for way too long. Everything, well most things, can be done again. Usually there is a chance to keep going. There's not a full stop. This is my equivalent to the semi-colon people who have considered suicide get, this is my YOLO, this is my life is beautiful, keep going. One word, not capitalized because it's not a start - it's a continuation of a journey. It's a promise that I have more than one chance. More than one chance to change my life, to become anew, to set a goal, to start. It's a vow to myself. I will be nicer, I will forgive, people make mistakes and start again. I am a person, I make mistakes, I have the chance for an again. 

Circular Thinking

Bridge the gap,

Bridge the gap,

Bridge the gap.

The more I say it, it will happen right?

I’ll make the distance shorter, easier to cross, and I’ll be okay again.

Right?

Focus.

Don’t fall into the emptiness.

Don’t fall.

Keep going…eyes up, feet moving.

Don’t fall.

Keep moving and it won’t happen right?

Keep moving and it won’t catch up. I’ll be okay.

Right?

Pull yourself together.

Find the pieces and glue them where they belong.

Find the pieces.

Find the pieces, complete the picture, and become whole.

Find the pieces.

Find the pieces and make yourself okay.

Right?

That’s all it will take.

To find the pieces, keep moving, and bridge the gap.

All I need to be okay.

Okay. Right?

Okay…not great, not perfect; just let me be okay.

For once, one moment, a chance, a day.

I want to be.

I want to be okay.

Caretaker

I spent the night crying. To you it seemed like I was searching for someone to love me. You took this in the most basic way. Said someday that person would come, I'd find them with time. But you don't get it. I've found that person. And I'm watching them disappear, fading right before my eyes.

I see her. I know she's there, at times she is truly present. I've known her. I've been a part of her. Now I'm searching for any part of her.

What if I lose her? What if my future never sees a glimpse of her? When she's gone, does her light fade away? Do the memories remain or do they fall out of the universe as quickly as they fall out of her head? If it is my job to carry her, who will carry me? What if I lose the strength, what if I lose the words and the thoughts, the structure crumbles until only a frame remains? What happens then, do we both crumble into the emptiness; where do we go if no one remembers?

They tell you how the disease takes hold. How the world begins to slow down, until the patient is stuck in a past destroying your future. The world doesn't tell you that the disease lives in the caretaker as well. They don't tell you how strong the need to freeze time will squeeze, they don't tell you how quickly and constantly your heart will break. Everyone looks for a cure for the patient, where's the cure for me?

Put on a smile. Fake the positive. Nod, "everything happens for a reason." Let them believe they are helping. Let them think they have a cure. Let them pretend that their band-aid words have stopped the hurting. Let them believe - because they need this.

Relax into your role. Caretaker. Here for her, here for them. Never here for yourself.

Tangled

Tangled.

Connected, by so many knots.

Not something we should have done.

Knots complicating our structure,

Not layers we need in our chain.

chain me to you – but never to your heart.

Hearts beat faster,

We pull closer, stronger, together, we weaken our structure.

The tighter we pull, the weaker we are. We bend.

We yearn, we desire, we break.

Knots in lives, already delicate and fine.

Not a line we should have crossed

Not a tangle we can unravel.

What’s done is done and we are done.

Because now we are something new,

Now we are knot upon not, forever becoming what we shouldn’t be.

How did we get here?

How did we go from us, to we, to you. 

Me.

Broken Birthday Hearts

I keep waiting for the phone to ring.

 I’ll be honest I’m always on edge about this, but today is different. I’m not waiting for bad news, not waiting to hear that I need to rush to the hospital or that I’m alone – today I’m waiting to be welcomed. I’m waiting for her to welcome me into the world as she’s done for 25 years.

 Waiting for the story of the red toenails, a bubble bath, a baby saying mew. For the story of my life as a caffeine addict, going strong for 25 years, and the doctor who whapped her. I just keep waiting and hoping and trying not to think, working hard on not waiting. Because if I wait, and it never comes, then there’s proof. Proof that it’s getting worse – no longer speculation, she’s forgotten our first welcome. Sure, the story is probably still there, but the date no longer sticks. 

And I’m scared.

I’m so scared because what does this mean for my future. If the past no longer holds, what will I build my future on? How am I supposed to create a life, continue a life, if I lose the one foundation I’ve always built upon?  And how many birthdays do I have to feel this way? How many birthdays will hurt like this? How many years will be marked by a broken heart?

Any answers would be appreciated.

A Brief Glimpse at the Past

She opened the book again, straining to read the words with the help of the street light outside. “Stupid,” she thought, “can’t believe you let them leave you.”

Of course her instructors had turned the lights off when they left, she wasn’t supposed to be there this late. Her parents were supposed to be on there way, were supposed to be outside waiting in the warm car, were supposed to remember their only child. But no, according to the poorly lit screen on her phone thirty minutes had passed and still no one was coming. So much for being the “favorite,” for being a “spoiled only child” like everyone assumed. There she was, butt freezing on the cold concrete steps, once again taking bets on which parent would remember her existence first. Hell, which one would get the phone first.

This wasn’t the first time, just the furthest time.

 Forgotten at her after school program? Walk to her mom’s office.

 Forgotten at school? Walk two blocks home.

Forgotten at a friend’s house? Turn it into a sleep over.

 Forgotten at your dance class, fifteen miles from home on a Wednesday night?

Freeze and sing Phantom of the Opera over and over until you can no longer talk.

What other solution was there?

“Could call again,” she mused.

Perhaps this time would be different. She had thought that the past seventeen times, but you never know, miracles happen – hell her birth had happened. Maybe one of them would pick up this time. She sat while the phone rang and rang.

The mother wasn’t supposed to be able to conceive.

The wonders of modern medicine and a clean diet.

The daughter was perfect, without flaw, tested for many.

The baby was exactly on time, March 21.

The parents never were.

No answer, no surprise.

“Really? I am your only child; how do you not realize I’m missing?? This is my own fault for being quiet and relatively well behaved!”

How do you even come to terms with being left behind by the people who love you the most?

Dreaming

There are dreams that we know will let us down. I will never run down a hill, only to find my feet no longer brushed by grass, but rather blanketed in clouds. There are the dreams that find and destroy our sleep - cover us in a darkness without comfort or escape. Dreams that terrify us into leaving the light on, reading ourselves into exhaustion, anything we can do to avoid the screams. But then there are the day time dreams:

I will be successful.

I will own a house.

I will be a wife.

I will find a family.

I will be someone's comfort.

I will be satisfied.

I will belong.

I will achieve it all.

I will fulfill my purpose.

These are the dreams we have when our minds are busy with work, while our bodies move from action to action, doing the daily requirements to get by. These are the dreams that keep us going, the ones we are supposed to chase. But how safe is it to run after these ideas? Throwing ourselves into a void, hoping that we end up clutching the answers in our fists - finally happy. 

Dreams in the daytime are the most dangerous of all. They distract us, keep us from finding the joy in the sunlight, lock us away in "what if's." And there we are stuck. Running on treadmills of our own creation. Stuck staring at dreams broadcast upon the walls of our mind. We are forever unsatisfied. 

I want to live outside these dreams. I want to find myself in a world without the need for change. I want to be happy. But that is just a dream.

Because...

what if the girl who could do it all –

Can’t do this?

She’s so smart,

she’s so talented, she’s so great at finding time for,

A balance.

But what if she’s not!

What if she needs to have time for nothing, time to erase.

To stop being and

stop.

What if she needs, but can’t accept.

She runs, she runs,

Never allowing a breath

If you slow down, you die –

if you die you’ve given up,

She can’t do that

She can’t be the girl who gave up,

Because she never gives up…

She never

stops.

Even when her world broke in two,

When her heart stopped beating,

She kept moving.

She kept being.

Pushed on.

She does not give up.

She is needed to be strong

She is incapable of putting down the weights

And admitting she’s shaking.

She continued when the darkness fell.

She pushed on as the sky bled and the stars rained down.

She does not stop.

She cannot stop.

Because then the universe will know.

she is simply human.