awfulfirstdrafts

[awfulfirstdrafts]

Not that I ever wrote on a schedule here, but just an update. I’m writing a novel, so I’m going to be pretty inactive on here for at least a few months. I would post my story here as I write it but I found out I can’t do that if I ever wanted to publish it, for copyright reasons. Not that I expect it to get picked up by a major publisher but maybe I’ll self publish when it’s done. However, I will post the working cover art. It’s only the idea of it, I’m going to have my friend illustrate the actual cover when it’s done. I just want to have something on here marking this milestone so I can come back to it like my other writing on here. I’m so excited, but it still has a long way to go.

[awfulfirstdrafts]

Are We Next?

Growing up, I had a deep fascination with history. I always wanted to know more about the big events, especially in the 20th century, that shaped the world. The events that draw my attention the most have always been the World Wars, the Great Depression, the Holocaust, and the 60s revolution. My knowledge of history brings me little comfort today. The United States is rapidly heading down a path frighteningly similar to the worst events of the 20th century. Our foreign relations are tense and pointing toward another World War in the next few years. The persecution of Hispanic/Latin immigrants resembles the beginning of Adolf Hitler's persecution of Jewish people. Mass deportations that sometimes lead to relocation to another country, but other times result in mass inhumane imprisonment. The rise of white supremacy that normalizes racism and hate crimes. All of the detrimental policies that are being rapidly implemented and the quick dissolving of government watchdog agencies are occurring. We are staring down the barrel of the next big event, and the targets have been made clear.

The arguments for detaining and deporting undocumented immigrants en masse revolve around the civil offense of existing here without documentation. This argument was thinly veiled xenophobia and racism. I knew the veil would fall, and unsurprisingly, I was right. Immigrants with permanent residency, green cards, and visas are now having their documentation revoked and are being taken. It was never about legality, and many of us knew that. Now we are heading toward the scariest parts of this path we are on; They are going to come for citizens next. This possibility has been the elephant in the room for people who have been paying attention. Many don't want to believe this could happen, especially to citizens who were born here, but it has happened before. During the Great Depression, America needed someone to blame and a drastic plan. The government began a mass deportation of Mexicans and Mexican Americans. People who were born here, raised here, and had never been to Mexico found themselves being rounded up, imprisoned, and boarded on the next train out. A decade or so later, Japanese Americans were taken from their homes and imprisoned in internment camps.

This next step in the regression of America is nothing new. We had made so much progress, and it was too much for the ruling class to handle. Now we will face the punishment they plan to inflict on us for trying to live a life next to them instead of under them. I want to run. I want to flee before it is too late and they knock on our door, but I can't. My family will never leave. Our lives are here. Despite the evils lurking within America, it is the country where my dad was born as a poor migrant field worker and climbed his way up to a successful man who could give his family a better life than he had growing up. I can't fault him for not wanting to let go of our life. Still, I fear what is to come. If the next steps are taken, our birthright citizen status will not save us. I can only attempt to enjoy the time we have left before they are at our doors. God help us.

[awfulfirstdrafts]

986 Roadster

A couple of years ago my father told me I had lost my zest for life. It was a few months before my 23rd birthday, and I had decided I wanted to learn how to drive standard. Every day after work I went to my parents’ house to practice with my dad. His collection of vintage cars provided more than enough options to practice in. To start with, I chose his Geo Metro. The sides of the white convertible had a design that reminded me of those old paper cups you would find in a school nurse’s office. We stayed on the property while I practiced letting off the clutch and pushing the gas at just the right time. Once he thought I was ready, we moved to the roads. For this, he wanted me to drive his 99’ Porsche Boxster.

I hadn’t seen the Porsche since my mom was driving it to take my brother and me to school. I laughed at the memory, because it’s a two-seater convertible. The three of us squeezed in for the drive and felt the air rush over us. There were plenty of cars that would have fit all three of us, but my mom was trying to relearn standard. Once she got tired of trying, the old Porsche went into storage for nearly a decade. When my birthday came, he gifted me his car. I started driving without him and learned to trust my own decisions on the road.

Some time after I had finished my driving lessons, my sister and I went to a reshowing of an old movie we loved as kids. As children, Drop Dead Fred was just a funny movie about a young woman seeing her childhood imaginary friend again. As a young woman myself, it reflected all the feelings of helplessness in my life. I hadn’t realized until then that Fred was not truly an independent being, but an extension of a different side of herself. He was the side of her that was desperate for autonomy and freedom. Elizabeth had been controlled by her mother all her life and then by her husband until he discarded her. She tries everything to get him back, not because she loves him, but because she was afraid. She was too scared to navigate life on her own and have her own hands on the wheel. Toward the end of her journey, she hears him telling his mistress that Elizabeth trusts him and that he is in the driver's seat. He was in control of the relationship, and her life. By the end, she puts herself in the driver’s seat and begins to trust her own decisions.

I made so many connections from Elizabeth’s experiences to mine, and in that theater I wept. I cried at the realization that for the first time in my life I am in complete control. There was only me in the car, and I was trusting myself. What I lost while sitting in the passenger seat, letting everyone else drive my life in any direction will never be fully recovered. However, with each turn of the wheel and each shift, my spark and vivacity are resurfacing. Now there’s no other part of me longing for permission to live my life. I’m driving now, and it’s all green lights.

[awfulfirstdrafts]

Always an Orchid Never a Dandelion

I am not the kind of person who can grow in love. For reasons I have yet to discover, I can only begin to reach my potential when I am alone. Like an orchid, I can only flower under certain conditions. Something about romantic love or maybe just men, shrivels me into the lowest version of myself. I wonder about this often and some of the possibilities make more sense than others. Perhaps all the time I spent alone in my formative years, which required me to build a vast inner world, has made it impossible for me to incorporate another person into it. Or maybe it is in my blood to fully devote myself to another person until I lose myself. Whatever the reason, it remains that I cannot love and flourish at the same time.

The time I spent by myself may have prepared me to feel comfortable being alone. That is not to say I have isolated myself; on the contrary, I interact with more people and have more friends than I did when I was dating. I don't think I ever felt more lonely than when I was in a relationship—in every relationship. I don't think anyone could love me the way I would need. I don't just want to be adored; I long to be truly understood.

Sometimes I wonder if I could still reach my full potential if the other person understood me entirely. Though, I don't hope for this. There is just something too terrifying about linking my life so closely with another. Especially now that I have begun to thrive in the environment I have built for myself. Even if I received the perfect love, I know my progress would cease and I would start to wither. It is my love for others that stunts me. On the other side of this, the men I have loved grew and prospered from it. Without my love, they decline back to where they started from or lower. I made the connection that I was lending my own potential and energy to help them blossom. Finally, at some point, I started to wonder if enveloping myself in my own care would have the same effect.

From this, I have come to accept that I cannot grow in the love of another but only in my own. The boldness I have gained from loving myself the way I did others before, has opened doors I never thought possible. All the opportunities I would have shoved idle people into, I am now stepping into myself. Maybe one day I might regret sacrificing chances of good love to create the environment that could produce the greatness I seek, but I am willing to roll the dice on that. As much as I think it would be nice to be one of the fortunate dandelion people who can have both, it is clear I may never be one of them.

[awfulfirstdrafts]

Corn Maze

I’ve written my confession about you before, and never thought I would write another. However, our last experience has weighed on me still, even a couple of years later. You found me in a vulnerable state, again. I was looking for friendship and comfort. You came to me offering both. I thought now that we were adults, things would surely be different. We spent so much time together rebuilding our friendship and you brought me into your close circle. I had one of the best nights of my life. I thought a new friend group and new experiences were on the horizon.

I made sure to thank you for all you’d done. Making me laugh again. Helping me find joy in hobbies and friends. I also thanked you for being the only man in my life that didn’t try to pounce on me the second I was available. It meant so much to me that someone valued me as a person and not a conquest. The last time we were together, was a wonderful memory. I hadn’t done any holiday activities in years. So, we went to the corn maze that fall. We made our way through the maze and came out before the sun started to set. We talked about the past and our old friends as we walked through the sunflowers. I was comfortable again, enough to truly speak my mind for the first time in so long. I made jokes I knew wouldn’t sit well with anyone else. I expressed my shock that so many women were financially supporting their boyfriends that treated them badly. I joked that when things were good with my ex, I happily paid half the bills and did the housework. Then when he messed up, I never paid another bill and he had to cook and clean while I laid in bed for over a year. I joked that I was never going to live with a man until we are married and any man I end up with is going to have to pay for everything because I refused to do 50/50 or more accurately 75/25 ever again. It was less of a joke and more of a promise I made to myself in that moment. I let the thought pass and we continued talking and laughing the way we did as teenagers.

Then at the snack stand you tried to insist on paying for my things. It scared me how persistent you were being and you didn’t back down until I yelled at you. I paid for my things and I tried to tell myself you were just wanting to be nice. We sat in the barn to eat and the conversation steered to serious matters. We talked about therapy and trauma. I thanked you again for actually being my friend and not viewing me as a possibility.

You wanted to end the night by going somewhere else together. Thinking nothing of it, I let you know that my brother was coming and that we were going to do the maze again. It had been so long since you two had seen each other and I thought it would be nice to spend time with both of you. Once he was there and we were approaching the maze you couldn’t get out of there fast enough. You left quickly, and my brother and I continued into the maze.

I tried to make the night last longer. To try and stifle the gut wrenching feeling I had that something was coming. I could feel something shift and I wanted to deny it for a little longer. But I knew. I knew our friendship hadn’t made it out of the maze with us. When we emerged, it stayed there making wrong turns and going in circles. I ignored your message for hours until I was getting ready for bed.

When I saw your words and my fears had materialized, I let all the tears I had prepared that night fall. You tried to tell me that we had been going on dates the whole time. That we had been moving towards a relationship. The betrayal was too much to swallow and I choked. I cried until my eyes became swollen. So swollen I almost couldn’t read your message, much less reply. I had been so clear about my intentions, and grateful to be a friend. Upon rejection, you tried to pretend things had not changed. You said we could still be friends, but I knew that was not the truth. How could we ever be friends when you would constantly be waiting for me to cave? Waiting for me to be at my weakest so you could have your chance. What makes the pain ache even more, is that despite me explaining everything to you, I know you still believe it is because I didn’t find you attractive. You could never admit that what has kept you single and causes rejection is not your looks, but because of the kind of person you are. Desperate. So desperate that you would wound a woman just to have her. So desperate you would seek women with their backs against the wall and nowhere to go.

I will always cherish our good memories, but I will never forget your deepest betrayal.

[awfulfirstdrafts]

Infinity Train

It's coming up on two years since we last spoke, and in that time, I've often thought of writing this. Fresh out of the fire, you sought me out. Your explanation for how you found me sounded sweet, but who knows if it was true. I've thought of asking about things that never added up because she would tell me any truths she has. However, I'd rather leave things in the past. Our time was brief but so full of moments. In the short time we shared, I experienced more than I had in the years prior. You pushed me into new experiences, and that's why I liked you. You pushed me into experiences you wanted to have, and that's why I didn't like you.

You adhered to everything I had spent years asking someone else to be. You wrote me love letters, got me the most thoughtful gifts, made me playlists, planned dates, and were so devoted. I didn't have to ask you for any of it. I felt like I was being pushed towards something serious. Something I had expressed I wasn't ready for. Only I was having too much fun to jump off the train.

We read books together, watched shows together, and went to all the places I liked but hadn't been able to enjoy in years. You beat me in chess. You always beat me in chess; for some reason, I felt like that meant something. My favorite night of all was The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I had never been to anything like that. It meant so much to me to feel so seen that you surprised me with tickets to the show. I let go and enjoyed the chaos of the performance. You made me dance in the crowd after and even though I was hesitant, you knew I wanted to be part of that moment. I don't think I've felt seen that way ever before or since then. You invited me out to drink with your friends after. I declined not just because I don't drink, but also that I hated how much you would drink. It felt significant that you felt comfortable with me seeing you and your friends that way. So I went home. The fun couldn't mask the feeling that I was hurdling towards something serious and doomed.

We were doomed all along because, truthfully, I had no intentions of being in a committed relationship that soon. I hadn't had time to breathe after my life seemed to have fallen apart. I was only two weeks single when we started up, and I was still adjusting to the fact that I had lost nearly everything. The man I genuinely believed I was going to marry had cheated and dropped me (again), I had to leave the place that had been home to me for years, all my belongings had to be put in storage or thrown away, had horrific realizations in my therapy sessions and every idea I had of what my future was going to be was ripped from me. That just seemed like all the wrong things to build a new relationship on.

I'm able to look back on our time fondly. Until I remember the things that happened when we got to the end of the line. You had been so patient. Until you weren't. I had begun to pull back, and I knew you could feel it. I felt like you tried to grasp onto me and hold me still. You started getting frustrated with me. Constantly commenting on how many months it had been and telling everyone I was your girlfriend before I was ready. Passion turned into desperation, and I could no longer tolerate any intimacy. It didn't feel soft and caring anymore. Your kisses felt so urgent and rough. Feeling that kind of impetuous affection from another man made me realize I had never enjoyed it. The last night we were together, the air felt so heavy. You felt so heavy. You forced me to kiss you and tried with all your strength to get between my legs. Eventually, you understood I was not relenting and stopped trying. I was frightened and made excuses to leave. I could sense you were holding yourself back from trying to make me stay.

I wanted off the train so badly that I jumped off before the next stop. You couldn't hold your composure and showed me that you were just another bitter man who felt entitled to me. I didn't hesitate to block you on everything you could reach me on, and I thanked God that I never allowed you to meet my family or come to my house. I never thanked you for showing me a different kind of care, for making me realize that my expectations for love are not too high if a man like you could do it. There are a lot of things I didn't get to say to you before I left. My only regret is that I didn’t say goodbye sooner.

[awfulfirstdrafts]

what was I made for

Everyone in my family just wants to settle down and have their person or start a family. My older brother has believed every single girl he's ever been with was "the one" since he was eleven years old. As a kid I never imagined my future self married with children. I pictured this grand life in a big city. Any variation was just a location change. After a certain point I started to believe that he didn't care too much about who it was, he just wanted to settle down. My sisters had their own, much more dramatic, journeys trying to find their people. Almost all of my siblings have paired up and when they are single it isn't for long. I'm going on two years of not being in a serious relationship. My older brother is getting concerned that I'm wasting my youth by not hunting for a husband. Others in my family dance around the subject. Not him, he isn't afraid to ask me questions about my future and why I'm not with anyone. My response is usually to hide behind getting my degree and not finding any good men. Not that I haven't met new people, I did date. It was fun talking to different men, I loved it. Until the inevitable "what are we?" talk. Until they started pushing to be more involved in my life by meeting my friends and family. Something in me just couldn't let them get past that line. Not just because I have never seen a good man in my life, or known any woman that wasn't horribly wronged by her partner or husband. No, the biggest reason is one that I have kept to myself. Even as a child I knew to hold this close to my heart and reveal it to no one. My family would think it's stupid or tell me I'm unrealistic. That may be true, but still I protect it.

I have always felt that I was meant to do something greater than be a wife or a mother. I never want to be defined by who I am to another person. "so and so's wife" "little so and so's mom". I want to be more. I have more to offer the world than that. I could never shake the feeling that I'm going to have an extraordinary life. I'm sure I'll hear that I could maybe do both. Except, I don't want to. I don't want to wake up one day and beg my husband to watch the kids so I can focus on something for myself. I don't want to be disappointed when he inevitably gets comfortable and stops trying. I don't want to get an email from his coworker detailing their affair after I've already had two of his children. I don't want to decide what abuse I'm willing to take to be with someone. I want to come home after a long day on set, or in the writers room, or at the publishers or at the law firm and see the home I've decorated in the exact style of my choice. I want to take my shoes off at the door and see only my shoes on the rack. I want to have get togethers of just my friends and have the option for them to spend the night after. I want to lay in my bed and take up all the space I want while I watch 3 seasons of a show uninterrupted. I don't want to make my own little family. I have a family. I don't want to put my future career on hold to have a child, I've already raised plenty. I don't need a partner for every event, they won't want to match the energy of my outfit anyway. I can't answer my brother's questions this way. I can't say that I don't want to trade this life I want just for someone to curl up with at night. My dad tells me that I only feel like this because I haven't met the right one. I didn't have the heart to tell him that if I was given the option of true love or living out my dreams, I wouldn't hesitate to put true love in the rear view mirror. There's something out there waiting for me to find it, and it isn't a man or child.

The women in my family know. I've heard their advice my whole life. What the warning signs are, how important school is, when to run or how to survive. I don't want to have to use any of it. I want to be the first woman in my family to be truly happy. I don't want to say "I wonder what I could've been if I hadn't been with him" "If I had stayed in school" "If I hadn't gotten pregnant" "If he hadn't done that" "I could've been something". I'm going to be the first to never utter those words. I will never wonder what I could have been, because I'm going to find out for myself.

[awfulfirstdrafts]

Scabs

Growing up I was always good at letting my scabs heal. Mostly because I hated the way they felt when I touched them, especially on my elbows and knees. All these years later and I think I've retained my ability to not pick at my scabs. I understand some things take a long time to heal, years even. The biggest wound I ever had was one to the heart, and while there have been a few attempts to scrape the scab off and call it healed, I still can't bring myself to do it. There's been many men that have offered to do the picking for me, but I can't seem to let them close enough. The toughest part of the healing process is over, the initial bleeding has been long done. Now the pangs I feel are not for my former wound or the life I had before it, but for myself. It's been years since I cried for either one. The life I am building now is what makes me weep. Out of the pressure, mourning and exhaustion. Except now my cries and pain are not poetic. There was something beautiful and artistic about feeling pain for someone else. So much to write and ponder. Sometimes I fear the pain of being remolded for myself isn't as glamorous. The left over discomfort that scabs bring are unsightly and boring, how could I write something poetic about that? All you can do is leave it be and wait. Wait for it to fall off on the bus ride to school, to get snagged on your bedsheets while you toss and turn at night, or become soft in the shower and slide off with the water. I'm still waiting, hoping to see my skin underneath after so long. I'm sure it'll be pink, the way new skin always is. There's some things out there that are more poetic than pain, and I will write about them.

[awfulfirstdrafts]

The Promised Land

When I was a fresh teenage adult, my brother and I watched this Bruce Springsteen movie. It said everything I ever felt about my father, my life and my dreams. I had already been a fan of the music, but something about seeing them tell a story about people that have similar cultural problems made all the lyrics click. My dad used to hold me down, because he was scared I would float away from everyone. I was always hard to contain, but one day I didn’t get back up. I stayed on the floor for a long time, longer than he probably thought was possible. Someone met me there on the ground, and for a while I felt like maybe I could find happiness with my face down in the dirt. You know how some people are just someone else you know but with a different name? It was just another version of my dad, but I must say that they were more creative. No one had ever broken my spirit like my time I spent being knocked down.

Sometimes, someone can hurt you so bad that you actually start to care about your life again. I kept telling myself that maybe in different circumstances things could be different. Maybe if I were different or did different things he would see how badly I wanted to make a little life with him in this hole in the ground. None of that mattered, because he always knew. It was hard to admit that even in another life, we still wouldn’t be happy together. There is no version of us out there taking our kids to their piano lessons or celebrating our 10th wedding anniversary. What I am sure of, is the versions of me that never got knocked down. There are so many of me that never tried living in a hole. I was in so much pain that I started believing in the impossible again.

I started floating away. I stopped holding onto all the things I thought I could be happy with in this one spot. If I could be hurt so bad in a place that wasn’t what I truly wanted, what would it hurt to try and reach for the dream? I can start my life again and again until I find it. I can be all those versions of me that never lived in the hole. I can also be the version of me that finally climbed out.

[awfulfirstdrafts]

Falling Up

I don’t know how to write when good things happen. Words only flow out of me when I am in anguish or in love, but those are usually the same thing. My hands can’t craft a poem or a paragraph if I am happy. Maybe I never learned how to describe anything good, because I never usually had the time to process any happiness I’ve felt. I am constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. Always in a state of bracing myself for the next awful thing. Except this time, there are no shoes in the air. When I’m not wasting my time and hope by standing on a rug, wonderful things can happen. I have fallen down so many times that I almost forgot what it feels like to fall up. Up, up, up. I’m sloughing off my skin and letting it rain down on the life I never wanted. The life that sucked all the air out of the room until it left me gasping. Having to live constantly holding my breath. Still, in small ways I am tethered to the way I used to live. Some things never change, some things I can’t let go of. It’s like holding a small child, even though they’re kicking at you, you keep holding onto them because letting go might be worse than the pain it’s causing you. There are still moments that make my lungs collapse and my stomach sinks. Still times that my eyes well up and my fingers and toes go numb.

Then I remember that now those are just specks of time. I remember that it used to be every minute of everyday. I never knew peace. I never knew what it felt like to be safe. I get to go home and know that when I close the door I’m not walking into a storm waiting for me. I hit rock bottom so many times that I forgot there was anywhere else to go. Now I find myself climbing upward with a vague destination. I stumble and I fall but every time I land I’m higher than I was before. Maybe I’m reaching for the impossible. Maybe I’m okay with that. If I could be hurt so badly by the life that I tried since I was a little girl to avoid, what could it hurt to try and have the life I always dreamed of? There are so many dreams I have, some are simple and beautiful. If I’m going to reach up as I climb out of the depths, I’m going to reach for the biggest one. Even if I don’t grasp it, trying and failing will never hurt as much as the life I had face down in the dirt.

[awfulfirstdrafts]

I did it for love

I sat in front of my therapist telling her stories about us. Every “us” I’ve had. She nearly weeps every time. I know she would if she could. It’s almost embarrassing to hear so often how strong I am, how fiery and resilient I’ve always been. I don’t want to be those things. Those things are who I am because that is who I had to be to survive. To survive every person that I have loved and was suppose to love me. Today I found out that nothing is ever for “nothing”, everyone has a motive. Mine has always been for love. The motive for everyone else will be something that I will never understand. All the love and longing has become anger. I embrace it completely. I denied myself this simple, natural emotion for the sake of love. Anger would have protected me. Rage would have saved me the heartache. I never wanted to be strong. I never wanted to be fiery and resilient. Now I accept these things about myself, I will use the qualities that I gained from every “us” that ever was and turn it back on them all. The admiration I received for my strength will become fear in their hearts. And they are right to be afraid. All of them should be terrified, because only my will matters now. Nothing is stopping me from revealing their shadows they hide. There is nothing left for me to keep safe, nothing for me to hide so that I might be loved. I am loved. I have always been loved. Nothing and no one can keep me quiet anymore. I’ll scream the truth from the rooftops, the reality of what was done to me. I won’t be ashamed when people ask why I stayed. When they ask why I didn’t tell anyone. I won’t cry or become flustered at their questions. My answer is naive, but naive is not the evil here. I did it for love. And no one will ever know why they did the things they did, but I don’t care to know anymore.

[awfulfirstdrafts]

uncaged

Once I was a bird. I was catered to, and given affection. But being inside a cage can madden you. I flapped my wings trying to get someone’s attention, trying to get out. I started flying into the bars of the cage and slamming my head on whatever I could. For years I fought inside my cage, desperate for freedom. I had been worn down. I was exhausted from fighting so long. I was mangled and missing feathers all over. My beak was misshapen, my eyes red from the constant tears. I thought I could stop fighting and live my life in my cage. Maybe a new owner would be enough to stop the fighting, I thought. They liked to poke me with a long needle. To over feed and pet roughly. It brought them joy seeing me get flustered and flutter around my cage. They gave me a wheel to run on that maybe the cycle would keep me busy. But I wasn’t a rodent. I was a bird. I couldn’t stop the fighting again. There was nothing to do in the cage but damage. Them, things and myself. My head feathers were scalped and my wings were clipped. They mocked me and handled me much too rough. I went wild in the confines, pecking and biting their hands that hurt me. Then I waited. I waited so long that I forgot what I was waiting for. Until the cage door was left open, I looked back for a moment at the place I had always been. I felt nothing for it. My feathers grew in all the time I waited and I was finally strong enough to fly away. I’m still in the air, unsure where I’m going. But up here there are no more cages.

[awfulfirstdrafts]

The Grass is Greener

Have you ever looked out of a window and fantasized about what was on the other side? Watching people live their lives and wishing you were one of them? I didn’t have a window. I looked over a fence for years of my life. I thought I had finally gotten over the fence but it turned out I was looking over it still just from a different angle. I’m on the other side now. After 21 years of watching other people live it is finally my turn. When I was trapped by other people I convinced myself that the grass is greener where you water it. I listened to the old saying about the grass not being greener on the other side. So that I could be okay with the life or lack of I was living. Turns out sometimes you’re just watering dead grass. Life looks different on the ground, it’s nothing like that sad girl in those towers ever could’ve imagined. Abuse and Isolation killed so much of my growth. I could never be the person I wanted, to live of the world and in the world. How could I when I was too busy being a victim? I don’t use that word ever, but it’s the truth. I was victimized at every turn by all the dead grass I had poured everything into. I get to live again on the other side, I get to have my second chance at life. I will never be able to express to others how grateful I am to be on this side of the fence. They will never understand fully, because there are things that happened to me in both towers that will go with me to my grave.

I mourn for the girl I was a few weeks ago. She didn’t deserve it. But now I can give her the life she always deserved. She was afraid to live, not afraid to die. She was afraid to speak to people, not afraid to be hurt by them. But people are kind here. So kind I’m not afraid anymore. I order my own food, I go places alone, I ask strangers questions, I make an effort to connect with the people around me. I’m not a fledgling anymore. I’m becoming a whole person. The grass was greener. I had to be forced to stop watering a dead bottomless pit of “grass” to see it but I’m here. Finally, I am here. I came to realize the grass will always be dead no matter who waters it. I also realized there was living and loving pastures waiting for me, I just couldn’t see it over the fence.

[awfulfirstdrafts]

Excuses all the way down

I am so good at giving excuses. Though nobody will say it, everyone knows it’s what I’m best at. Hand to god it makes things so much easier to take. I can swallow razor blades if I could make an excuse that the razors had a bad childhood or were just upset that day. Letting everything flow past me is so much easier than recognizing the fact I’m getting hit in the face by waves over and over again. There lies the biggest target on me. The big sign taped to my back that says “YOU CAN DO WHATEVER YOU WANT TO ME AND I WILL NEVER HOLD YOU RESPONSIBLE OR LIKE YOU LESS FOR IT”. I actually took that sign down the other day. It felt strange holding it in my hand, knowing the truth about myself now. The truth was that I made things too easy for everyone. Nobody had to think about what they were going to say or how they might apologize because I already had an excuse for them wrapped up and ready to go.

I stopped doing that for a moment. Just one moment in the whole day. You had done so much worse to me than this one little thing. In all honesty it wasn’t exactly this one thing, it was why you had done it. It was a matter of what or rather who had you so distracted that once again you let me down. This time I had no excuse for you. There was nothing I was telling myself to let it flow past me. I got angry and disappointed, but this time I didn’t let myself cry. You uttered your “sorrys” and for the first time I didn’t tell you it was okay. Because it wasn’t okay. I watched you squirm a little in your seat and say sorry again, then saying you’ll be early this time. Trying to make it up. Afterwards, with no excuse to give for you, I realized I could barely look at your face. The face I stared at everyday with love was now something I could barely glance at without feeling uneasy. I kept my eyes off you for a few hours, looking anywhere else. By the dead of night I wasn’t angry anymore, I could stomach looking at you again. But the feeling of knowing you did that and much more to me for no other reason except you wanted to is still with me. There is no excuse for that. You did all those things on purpose, you hurt me on purpose, you pushed me over the edge I was already on into having a traumatic stress disorder. All of it was calculated, manipulative, heartless and more than anything intentional. God will have to be the one to excuse you for all of it because it will never be me anymore.

I was told things may fall apart, that I might fall apart before things get better. That addressing and changing all the traumatic things in my life could make things feel worse before they can heal. Well she was right. Everything is falling apart, my whole world is crumbling around me and I’m just laying in the rubble. I have closed myself off from the people that want to help me most, something in me just can’t let them see me like this. There is no one to make any excuses for me. I refuse to make anymore for myself. Still I think I might prefer this version of living than the one I was trying to survive in. It’s funny, to even have an ounce of pride left in me after spending the last 7 years of my life being debased and degraded by someone. How can I feel shame over being seen broken when I have so much more to be embarrassed about? Maybe it’s the small spec of what’s left of myself, the last piece of me they couldn’t break. Now more than ever, I wish I could give myself an excuse to make this easier. But I can’t.

[awfulfirstdrafts]

What can be said of all the years I refused to learn my lesson? I wish I could say I would do it all over again. I wish I could tell myself that I wouldn’t change a single thing. But I can’t. The memories and experiences were some of the most beautiful ones I’ve ever had, I would have never known the depths my love could go. I laughed and smiled louder and wider than I ever have. I truly mean this, but if I had a chance to do it all over again I wouldn’t. The things I gained and learned about myself will never outweigh the things I lost. It will never makeup for the devastation and destruction. As amazing as the last almost 4 years have been, actually 7 years, I have never felt more excruciating pain in all of my life. I have seen my mother beaten and begged my father to not kill her. I was a child trying to fight off my brother 6 years older than me. I raised my baby brother while I was a little girl who had no one to raise her either. This and more destroyed my brain and heart but it still was nothing compared to the things I had done to me in the last few years of my life. Nothing else had ever made me feel like I was literally shattered into a million pieces. My mind was like a broken mirror trying to piece reality back together. I can’t say that I prefer the person I have become from this abuse. I can’t even say that I like her at all. My dad tried to break me my entire life, and the man that said he would save me did it in less than half of that time. I was promised a better life, to be saved and loved unconditionally. I held on to all of those false promises hoping it was true. I didn’t want to come to terms with the fact that I had traded one abusive household, one abusive man for another. I never trusted my father, not in the way a little girl should at least. He was reliable for some things and others not at all. I was desperate to trust a man. Desperate to see that they are not all the same. Sometimes I think maybe that’s why this time it broke me. I trusted him. I actually put my faith and trust in his hands, all the things I never let anyone near. And he closed his fists on it and squeezed until it was dust while he laughed in my face. I was put through a different type of ringer. Pushed to my absolute limit until I truly began to believe that I was insane. Until I began to have thoughts of violence and acted on them. I snapped. I was brought to the edge of being my father, because the only way I could protect myself was to become someone that could be cruel. It was being pushed into the deep rage I had pent up inside myself that I realized I needed help. There was something terribly wrong with me. There had to be. Something must have been wrong with me for me to be so unloveable, to be this crazy, to be this unwanted. It took a long time to build up the courage to see someone. I was so afraid to hear all the worst things about myself. To hear that everyone that was supposed to love and protect me had good reasons for not doing those things. It took even longer to find someone I could afford. To my surprise I didn’t hear those things. What I heard felt just as bad. That I was a victim. That I was preyed upon by many. That the man I loved for so long was just a stand in for my father. That just because he didn’t put his hands on me doesn’t mean I wasn’t being abused. That the abuse was too much for my mind to handle so I pretended it wasn’t happening. That I never had anxiety, I had PTSD. That my psyche became so fragile I began to have meltdowns. I wouldn’t do this again. I wouldn’t wish this upon my worst enemy. I have to reconstruct myself from the ground up and glue the fragments back together. I will have to spend years in therapy to rewire my brain and learn to trust again.

At this point I feel I know what love is. I thought I did back then too, but I’m beginning to think I was wrong. Love is less complicated than I first believed it to be. Love blinds you. makes you do crazy things. Especially when you are ripe for the picking from an already abusive family tree. I’ve learned my lesson now. God knows I’ve learned my lesson. I know what love isn’t now. Love is not standing by someone no matter what they do to you. Love is not betraying the one person that believes the best in you. Love is not staying with someone while they stab you in the back every chance they get. Love is not being a great partner when you’re with them and then doing “side activities” when you get a moment away from them. There is no room for sneaky messages and phone calls in love. It’s not destroying someone’s self worth. Love is not having to be afraid your partner is going to give your things away to their side piece. It’s definitely not driving your partner to the brink of insanity. Love is not hoping they remember they’re in a relationship every time they leave the house. It’s not having to predict who you’ll have to watch out for next. My only regret though, is that it took me this long to learn. This isn’t a sob story. Though I could probably write a very long one. No, this is a warning. A cautionary tale. Learn your lessons the first time around, and be wary of the good men that promise you safety.

[awfulfirstdrafts]

as long as it’s in a bottle

Therapy was never enough. She never saw enough doctors, psychologists, therapists or specialists. There were never enough lawyers, police, or investigators. She always wanted some kind of help. Or she always wanted to be heard asking for help. It wasn’t enough to revile in the drama, not enough to be the victim once again. Make no mistake she WAS a victim. A victim of her mother, her brother, her cousins, her boyfriend turned husband and father of her children. No one except her will ever know at what point she began to enjoy the pity and chaos. At what point she started choosing to be a victim over and over again. Only she can pinpoint the exact moment she started seeking help from anything in a bottle. Only she knows why being victimized once more is a gift certificate to a new bottle. Her children always awed at her like she was a goddess. In truth they all thought she was the epitome of everything good and kind in the world. She wasn’t always this way after all. Maybe she really was who they thought, but the thought that maybe she never was always gnawed at them after they started finding all her empty “help” around the house. Some of them are in denial, some of them try not to think about it, some of them cry at different times of the day about it. The ones that cry wonder if they’ll ever see the mother they knew again, or if this woman full of spite and pills is all they’ll have from now on.

She used to find her mental health at the bottom of a patron bottle. That was her preferred but really anything alcoholic would do. It didn’t happen like most people for her, becoming an alcoholic. She didn’t slowly slip into it out of ignorance. It was a decision she made one day. It wasn’t that drinking really did take the pain away, or that it was fun. She was too clever to enjoy something so basic, it was the guilt on her husband’s face that really got her off. It was the drama of making a spectacle of herself and their problems every night. Not that she’d ever say that to him, because she didn’t need to. He just knew. So did most of their older children. Nothing, and I mean nothing got her adrenaline pumping like making people feel guilty and sad for her. Anyway, drowning herself in it could only make people scratch her itch for so long. By then she couldn’t stop. Everyone was growing irritated and angry with her, and she didn’t know why. After everything she had been through how could no one understand her actions? Especially her children? The kids she had molded for so long to supply her with companionship and empathy. She raised them so sensitively, with such strong morals of right and wrong. How could they ever be angry with her? It wasn’t long before it got out of control. Her kids were pouring out her bottles of help and begging her to stop. She didn’t listen, she just got better at hiding the help around the house. She was picking up her kids from school the way she usually did, except they could smell her breath from the back seat. They watched the road intently the rest of the way home. This happened on more than one occasion, but she would say years later this never happened. The ending to her phase with this bottle was dramatic as it always needs to be. Everyone felt safe again for a while.

There was a peace in the house for some years, no bottles to stumble upon randomly. That was until she was made a victim by her husband once again. This time was different. It was something unforgivable, and this time, all her children were on her side. With every time she was wronged she fragmented a little more each time. This one split her right down the middle. She could’ve left, in fact she SHOULD have left. This was it. Her chance to leave the marriage she had always talked about wanting to run away from. No one would have blamed her, actually all of her kids told her to divorce him. They all knew she wouldn’t. They hoped, just like they had all the other times. But they were right, she stayed. She told herself that it was for the family that she decided not to leave, but really she just couldn’t imagine actually having a different life. Also she didn’t want anyone else to have him, she didn’t want the other woman to win. She wanted them both to hurt even half as bad as they hurt her. Her mother instilled a terrible mentality in her from the time she was 9. Her mother called him something to win, like he was a prize. When he had another girlfriend her mom sent her to his house to win him back. Whether she realizes or not she had been trying to win him for over 30 years now. She needed help again. This time she went to the church for couples counseling. She knew any licensed therapist or counselor would’ve suggested separation, she would not have that. She started telling her story to anyone who would listen, and when she did to her doctor he decided to prescribe her help in a bottle. Never mind her history of substance abuse or her erratic behavior. He was sure magic pills would put her at ease. I mean, how could he have known that he signed his name on a prescription that was going to destroy a whole family? He sealed their fate. She felt valid trading in the patron bottle for one that rattled and had her name on it. She liked how they made her feel and wasn’t that the point? Never mind she became angrier, forgetful, spiteful and picked up a habit of lying. Obviously, it only got worse. The bottle got bigger and the dosage got higher. Everyone watched her unravel and fall into a pile of the worst parts of herself. They all tiptoed around her, careful not to step on her fearful she might retaliate. A lot of them were sure this was all that would ever be left of her. She stopped living for herself and her children. Her life was now only for the drama, her obsession to cause pain, and impulse spending. No one knows if she was aware of the cracks she was causing in her family, in her children. Her kids weren’t at the bottom of a bottle, so she won’t notice until it’s too late. It was often something some of them wondered about. That if they were bottled too, maybe she’d care again.

[awfulfirstdrafts]

thinner

It’s hard to see your body change. I never feared growing old, but I never prepared myself growing bigger. I look back on the way I used to look and I never noticed how much my habits had changed. I have cried my eyes out looking in the mirror and seeing a stranger staring back at me. I wanted to recover, I’ve been in recovery for years and every year I change even more. Being in school all day I spent 7am-4pm running on water and a tangerine until dinner time. I ate 1 meal a day and a snack. If I ate lunch I would shove my finger down my throat to “uneat” it. I was active when I was in sports and even when I wasn’t I was always moving my body. My routine is very different now. I eat breakfast some days, lunch and dinner everyday. I eat snacks too. Being around someone and having to share meals with them for the last 3 years pushed me through recovery at light speed. I have been steadily gaining weight, I went from a size 0 to a size 1. A size 1 to a size 3. a size 3 to a size 5. a size 5 to a size 7. I cry in dressing rooms sometimes. I cry before I shower. Some days I’m in disbelief that this is something I wanted. Some days I go back and forth between toeing the line of relapse and binging. All the same thoughts plague me. I look at food and see calorie numbers, I look at sweets and see demise. What’s worse is, if I could do it now I would. I would do it in a heartbeat. But I can’t, because some one is watching me. Someone covers the calories on the nutrition labels. Someone refuses to let me starve or purge. I tell myself that maybe I can find a way around it, that I could become sneaky. I realized that I couldn’t because I never had to before. No one was paying attention if I ate or not or if I spent too much time in the bathroom. The only meal I had a day was dinner with my family, for all they knew I was naturally a skeleton. I’m still trying to find ways in my head to do it. Even now I still plan every day to attempt to relapse, as if it’s some pipe dream that’s impossible. I want the fat to melt off my body, I feel clunky and wide. I feel like I’m pushed up against a glass wall because there’s not enough room in my skin. I feel like I’m wearing a winter coat that I can’t take off. I hated my body before, even when I was the smallest I thought I wasn’t small enough. I am happy to eat whatever I want, I’m happy to feel full and to taste food. I am not happy in this body, I- hate it. I hate it more than before, and some part of me knows I will never be truly happy with myself but something else tells me that if I do this again then maybe I will be. Maybe if I shrink I’ll be happy with my body. I have to try.