callalilyponder

[callalilyponder]

An Open Letter to the baby I had aborted:

Dear Baby,

My whole life people had been telling me not to get pregnant. Not until I was ready. I was always a little confused on what that benchmark in life looked like, “ready to have a baby” by societal standards. Well, to my family it meant I had a college degree, a start on a successful career, a husband, and a home. But at just a month shy of turning twenty three years old I had none of those things that would deem me “ready” and still, there you popped up; at first as a thought when a boy named Kevin said “ Morgan, your boobs look WAY bigger...are you pregnant?”. Then as a positive pregnancy test in the Planned Parenthood on Cherry street. Then as a steady flowing of tears in my second story bedroom on Fulton as I sobbed.

The panic built up in my body like air in a balloon but wouldn’t pop so there was no relief from the pressure. I did what I always do when life gets to be too big, I put myself, and you little soul, in the shower and I sat down and i hugged my knees. I knew you must be so small so early on, but I also believed you could hear me. I told you it wasn’t your fault no matter what. I told you a baby is a gift and always good. I told you I was sorry because I was not ready for you. I told you whatever happened I loved you. Which, now I struggle with out of guilt and shame. 

I called the clinic with the big numbers on the front of the building and the fearful protesters that stand on the sidewalk in the rain with their diagrams and pamphlets and children trying to change the world. I could have picked a place farther away, less public. But I made sure that my abortion would be scheduled and carried out at 320 East Fulton Street, Heritage Clinic for Woman so that every day on my way to and from work I would drive by the building where I paid $675 to have your heartbeat stopped. I wanted to punish myself, I wanted it to hurt as much as possible, I wanted to make sure it was not easy. I would have said no to the medication if they would have let me, so I could remember every second of losing you from me. 

I really believe you would have been a girl. It was much too early to tell at only seven weeks. If I would have kept you, sweet little soul of the universe, I would have named you Wisteria., And I would have called you “tear” for short. Because one day when i was a little girl I asked my dad why people cry. And as left brained as my father can get, he didn’t spit out some scientific reasoning for teardrops. He simply said, “when peoples emotions get to be too much they can’t harbor them inside their bodies anymore, they build up as tears and we cry them out”... and so I would call  you “tear” and explain that you were the biggest, loudest emotion my body could make and that’s how you came in to the world. 

Your crib would have been decorated with paper wisteria flowers that hung above you in bright colors. I wouldn’t have much to give you if you had been born, but I would have given everything I had. I would have read you “The Giving Tree” a hundred times during my pregnancy and a hundred times after you were born, because I would have wanted you to know the importance of empathy. I would have read you my Calla Lily Ponder book and told you to always be kind, period. You would have called my mom, “M’dear” and my step father “Papa”. When the doctor put you on my chest I would have made sure to smell the inside of your mouth, because i’ve heard a new born baby’s mouth smells like pure life, because they’ve not eaten that way yet. 

Little sweet one, I was not ready to have you, I was so afraid and so ashamed. I felt alone and I felt judged by every person I told. The world isn’t always a very nice or empathetic place to be a part of. I was so sick the few weeks we spent together. I threw up every single day several times a day and couldn’t keep a thing down. looking back I believe that had a lot to do with the fear and the shame. I remember a few times, my face laying by the toilet, my arms wrapped around my belly, crying and begging you to leave me alone. I felt like you were making me sick to punish me or to make me see how badly you wanted me to keep you. 

My whole life people have been telling me to not get pregnant, not until I am ready. Well, I got pregnant before I was ready and the consequences that followed were decisions I made out of what felt at the time like the only answer. It really did feel like I had no other choice. I often go through the “what if”s in my head with you and I. What if I had told my mom first. What if I had found a counselor. What If I had given you up for adoption, What if I had kept you for myself and become a not ready mother. What if’s will haunt you, if you let them. 

Now i am twenty three years old, not pregnant, not ready, still. But I like to imagine what it would be like to hold you and kiss your face so often you couldn’t ever fathom the thought of being unloved. 

Since aborting you, I have only began to think about what it would look like to forgive myself. But it’s a start. My mom tells me that your soul just circled back up to the universe and is waiting to be called down again. I choose to believe that because anything else would drive me mad. I just wanted to write to let you know you are an ever draping thought in my heart space, just like a real wisteria tree’s flowers hang all around, you are still a part of my life journey and I will always make sure to remind myself that just because I wasn’t ready, doesn’t mean you didn’t happen to me. 

As much love as there is air,

Your almost mother

[callalilyponder]

The Cobblestone Floor

One night when I was about ten years old my father was watching my brother and I while my mom was out. We were all sitting around the big butcher block kitchen table having dinner, I remember we were laughing a lot. The word “shut up” was equal to a swear word in our house hold and had the same sinful satisfaction rolling of a preteens tongue as any other “bad” word. Whenever my mother was gone our father would bend the rules or shove them in a drawer somewhere so that we could misbehave without being sent to our rooms. That night while our mom was out and we were having dinner at the big butcher block table my father started a shouting of “shut up”, a challenge to see who could yell it loudest, cause most distress to our golden retriever, who was more convincing. 

The shouting went on and on until it died down and the “shut ups” were replaced with slight giggles and forks scraping nearly clean plates. I wanted so badly to win that unspoken contest of being loudest and most convincing. I got up from my assigned seat and walked over to my father, “I have a secret daddy” I said in a soft voice, with a straight face but dancing eyes. I cupped my hands over my mouth and brought them to my fathers ear and with everything in me that forever wanted to impress my father I screamed “SHUT UPPPPPPP”. 

No more than a second went by before my ten year old body was on the cold kitchen floor and the toe of my fathers leather cowboy boots was digging in to my side as he kicked and spit from his mouth fell in to my hair. I wish I had the right details to paint of this moment, but really all I can see is me at the age of ten crumpled on our cobblestone kitchen floor in the fettle position holding the top of my head, sobbing the type of cry where your mother is telling you to catch your breath, to breathe, to calm down, to “shhh”. But that night my mother was not there and so I cried and hyperventilated and I wet myself straight through my blue jeans on to that cobblestone kitchen floor. 

My brother, who is two years older than me, watched this all happen and though I don’t remember all the little details I desperately wish I could, I know he stayed after my father stormed upstairs and knelt down by my little ten year old body, covered in my own snot and piss and tears, and he told me I would be okay. I think he helped me stand up. I don’t remember, but if you knew the type of man my brother is today you would put good money down and believe that he helped me get up off that cold cobblestone kitchen floor and after I shamefully took myself upstairs to shower he placed paper towels down to clean up the mess. 

Last year I was sitting in a therapy session when I brought this memory up for the first time since the night it happened, twelve years ago. Although I couldn’t remember every detail of how it felt to be physically knocked down and kicked, or how the air smelled after I wet myself in front of my father and my brother, I could feel the weight and the muddiness of the shame that followed me up off that cobblestone kitchen floor, up the stairs and in to the shower. And although I had stayed in the hot water that night for a very long time and used plenty of soap, that shame never washed off. 

After I told my therapist I stared down at my shoes in her office while trails of tears fell on to my lap, I didn’t wipe them away because my fingers were too busy anxiously tearing apart the Kleenex. I couldn’t look at my therapist, I couldn’t ask her why I felt so disgusted with myself for something a ten year old had done in jest twelve years ago. It was the first time I had ever told that story to someone out loud, the first time I had owned first hand abuse, and I wasn’t willing to grant myself any grace. I stopped going to therapy after that session. 

Since I have revisited that cobblestone kitchen floor in the form of several conversations with my mother, one with my brother, and a poem I wrote this past semester at Grand Valley before I made the decision to postpone my education. My brother claims he doesn’t remember the night at all; for a few weeks I wondered if I was just bat shit crazy and maybe it never happened in the first place. Maybe I was what my father told my mother that night when she asked what happened, “over dramatic, attention seeking, making it up, lying, exaggerating.” 

This past summer my father and I were sitting on the deck of his home in Petoskey. We were looking up at the stars, talking about life, talking about why I had stayed away for so long. I told him some of the real reasons, how I had become addicted to the way my mouth feels when it’s numb and high dosages of serotonin. And in that moment of raw honesty I managed to work up that four seconds of courage and I asked him about the night of the cobblestone kitchen floor. And like my brother he said he did not remember it. 

The next morning, my father was in a very strange and quiet mood. His eyebrows were furrowed and his eyes seemed sad. I asked him if everything was alright and he told me a list of issues he was having with his live in girlfriends. Then he brought up the cobblestone floor. He told me he had always tried to be a good dad and to do the right thing, and he was so sorry if he had ever put me in any pain or hurt me. I wrapped my arms around my father and I told him I loved him, I told him it was all okay now, I told him he was a great father. 

The fact is, when I was ten years old I screamed in my fathers ear. He grabbed my forearm, or my shoulder, or my neck and he knocked me to the ground and he kicked me. I wet myself on our kitchen floor and I cried something fierce. My brother was there and he saw it happen. My mother came home and my father told her I fell and that I was a drama queen. I sat in the shower in my clothes long before I felt relaxed enough to wash my body without them on. This memory came to me in a therapist’s office over a decade later and influenced my emotions so intensely I quit therapy. Those are the facts. 

Another fact, the most important fact, is that I chose to revisit that cobblestone floor enough times so that I could look at my big brother and know there are reasons he can’t remember that night; that he loved me through it anyway. I revisited enough times so that my broken twenty two year old self could look that shaking little ten year old girl in the bathroom mirror and say to her, “I believe you.” I revisited enough times so that I could stand in front of my 58 year old father who has rows of cowboy boots in his closet, one pair with the leather rubbed off the toe and say the words, “I forgive you.” 

[callalilyponder]

To the best friend I abandoned for really no good reason at all. I heard you.

You wrote me a letter and sent it in the mail. A hand written few pages with your honest to god feelings of how I abandoned our friendship in the name of drugs, neglect, and the false attempt to heal without you in my life. 

I will admit that I did not open that letter until several days had passed after collecting it from the mail box and setting it on my roommates coffee table. I would turn on the tv and watch some mindless show while your final battle cry sat in front of me under stacks of dirty paper towels and coupons for pizza hut. I knew whatever was inside that envelope was going to attack my heart and I don’t do so well with owning up to my actions, nor do I do very well with having a mirror held up; especially by people that I care for. And  despite what you may believe due to my past history with you, I do love you very much. 

Finally, I picked up your letter and I took it up the stairs and sat down on my bed and I read each word once quickly to get it over with. And then I read it a second time and felt defensive and angry. And then a third, to make sure I had not missed anything and that I heard what you needed me to. Then finally, a fourth to allow myself to cry. 

I am prone to shame in the same deeply rooted way that a serial killer is prone to murder. It just happens, sometimes I can suppress it, sometimes I can’t. I say this, my sweet friend, because I know there is a great deal of confusion of why I have chosen to ignore you over the past several months. I would say it has a lot to do with my shame, my fear, and my laziness. 

You took me out for this lovely birthday dinner where we discussed my addictions and my triumph at overcoming some of my temptations. We talked about our friendship. And you told me about your parents and what they thought of me. And that was very hard for me. Because I love your parents. And hearing that I had transformed myself in to this girl who was not a good influence and quite frankly a threat to their daughters safety and well being broke my heart. And it triggered my shame in a way that flipped a switch and had me thinking perhaps you were better off without me or my problems in your life at all. Perhaps I was better off without you, too. Perhaps I would be better off alone completely. To self destruct and not have shrapnel cutting people around me that I love, because they did not deserve to be hurt by me for such mediocre reasoning, 

Chaos. Yes, I attract it, I often submerge myself in it. Pain to me is a normalcy. It is comfortable. Being away from it is to be out of my comfort zone. To be out of my comfort zone is an ongoing project. There is a quote that says, “sobriety is never owned, it is rented; and rent is due everyday.” When I say “sober” I do not necessarily mean from cocaine or alcohol. I mean from the overall chaos I pull in to my life. Some days I win and some days I lose. This is not a small feat. This is not a quick journey. There is no graduation date to this part of my life. I think that is important for you to understand. 

I also beleive it is important you know that I am sorry for my laziness to fuel and nourish our friendship. That I am sorry for my fear that sometimes keeps me from loving you, when I know that you ahve so many fears of your own that I could be helping to comfort and hush. I have not been a good friend to you. I have not been there when you most needed me the way you have for me. 

So what now? I don’t know. I don’t have the friendship’s for dummies book. I don’t have a list of check offs when it comes to salvaging a friendship. But I do have a deep want to make this better. To heal what I have broken. If you will let me. And I say, “let me”, because this is my turn, my move. 

I am proud of you. I am proud of you for finding a new living situation. I am proud of you for fighting your anxiety. I am proud of you for going to work everyday even when sometimes it feels like you might throw up or cry or a small crawlspace would suffice for an office. I am proud of you for every day getting out of bed and working at making yourself a better person. You inspire me. I love you. I am sorry. I am working. Real. 

[callalilyponder]

Sobriety takes the single game to a whole new level

My boyfriend left me five months ago and I thought I was going to die. But somehow December melted in to May and I didn't die. I did however find myself stuck in a vortex of using every tangible substance possible to avoid feeling, to numb my mind, my body, and my soul. Quickly I became a walking shell; hollowed out like those dead crawfish you found in the shallows as a kid on the beach. You'd pick it up by a leg and run to the grass to show your parents, wondering what was once inside, living and breathing. And I may be breathing and moving, but I don't believe that constitutes me as living. Death didn't scare me, in some ways it brought me peace. What paralyzed me with fear was life; feeling things, being honest, being aware of my emotional and physical surroundings. The idea of accepting love and support; from anyone, my parents, my brother, my friends, my therapist, from group. But slowly I began that process. I stopped drinking. I stopped the numbing process. And it is fucking with me big time. And everyday I want to go get fucked up so I don't have to feel this pain in my chest and that buzz in my head. I don't want to feel the human condition, because it hurts and it's uncomfortable. It's uncomfortable to look at a sunset and enjoy it, still and sober. We all have things that we use to take away pain. We all have ways to cope when life feels too heavy. I just use a lot of different things. And those are out of my life now. So I'm here in an empty room alone, with an endless supply of shame and discomfort and anger and frustration and confusion. But I have a lot of other tools: my faith, God, my books, empathy, humility, the honest desire to heal. So I'm fighting. But my circle is growing very small. Smaller than it's ever been. Because very few people enjoy sobriety. And they don't see me as a fun person, and now I don't have much to offer them. So they split. And that's okay. So my boyfriend left me five months ago, and I didn't die but I did spin out of control. I'm owning it. And sometimes I have to write it down in order to do that. I'm tired. I am so tired its unfathomable. Because I have to learn to live all over again.

[callalilyponder]

Manic. Depressive. Me.

Having a non traditional sleep schedule in college isn’t usually cause for alarm. Students joke all the time about pulling all nighters to finish papers and projects they’ve had all semester to work on. I never felt like it was abnormal for me to be staying awake until four in the morning, I didn’t think it was strange because I slept during the day. Soon, the naps I was taking to make up for the lost hours of sleep became less and less. Soon I just wasn’t sleeping much at all. I average about 27-30 hours of sleep Monday through sunday; I should be getting 57. But the loss of sleep doesn’t seem to affect me much. I seem fine functioning without. I don’t fall asleep in class. I don’t sleep through my alarms. I don’t miss work, I’m not late because of the lack of sleep. And I’m a student. And I’m a bartender. So it’s fine. It’s so completely and totally fine. I’m fine. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. I don’t eat breakfast. I usually don’t eat lunch. Sometime I have dinner. Sometimes I eat all day long; but I have to remind myself that ordering/ making food and actually eating it are very different things. Sometimes I go so long without eating that I’m losing my mind from hunger by the time I get something in front of me. And then after two or three bites I feel sick and frustrated. College students joke about not having time for the basics, like sleep and food. It doesn’t seem to affect me much. I seem fine functioning without food. I don’t faint in class. I don’t get sick from lack of nourishment. I haven’t lost a ton of weight, people don’t notice. And I’m a student. And I’m a bartender. So it’s fine. It’s so completely and totally fine. I’m fine. I feel everything so intensely. My mom says it’s my gift and my curse. I wake up and stare at the ceiling wondering what I’m doing with my life. My life. What am I doing. I stare at the time on my phone. I stared at the wall, at the door. I ignore all of the texts and calls coming through my phone. Mom, decline. Dad, decline. Friends, decline. Obligations, decline. I lay in bed and stare and think and switch my laying position twenty times. My life. What am I doing. Where am i going? Nowhere anytime soon. Something happens. My bird died. I fall to the ground, I can't stop shaking. A bird. My bird. I call my dad. I can't breathe. I call my friend, Tyler, he tells me I'm okay. I want to say “talk me down, talk me down from what I'm thinking”. But I can't. I'm ashamed of everything. I pick up that little feathered Carcass and I feel the absence of life; he used to preen my hair for me, he used to nip at my nose. I throw up. I call my friend Hilary. She is so kind. I call my friend Mitch, my sweet Mitch, and he laughs at me. I hang up. I sob. I get in the bath and I slice and I slice and I mourn in my own blood. Because it is what I feel I deserve, to be in a pain that I can look at and see. But I cut deeper than I planned and I feel woozy and sick. I call my friend amber, she comes over while I'm in the shower. She helps me step out, she wraps me in a towel and tells me the things I can't tell myself, not right now. She holds my right hand as she pours hydrogen peroxide over my left arm. She butterfly bandages my cuts together. She strokes my hair. She eventually leaves. I cry, I scream into my pillow. I pull at my hair, I hit my face, I smear around my makeup. I wonder what the point is to anything. I think about how much I hate myself. I look in the bathroom mirror, I shake my head. I hold my knees in the shower and rock myself. I talk out loud. I call myself worthless in my head, out loud I say it’s all okay, I forgive myself. For what? What have I done? The voice in my head, what haven’t you? You don’t deserve anything, you don’t deserve any of the people that say you do. I look at my phone. I look at the clock. I look at the ceiling. I cry. I get numb. I think about it all the time. It, what's “it”? Everyone knows what “It” is. It's the thing no one wants to hear, think, or talk about until someone's hanging from a tree in their parents backyard or flooding the apartment below theirs. I punish myself for thinking about it, I punish myself for being unable to cope with this life and I punish myself for being unable to take myself out of it. For so long I have seemed fine functioning with these suicidal thoughts, with this rollercoaster ride. The absence of sleep, the irritability, the inability to eat. The self loathing, the self harming. I am a student, but I can hardly get to class let alone do the work. I feel worthless about my performance in life. I feel pathetic, weak. I am a bartender, and it’s the only thing I feel I am good at, giving to other people the things I can't give myself: a meal, a gentle word, a laugh, a break. It’s not fine. None of this is fine. None of this is okay. I am so completely and totally not fine. I am depressed. I am manic. I am bipolar. I am mentally ill. And I need help.

[callalilyponder]

An Open Letter to the People that say they’re here for me, but aren’t. And to those who don’t understand my self harm.

Dear all of you,

Stop saying it. Stop all of the “I’m always here for you’s”, “You can call me anytime’s”. “Just shoot me a text, give me a ring’s”. Stop the hollowed out, “No matter what we’ve been through in the past, I’m here’s”, the “I’m just a phone call away’s”. Stop the “Let me know if you need me’s” followed by a short smile and quick walk away. Just stop. Okay? 

Here’s the thing, you do care, I know it. I know that in your heart, you would be happy to see me happy and depression free. You would feel good to see the scars on my arms and legs heal over and not be blanketed by fresh wounds. I know what you don’t have the courage to say. You’re not here for me.You can’t be, because I am far too much to handle. That’s alright. I know when you tell me you’ve got my back, that you’re here for me, you’re saying it for yourself. That’s okay, it’s not your obligation, your responsibility, your duty, to be on call for my mental illness fall downs. It’s not your job to keep an eye on me. 

But here’s the thing, my sweet ones, with all of the good intentions woven in to words you let roll of your lips so casually, I think you forget something; I am mentally ill. I am weak at times. I am afraid a lot of times. My life right now is an up hill battle. My life right now is on a journey and a path to recovery somehow. My stepping stones, they go like this: Now I am not living in happiness or safety. I am surviving. I am clawing away at the dirt to pull myself up to the top of a hill. And once I’ve made it there, I’ll be able to look across the horizon and begin to bandage up everything inside of myself. And once I’ve begun that healing process, I can nourish my relationships around me better. 

I realize I am not the only one in this world in pain. Everyone’s pain is relative. There’s not point in telling me I’m not the only one who’s struggling or depressed. I know this already. 

As far as my self harm, that is my burden. Not yours. I know it must be scary. It makes people uncomfortable. But when you grab my arms and make a public display of my most sensitive flesh, it shames me, and at times, it triggers me. Cutting is a release from everything that bubbles up inside of me. When I cut, I feel like I have control over my physical pain, and that substitutes for the lack of control over my mental and emotional pain. 

If my journey in this life makes you uncomfortable, that’s unfortunate and I wish it didn’t have to be that way. I didn’t ask for the weight, just like the woman who numbs herself up with pain meds didn’t ask to get hit by a drunk driver, or the man who wanted to travel the world got cancer. Life isn’t always fair or easy to understand. We get the cards we’re dealt. But then we have this tiny chance to rise above a shitty hand, and it’s called hope. Hope has always, and will always be the one thing stronger than fear. It has gotten human beings through wars where body limbs were lost like the backs of earrings,  carried slaves through swamps and fields, gotten children through houses filled with belts and booze, parents through custody battles, loved ones through sickness, teenage girls through heartbreak. And it’s hope that’s going to see me through my depression and suicidal thoughts and those cold shiny razor blades. Not empty words spoken toward me as some type of insurance that If I kill myself tomorrow at least you reached out. 

I know you care about me, and I know you don’t like to see me hurting. It’s not fun for anyone, is it? And it sure isn’t convenient when you’re on a date or pumping gas in the cold, at work, grocery  shopping, sleeping, about to have sex, or just too damn busy, is it? No, it’s not. And that’s okay. You have you’re own life to take care of and live. So please, stop telling me you’re always here for me, because we both know that’s a lie that’s not alright to tell. 

[callalilyponder]

My boyfriend broke up with me and it hurts like a bitch.

When I was 17 I went through what I thought was the most excruciating and tragic breakup of my first love, Alex. I felt like I was dying. I remember praying and praying for my heart to be healed. I thought I would marry Alex, and I thought he would be it. I remember my mother holding me in her bed in our house on Curtis street and rocking me like a baby and crying with me. She said she wished she could tell me that would be the worst pain I would ever have to endure, that it would be the only heartbreak I would suffer. But she couldn’t, because that would have been a terrible lie. I didn’t know it at 17 but I would grow to suffer many more heartbreaks. Some were small and I healed within a few weeks, some took years. And I remember being 17 pulling at my hair and hitting myself in the face unable to control my grief that there was no way  I could survive another heartbreak like that. I would die, I would be defeated and too weak to get up again. And 17 turned in to 18 and then 19, 20, and now I am 21 and going through yet another breakup. And I wish I could be with my 17 year old self so we could hold each other and gush about our aching. I wish I could stroke my 17 year old self hair and wipe at her tears and say that there is a lot to look forward to, that I will get in to college and I’ll write beautiful stories and that I will get a really great job at the campus writing center and I will meet my best friends. Because comforting 17 year old Morgan would help 21 year old Morgan to breathe. Because if I told 17 year old Morgan these things I would have to believe them. So I can close my eyes and imagine this happening and for a second I am still. But damn, then a wave hits and I am not even close to okay again. Knowing that Nick does not want to sleep in my bed anymore, he would rather sleep on his brothers couch. He would rather play mario cart with a coworker and girls I don’t know the names of than be with me. And the worst part is the lack of control. You cannot make someone want to be with you, and would you really want to? Probably not. But I feel desperate and like I am clawing at him with my texts, I know i sound desperate and pathetic, because right now, in a way I am. So I guess I just have to be in that place right now. So that maybe some time from tonight  I can be okay. But this break up is breaking my heart. It is testing me. It is laughing at me. And I hurt. My eyes hurt, my body hurts from loneliness. I tried to have sex with him when he came for his things, and despite that I threw myself at him and he’s a man, he pushed me away. I am struggling with my self worth. I wish I could pull 17 year old Morgan and anyone else going through a breakup and heartache in close and kiss their faces. Because I see you. And It is so tragically difficult. Here’s the worst part about heartbreak: only time, and nothing else, can help us. Drinking, drugs, sex, screaming, hot baths, ice cream, long drives, music, best friends, our moms and our dads, they can not carry us through it. They just have to watch as we step through time cradling our mashed up hearts in a paper bag, afraid if we take it out of their we will lose all of the pieces in the wind. They watch us over time learn that it’s okay to have brokenness. and with time, we learn to try love all over again. But time has not passed yet, and I am sobbing while writing this for you, I am breaking. I hope that someone reads this. 

[callalilyponder]

Most important, 2nd Most Important, 3rd Most important, 4th Most Important...

Short post here because I have class in 45 minutes. Let’s talk about priorities. What is a priority? No literally, what is it.  “A thing that is regarded as more important than another... the fact or condition of being regarded or treated as more important.” 

When thinking about my life it seems like my priorities should be easy enough to organize and execute: School, Work, Paying Bills, Family, Boyfriend, Friends, etc. However, more times than not, its just plain and simple not that simple. 

I can’t tell you the amount of times I have lectured someone about how their rent and bills should be number one on their list before spending money on anything else and then myself gone out and splurged on new chucks and booze before paying my electric or my phone bill. Yes, my bills get paid, I have yet to have anything shut off, but I tend to push them off until I absollutly have to pay up and then my bank account is slim to none. 

The same comes with taking care of my apartment and my relationships. You would think my relationship with my family would rank above that of my boyfriend, but often times that’s not the case. Why? Selfishness and my true priorities. I want to tell you my family and my education are at the top of my list, but they aren’t. 

I have strained relationships in my family because I don’t nourish them. I have a wavering financial system because I have yet to budget proactively. I lack friendships because I put my own self before my friends. So can I really complain about any of my unhappiness when the base of those emotions is a muddled list of priorities? 

So here’s a question, what are your priorities? Now really think about what you’ve listed... do your actions and your daily routines follow suit with that list? I know mine don’t. 

[callalilyponder]

How to Heal a Broken Heart 101

Last summer I cut my left arm open. Over the coure of the next week my cuts began to heal quickly and efficiently. The moment I sliced open my flesh my body reacted with complete instinct as a mother would to a crying child; picking it up, holding it close, soothing it with a swaying motion. My father is the doctor, not me. So for this information I went to the website, “Go Ask Alice”. It broke down the healing process for me so I could better understand my body and how it takes care of me when I’ve become wounded. My bodies blood vessels tightened and reduced blood flow to my arm, my white blood cells began to reduce the risk of infection to my open wounds. Over the next few weeks my skin stretched under the scabs to form the scars I will now have for the rest of my life. They were once a scarlet color, and now are just a shade lighter than the rest of my uncut flesh. Alice tells us, “Not all wounds heal equally. Generally speaking, more serious wounds take longer to heal.” 

This part of the website got me thinking about our physical wounds compared to our emotional and mental ones. My arm healed fully within an estimated six-seven weeks. My first heartbreak when I was seventeen took nearly a year, maybe more. My body rushes to my physical injuries with an urgency to heal and to strengthen. It feels like when my heart is harmed my mind goes blank with ideas on how to cope and heal. The pain sits inside like a rock and there are no white blood cells that come to stop the spread of infection. 

Maybe that’s why people who self harm become addicted to it. Maybe that’s why I find my physical scars lovely and artistic, because they’re a symbol of all of the mental and emotional pain that I can’t seem to heal. But if i cut my flesh I can actually watch it heal over and I know that not all of me is incapable of healing; in some ways I am not broken. 

Healing emotionally as a human being is a much more complex process than the physical, it can take years and years and it’s a much more conscious decision. You have to make the decision that you want to heal and feel better, instead of your body automatically doing it for you. You have to get out of bed and wash your hair, you have to make yourself eat, move. Emotional healing takes an incredible amount of energy you have to be willing to hand over. Make your own healing process; your own white blood cells, your own clotting, your own scabs and scars. Make your own recovery. 

[callalilyponder]

Burning House

I’ve been listening to “Burning House” by Cam on repeat for the past few days and I can’t really explain why. Other than it’s one of those songs that’s steady and slow and haunting. It’s one of those songs that you so happen to morph it’s words in to some meaning of the events taking place in your own life, and then you torture yourself by listening to it over and over again until you feel like it’s not the house that’s burning, but you instead. 

Don’t we all feel like burning houses at some point in our lives? Like we’re going up in flames and we’re losing not only the structure of who we are, but everything else inside us that etches out our character. Is it as easy to rebuild a human spirit as it is four walls? 

I’m at the point in my life where the end of my adolescence has met the beginning of my adulthood. The two ends need to be tied together and the knot feels like it keeps slipping and there’s no way for me to hold on, to hold it all together. Of course I want all the great things that come with becoming an adult, with becoming my own person. I want the freedom to go out when I want, dressed how I want, with who I want. I want the freedom to make my own decisions. I want to live alone and support myself and be proud of my own accomplishments. Am I ready, though? Not necessarily. I’m still learning how to save my money, to budget, to pay my bills on time with a smile on my face. My mother says you should pay your bills happily, happy that you have the means to. I am still learning how to be selfless and to be compassionate. I am still learning the meaning of words, of  the word empathy and how to feel it, to experience it. How to say I’m sorry when it’s due, and when to stand my ground when I have to. I am still learning what a true friend is, and how to become one myself. I am still learning how to love with an open heart and to let go of fear. 

Being an adult, I have learned, is so much more than having a job, a car, a house and paying those bills. It’s heavier than I thought it would be. It’s scarier than I thought it would be. Unfortunately, there is no Peter Pan to come and take us away, there is no such thing as never land for us to reside in and shake our responsibilities to grow up. There’s just life, and the future. We can fight it, or we can accept it and embrace it. 

That all being said, I still feel like a burning house today. I still feel trapped and like my lungs are filling up with smoke and I want to scream but I can’t. I still feel, despite all that I have written here and all that I know, like the flames are rising up above me and there’s no way I’ll get out alive. Tomorrow, though, the ashes will settle, the sun will be out and I will rebuild myself, and maybe with sturdier foundation. 

[callalilyponder]

Leeth

I was very afraid of what this week would be and what it would mean to me. I was afraid I wouldn't feel anything about New Orleans or Louisiana the way I did when I read Calla, I was afraid I wouldn't grow like she did. Granted, Calla grew up in Louisiana her whole life and had a lot more than just a week to do it. That being said I am so pleased to announce I am in love with this culture and this new home to me. I feel Calla Lily. 

Beyond that, I met the most amazing people this week. I met Leeth, Pat, Dave. Two fireman and a financial adviser from Chicago. And truly good men. Leeth, I told after spending nearly all of my time with him three days in a row, that he reminded me in many ways of my father. He offered me pearls this week, and I learned so much from what he said and how he said it. I told him the last day I saw him that I hope one day when I am ready and not so wild, that I find a man like him to marry. He is in so many ways a Sweet, he is a loyal man with spirit and bravery and dedication not only to his job but to his blood. He is a man who can love and can be a friend, and sometimes, Leeth is uncertain, too. But he is beautiful from his soul outward and he is forever in my prayers and my thoughts. How often do we meet people like this? People that move us around in our own heads and hearts? People who bring out our own light and let it shine without interference. People who dance us around and compliment us with noble words and offer us silence when needed... not very often, so when we find them we must take a moment to be grateful and aware that they have added to us as a human being. 

So, thank you, Leeth, for opening up my world more than it was before. Thank you for respecting me and laughing with me. Thank you for your honesty. 

New Orleans is so gorgeous and wild. It is a place where all kinds of kinds live together and everyone is okay. They are enough. I feel enough here. I feel free here. Now, I have one last night to live up my vacation and make more memories and friendships. Just let the pearls in your life know they have been molded from agitation and transformed in to a rare and clean representation of what life is. They may think they're damaged or dirty or too raw, but they aren't... you see that, so let them know. 

Always, 

Morgan Paige

[callalilyponder]

We know how to get to the beach, thanks though.

Ladies, how many of you are involved with or have been in the past, with a boy or man who works out? It’s attractive, is it not? I’m not sure if it has something to do with the testosterone released when they pump iron or the idea of them being able to pick us up over their shoulders Shrek style, but there certainly is something about fit men that turns us on. The trend lately is “dad bods” apparently, but I’m stuck on the idea of obsession with not only working out, looking ripped, but constantly talking about it. A friend of mine raised her annoyance with the last few men she’s been involved with and how they’re boasting none stop about their workout routines and rituals. Ladies, if you’re anything like my friend here, then you do not give a rats ass if their abs hurt or how many reps they did in front of the giant mirror at the gym. If you’re like my friend, you roll your eyes and suppress a tiny amount of vomit in the back of your throat. Guys, it is attractive and respectable that you take care of your body, but some could say working out is close to religion; in the idea that it should be done for your own satisfaction and not to push on to others. God shouldn't (in my opinion) be sought after because others tell you it’s right. And a fit lifestyle  (in my opinion) shouldn't be sought after to please the rest of society around you. Read the Bible because it feels right to you, or don’t. Run those miles because it makes your body feel good, not because you want to brag about it later once the sweat has dried away. 

I can also see how every now and then it feels good to receive praise for your achievements. “Wow, you look great, you must be really going hard at the gym” example one. However, it does grow old when the one doing to work is pushing for compliments or approval, “yeah, I’m so sore I worked out every day this week and my abs are just killing me.... do you think my arms are looking bigger?” There is a limit to what is sexy and what is down right stupid. It won’t impress us for long. So how about this, maybe, do your work outs and I’ll do mine and we can appreciate each other and respect our ability to thrive physically, but we don’t and won’t need to brag about it in search for some type of surface level praise. How about that? 

Be kind to your body, but be humble and practice humility, too. 

Always,

Morgan Paige 

[callalilyponder]

I think it may be easy for them to think that the fight is pointless so why fight it at all? You can bring a horse to water, but you can't make it drink. You can give a child everything they need to succeed and love the crap out of them but it won't ensure that they will grow to be a productive member of society, the choice is theirs. and they have to believe in something.

When melatonin fails

I just finished watching the movie “Joe” with Nicholas Cage and I now have a pit in my stomach. Human cruelty is dark and note worthy. I grapple with understanding why people treat others the way the do, why they hit them, why they murder, steal, rape. I like to tell myself even if I had been abused myself I would not pass that along to my children or my lover, but I can’t be sure. My dad told me a story once about two brothers who were both raised by the town drunk. One brother grew up to be an incredibly successful business man while the other brother became the new town drunk. When the successful brother was asked, “being raised the way you were by the type of man your fathers was, how did you turn out the way you did?” The brother responded, “With a father and a life like mine, how could I turn out any other way?” And when the  drunk brother was asked the same question he gave the same response, “With a father and a life like mine, how could I turn out any other way?” So, is it really about how we are raised as kids? Does that seal and deliver us our fate and our futures? No, I don’t think so. No, I won’t buy it. Everyone gets a chance in life to make it, everyone gets a chance to move beyond what they were born in to, or stay within it.

The boy in “Joe” was born in to a family impoverished because of his fathers alcoholic behavior. He was abused, his father tried to sell his sister for sex, his father his his mother. But he found a job, he dedicated himself to it, he worked his ass off to prove he was more than the flesh that bruised when his father knocked him around. We have a choice, it’s just a lot more convenient to pretend like we don’t.

[callalilyponder]

When melatonin fails

I just finished watching the movie “Joe” with Nicholas Cage and I now have a pit in my stomach. Human cruelty is dark and note worthy. I grapple with understanding why people treat others the way the do, why they hit them, why they murder, steal, rape. I like to tell myself even if I had been abused myself I would not pass that along to my children or my lover, but I can’t be sure. My dad told me a story once about two brothers who were both raised by the town drunk. One brother grew up to be an incredibly successful business man while the other brother became the new town drunk. When the successful brother was asked, “being raised the way you were by the type of man your fathers was, how did you turn out the way you did?” The brother responded, “With a father and a life like mine, how could I turn out any other way?” And when the  drunk brother was asked the same question he gave the same response, “With a father and a life like mine, how could I turn out any other way?” So, is it really about how we are raised as kids? Does that seal and deliver us our fate and our futures? No, I don’t think so. No, I won’t buy it. Everyone gets a chance in life to make it, everyone gets a chance to move beyond what they were born in to, or stay within it.

The boy in “Joe” was born in to a family impoverished because of his fathers alcoholic behavior. He was abused, his father tried to sell his sister for sex, his father his his mother. But he found a job, he dedicated himself to it, he worked his ass off to prove he was more than the flesh that bruised when his father knocked him around. We have a choice, it’s just a lot more convenient to pretend like we don’t.

[callalilyponder]

The morning not so blues

A good friend of mine and co worker spent the night last night. She arrived at my apartment close to one in the morning with puffy eyes and flared nostrils (she always flares her nostrils when irritated, angry, or annoyed). Normally, I think the nose thing is funny, but it didn't make me smile like usual. My friend is a strong girl, young, only nineteen, but mature beyond her years. She’s in love, and she’s just had her heart broken. Maybe broken hearted is the wrong label, betrayed seems more fit. I thought about telling her she’s too young to settle down anyway, but those were not the words I was meant to say or she needed to hear. In all honesty, I've given up trying to plan out my future, let alone anyone elses. If she is meant to be with this boy for her whole life, it will be. If not, then she will find someone new. I see little to no point in trying to fit our futures in to tiny puzzle pieces and construct some greater picture of what we want our life to be. Life is meant to be lived and learned, not carefully contemplated and glued together forcefully. Square  blocks will not fit in circle holes, no matter how hard we push. 

We talked about hurting and betrayal and mistrust with men. We talked about our frustration and inner hunger. We ate watermelon and played with my bird, Winnie, and we talked more until our exhaustion took us to sleep. 

When we woke up, I felt sad as I remembered how Nick, my own man who had betrayed me, was now out of my life. I felt empty at first and then sad and then relieved. The sadness and emptiness lingered but I knew I was safe now. And I knew trust was a delicate thing and was to be earned. In that moment I chose to move outside of my own woe and look at what I had in that moment; love for a good friend, and her love mirroring back at me. 

As my Calla Lily has said, I will not hide because of a broken heart... I will hold my broken heart in my hands and walk with it without shame. 

[callalilyponder]

When do we put our foot down?

Seriously, when do we chose to put our foot down and say enough? When do we as men or women decide we deserve more than what we're receiving ( and let me tell you, what I've been receiving is slim to none). I think we'll take as much as we can handle, and then some. We keep allowing someone to devalue our emotions, feelings, and our own self because why? Two times out of two hundred they make us feel wanted? That doesn't sound right, does it? But we still allow that shit in to our lives. We still stay up with our phones in our laps and the lamp on until 4am hoping and praying they'll text or call us back. We drive ourselves crazy picking at our brains as to why they don't reach out, why they don't follow through with plans, why they won't show us any sign of true connection. Do we ever stop and think, hey, maybe it's not me? Maybe it's not my fault, maybe I'm not the problem here? No, because it must be us, right? We aren't good enough, open enough, sexy enough, mature enough. Let me tell you something, until we get our heads on straight and come to terms with who we are set aside from everyone else, until we understand that we aren't a problem at all we're going to keep waiting up for someone who truly doesn't give much more than a good night of fucking about us. I hate to put it that way, because it seems so damn sad and wrong, but it's true. We create our own prisons and our own heartbreaks by keeping toxic people in our circle. Your circle should be sacred, it should be safe and loving. But I'm just as guilty as the next guy or girl letting someone dictate their emotions or Friday night. I hate to admit that, but I've heard and try to follow the rule of writing, always be honest.

[callalilyponder]

Morning Thoughts

After staying up all night only to be disappointed (again) a few things came to mind. One being that my disappointment was really my own fault, what's that saying? Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice shame on me? That seems to be the mantra to my love life right now but instead of letting him fool me once or twice I'm allowing him to do it time and time again. So I ask, who's really to blame? The second thing that came to mind after I pulled myself out of bed desperately to shower and reclaim my dignity was this: people have such a strong hold on our day to day routine, if we let them. Even more specifically, the names of people. I'm sitting at Marie Catribs to order breakfast when a man approached me and welcomes me. He then proceeds to inform me that Colin will be taking care of me today. I immediately asked if there was anyone else. He looked at me like I was crazy, shocker, and then he smiled and asked how I felt about the name Evan. My brain thumbed through my memory bank and found no negative connotations involving a person(s) with the name "Evan". I said, "Evans a great name." And then I ordered a Greek omelette with tomatoes and cinnamon raisin bread with a side of honey butter; and it felt so much better that it was handled by Evan than by Colin, because even though this Colin was not the Colin that instilled codependency, insecurity, emotional and physical abuse in me, it was still his name. Isn't that interesting? If a girl named Jenna rips you apart from the ground up you'll never in a million years name your baby that, because you'll always think of the little brat who brushed your friendship aside, or the woman who sucked you dry of your income and your freedom. That's just the way our brain works, and how complex our brains can be.