A lot of artists use struggle and hurt to make art

I've done it too

I’ve written about my need for independence

About the little girl who I was

And about how lonely this world can be

I haven’t explored who I am in love

Because that’s a person who I am still getting to know

She is intensely vulnerable

She is much more patient and willing to change

She is still getting used to the safety that he brings

And she is shaking with terror at the thought of being left alone again

These past few years have brought me a lot of realizations

I’ve learned so much more about my body and my brain

And I’ve felt them at war with each other

I have fallen into a hole deeper than I ever imagined

Some would write themselves out of it

I can’t.

I read stories I wrote year ago, and it it's as if a stranger wrote them

I can’t imagine them coming from me

I can’t imagine anything being created by me ever again

All I feel is the weight in my chest forcing my heart to pump harder and faster to stay alive

All I hear is the thoughts in my head telling me that I’m useless

An anchor attached to my loved ones

All I see is the fat stretching out angry red skin in the mirror

Eyes that seem to always be holding back tears

Or, even worse, not holding them back

This shit.

It chases me in my dreams

It won’t let me rest

I wake up in fogs of anxiety and panic

I turn to see him sleeping soundly and am all at once

So grateful that his body lets him sleep

And so jealous of the rest he gets

Why not me?

When do I get to sleep?

I would tear this matter out of my chest if it were really there

I would open my skin with my own fingernails

If it would help

If it were as simple as bleeding it out, I wouldn't hesitate

If it would make it easier for me to be around people again

To not be fearful of every sound, every dark corner

Of being left

Of failing at work

Of failing my loved ones

Of not being enough

Of being left alone

Of deserving to be left alone

Of never getting back to who I was

A person who I wasn’t even that fond of to begin with

I wrack my brain for a way to turn this into art

It can’t be that hard

It’s never been this hard

Will it always be this hard?

I take my pills every day

I step out into the sun

I move my body

I take breaths so slow and deep that a yogi would be proud

It helps

Sometimes

For a blissful moment, that I am grateful for,

Then the world speeds back up and I’m me again

No amount of words can change it

So why bother?

I do bother

Because this can’t be forever, can it?

Please don’t let this be forever

Please tell me this is just a part of my life that I will write about one day

Home

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10/14/18

There is a sweet little spot waiting for us

Full of big light filled windows and oddly large mirrors

Hard wood floors, blank walls, and old appliances

Right now it’s quiet, still, and empty

It’s an open promise

Endless possibility

Tomorrow you will hand money to a stranger and then poof

It will be ours

As fast as that

As quickly as a page turned in a storybook

Ours to fill with pictures and paintings

With my clicking keyboard

With your music

With my humming and goofy accents

With your sweet singing voice that you think I don’t notice

With our laughter

Our sighs

Our steps

Our movement

Together

Right now it’s me before we met

Even as we were meeting

How could I know that you would make my life impossibly bright?

That you would make a home inside me

And paint me in a new light

Find beauty in hidden corners

Smooth out the sharp edges

While loving the roughness you found there

I thought this step would be scary

I thought I would have too much to hide

But it’s the opposite

Our little spot is patiently waiting

And it’s time to go home

Two years down, so many more to go

Once upon a time
a girl started making some plans

She didn't ask for permission
She belonged to no one and no one belonged to her
The clock struck 12 and she was off

Her youngest niece was kind enough to make her appearance in the nick of time
Her friends sent her off with cake and love
Her parents tried to talk her out of it- but not really

There was a part of her that started the sentence "when I get to California...." more times than anyone could count
There was an air mattress waiting and not much else
There was an idea of what her life would look like when she got there

It was more beautiful than she remembered
It was lonelier than she had anticipated
It was hard to get through the nights when her life back home was already asleep

But she was too stubborn to fail
But she was almost too stubborn to let herself fall
But she let her go and found someone to belong with

And nothing looked the way she had expected
And she worried that her greatest professional achievement would be the perfect cappuccino
And she wished, just once, that she could tell a customer to Fuck Off

In between the mountains and palm trees and a bay breeze
In between trips to a city that had always wanted to call home
In between car rides with the windows down every month of the year

There was her body
Unpredictable, seemingly rebelling, mad at someone
Feeling alien, skin too tight and ill more often than well
Causing more trouble than it's worth

These were her true warrior moments
These were the times she learned how to ask for help
These were the ways that she pushed herself to love herself

Two years passed in a cliche blink of an eye
Two years were what she needed to trust her instincts
Two years to shift her life closer to what she had planned
Two years is not nothing

Maybe in another two, there will me countless more monsters slain
Maybe in another two, I'll laugh at what I want in this moment
Maybe in another two, I'll have what I want in this moment

There is always time to make more plans

Fences

WE connect through stories

We share with each other

We read and watch both lies and truth

I could write about a cold grey world in a distant future

I could weave in details to an exposition that subtly mirror who we are today

I could give you charming heroes with wit and strength who look and sound just like you and me

But for one,

Its been done before

And for two,

Its becoming less necessary every day

But the truth can be hard to face

And it can be impossible to hold a mirror to our own flaws

So lets read it like this:

One upon a time women lost the battle against their assaulters

Once upon a time, our leaders closed the door in the face of those seeking sanctuary

Once upon a time slavery was abolished so that black children could be killed as free people

And the government fenced us in and locked us out

We stayed home and let the fences grew higher and higher

Because we felt alone

Because we felt scared but also safe in our anonymity

And the monsters were real though they looked like us

And the woodland animals sat this one out

And they painted us as witches though we tried to be heroes

But the white knights were too busy mansplaining in the comments section

And the wizard were detained at the gate TSA searching their robes

So the happy ending lives in us

Or not at all

And we have to live in the stories of others

Or drown alone in our own passivity

My body

There are currently tears streaming down my cheeks. Which is much less unusual than it used to be.
I used to be much more composed than this.
I think this is what happens when you are at odds with your body. Because the last time I cried this much was when I was a teenager coming to terms with the fact that I am fat.
A fact that society and my parents helped me to understand. I might not have gotten there on my own.

I've been thinking so much about bodies.
Women's bodies in particular.
How having them makes us liable to get yelled at, followed, and grabbed.
Even though we are built this way to create life.
My sister-in-laws (whom I love. Whom I consider to be more sisters than in-laws because they make my brothers so happy that I would thank them every day if I could without making it weird) have made, or are making, life.
Little faces that have my brothers expressions. Little hands that grab mine. Little hearts that live in my heart.
My body could do that too. That's why I get called at, followed, complimented in vulgar ways even though I am still fat. (and some ways still that teenager realizing she's fat)
But I would rather it didn't. I would be no good for that little body that would come from my body.
So I take a daily pill.
To prevent the making of life.
But, oh, what it does to my body.
Now my body is bigger, and more sensitive.
And it makes tears all the time. For extended periods of time. Sometimes over nothing.
Sometimes at the worst times.
In public,
In front of my boyfriend,
At work.

So I went to the doctor to try to make a change.
I made myself even more vulnerable
And now I know that my body is also infected
Its "abnormal"
So I have to go back and let the doctor open me wider and look closer
And now I'm terrified of this body and what it could do to me
Is it because you know that I hate you? That I wish you looked like other bodies?
Is it because I made all those jokes about you, terrified that they would be made behind my back if I didn't?
I want to love you. I do.
But society says no.
And because of you I get yelled at, followed, and (statistically) probably one day grabbed.
I should care for you because our government does not
But you don't feel like mine
If anything, I am yours
You call the shots, bring the tears, and cause monthly pain that makes me double over and bite through my lip

Today I'm crying.
Maybe tomorrow will be better.
Maybe one day I'll figure out how to love you the way they tell me I should
Maybe one day I'll get rid of the fat or learn to love it
I know for certain that if I every do decide to make a new life, I will teach self-love first and always
I will help bridge the gap between my baby and their body and I will arm them with the power to see beauty in themselves as much as in others

Starts and stops

This was meant to be a collection of fiction. The plan was always to write truths, but to wrap the truths in beautiful lies. But there has been a dreaded 5 letter word that starts with B and ends with K. I won't say it and I won't write it.
There have been beginnings and the beginnings of middles, but no ends.
But I thought that maybe if I listed out the starts for myself then one would jump out and beg to be finished.
These are the sentences that are followed by a blinking curser or a blank page. Characters held in corners, waiting to be told what to do next. Characters waiting to tell me what they will do next.


There is something about my brother-in-law that makes my words stick in my throat.

She came in and sat down next to me, but it was all wrong.

“I don’t know what you write about how you make me feel.”

The sign hanging above the door was made of wood and chipping away in the corner. 

There once was a photographer who lived alone.

Lying in bed, you stare up at the ceiling trying to breath under the heavy arm draped across your chest. 

Once upon a time, the world needed help. 

Letters

My parents received a letter that was addressed to me in their care.
Because they're my parents; they opened it.
It was a letter to myself that I had been forced to write at last years graduation ceremony for the service position I held for 10 months.
I sent it to my parents because I wasn't sure where I would be in a year.

Because I'm me; I didn't take it very seriously.
I called myself "darling" and "princess," and (much to my dads unjustified dismay) I used the word shit. Several times.
I did record some wishes for myself. A wish that 12 months after writing the letter I would not have yet failed yet in my California Girl dream and returned home to Boston. A wish that I would find a fulfilling career. So probably not the bakery that I work at now.
I did not mention any dreams about where I might be living.
But from where I write these words; in an old messy apartment with flickering electricity, sinking bathroom floor, and permanently stained kitchen- this is probably not what I had in mind.
But it is in a beautiful town on a beautiful street and I can walk to a job that pays my affordable rent.

The short scrawling note says nothing about romance.
It makes no mention of my heart, neither then nor now.
A year ago, I had no clue that in the same week that my parents called so my mother could read my own words to me over the phone (which was an eerie experience to say the least) I would wake up on a day off, go for a walk to get myself some coffee, and then sit down to write another letter.
A letter to someone else.
Because I'm still me; I express my emotions through letters and words.
And though I certainly didn't see it coming then, I am in love now.
But I would never want to send a letter to warn the version of me who sat in the reception hall, uncomfortable in her business casual clothes, rolling her eyes and (most likely) a stray curl between two fingers.
I would never want to ruin the surprise of what else was waiting for me here on the West coast.
Someone wonderful, and smart and funny and a terrific pain in the butt.
Someone to tell secrets to and laugh with. Someone who lets me sing into the breeze as the world passes by through the cars open windows.
I won't write myself another letter to open in a year.
I won't ask myself about whats changed and whats stayed the same.
I don't want to know that shit.
I don't want to now what comes next.
Because I have always been me; and I did something to deserve him.
And I can't wait to see what comes next.