Nostalgia

The Devil and God Are Raging Inside of Me.

Ten years doesn’t seem like a long time. When you still refer to everything in the past as 2006. Ten years ago, man. Ten years ago. 2006 was such a pivotal year of growing up for me. I find myself going back to that year in photographs, nostalgia, and through listening to albums that seem like came out yesterday.

Ten years ago, I sat in my parents guest bedroom, staring out the window. I laid in my bed watching the clouds go from grey to slate. Hearing every cloud rupture with anger and sadness, as the rain fell from the sky. In a room I didn’t grow up in. In a room, I felt like I kept coming back too. I was in-between places, still trying to figure out what I wanted. This wasn’t home but Fresno wasn’t home either. Where do I belong? Where do I fit in?

Ten years ago, I didn’t want to go back to school. Even though I knew getting older meant it would be harder for me to do things. My odds were against me. I was finding myself fearful of people and a fear of my peers is what always told me not to go back to school. It takes me 10 minutes to get out of my car to do simple tasks, without feeling like the world was against me. I didn’t realize I was sick. I didn’t realize that this wasn’t normal.

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Ten years ago, I let the wrong people in. I let people hurt me. I let people use me. I let people cloud my judgement of what good really was. Instead I harbored a pain so great that caused me to cut open my outsides, to understand what my insides were feeling. I was burning in this vessel of a body, with this need to please everyone. To be there for everyone, while people have done nothing but watch me fade in the background.

Ten years ago, I thought I was going to marry a variety of different people. A drummer in one band, a bass player in another. Plotting how one day they would look at me differently then they had in the past. That I wouldn’t be self-conscious. I wouldn’t be awkward. They would look straight into me, as I have looked up at them, many times before.

Ten years ago, I feel in love too easily. Always someone different. Always people I shouldn’t have loved. But I wanted to love as I always felt in the deep depths of my heart. How they play out in movies and we see on the big screen. I was hopeless in wanting something I wasn’t prepared to understand. In a way I used people. I just wanted what everyone else had. A hand to hold to keep themselves from falling apart. Because sad was better than lonely. And now I can’t remember the name of the first boy I kissed.

Ten years ago,  I wanted amazing things to happen to me. I wanted to stand in an open place and watch life happen to me. In a big city, miles away from my mediocre small town. Far from the same people I see every day. Maybe if for once instead of running, I would finally allow things to happen. Watch love open doors, see my careers unfold, watch myself change from strange into something beautiful. I waited forever for things to happen. I waited for people to move. I waited for things to happen. I waited too long and feel as if I am running out of time.

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Ten years ago, an album came out that changed my life. I didn’t think it would. Many albums come and go and still I remember this as if it was yesterday. From the weather changing from the warm fall days to the chill of cold of the soon to be winter months. How it felt wrong to buy it from some mass production corporation, how I needed to purchase the album how I had purchased all their albums. Straight from the band, straight from the source. How I ripped open the package and watched my life change in front of my eyes. No one understands how that feels. How something so simple as opening a padded envelope could change your life in so many magical ways. How I needed to get out of my house and play every song loudly. Loud enough to where my insides would wake up. How every cigarette I smoked, I exhaled out the smoke and watched the smoke slowly leave my lungs open to the cold air. The rain kept falling, as this soundtrack continued to play. How perfect this seemed. My favorite band, playing the songs that for that moment I didn’t understand. It didn’t matter how many times the windshield wipers wiped my windshield clear, the rain still managed to leave a mark. Which is how I feel about this album. No matter how many times I try to wipe this away, a small mark still remains. I could write forever about every line in the songs. I could. I have. But today, I want to live in it’s memory.

Ten years ago, I didn’t understand. Ten years later, I finally know. We are not suppose to fit in. We are not suppose to be normal. Sometimes you don’t realize how bad you’re hurting until the years pass and you become someone else. Someone completely different then the person you were ten years ago. Its hard to come out of the darkness and back into the light. It’s hard to understand that even though we feel completely alone, we are never truly alone. Even when you think you can’t start over, life throws you something completely unexpected.

Today, I watch the rain fall from the sky to the tops of each tree and rooftop, from some place far from home. I think back on those memories. I think back to my sentiments and feelings.  Ten years ago, I had no idea where I was going. I stopped believing in love. I stopped believing in myself in the years in took to get here. I stopped wanting to marry the boys that would never love me. I stopped dying for a hand to hold. Ten years ago, seemed like such a long time ago. Now, I sit here wondering what happens next.

Ten years ago, man.

10 years.

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A clove of Garlic on my window.

My Mom always had a thing with putting a clove of garlic on the window. As far back as I could remember, it was one of her little superstitions. Like having a glass of water by the bed before you sleep. Eating 12 grapes at midnight on New Year’s Eve. The garlic clove on the window became her little quirk.

She had been doing the garlic thing for so long that when I was younger I believed all windows came with a clove of garlic. When I’d see a window without one, I’d assume the window was broken. It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I understood it was one of her many superstitions.

“Para la mala vibra.”, she would say. For the bad vibes.

When you’re 15, you think anything your parents do is crazy. Everything they do is just weird, off, and super Mexican.

“Mom, you sound crazy. Who would want to give us bad vibes?”, I’d say.

“People. Not all people know the vibra they put out”, she’d respond.

Just another thing to add to the we are different pile. We mexicans are a rare breed of crazy. Superstitions, bad vibes, all of the cosmic universe hocus pocus.

We have a superstition for everything in my family:

Do the sign of the cross before you start a journey. To ensure your journey is blessed.
A St. Christopher medallion to ensure safe travels.
A glass of water by the bed, to trap the bad dreams.
Never place your purse on the floor, that way you will always have money.
A clove of garlic on the window to suck out the “mala vibra” before it enters your house.

I didn’t believe her at times. I didn’t want to. I refused to believe that anyone would want to harm us. Who could want to put out a crazy vibe like that? What would they gain? But I obliged her wishes. I wouldn’t mock or say anything. I just allowed her to work her brujeria  and hoped for the best in everything. Keeping a “buena vibra”, a good vibe going.

Two weeks ago, I had a crazy spell of insomnia. Something I have never experienced. My body would collapse on the bed but I couldn’t shut my mind off. I would find myself falling asleep only to wake up an hour later in a panic.

“Something is wrong. Something happened.”, I would think.

I would look out the window and see my street, black as night. For two weeks, I couldn’t get it together. I tried everything. I took baths with essential oils. I slept with lavender on my wrists. I would watch tv until my eyes felt heavy but nothing worked. I would have resorted to sleeping pills, had it not been my mother handing me 3 cloves of garlic.

“I’m sorry, mija. I’ve been so busy, I haven’t changed your garlic. Here, put this garlic on each of your windows”. She instructed.

I haven’t told her I hadn’t been sleeping. Just briefly in passing. I didn’t want her to think it was serious or that I needed to go to the doctor again. But somehow, without saying anything, she always knew.

I haven’t slept right in a few days. I find myself staring at the ceiling at night, praying to sleep. I hadn’t spoke to God in a long time and these past few days, I’ve been having long detailed conversations with Diosito. I refused to believe this is a coincidence. That this garlic clove is going to solve anything. It’s just a vegetable on my window. Everything has an explanation, a scientific answer. But I could hardly keep myself awake anymore. I wanted to cry from all this stupid exhaustion. I am not sure how much longer I can keep this going.

I replaced each clove of garlic, one clove for each of my windows. The first garlic looked like a raisin. Completely brown with the life sucked out of it. Nothing out of the ordinary, it’s how they usually look when my Mom changes them. I find myself doing exactly as she would do when she would change the garlic; saying a prayer to each garlic, something only she would understand. The second garlic started its stage of regrowth. Equipped with a sprout of life inside of itself. My mom always said when a garlic sprouts life, you have buena vibra, good vibes.

Upon replacing the second garlic, I didn’t understand why I had a third. The only rooms I occupy are taken care of, maybe she miscounted? Then I remembered that nothing my mother ever does is without reason. Handing me 3 garlic cloves for each of my windows, means something. I was too tired to ask her; another lecture of why we do this and what it’s for, etc. It wasn’t until I remembered the third window, that I remembered why the third clove. A window in a room that I don’t normally occupy. A room I only go into to throw miscellaneous items away. The room has always been too warm, too cluttered with objects, old relics of the past that I haven’t had the time to clear out. I never go in there, I tell myself. But it’s worth a shot.

I walked toward the window and see the shell of the garlic. I pick up the shell and start replacing the garlic. I say my final prayer, my wish.

“Please allow no harm to me and my family. Please protect us from negativity and harm from the outside world.”, I said.

I start walking toward the trash to throw away the last dried up clove. Upon inspecting it the clove started disintegrating to ash. As if the clove of garlic held on enough just to become a pile of dust. I didn’t know what to do. I just stood there, with the skin of the garlic and felt every emotion inside turn to dust.

“They can’t hurt me no more. They can’t hurt us anymore.”, I found myself saying.

I didn’t wanted to just throw it away in the trash. I wanted to rid myself of that “mala vibra”. I flushed the ash and the garlic skin in the toilet. Walked toward the sink to wash my hands from what happened. Its through that, that I felt a weight lift off my chest and completely off my shoulders.

Was this the reason why I stopped sleeping? Was this the reason of my insomnia? There’s a reason for everything, right?

I walked toward my bed, turned off the light, and covered myself with blankets. I didn’t have a chance to look toward the ceiling before falling into a complete deep sleep. It could just be coincidence. Just my body finally giving out and allowing me to sleep. But I tell you, I have never slept more soundly then I did that night.

Brujeria, superstition, or not, I will continue to change the garlic on my window. As long as it guarantees me a good night sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

Amor Eterno.

When I think of home I think of the music of my childhood. The music that blared every weekend morning before starting our day. The songs of Pedro Infante, the harmonies of Steve Wonder, and the tender voice of Juan Gabriel. There isn’t a memory that doesn’t include a song of Juan Gabriel. Every car ride to school and every family gathering. Even a distant memory of being in Mexico and seeing mariachis strumming the first chords of his songs, before belting out the beautifully tragic lyrics. A man with such a vibrancy for life; who captivated the world with his songs of love and heartbreak. We invited this man into our home to remind us of what we have. To remind ourselves to love, to embrace heartbreak but not give into it, and to understand we are never alone.

I can’t help but think of a lifetime of memories that his songs bring. Songs that we’ve all sung at family gatherings, birthday parties, and even sitting in your car thinking of the one person you told yourself you wouldn’t think about. Of all the songs that he has written, Amor Eterno is the one song I can’t help but grab my heart and cry. Crying for lost loves. Crying for people who have passed. Crying for people whom we miss and wish to have one more day with. Another day to say everything we needed to say that we couldn’t say when we needed too. Then the tears start to form at the corner of my eyes as soon as the strings start playing. I hear his voice so clearly. Dedicating the song to every mother, including his own whom he lost long ago. A loss he felt so deeply that her passing is immortalized into this song.

This song reminds me of a family who’s son passed away in route to Acapulco. Forever bringing to light the tears as soon as the line “El mas triste recuerdo de Acapulco” is sung. Of my strongest prima that never lets anything affect her and catching her singing the lyrics softly with tears in her eyes. Her own loss for words and deep profound love within her heart. I think of the countless times my Mami has skipped over this song because it reminds her of my Abuelita, her Mami. How much she misses her and no matter how many postcards and phone calls she makes, it is never the same as seeing her face to face. How I have seen her sing the same words over and over, and trying to hold back her own tears.

I can’t help but think of the the last time I saw my Abuelito. Looking out from his favorite window over looking the street below.  Then later holding his hand at the hospital in Mexico City and knowing this would be the last time. I feel myself breathe a little harder. This deep feeling in my chest as my heart begins to break. I think of my Tia who recently passed and a memory of her in her home filled with warmth and love. A home filled with all her relics and accomplishments. Every conversation I had with them, forever remembered and returning through this song. I think to myself, I should have tried harder to keep in touch. Let me have one more day to make amends.

Yo he sufrido tanto por tu ausencia,
Desde ese dia hasta hoy, no soy feliz.
Y aunque tengo tranquila mi consciencia,
Se que pude haber yo hecho mas por ti.

I sit in disbelief that a song with the simplest words and such a powerful melody could fill the spaces of your veins and tug at the heart. How no matter how many times you hear a song after that, this song will forever haunt you with memory. With a feeling of nostalgia and your only response is to think back at that memory. No matter how many times you want to stop the tears from forming, you can’t help yourself.

I hold myself tighter. Refusing to give into the song, even though I am watching as my surroundings become blurry. Slowly I lean into the melody. Into the words that I have found myself repeating before the next line. This aching lump in my throat when I try to sing. This pain. This sadness. This memory I have tried to forget. I sing louder as if these spirits could hear me. As if they held my hand and sang a long with me. This song overtakes all my emotions and I watch as one by one the tears start to fall. It’s been a long time since I have cried like this. A long time that I let this heartbreak be a reminder of how much I am missing. Because I miss them. With every inch of my heart that beats to the words of this song.

Its only until you have lived through the words of his songs, that JuanGa opens his arms out to you. And like a familiar friend, you outstretched your arms to this man. Taking comfort in his words, and sing a long to the melody. Forever I will be grateful for this man. Who opened his heart to the world and allowed us to take a part of his journey.

Even after the song plays out, I still cry out for one more day. I scream out how much I am hurting and missing, until my cheeks hurt from sobbing. Its been minutes since the song has stopped playing. I slowly start collecting myself and watch as I wipe away my tears and pick up the remaining pieces of my heart. Thank you, Juan Gabriel. Thank you for these cherished memories and for always feeling like home.

Obligo a que te olvide el pensamiento,
Pues siempre estoy pensando en el ayer.
Prefiero estar dormida que despierta
De tanto que me duele que no estes.

 

Self portrait with Chopped hair.

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We grow our hair like weeds for people that will never love us. To later chop off all the dead weight, once they leave us. This time, I wanted to do the leaving. I wanted to cut the man at the source, and resort to every dramatic episode I could think of. Because it was never his choice. It was my choice, my decision, and it was my turn to leave this time.

If you cut your hair, I will leave you.

How I watched every strand of hair grow to the middle of my back. How happy he seemed as he ran his fingers through it, paid no mind to the person before him. It’s when I think I have him, that he leaves without notice. His ghost that trails behind then lingers once he leaves. It’s when I think I have won, that I have lost everything before me.

When you believe you love someone, you’ll fall for anything. Even something simple as leaving every strand of hair on your head, just as they like it. I loved him, from the deep parts of my soul, to every long strand of hair that fell across my back. I watched as my hair became my shield, my armor from the world. My way of hiding these feelings of doubts and worries. My hair continued to grow into a tangled, tousled, mess. I continued to listen to his threats, as empty as the love he gave me. No matter how long my hair grew, he never came back.

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I wanted him back for all the superficial reasons I hated. I wanted to stop this numbing suffocated feeling of being alone that drugs nor alcohol could fill. My hair continued to grow and I continued to wait. He said I was perfect and to never change. If I cut my hair, he would only leave me. He would never come back. And I continued to wait. Until the weight of my hair became the weight of my worries. Until my hair became heavy, that I could no longer hold my head up to the sky. We do these foolish things for love but at what cost does it love us back? At what cost do people understand that we are people underneath all that hair? That our hair doesn’t make you love us any less. There were days I wanted to rip every strand from my head. Tear apart the existence of what I believed he wanted. Because for a brief moment I was perfect to you, don’t I ever think of changing.

I watch as the strands of hair fall to the ground. Inch by inch. The memories of you and the ghosts before you. If you cut your hair, I will leave you.  I try to keep myself composed. Hold the tears back. Love was never what held us together. The strands of dead hair that laid before my feet; bear witness to this change that comes over me. I am more exposed to the world without my shield. I am showing the world who I really am, beneath the hair.

 

When the final strand of hair falls, I will forget you. Someone will come in and sweep away the memories scattered on the floor. It won’t be me this time. For the first time, I have stopped listening to ghosts.

 

Shake it out.

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I should have written this a long time ago. The minute my heart changed, and we went our separate ways. Like a broken record, I yearn for the tragic melodies of yesterday. The pain that cuts you straight down to the core. Bleeding through your veins and making your heart beat faster. I love the hurt, I need the pain. This sick desire for self destruction never leaves. But at this moment it has started to escape me.

You can take everything you want from this. Every letter, every word, every sentence, every verb. Everything. Let it manifest itself into what you want to believe. Because if I cared even an ounce about you, I wouldn’t feel the need to rid myself of you.

I do not break for you.
I do not cry for you.
I do not love who or what I believed you were.

You’re the needle that scratches my record player, wanting to hear only my favorite song. At this moment, everything sounds differently now. Even you look different now. The past always stays in the past, no matter how many times a ghost haunts you. The ghost lingers then drifts away, just around the same time the melody ends. Ending with the memories, ending with the sadness and all the tears.

Its through this pain that I thought a million things about you.

I thought I loved you.
I thought I missed you.
I thought I would self-destruct without you.

Thinking only leads to dreams that never truly existed. An end to our story. Waking from the blissful dreams into our badly lit reality. Its then we find ourselves back at the start. Back to the beginning.

Scratch that.

We can’t take things back to the start. We have maxed out our ideas of new beginnings. What’s done is done and every girl after me is just filler space. Because men like you hate the voided vacancy of present tense.

I will shake you out from underneath my skin. Out from every inch of my bones, into the dusty mist where you belong. Because I am doing just fine without you. Every night is another night to forget you. I watch as memories turn to dust and leave behind all these scattered thoughts about you.

I am doing just fine.
I am doing just fine.
Just you wait and see.

Duele.

It doesn’t hurt, I am okay.
No duele.

Jump to your feet.
Dust yourself off.
Pretend it doesn’t hurt.  While the tears are forming at the corners of my eyes.

No duele. No pasa nada.
It doesn’t hurt, everything will be okay.

Be strong. Fuerte. I am bigger than my cuts and my scrapes. Bigger then my falls and failures. Bigger then the embarrassment of the hurt I feel inside.

It doesn’t hurt, no duele.

It hurts. Straight to the core. In the deeper depths of my soul. I could paint the wound any color, but it never stops hurting. How strong am I suppose to be? How strong am I suppose to allow the world to see?

Levantate. No pasa nada. Pero todo duele.

Everything hurts. From my skin to my bones to the very depths of my soul. I have been programmed to make every scrape disappear. Every broken blood vessel nonexistent. But it hurts. It hurts every inch of my skin and I am too afraid to say so. I was brought up to believe that if you can’t see pain, the pain doesn’t exist. Cover up every cut, bandage every bruise and broken bone. If it’s not there, it doesn’t exist.

I will lie through my teeth. Clinching my fists to stop the tears from forming.

It doesn’t hurt.
It doesn’t hurt.
It doesn’t hurt anymore.

No duele tanto. Pero, duele suficiente.

 

Hotel Chelsea.

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She was easy to lie to. I don’t know why I did it, but I found myself lying to her a million times. It never phased me that it was wrong. The way I figured, I was protecting her from something.

I have learned that with people, if you tell a person everything, they will use everything against you. All your secrets, all your dreams, everything. I loved being secretive, being able to keep something for myself. She just never understood that, instead I was a liar. I defied everything she stood for. I led her to believe I was someone else, when I wasn’t. I did this to myself, this I know. I lied, I made myself into a different person for different people, and often forgot who I was. When you make a mockery of yourself, you become the caricature you create instead of yourself. Just a fragment of a person you’re suppose to be. With her I only gave her a fraction of who I was. I could never be myself around her and she was my best friend.

It had been years since we had actually been friends to each other. We were more like acquaintances that tolerated each other. We lied to each other constantly, that it felt like nothing at times. She could lie about everything, but no matter what I did, I was always the liar. I found myself distancing from her. Becoming my own person with my own life and voice. Maybe it was all the lies we told each other. Or maybe we were just finally growing apart from each other.

We had gone to New York before. We made up stories of living in different boroughs and meeting in the middle. Talking hours about our dreams and made up lives of the future. Childish dreams that never came true. Every time we stepped off the plane, we had different experiences. She craved this indie celebrity that came with the internet world, and I just wanted to be a complete nomad. I wanted to hide from the world underneath every skyscraper, write in a million notebooks from tiny hole-in-the-wall cafes. Anything to get away from the boring and mundane of my tiny hometown.

We may not have agreed about a lot of things, but the one thing we could agree on was New York, and The Hotel Chelsea.

My apartment in LA, held photos of my New York.
A New York she never knew.
A New York she never saw.
A New York that she had never seen with me.
Where we weren’t looking up 5 star reviews.
Where we weren’t seeing who ate where.
A New York that felt New York to me.

During a visit is when she asked me about those photos, I lied. Those photos weren’t mine. I had never been there, I could never go without her. When talks came about the Chelsea, as she held a photograph of the Hotel, I told her I had never been.

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I should have been honest. I should have said everything I felt at that very minute. I don’t know why I did that. As she stood there looking carefully at each photograph, I couldn’t help but continue this stream of lies. Something inside made me believe that had I told her, it would just break her heart into a million pieces. This fear of missing out before it became the moniker “FOMO”. We were suppose to do everything together. We were suppose to share our hopes and dreams, and here I was defying those thoughts.

For all she knew, The Hotel Chelsea was her thing. New York was her thing. Even if we shared the same hopes and dreams, it was always her ideas. Her wishes, her dreams, and everything I loved came in at second. She would speak enthusiastically about things I had already heard about. Films, I had seen a decade prior. Bands I had known about for years, songs I had heard weeks before she did. She would make these elaborate mixes of bands I had heard, and bands I had never heard of. Sometimes she would play songs I had heard weeks before she did. If I made a mention of liking any of the bands or any of the songs, she would complain that I copied her, that I was being her. All of the lying had made me into someone else.  I had lied to her multiple times that I didn’t have the heart to explain. Every thing was her thing. From the men she loved, to the people she obsessed over. If I spoke up about anything, I was her carbon copy. How could I, a person of my stature know these things? My character was making her believe what she wanted to believe.

I was ready to move on and grow up. To pack my bags and leave to bigger cities. To fall in love with people that I didn’t make up in my mind. But I waited for her. While she was afraid of being alone and paralyzed by self doubt, that she locked herself into her room and dreamed about life in a big city.

“New York could save me. The Chelsea will save me.” she’d say.

I couldn’t help but feel the same way too. As if she had taken the words out of my heart and spoke them out into the universe. This idea that a big frightening city could change everything. But all of it was just a dream, and reality was living in cities closer to home with people who made us feel at home.

I wasn’t allowed to go to the hotel without her, let alone New York City. It was an unspoken, unwritten word, among our friendship that we wouldn’t go without each other. I would watch the months go by and realize I was waiting for the dreams we shared to start. Start over as different people in a completely different city. I was waiting as the days came and went, as each year we toasted to the future. Every birthday card lined with false illusions of what our future would be. She was the star and I was the assistant. She pulled the stings and I made the things happen.

Still I waited.

I knew it was wrong. I was becoming the fraud, a mere caricature of myself.

The photographs scattered around the apartment were mine. Had she been someone else, I would have recounted all the stories. With her, I didn’t have the heart to tell her anything. That every inch of the hotel I wanted to keep for myself. That I still had tiny shampoo bottles hidden in my dresser drawers, underneath the ticket stubs of our scattered youth. I wanted to keep this New York for myself, my story. I have waited for my life to start that I couldn’t wait any longer. I wanted to keep that part of New York in my story. Keep every inch of the hotel for myself. It was just another lie, amongst all the other lies I’ve told. Lies about everything. Hide every inch of the hotel’s memory deep within the confines of my apartment. Even through the lies we couldn’t hide from our reality. The truth was we were growing up and growing apart, and neither of us had the guts to tell each other.

I was the liar. I was the carbon copy. Because someone like me, should never know the greatness of the Chelsea Hotel. I should have never grown up with stories of artists being inspired by that very hotel. A hotel so grand and majestic, with it’s ghosts trapped inside every inch, crack, and scratch. I never understood how lost I felt, until I walked the hallways of the Chelsea. How sitting on window sills, looking down at the lights of the city, made you crave warmth from people. How cold February nights made you wish for people that no longer existed. How being deep inside the bones of a hotel can play tricks on your mind and your soul.

She would never understand. How my needs of comfort and growth, could ever surpass her loneliness and self doubt.

I grabbed my camera and took photos of every inch of that hotel. The famous stairwell, the beautiful bohemian art, the beautiful architecture of the building, everything. I wanted more than just a mental memory. I wanted something to look back on. Something that was mine. A memory of sitting in an empty bath tub and crying over boys that break hearts and friendships that are going no where. This fear of growing up and being everything that I hated. Realizing that adulthood is frightening and sometimes, you have to fly halfway across from the familiar to find yourself.

I could never explain to her, how I slept with the big thick drapes of the hotel shut and wanted to breathe it all in. Breathe the hotel deep into my lungs and take a piece of that hotel everywhere I went. How haunted it felt in my soul, and how I left a part of myself in that hotel and still want it back. People are so afraid of missing out that they forget, we are all missing something too. Sometimes you need to fly across the country, on a weekend where it’s suppose to be about love, and cry in the tub of a dusty hotel.

I was a liar. For the first time I didn’t care. I felt no sincerity in apologizing in my life. She would never understand, like she never truly understood me. Because in the end our friendship was nothing more than two people lying about who they really were.

I found everything I was looking for at the Hotel Chelsea, and I’ll never be alone.

 

Los Angeles, CA. 2009

Thinkin bout you.

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I should have let you go a thousand days ago. Back to where you came from. Back to where you belong. If I close my eyes, I still see you. I still see the same episodes and replay these images as if they had happened yesterday.

Hit replay.
Hit pause.
Start it all over again.

I could never understand how a mind could become emotionally invested in something that isn’t there. Because you don’t see me, when all I do is see you. Why do we have to analyze everything? Why do we have to obsess over all the tiny details? Why do we care so much, when others care so little. If people are not meant to be in our lives, why do we obsess about them at all?

I can’t turn my mind off for the life of me. I replay these images and think about these thoughts, while thinking about you. I know I shouldn’t. It’s all a silly game our minds play that continue to play tricks on us. Because people in my mind are better then they really are in real life. These illusions we play with that pry on our vulnerabilities and existence. I give into it. I let it all go. Knowing very well I should have let you go a thousand days ago.

I am just another girl thinking about, all the insignificant consistencies of bullshit necessesites. I want to pretend that stupid signs mean everything. That everything means something. But it doesn’t. Instead I grow crazy just wondering if its all in my head.

It is.

But I can’t stop thinking about you. And I know I should have let you go a thousand days ago. I know I should have, but I didn’t. Now I drive myself crazy with these thoughts of you. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself. I know I should stop, but I can’t get my mind to stop.

Do you think about me still?

Do you?

Weird.

I have spent a great deal of my childhood being called weird. To the point that the word always seemed like an insult to me. I was different, I was strange, I wasn’t what people expected, but most of all I was weird. Weird has always been one of those words, that hits me to the core. Maybe, because I had been associated with it for so long that I have grown to hate it.  I wasn’t normal, I was weird. I didn’t like what you liked, therefore I was different. Everyone wants to be accepted and anyone that challenges that is wrong. People can be as cruel as school children can be.

I obsess over every little thing. I love spoken word and written dialogue. I write lyrics to songs I love all over my arms. If I hear something that hits me like a ton of bricks, I write it down, everything. If it makes me sad, if it breaks my heart, everything. If I could tattoo words all over my body, I would. I get excited over a piece of music or hearing an album, that reminds me of a time in my life that people wouldn’t understand. I love things that people don’t understand. I love people that people would never understand. Those are just my quirks that make up my whole existence. I am not gonna sit and lie to you. I am not going to pretend to love something because you love it too. I will not act a certain way just to relate to someone else.  I don’t like the same music as everyone else did or I cared too passionately about something that everyone else disregarded. I cared about background characters, written word and imagery as opposed to what was the hottest and latest in the game. I stick out like a sore thumb. Getting overly excited for the boring and mundane, where everyone else loved the glittery and flashy. I become uncomfortable with the attention. I become obsessed with simple conversations and deep thoughts then I do with moving in a hundred different ways. Because that’s real to me. What other people forget is what I hold dear to me. But that makes me weird?

Instead I find ways to understand my madness. I will not hide my pain or push aside my sadness. I will not make excuses for who I am because its not what you want to see. I love people just as they are in their flawed missed up imperfections. But people have a funny way of trying to change you. Trying to make you into something and someone you are not. What they don’t understand is what makes you weird, sets you free. What sets you apart makes you a stronger person in the end. I have allowed people to call me a variety of different names and sounds. I have allowed them to. Because I was never good enough. I was too weak to understand that what sets you apart, sets you free. When all the fingers point at you, you start to believe them. When you’re different everyone expects you to be just like they are. Insecure and afraid of who they really are. But you’re the different one, you’re the weird one. The one that stood against the grain. I am not who you want me to be. I never will be. I won’t cry or obsess about it. I will not bend and break because of it. I will not change myself to fit any of the moods people want me to be.

What’s weird to you, isn’t weird to me. What’s weird to you, will always make me weird. I am not ashamed to be who I am, why are you ashamed of you?

 

 

 

 

10/31/2015 – Day Thirty – Three.

I am just going to straight up say this, I don’t care about my birthday. I don’t. Past experiences have caused me to have such a bitterness about my birthday, that I wish I could skip the day completely. This isn’t some cry for help, not some sort of dramatic situation. Some time between childhood and early adulthood, I just stopped caring. I’ve tried doing elaborate birthday parties, tried doing fancy dinners, but everything didn’t seem right with me. I get really bad anxiety, which caused me to think of every bad scenario that could happen. I’ve had selfish friendships that have caused me to change my plans multiple times to the extent that I cancel everything.

If I had it my way, I would sit in a museum all day staring at art and people watching. I would sit at my favorite restaurant and eat everything I am afraid to eat. Take a solo trip somewhere and not answer to anyone, until the next day.  Whatever the reason, I usually keep my birthday extremely low key. In the past couple of months, I’ve seen my emotions come from the lowest of the low to an extreme high. Its my insecurities on overdrive, its my anxiety, depression, and everything in-between. I don’t know how to explain it to anyone. Birthdays are an excuse for people to pick me apart, when I should really feel they are celebrating the greatness that is me. I can’t help but think what could you celebrate me for? I haven’t done anything right in years. I haven’t been able to keep myself together in months. Why would you? Those are all my insecurities, paranoias, etc. I don’t know where I got the idea to do anything for my birthday, but after years I wanted to do something.

On 10/31/2015, I turned 33. Something inside of me considered it an accomplishment. I wanted to do something. Not something big, just something simple surrounded by people I cared the most about. I didn’t want to go on some extravagant trip. I didn’t want to get all fussed about in some stuffy restaurant. I didn’t want to go to a bar and get completely shit faced (which I have done countless times). I wanted to feel comfortable in a place I sometimes don’t feel comfortable in. I guess to an average person doing a dinner at home, isn’t some big deal. But when you don’t do anything for your birthday, it means the world to someone. Even if that someone happens to be me. I didn’t expect much, just a few of my close friends, in a small intimate setting, eating, drinking and having a good time. I just wanted to celebrate life surrounded by the people I cared about the most. I wanted to do everything myself. I wanted to decorate, plan, have a menu, have drinks, everything. I wanted to prove to myself that my emotions will not get the best of me and that I can do things. I realized that cooking has a very soothing effect on me. That having myself following a task that I set myself, challenges all my insecurities. Of course I wanted people to have fun, to enjoy themselves, but I wanted to make sure I could do things. That I could host a magnitude of people and still feel okay.

I keep myself guarded after years of being let down by prior friendships. I have a hard time admitting to close friends when I am upset or hurt or sad. I don’t let people in, when I should be trusting with people. Most of my friends have never been to my home. I don’t like inviting people over because this doesn’t feel like my house. Because it isn’t, I didn’t earn this home. Something always caught my attention that at a certain age we are suppose to leave and make our own ways. Which has been a huge insecurity of mine. I realized now that, I needed to be home. I needed to heal and grow, and get stronger. I needed to realize my past mistakes were all growing experiences. People may consider it weird that a person my age still lives at home, but I realized I can’t let people dictate how I feel. I came home to get better because living every where was making me sick. I had been sick for a long time and never told anyone. Then life happened. My mom got sick and I choose to stay. Its hard for me to admit its been hard, because it has. Now I am just piecing everything together and can finally start doing things on my own. I am okay, my mom is okay, and soon I will go on my own way. I shouldn’t feel embarrassed by my experiences but sometimes when the wind gets knocked out of you, you can’t help but feel that way.

It has nothing to do with my birthday but then it has everything. We are expected to be a brand new person every year that hits our birthday. Feel grown from the birthday prior. The past few years, I’ve just grown more sick in a downward spiral. 33, is important to me that, I wasn’t going to put up with my own bullshit. I wasn’t going to let my sickness dictate my life, I wasn’t going to let the past come back and haunt me. For me to be honest about this, makes me realize that I know I am going to be okay. Its taken me a long time to realize that I am not just passing through this home, this place is home. Having people I cared about over to my home, meant the world to me. Its silly to say that it meant the absolute world to me. I didn’t expect much, I drove myself crazy days prior to my birthday. Then I realized that the people I see before me are the people that have helped me in more ways then they can imagine. They have loved me unconditionally when I haven’t been the best person to them or myself. I have had people cut me out of their life, I have cut people out of my life, and still standing before me are the people that stayed no matter what. I knew it would take years to work up the courage to ever do this again, but for 6 hours, I truly felt love, light, and every mushy positivity vibe shine through. I realized that I may not be everyone’s favorite person. On average, I could be the worst person. I say things without thinking of the consequences. I haven’t been kind to people who only deserve my kindness. But I am not the same person I was a year ago. I am not the same person I was 3 months ago. Sometimes it takes something to scare you, to help you grow into who you need to be. I am still growing up, whether I want to or not.

Sometimes it’s the things that scare you the most, are the things you have to do for yourself.