writing

Shake it out.

tumblr_m5k0d9XEEw1ryy5rdo1_500

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.

Advertisements

Thinkin bout you.

tumblr_o5a4odiAMH1qd2dewo1_500

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?

 

 

 

 

What it feels like for a girl.

Don’t think about it.
Don’t think about it.
Whatever you do, do not think about it.

What do I do? Of course, I think about it. It’s in my nature to think of everything. Everything I am afraid of. Everything I am running away from. Everything I said I wouldn’t think about. The more you think about it, the more you won’t be able to let go of it. Here I am thinking of every single detail. Every single insignificant thing, that makes no difference weeks later. I don’t know why I do it, but it’s driving me insane. Replaying moments that happened yesterday and analyzing things to see why I continue to do this to myself.

Do I bring this out of people?
Is there something wrong with me?
Am I really that awkward?

Its these insecurities that get the best of me. I am driving myself insane by overanalyzing everything, I can’t get my mind to stop thinking about. Every single moment is an episode that I can’t help but replay, over and over again. Dissecting words, going over every minor detail, and thinking of new ways to make things seem better. Because every word that comes out is wrong. Every thing I do or say, is always wrong. I can’t help myself. Is it me? Is it you? Is it the whole universe?  Am I just driving myself crazy? How am I suppose to act when I feel like I am tearing everything apart. It’s been so long since I’ve had interaction with people, perhaps I am a little rusty. I find myself fidgeting more than normal and I can’t help but feel even more nervous than before. This is perfectly normally right?

Right?

I am not crazy, but I sure as hell feel crazy. I can’t stop my mind from asking myself:

Did I say something stupid?
Did I say too much, or nothing at all?
Did I do something to make you believe something else?

People have a way of making you feel completely differently than how you normally are. How can I be so guarded when all I want is to tell my stories to everyone? And yet, words comes out like word vomit and I am saying everything that I don’t normally say. I don’t know how to act when I am around you. Have I always been like this? Do I normally act like this? There is always a part of me that believes I will never be good enough. These stupid insecurities that eat a way at my self confidence and drive me absolutely insane. If I had wore something different. If I had said everything I wanted to say. If I had looked a certain way, maybe I would feel less crazy. This is what it feels like for a girl. At least for me, and it’s absolute madness.

NO.
Stop that. None of that matters.

People who want to know you will keep the conversation going. Life may seem like one big popularity contest, but the right people will always find you. No matter what you wear, say, or do. No matter what you do, these little crazy feelings will always follow. We can’t help ourselves. Sometimes things work out, often times they don’t. But when they do, they are worth every moment. You can drive yourself crazy or keep moving forward. I think I will keep moving forward.

 

4/12/2016

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.

What’s wrong baby?

Why are you single?
Why haven’t you dated anyone?
Why aren’t you dating?

So on and so forth.

If I had a nickel for every time I have been asked the above questions. People make it sound so easy. Falling down, dusting yourself off and then trying again. I know everyone means well. At the risk of sounding crazy, I just let people assume what they want to believe. Its easier for people to believe what they want about me, then having to tell them how I really feel. Because how I feel people seldom understand. I feel scared, I feel crazy, and most times I feel completely broken.

Broken in the sense that my past has broken me into a different person. Instead of shaping me into a better version of myself. I find it harder to trust people, because the past has a funny way of coming back to haunt me. When people have hurt you, it takes a while to come back from. I watch how easy it is for my peers to jump from relationship to relationship. Meanwhile, I watch myself still haunted by the past, with it’s broken words and promises. Hurt does that to you. It breaks and bleeds everything you touch. It claws at your insides, until the raw emotion eats at your soul. I was never like this before. I loved this illusion that love gave you. I loved the sappy love songs, the cliche films that remind you what love should look and feel like. I loved this idea of love and the beautiful orchestrated soundtrack it came with. Now I feel like a completely different person. This illusion of love has broken up my insides and rebuilt itself a different person.

How do you tell a stranger you feel broken? How do you describe it in a way that doesn’t scare off the other person? That pieces of you are slowly going back together again, but the pieces have left you shattered and cynical about love. When people ask you the same questions, how do answer truthfully without sounding tragic?

I don’t know where to start. I don’t know how to tell a complete stranger that someone broke me down completely. With words that are still tattooed on the inside of my heart and creep out onto my skin. The past is the past, but how can you be honest with someone, when you can’t be honest with yourself. Some days it hurts like hell and I want to claw every piece of flesh on my body. I want to scream out every obscenity until it doesn’t hurt anymore. Because thats what hurt feels like. Even after six years, the words don’t feel so vividly anymore, but they still haunt me. They’re faint insignificant words that still linger after the smoke has cleared. I know that not every one is like that. I know people won’t hurt me as bad as my past was. Still, it hurts and I can’t pretend that it doesn’t.

I feel as if these fingers continue to point at me, and I haven’t a clue what to say when people ask me why I don’t put myself out there. You might as well just state “What’s wrong with you?“. I don’t know how to answer those questions without being honest. Then at the same time, I have this need to keep guarded about my feelings. Trusting people is hard. Especially when your heart has been through a lot. I don’t know how to start a conversation with a stranger and not feel completely broken. People want the truth. People want you to be open and honest.  I know that. Deep down, I know that. I want to be open. I want to say everything I have in my heart. I want a level of trust to return, where I can feel open to be honest. It’s hard for me to be open. It’s hard for me to say how I feel, and instead I change the subject completely.

I am not asking for anyone to pick up my pieces. I just want people to understand that its not easy. It just takes some time to feel like myself again. If it takes me a day, a month, or a year, I know I will feel like myself again. Some days are easier than others. I am not sure if this answers anyones questions or judgments about me, but here it is. These are my cards on the table. Take it or leave it.

12/7/2015

10/17/2015 – Day Thirty – Two

I cried when I made french toast today. Cried like the damn world was conspiring against me. Feeling like I had nothing left to give. Buckets upon buckets of stupid tears that meant absolutely nothing. I wish I could fully explain how things like this happen. How a wave of uncertainty can just paralyze your insides and make you feel a variety of different emotions. I have made french toast multiple times in my youth and adult life. Its the one thing I can make that becomes like I am conducting a symphony. Today, I just couldn’t fucking get it together.

I felt off today. Something wasn’t right in my head. I went to bed with anger, woke up feeling hurt and distraught. I hate those days. Days were you can’t seem to pinpoint where the anger comes from anymore. Lately, I just wake up with this feeling of being the worst person in the world. I know I am not a terrible person but some days I wake up thinking I am the absolute worst. This is not me coming in here to ask for sympathy of any sort. Some days I feel like I can’t get it together and other days I can do just about anything I want to. This is where I feel like I am driving myself crazy. Who honestly thinks this about themselves? Who feels like they are the worst person in the world? Because, that’s how I feel all the time. At this point, I am not sure if this is my anxiety or my depression, getting the best of me. When you wake up in a weird funk it clouds over you the whole day. Simple tasks seem harder than usual. I found my hands shaking more and my stomach more upset than normal. I cracked an egg too hard and watched how the fragile tiny pieces of the shell, sat in the egg whites. Later, I put too much cinnamon, too much vanilla, and so on. I didn’t have enough batter on one side of the bread. I burnt the other side of the bread. Simple tasks that made me more anxious than anything. My hands continued to shake, which made my heart beat faster. Before I knew it, the tears started forming and I just started to cry. What I hate the most is when you’re in your own personal bubble everything is a trigger. From the tiny fragments of egg shells in the egg whites, to burning the bread on one side. I felt like the worst person on the planet and I could feel everyone watching me. I hate when people notice and exclaim “If you can’t or don’t want to do the task, I will do it”.

No.

I don’t need someone to clean up my mess. I don’t need anyone to finish my tasks. I don’t need anyone to make me feel worse than I already feel. So I cried. I cried in the batter, I cried in the butter, I cried in the french toast that burnt on one side. All I can manage to think was this probably tastes like garbage but its my garbage that I made. I just want to cry in silence and finish what I started.

10/2/2015 – Day Thirty.

I have a hard time letting things go. Letting go is hard when its all you have left to hold on too. It’s in my nature to keep everything. Packed away until I am ready to let go. Things I should have thrown away ages ago. Ticket stubs, receipts, letters from people I haven’t talked to in years. Little mementos, relics of the past that seem like absolute clutter and trash to the naked eye, but mean everything to me. I put so much power behind these items that they become characters themselves. Its almost as if these memories manifest themselves into these mementos, that throwing them away throws away those feelings and sentiments.

My life seems so invested in things I felt happened days ago, when in reality its been years. This power I put behind memories, I can’t help but hold on to things hoping to find that magic again. I look at these relics spilled on to the floor, falling out of books/notebooks, and wonder whats missing in my present that can’t help me shake the past. The past wasn’t perfect, I am no where near the person I was back then, and yet I can’t help but be in love with the past. I loved so many things, so many people and as years go by, I watch things fray and fall apart. I find myself romanticizing this nostalgia and everything that came with it.  Seems like only yesterday I was there. Only yesterday my heart was beating faster and I couldn’t shake this feeling in my soul. Even the bad has a beautiful memory, wrapped with a melodramatic soundtrack of my favorite band, and a filter only I could come up with.

Throwing these things away throws away the magic these memories hold. I just want to hold on a little bit longer. I want to hold on to every single word, every single moment, every single memory. Everything. Until I can’t remember a face, a lyric, a name, and a song. Until the band plays it’s last encore and we are left with nothing but the dust of the afterglow. This nostalgia will only break my heart but I can’t help it. I can’t help pretending that everything was once beautiful, even when everything was hurting. I want to be locked in these memories until I have nothing left inside anymore. Holding on to these ticket stubs and holding on to feelings that meant the absolute world to me.

I know this will all disappear. One day I will have to let go of everything that is holding me back. But can I stay here before letters turn to dust and photographs begin to fade. Before we all grow old and completely disappear.

Please?

9/26/2015 – Day Twenty – Nine.

I thought about her for the first time in years. It was bound to happen. When you stop being friends with someone, you pretend they don’t exist. You wish them well and go on with your life. Maybe it was the reconnecting with my favorite band, but for the first time I could say her name without negativity attached behind it. Without feeling any aspect of animosity toward her. Where I didn’t feel any hatred, I felt nothing. Dare I say, I felt a hint of sadness? I don’t know.  I get these moments in my life where I believe for a second I can be friends with people from my past. Retain that sense of friendship if only for nostalgic purposes. I have to be honest, I miss people. However, I don’t miss the drama, I don’t miss the lies, etc.

For the first time I felt no animosity toward the past. Where I wanted to let bygones be bygones and sit and talk about everything and in-between. Growing up is harder than it looks. Some of us grow up and change, while others can’t help but remain the same. Here I thought I was the grown up that I had been the one growing up, when in reality I am the one struggling to change. Growing up means letting go of all the hatred and animosity of the past, but I couldn’t do it. Its like I remember why it started, why it happened, and I can’t change the past. I can’t go back and change words or reactions. In the past I had this desperation to be someone else and it never happened. Instead I stayed the same person I had always been. I don’t remember where this desperation to be someone happened. Somewhere between here and there, I forgot what it felt like to be myself. I find the guilt of my own problems seep into this nostalgia, and sometimes I wish I still had someone to talk about the past with.

We were those crazy kids. Those crazy kids that would run at every chance to be in a big city. Small town girls with big city dreams. One of us stayed a dreamer and the other grew up in reality. I am surrounded by reality but it’s the dreaming that still haunts me. The older I get the more I wish I could just ask you a million different things. I wonder if certain things still bother you that did back then. Little things, big things, stupid insignificant things.  I wonder if it bothers you that people are married that probably shouldn’t be. I wonder if it bothers you that the same people are having kids who said they wouldn’t. Who said they only wanted to with you. Because sometimes it bothers me, and I guess I just wonder if it bothers you too.

I know we grow up and become even less of our former selves, but I can’t help but wonder. Nostalgia has a funny way of letting you down. Making you remember things and people as they were, only in memory. Some days I wonder what I would do if I saw you again. I know I wouldn’t do a thing. If I saw you on the street, I would forget you just the same. We are not those crazy kids anymore. If we were still friends after all these years, we would have found a way to drift apart.  Sometimes I miss you and I know I shouldn’t. But sometimes when I hear a song, or hear a funny story, or see someone from our past, I can’t help but laugh. We grew up and I finally understand now. In order to grow up we have to let go of our nostalgia to make way for our reality. We had to drift apart to be who we need to be. I am still searching and you’ve already found yourself.

I understand now, just sometimes I miss you and I don’t know why.

 

A bunch of broken parts..

and I can’t seem to find your heart.

It’s always the broken people you can’t forget. The ones so haunted by the past that no matter what they do, they can’t bring themselves to put themselves back together again. How easy for people to forget and turn off their emotions. Just pretend nothing and no one exists, and continue on their days as if nothing has happened. These people were never real to begin with and no matter how many times you try to reach them, they are never there.

I keep knocking on wood, hoping there’s a real boy inside.

Were you ever real? Were you ever truly broken? I have a hard time separating fact from fiction. The more I think about the past, the more I romanticize this nostalgia. Who you were when you’re broken isn’t the person you turned out to be. And yet, I can’t help but keep running back to these broken people. With their hearts on their sleeves, punch drunk off love. Feeling the emotions, I can’t feel anymore.

Could you ever be a real, real boy.

You feel everything then nothing. Then like clockwork you turn off those emotions that made you bold to begin with. How was I to know that I was only knocking on wood? That all my nostalgic ways were built on puppets pretending to be real boys.

I can’t put you back together again.

After all this time has passed, I find myself thinking about you. I no longer feel resentment toward you. I don’t feel hate, I feel nothing. After all this time I know better. I know to stop searching for the broken people that can’t put themselves back together again. Not to go looking for boys that should have grown up to be men. Stop romanticizing the past, with you as a central character. You don’t exist, you were never real to begin with.

You’re not a man, you’re just a mannequin. 

3/17/2007