He used to talk a lot about death, but he made it sound lovely in a way that pulled me in rather than pushed me away

When I was 17 I dated a boy who suffered from mental illness. He didn’t know it then and I didn’t either, but as time went on it became apparent. I told myself it was an illusion, that he was edgy and passionate, not suicidal and manic. He used to talk a lot about death, but he made it sound lovely in a way that pulled me in rather than pushed me away.

Once he engrossed me in a conversation about suicide. He made me really think about how I’d do it if I decided it was my time to go. We thought together about this, seriously, for almost a week before coming to conclusions that we had to justify. I told him I’d search for a building with the best view, make my way to the edge of its highest point, and step off—hoping my last moments would give me an inclination of what it feels like to fly. He told me that he would use a gun. Make it big, red, telling. He wanted to leave a mark. He said that when he was found, his body would be a piece of art—even citing Jackson Pollock.

I found the courage to completely leave this boy when I was 19. He begged me to stay, threatened to paint his blood on the walls if I went. With courage, I knew he was not my burden to bearer. So I called the police and reported his threats of self harm. His mom and older sister called me several times, leaving voicemails full of hate, cursing me for poisoning him. For ruining his life by calling authorities who committed him.

Awhile ago his younger sister reached out to me to tell me that he had attempted to take his life. He left a note blaming me for giving up on him. For taking his heart and pulling it apart. His younger sister told me she wanted me to know, but that she thanks me for trying to help him.

Last night, this boy, now a broken man, sat down and wrote another note. He told his mom and sisters that he loves them. He cursed the world for being so destructive and religion for giving people false hope. Then he thanked the girl who did what she could to always see the beauty in his darkness. Me.

Then he did exactly what he said he would do.

What he left behind was not a work of art.

I do not want condolences. I grieved the loss of him long ago. I did not love the boy he was when I knew him. This was the boy who once pushed me down a flight of stairs and later laughed calling it poetry—paying attention to the bumps of my body hitting the stairs in hopes of tapping out a new meter. I did not love the man he became under the influence of his family. A man who refused to take his medication and blamed me for tainting his identity with a stigma that something is wrong with him. What I loved and what I grieve is the person he could have been if everything else didn’t fail him.

He was an artist. He played the guitar and wrote poems. He was also an addict and manic. These are not faults. They are what made him a whole, complex person. I just wish he would’ve embraced what all of these aspects meant so that he could truly live.

I hope in whatever comes after life, he finds peace and accepts himself fully and completely. 

To the girls I overheard making fun of me

Dear Ladies,

I understand the need to gossip, the pleasure of chatting with friends, and even people watching. I get it, I do, but I also know that words hurt. When I heard you around the corner commenting on my hair, it didn’t bother me. My hair is edgy and different. It’s also for me, a reflection of my personality and artistic side. I know that not everyone will like my hair, and that is fine. It didn’t bother me when you commented on my hair, but it did sting when you mentioned my weight.

When you said that I could lose a few pounds and that these pants don’t do me any favors, I was hurt. I looked down at myself and was flooded with every memory of insecurity. For years, like most women, I have had confidence issues and shamed myself for not looking like an airbrushed model. As a young dancer, I quietly compared my curving figure to those around me. Those girls that got all the good parts, those girls that were stick straight with shiny teeth and perfect hair. When you said that I could lose a few pounds I lapsed for a moment. I wanted to peek around the corner  and see some ugliness, but I couldn’t. The three of you were physical perfection. Long toned legs, synched waists, and thick blonde ponytails.  I decided to let you have the comment. To not let your critique of my curved hips get to me.  You are med students after all. It wouldn’t hurt for me to hit the gym. Your words would be motivation. They would, I promised myself that.

It was when I grabbed a drink of water from the fountain to gather myself and again tried to make my way down the hallway that three of you broke my heart. When you decided to open dialog on my stockings, it felt like I was being punched in the face. You giggled over the premise that I thought I was starting some sort of fashion trend. The truth is far from that. I hate these stockings. I despise them with every fiber of my being, but they are medical, necessary. Countless times I have had self-esteem issues having to wear these hideous things, but what is under them is worse. Legs that are purple, ugly, swollen. Part of my own body that has betrayed me. Do the three of you know what that is like? What it feels like to have to live everyday hating a part of your body—a part of your body that you can’t change? To lay down at night in pain because your own body has turned its back on you? I’m guessing you don’t. For the sake of your future patients, I hope you do. I hope you learn to have compassion for others, to not judge based on appearance.

I do not believe that the three of you are bad people. You are pursuing careers that will lead to you potentially saving lives, after all. The three of you chose careers that require you to do good. You are not bad people, but for a moment today you were ugly.

In this world, in this lifetime, we have so much to do and so little time. I guarantee that if you would spend that time spreading kindness instead of critiquing with negativity, you will be infinitely more satisfied. I do not blame you for gossiping about me today. I’m not cursing you for making my heart hurt. Instead, I’m wish the three of you success, happiness, and the ability to show compassion for others. 
.
You never know when your words will be needed for good. 

That time you told

The sound produced in your larynx and uttered through the mouth. The range of pitch or tone with which you sing. Expression in words. An uttering with resonance of the vocal cords.

 Voice.

Your voice.

Use it, they said. Don’t be afraid. You are powerful and mighty, and this voice is your weapon. Tell all of your worries, your pain, your anger. Tell it. Use it. Don’t be silent.

Because even when it happened, you were not silent.

Even through the pain, through the confusion, through the tears, you whimpered. It was small and caught in your throat, but audible nonetheless.

The complete absence of sound. That is what silence is.

You were not silent.

You are not silent.

Think about what you want to say—what you need to say. What happened, and how that made you feel; how you feel about it now.

Say it, write it, tell it.

Twelve years. Today marks twelve years since that whimper passed through your lips.

Eleven years and eleven months since you found your voice, and uttered the story to someone you thought was a friend. It has been nine years and seven months since you first wrote your story down. Since you first penciled in courage, and questioned the burden of blame.

It took six years. Six years for you to write the story where the main character isn’t guilty, where she did nothing wrong.

Three years ago she saw something in herself. That character of yours, she found hope. Hope in the reflection of her eyes as she looked at herself in the mirror, half of a laugh squeaking out audibly into the empty room around her.

Then, eight months ago you wrote the word survive. You wrote it and you believed it. She is a survivor, that character of yours. Her story keeps changing, progressing, growing, and no matter how many times you send her to hell, she keeps coming back—fresh on the page, ready to live it again, survive it again, find hope again.

Today marks twelve years since that whimper passed through your lips.

Today you do not misplace blame. You do not carry guilt, or question if she deserved it—that character of yours, you. Twelve years you and her survived, found hope.

For twelve years you were not silent.

You were not silent.

You are not silent.

Today you have your voice.

Use it, they said. Don’t be afraid. You are powerful and mighty, and this voice is your weapon. Tell all of your worries, your pain, your anger. Tell it. Use it. Don’t be silent.

Today, and every day, I have a voice.

An application of setting

Set-ting /’sediNG/

Noun

            The place or type of surroundings where something is positioned or where an event takes place.

            A speed, height, or temperature at which a machine or device can be adjusted to operate.

 

Underneath a set of ripped up sheets, on top of a mattress that lay dying on the floor. The sheets were a formality, a small symbol of decency. The basement was dark and cold nothing but cement block walls, sloping concrete floors, a decrepit table with milk crate chairs, and that mattress. Age fifteen.

 

 

A small shed behind a trailer home. Clearly scoped out a few nights before. The door was blue with three black two by fours angled across it. Chicken wire covered a long slender window on the side of the shed, like prison bars. Inside was tight, dark, moist. Everything inside felt displaced. Two stacks of mismatched landscaping stones, one half bag of mulch, three shovels and a garden hoe—handles worn down and broken. The contents all leftovers, long forgotten in darkness behind the closed door. Age sixteen.

 

 

The sister’s room. Lime green walls and Hello Kitty on the bed. Pictures of girls from middle school to high school—smiling, dancing, living. A tube tv on the dresser droning an obnoxious laugh track. The sound muffling the explanation that had to be repeated following the ‘no’.  A full length mirror reflected the advances as no was not accepted. Hello Kitty watched. Laugh track chimed in on cue. Age eighteen.

 

 

Underneath footsteps that creaked from above. Stomps between breaths that made a rhythm out of it all. Another basement. Surrounded by plastic rubber containers, shelves stacked with the contents of someone else’s life. A comforter hung from the ceiling dividing the corner into a makeshift room. Steps down the stairs. A stock freezer humming, its lid creaking as someone forages through frozen meats and processed meals. Naked lightbulbs stare back, their exposed wires mimicking the scene below. Age nineteen.

 

 

Smooth linoleum countertops and a small porcelain sink. The faucet ran, splashing warm drops everywhere. Cranberry exfoliating soap in a dispenser with a pump, a grey bath towel on the floor, a yellow one hanging from a steal bar by the shower. The shower curtain begged to be closed as it wilted from a handful of clear plastic rings. Age twenty.

 

 

A forest green sectional couch in the living room of a third floor apartment. Occupants were tucked behind closed doors that spread down a narrow hallway. Glass beer bottles and crumpled aluminum cans lost life on the coffee table near by. Garbled singing of drunken souls rattle through the unhinged screens of the large bay window behind the couch. Melting cheese and whiskey coated the air. a ping pong paddle formed a hard spot between the cushions that sag and swallow those who use them. Age 21.

 

 

A borrowed blanket and suitcase fresh from a 2000 mile ride. Blinds twisted half open and snores pierced paper-thin walls. A twin bed with a simple frame and matching wooden desk squeezed the rectangle room. Soft lips and whispered compliments snuck into the darkness. A cell phone charging on the bedpost fell to the floor. Socks keep feet warm.  Age 24.

 

 

Writing and the Why

It was recently brought to my attention, though I already knew, that the heart of everything I write lives in the examination of relationships. The pulse of my stories thrives in the investigation of love from all kinds of relationships, and through the exploration of different types of people. I understand my need to write these stories, so was caught off guard when someone questioned me.

“Why?” they said. Not to say that I was rewriting the same story over and over again, this person assured me, but “why the fixation on high school relationships?”

Fixation?

That word is not my favorite, so it made me a little angry to hear it. Fixation is so accusing, and connected with connotations of addiction. So, I grumbled about it for a while, and the more I grumbled, the more I really thought about what I was being asked. Eventually, I discovered my answer—which I must admit was harder and more eye-opening than I thought it would be.

Why do I write about relationships?

I have a wound. Actually, I have a few. Admitting that is still hard. It sounds so pathetic. Those words make me think of sad high school girls sobbing over being dumped. Possibly that is part of the wound, but not in the made-for-TV way it sounds. 

The truth? The truth is I keep writing about relationships because I know that I need to keep exploring that wound. The truth is that I’ve only picked lightly at the edges of the scab—that scab that never fully heals. More importantly, I realize that the truth of the process is that I must keep exploring that wound, keep pulling back that scab and searching for the infection. Writing about that wound is my search, and I know that I will only truly find the source of that infection when I find that I can write the absolute truth of what happened.

My exploration of relationships, and my quest to heal, will only be complete when I can finally face the moment where it all went wrong. That moment when I realized that love wasn’t what I thought it was, and when I turned from honest to foolish.  When I can write the story in which being a victim and being at fault intertwine, but only make up a fraction of who my main character is, I will be on the right path.

And this is only the first part.

Whenever I do finally find that courage, and scrape at my wound until I’ve hunted down the source of where the infection hides, it is then that my writing must turn into antibiotics. It is then that my writing of relationships will transition. No, I will not stop writing about them, but the stories will progress past the point of falling.

I will keep writing about relationships.

 I will keep exploring my wound and investigating the fascinating, mysterious, and often frightening inner workings of how people react with one another, until I can face what happened, admit that I was a part of it, understand what changed as a result of it, and most importantly find what I lost so long ago-

the ability to fully, truly, and completely love myself.

Depression has a pretty face

“You’re too pretty to be sad,” mom said. I was five and my teacher had made fun of me because I’d asked for help zipping up my coat. Teacher cackled at me and announced to the class that I still could not zip my own jacket. Except I really could zip my own coat.. when the zipper wasn’t stuck in a crease of fabric.  It upset me, and on my walk home I quietly cried to myself.

Mom enveloped me in a hug when I walked through the door and she saw my running nose and wet cheeks. She stroked my hair and made those soft cooing noises that only mothers can make. She quoted Audrey Hepburn and reminded me that I was beautiful.

“I believe in pink. I believe that laughing is the best calorie burner. I believe in kissing, kissing a lot. I believe in being strong when everything seems to be going wrong. I believe that happy girls are the prettiest girls. I believe that tomorrow is another day and I believe in miracles.”- Audrey Hepburn

I was reminded that I was beautiful often. I was reminded of my need to be beautiful more than that.

My dad never really knew how to show compassion. Tears weren’t something he wanted to deal with, and only seeing his children every –other weekend didn’t give him that chance to figure out how to show his love. I knew it was there, though. I’d squirm as he dragged a brush through my tangled curls and lathered myself in his Zest soap when he told me I needed to bathe. The gritty mint smell comforted me because pretty girls took baths and got their curls brushed out every morning. I knew this because he would stand me in front of the mirror and tell me to look at how pretty I was after I’d been made up for the day. My dad had pride in me then.

On one of those days, after I was all done up, I ran off to play. My brother and I made a game out of jumping off the porch and onto the driveway. He was older and bigger, but that just made me want to do what he did even more. I watched as he leapt with ease from the bannister. The climb to the top was harder than I thought. My legs wobbled as I rose to my feet. The ground seemed so far away, but I bent my knees and jumped anyway. In the air. Down to the ground. My feet couldn’t handle the landing and I slid forward skinning my knees. Tears started then. Deep sobs brewed from the pain and snot ran from my nose, lubricating my lips.

“Did you hurt the ground?” Dad joked. “Knock off that crying,” he continued. “All that does is get you covered in snot and makes you ugly.”  He laughed and scooped me off the ground into an embrace.

I didn’t want to be ugly. Pretty girls are happy girls.

At seven I scribbled in my notebook after my Grandma died. She wasn’t something I was ready to lose, and I still struggle accepting that she is gone. I don’t tell people that, though. Instead I write something to get it out, push the rest of it down, and move on. I did cry at her funeral, though. As I looked at the porcelain shell of the woman I adored I let myself feel, and I let everyone see me feel.  After the ceremony ended, and my family gathered in a line to shake hands with other mourners, I slipped away. Downstairs I found myself in a bathroom staring in a mirror at the red splotches that covered my face and neck. It was then that I promised I wouldn’t do it again. I wouldn’t let people see the ugly. I would be happy.

So I learned to bury it.

The harder the feeling, the deeper I dug.  I pushed the feeling down as far as it would go, far enough away for a smile to take its place. Pushing and burying worked. So did writing. Writing turned my feelings into something beautiful that I could actually show people.

But what I didn’t expect was for that pile to grow--the pile of stories and the mound of sadness that lived buried deep inside me.

 

Today those piles still grow.

It seems that lately I find myself at war with feelings in general. Everywhere I turn, something is telling me to feel. And I do feel. So much that I don’t know what to do with it. During a phone call with a dear friend, I spilled the story of my current emotional distress, to which she calmly and eloquently suggested that perhaps I am dealing with some depression and that maybe I should see someone—a notion I’ve causally joked about for some time—and maybe someday I will.

On my mission of self-discovery, and learning how to feel, I’ve realized one important thing: I need to be honest with myself (something I am still working on).

And honestly, I’m not ready to hear that I am sad. I am not ready to let the ugly show. I’m not ready to admit that I am not in control, or that even the prettiest of faces can be sad.

 

The Whore

The whore was five. Her mom stayed in bed and cried while her daddy lived in a different house with a different momma in his bed every night. Some of those momma’s had crooked teeth, others never smiled. Not at the whore, anyway. Some pinched her cheeks and played with her hair. They called her cute and told her things ears that little never should hear. 

The whore was seven when the man in the ice cream truck told her about cherry pie. He told her he liked it when she wore those sweet little skirts with no leggings on underneath. The man asked her if she wanted to trade a little bit of cherry pie for all the ice cream she could eat. Something sweet for something sweet. A secret sealed with sprinkles and chocolate sauce. A secret with a little piece of cherry. 

Twelve. The whore was twelve when she thought she found love. It chased her at recess and pinched her in the hall. Love giggled with the sound of innocence and the prospect of playing doctor. Love tickled her thighs and examined the two little bumps that she was told to keep hidden beneath her shirt. Love played doctor behind the wooden jungle gym with no panties on. The doctor couldn’t fix anything, and the whore was broken by love.

She was fifteen. At fifteen the whore met a boy. It was the lunch table and they were at school. His lips were pink and he asked her if she was too. Friends were few, and the whore liked the attention. His words were sweet like ice cream, and his teeth only a little bit crooked. Broken hearts were meant for fixing, he had said, although she wasn’t sure hers had been broken. He didn’t claim to be a doctor, but he told her for certain that it wouldn’t hurt. The whore said no, but pink lips came with strong hands. Teeth bit at those bumps she was told to keep hidden beneath her shirt. Nothing tickled her thighs. It turns out he lied, it really does hurt. And then he spit between his pink lips. He called her a liar and swore about cherries because hers never popped.  

Eighteen and she was a whore. Broken hearts were meant to be fixed. She was no doctor, but she knew she was sweet, and a something sweet makes everything better. Everyone likes something sweet. There were boys. One, two, and three. Their words like chocolate sauce and sprinkles, although delicious, never really made her smile. They liked her quiet. They played doctor while she played love. Thighs, teeth, and those two little bumps, bigger and with more force. She opened her legs and kept her mouth shut. Puzzle pieces are what broken hearts become. They fit together—the whore and boys one, two, and three. Sometimes when she let them, and sometimes when she didn’t. The bottle would make it better, they said. It was the glue that put them together, they said. They were not doctors, but the bottle and those pills would help them fit together. Broken hearts are pieces of a puzzle, and broken hearts were meant for fixing. She swallowed. 

The whore was twenty-two when a boy came and never left. They always left after they came. He didn’t tell her she was sweet, but he did call her by name. In her sleep he whispered I love you, but sleep was never something she did well. Friends were few and she liked the attention. There was no more two or three, only one. His lips weren’t pink, but neither was she, not any more, the whore. Broken hearts couldn’t be fixed, not when they were missing pieces he had said. He promised to give her part of his. Something sweet for someone sweet. And so he did. But pieces come with a price, like ice cream and sprinkles from a truck. The whore did what she knew best. Kept her mouth shut. She went through the motions and learned to play house. Because crying moms behind closed doors, and daddies who lived in different houses weren’t really how it was meant to be played. So he took her to church and taught her to live because despite all of her questions she could be saved.

The whore was twenty-six. The boy that came and never left played doctor and house with her still. Broken hearts were meant for fixing and she still had that piece of his, but broken hearts are like puzzle pieces and puzzles fit together just right. He got her ice cream, but ice cream and pieces come with a price. An answer came knocking in the middle of the night like chocolate sauce and sprinkles. A secret she would keep, a little piece of cherry. Sentiments whispered that taken ears should never hear. Those words were sweet and everyone likes something sweet. Something sweet makes everything better. 

Today. The whore isn’t a doctor and she doesn’t know love. Broken hearts are meant for fixing, but not with stolen pieces and chocolate sealed secrets. Nothing too sweet is ever delicious. No sometimes sweet turns sour.The bottle and pills, no she wont see a doctor, but she does have a plan.  With her bouquet of names and arsenal of sweetness she carries a crooked smile, looking for pieces and cherries untainted by secrets or words that hold her hostage.