The Golden Days

Poem: Here She Lies

2013-05-15T14:30:00.000-04:00

***Yeah, here's another attempt at poetry. I used to do this all the time, but I've quite fallen off over the years. I know I attempted once on this blog some time ago, though. This was a poem I wrote for my creative writing class at my university.***

"Here lies Lynn Gleason," it says.
It's impersonal, and an injustice to who she was.
Whoever carved the stone doesn't care, though.
All they know is that they're making their mark on the end of her life
and that's all they'll ever need to know.
Her bones lie there, but her soul is somewhere else;
the soul that I referred to as "Mama" for many years.
She left before my life really began--because at sixteen
you never know what you're in for or who you are.
I walked away that day dazed and confused, reminded that beneath
the dirt lies a body I used to hold.
Nowadays she's almost forgotten to me, but
her blood still runs through me and I remember that sometimes and smile.

***I'm really not trying to constantly write about my mom, you guys. I swear. Something in class inspired this one, so I wasn't just going for sympathy or empathy.***

Sunday Songs LXXXV

2013-05-12T14:30:00.000-04:00

Demi released new tracks from her album coming out May 14, and this and "Nightingale" are definitely my favorites. They're beautiful.

This song has so much strength to it, I love it. It's like when I really listened to "Awakening" by Switchfoot for the first time. It's alive and it makes you feel alive. It makes a statement, and I really like that.

And Demi's vocals are so outstanding in this album, it's unreal.

A little something about me, a little something for you.

2013-05-11T02:13:00.001-04:00

So, after all these years—22, almost 23, actually—I have finally discovered what has been wrong with me--

Why I sometimes struggle with staying positive, or holding onto the positivity.
Why I’m so scared all the time to try new things; I can’t deal with change, either.
Why I’ve always been so scared.
Why I was so shy it was almost crippling.
Why I still tense up around new people or strangers.
Why I grew up so soft-spoken.
Why I’m so impatient about things and sometimes I get so worked up I find it a bit hard to breathe and my stomach starts doing insane flips.

The past year, I’ve been so scared someone was going to tell me I have undiagnosed depression or something. But no. I have anxiety. I honestly couldn’t be happier, which might sound weird, but I'm just glad that I have an answer. I've seen much worse cases than mine. I just never knew how to get a handle on it because I didn't know what I was dealing with or what was happening to me when I would start to get scared or worry.

All those freak outs I kept having—especially the increasing number I’ve had in the last year—were panic attacks. It never felt like what I imagined the word "panic" to feel like (except the last two times it happened), so I never thought to really label it is as a "panic attack."

I just have anxiety. Now that I know that, I can move on and learn coping mechanisms when I start to freak out again. I just wish it hadn’t taken me 22 years to figure it out. I'm not the type to use this as an excuse or a crutch. I hate that. This just gives me more ammunition to move forward with what I’ve been dealing with with my counselor for the past six months.

I was so Hell-bent on believing nothing was wrong with me that I disregarded the fact that if you turn to someone, you’re taking care of yourself--you're doing yourself justice.

If you think you may have a disorder, an addiction, a mental illness or just something like anxiety, talk to someone. There are counselors for a reason. They will help you. You don’t have to be medicated (I won’t, I’m not), but at least you’ll know and they can help you with ways to decompress and cope—the healthy way. Don’t be afraid to ask for help; I could have done well with this information years ago.

Six pieces of inspiration from my year so far...

2013-05-06T15:30:00.000-04:00

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1. A message from a student organization in a hall at my university.
2. Letters are always inspiring. This is one from my pen pal and a best friend/soul sister, Ariel. I'm racking up pen pals, which means I need to start sending off letters soon.
3. A message etched into a bench on campus. Graffiti probably isn't very "Godly," but it was a sweet message, nonetheless.
4. Occasionally, I draw.
5. My latest tattoo (I only have two, anyway). It's a reminder to keep my chin up and a reminder of how far I've come. The heart was a bit of my own tribute to Demi Lovato, whose story really helped mine. I love her honesty and her passion to actually be there for people. I actually got it the same night she Tweeted that she was 11 months sober and healthy. That was such a cool thing for me because I didn't know. Now she is passed year, moved out of the sober living house and into her own apartment and moving forward. I couldn't be happier for her and how far she's come. (Read about some of my revelations since I've been on my road to mental recovery: here, here, here, here, here, here and here.)
6. I got to see Demi live for the first time.She came to Orlando and performed at Universal Studios. After the tattoo coincidence, seeing her was even more exciting for me. I felt so connected to her. Music is so powerful, and she actually uses it to its full advantage. Belting out the lyrics to "Skyscraper" along with her--and through tears even--was so freeing and reaffirming that I am stronger than I was when I was younger, and all the issues I had suppressed were finally behind me. My best friend and boss went with me and she was converted into a bit of a fan and gained some respect for Demi. (It was kind of a "ha!" moment for me.) It was one of the best moments of my entire life. I got to see Demi in action, and I got to see her happy. (And as an added bonus, she was phenomenal at everything, and we got to hear her latest single "Heart Attack" live for the first time--for her and for us. Not to mention, we were her first real show [with a full set list] since her summer tour ended and X Factor really kicked into high-gear.) Okay, I'm done talking about that now. It was just a great night. And Universal Studios is so much fun, so I recommend going any chance you get. The only thing that would have made that experience better was if I could have met her. But I enjoyed getting to experience Universal, and not the waiting line, more. Next time I see her at a concert venue, yes. It will happen. (This was the post where I touched on it a bit: here.)

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I had more pictures I could have posted, but these really said something for me. They have been significant moments for me in the past four months. Sometimes, it feels like it was longer ago than just this year--I look back and it feels as though this year flew by and drug by all at once. But I guess we say that every year, don't we?

What has made your year inspiring? Who has inspired you?
Stay strong, friends.

'Demi Lovato: Stay Strong' documentary.

Sunday Songs LXXXIII

2013-05-05T14:30:00.000-04:00

Scared

2013-05-01T01:44:00.000-04:00

Before, I was scared that I couldn't take the job or take the responsibility. Then she said something striking. She always knows how to say something to pull at my "heartstrings"--that instrument that keeps me alive is sounding more and more like a fiddle than a piano or harp these days.

"You don't have to be perfect."

It was simple--a simple sentence, a simple statement, a simple thought--easy. Of course I don't have to be, but I feel obligated to be. Just as I always have. It's what tore me apart years ago--the idea of perfection--and what motivates me to do better today. There's something about hearing the reassurance that perfection is a construct no one can reach makes me feel more at ease.

What she said was triggering, but she set me free that morning when she said it. I know I'll be happier if I take on the responsibility, and I know if I'm scared then it's something worth conquering.

I discovered something even more interesting that day: Revelatory writing may seem overdone, but revelations are for everyone--even small ones, like mine.

Sunday Songs LXXXII

2013-04-28T14:30:00.000-04:00

Sunday Songs LXXXI

2013-04-21T14:30:00.000-04:00

Because I'm sure you all love Josh Ritter, too, it was time I properly embedded a live video of him here.
Happy Sunday, folks.

Sunday Songs LXXX

2013-04-14T14:30:00.000-04:00

Ariana Grande's new single is so much fun!

Sunday Songs LXXIX

2013-04-07T14:30:00.000-04:00

I shared this a couple of weeks ago, and had to make it a Sunday Song. It's glorious.
Don't turn down the chance to watch and share this street performance.

Amazing Love

2013-04-02T14:30:00.000-04:00

When I was younger, my mother would sing at church, and she had secured a solo with "Amazing Love." I still remember her vocal embellishments on the second repeat of the chorus. When she got sick, she couldn't sing it anymore, but we all still revered her version at church. That's back when church was a regular part of my life, and I had to wake up at 7:30 a.m. with my mother so she could get to church early and the band who lead worship could rehearse before the congregation started to file in at around 9:30 or 10 a.m.

By the time I was 15, being a member of a church was all I knew. And for a good part of my teenage years, my fondest memories surrounded my unimpressive but close-knit youth group. I thrive in community environments. Which is why my job now is perfect--because we all live in the office whether we want to or not, and we have to like each other because our product depends on cooperation, sugar, spice and everything occasionally nice. I was nostalgic for how the youth group was when we first joined our second church. Everything was enthusiastic and inspired, and had we had a growing church, the older kids could have lead the younger ones. But we didn't. Instead, we had a simple group at a simple church that would never be anything more than that.

If I told you I could remember what was written on the wall in the youth room before it got painted over, I would be lying. The cliché, "it's but a memory" is truer than true. I remember something was written there, though. Something Jesus-related. A youth leader--whom I had only known his last two weeks before he left for another church--wrote in marker on the bare walls of the tiny youth room to make a point. That tiny youth room was all we had to barricade ourselves from the taxing adults next door in the sanctuary. It was the perfect, unfortunate size for a group that would never grow larger than 10 teens in the three years I hung around. But in the beginning it was worth it.

When we decided to paint the walls to something we thought was more fun and fitting than off-white, for a funky group of rebellious and contemporary Christian teens that thought heavy metal had changed their lives, we attempted to cover up the past with a dark blue and left one wall to be painted in chalkboard paint--for no other reason than we could doodle on it. But we put the primer in the absolute wrong hands. With a head full of useless knowledge--much like the older gentleman in the sanctuary who always made bitter coffee in the mornings for everyone and could tell you 100 facts about anything, like a game of intelligent roulette--and a complete disregard for common sense, Mikey took the paint brush and smeared the primer on, tracing the letters of the word rather than covering it in uniform strokes like they teach you in art class. To this day, if you know where to look, you can see the faint word beneath the blue. We tried to cover it up, but it didn't work. It could have said something like "faith," but I have a feeling it said "devil." I distinctly remember us all giggling like fools when we realized how weird it was. That probably shows some reflection on our level of devoutness. Or perhaps it just proves we were indeed silly teenagers. Centuries ago, people feared going to see "Doctor Faustus" because even mentions of demons instilled crippling fear in such a society, much less a play in which thespians were required to act out the summoning of one. But seven years ago, our youth group giggled when something devilish was written on the wall in our church. It was part of something bigger--a verse or a statement. He didn't just write "Devil," "demons" or "Hell" on the wall for the fiery pits of it.

It wasn't until our group took a trip to Myrtle Beach that our attitudes started to change. Church wasn't a chore for me after that. I enjoyed Sundays, but some weeks you would just rather spend your Sundays sleeping in or watching cartoons like an anti-Semite. But God wasn't just some omniscient presence I had known of since I was a toddler after Myrtle Beach. Until then, I had asserted myself to be above the believers who only had faith because Hell didn't sound fun, or because they were utterly lost without it. But that trip, meeting with several other teens who weren't that different from us, and getting to spend time at the beach with each other (rather than that tiny, hot room), made me realize why I had persistently believed all this time. I didn't need what those nonsensical billboards and televangelists told you that you needed in God. I believed because I actually had faith that it was true, because I saw (and see) proof of it every day. Say what you will about Baptism, but I got baptized for the first time when I was 16-years old after having put it off since I was 3-years old. I blame the beach and Chris Tomlin. I had insisted I didn't feel secure enough or devoted enough, and I refused because I would have much rather waited until I felt that devotion before I took that step. Because it was supposed to mean something. Oddly enough, no one else seemed to get that. But like any large leap in my life--symbolic or exhaustingly physical--I was going to take it seriously. I'd like to think I got "Saved" that day. At least, that's what my friend said sometime after, because my choice was more meditated.

I am still like that rebel in that small group, though. I don't think tattoos are damning, and I see no reason why federal law, ruled by a governmental entity that's supposedly separate from the church, has the right to tell anyone who they can marry. I have my opinions about celebrity fodder like Lindsay Lohan and Charlie Sheen, but I like to think I stay out of people's way and out of their business. I'm a friend, not a preacher. I love people because that's what God told me to do. Smacking people in the face with a Bible won't make them your friend. In fact, you'll never get picked first for anything on the playground if you play that game. That's the first rule you learn in both Kindergarten and Sunday school; at least you should if you don't.

I was invited to a church recently, and I've made a mental note to go back. Because fellowship is nice, even if it is just once a week. My first week there, they sang "Amazing Love." I started crying. I took it as a sign that I should be paying more attention to what God wants for me. But I'm a flake. I'm going to have to be reminded more than once.

Sunday Songs LXXVIII

2013-03-31T14:30:00.000-04:00

This song has the lame pop vibe that's fun to listen to when you're in a silly mood.

I never get sick.

2013-03-23T20:02:00.000-04:00

I never get sick, and when I do I am the biggest baby ever. Reality suddenly becomes this surreality of cuddling my pillow so hard I'm practically dry-humping it and enough medication to make me think I'm a novice existentialist. (I'm not.) I never really take medication, either. I do more now than I did growing up--because the "real world" requires caffeine and migraine medication. But even still I try to tell myself that not every little ache requires a pill. Our bodies are more resistant than that. And there is a 60's conspiracy theorist living inside me, reminding me everyday that we don't really know what long-lasting effects pills can have on us. At any rate, I don't want to be a slave to Tylenol, or need Ambien to sleep at night. I want to feel in control, I guess.

The worst part about being sick is that you never truly know how sick you can be until you pop a Mucinex. That chalky pill, that makes me gag if I unfortunately taste it as it goes down, loves to make everything worse before it will make it better. My body isn't equipped for this. Jennifer Lawrence once said, while stumbling through a speech while sick: "I feel like all three Stooges right now." If I were less lightheaded I could top that. Instead, I'm reading Bossypants by Tina Fey and reminding myself that being pathetic is not the road less-travelled. And I mean that sincerely and lovingly. Fey is a genius. While my fellow classmates are enjoying sand, salty water and sunshine, my spring break consists of cuddles with animals, copious amounts of tissue and all of the carbs I can get my hands on. Which is okay. Better a runny nose than bad decisions oceanside.

However, I do need my body to "get it together," as one of my former roommates says. College is no place for runny noses and whining. I can't get an A in that. I still have papers to write and a job to do. And I'm still hungry after eating my weight in Doritos. This is why I never get sick.

Among the Many Who Are Unbroken

2013-03-14T13:52:00.001-04:00

***This was also a paper/experimental essay I turned in today for my creative nonfiction class. With that said, it's almost nothing but musings, but considering that's sorta what I do here, I figured it wouldn't be that hard. I edited a few things out, but only maybe a couple of sentences.***

When you hear someone say, “You’re not alone.” It’s a mantra—a reminder. Whatever you are going through, even if it’s specific to you, you are not the only one dealing with some form of pain or frustration. But how we deal with the issues and how they affect us are unique to each person, and the sooner we’re sympathetic to that, the better we can be there for others to help them heal. I remember hearing the song two years ago—it was her first single after leaving rehab for a myriad of problems left unresolved until that time. She came out on the other end a stronger person, and I admired her for it. What I didn’t understand was why the song resonated with me so. I didn’t go to rehab. I wasn’t sick. Why were the lyrics affecting me?

After the song released, I listened to it a few times and the metaphor was not lost on me—at least, I knew what metaphor she was taking from the song when she performed it. There was no one specific reason that she found herself in a dark place; she was stuck in a place where the toxicity in her life was eating away at her. And after she fell, she picked herself back up and worked towards cleansing herself of it, once and for all. “You can take everything I have / You can take everything I am / Like I’m made of glass”—I cried when I heard those lines for the first time. Back then, I couldn’t have told you why. It was much stronger than I was. “I will be rising from the ground / Like a skyscraper.” Much stronger than I.

One year later, she got back up on her feet and started her journey to a better future. She wasn’t another Lohan—she was searching for the happiness she knew she deserved in a positive and healthy way. That’s when I started my own journey—because I wasn’t happy, and I deserved to be. (She taught me that.) She represented joy and what it meant to love life for what it is. She seemed to be genuinely happy at concerts and on TV. It was a side of her I had yet seen. But what resonated with many people who followed her was her willingness to be so open and honest about her issues, even when it hurt. Past tense doesn’t give her any justice, though. She still is a joy to see—and honest.

I found a new way to cope with my stress and pain, rather than let it build up and pretend it wasn’t there, because of her. Until that time, I had become an emotional monster—one who could violently fly off the handle at a moment’s notice. It’s strange how long you can allow yourself to carry guilt and shame and let it eat away at you before you notice it’s there. Luckily, it wasn’t too late for me—if it ever really is “too” late to do something. As long as you’re breathing you have room to grow, I think.

I never dealt with my mother passing when I was younger. And hearing everyone try to console me on something I swore I was “over” made me only fall back further into my shell. “It’s a tumor on her brain stem,” the doctor said. Even still, the idea of cancer or tumors—benign or not—are such a scary thing. They are so foreign and so violent. Not many can describe truly what cancer is, just what it does. That uncertainty is what unraveled me at 14-years-old when they said my mother could have it. The tumor was benign, but for where it was, it might as well have been cancerous—a silent killer. Very little can be done once the central nervous system has been tampered with, and you could see her growing weaker every day. But I only live with the image of it in my mind; she lived with it for two years. My mother was yet another woman who proved to be much stronger than me.

I never dealt with the bad marriage my father had after her. A woman who loved our family so, but wasn’t ready for the family she was given. We had too much baggage. For the first year after my mother’s death, you saw it on everyone’s faces. If they knew, they only looked to us in pity. It was their own form of love, I suppose, but for someone as shy as me, I didn’t want any more reason for someone to look to me at all. I just wanted to disappear. When this stepmom came into my life, everything seemed perfect. She would never fill that hole left by the one woman in my life who would love me more than anybody else could, but she fit. Until she didn’t.

I never dealt with the new relationship my father has now that ended the old one. He was crying and hurting because he hurt someone else. What can you do when you know how gentle his soul truly is? He made a mistake. And I love my father. I truly do—even if I don’t always love his choices. The worst part was admitting to myself that I would probably never see that stepmom again, and that I actually did love this new woman in his life. When did my life get so convoluted?

We lost our home, we moved somewhere else. I was being uprooted. Even at 22-years-old, it doesn’t get any easier. Once you’re used to something, you want it to stay that way. At the very least, I wanted one stable place to come back to when life here wasn’t as stable—because this town and education is just a phase in my life, I always said. Even all of that was taken away from me. Each break, I would come back home to a much taller, younger brother, a father with a new job and new issues with his wife or a new wife. And then I was packing up all of my belongings and moving to a new home, in a new town, in a new county. Extended family was closer now, but given my history with them, I never was sure how much of a blessing that could be.

Much worse could have happened to me—and now I am more grateful that that is the worst of my problems. But psychologically, I never knew how to deal with it. I grew up a scared, shy person. Scared of everything and everyone—untrusting and unwilling to face my fears because I never believed I was strong enough to do it alone. Change frightened me because it rarely wrought good things. I’m terrified by the nightmare of possible change to any decision I make, so I stop doing for myself. I stop living life and reaching for my dreams and achieving everything I have ever wanted. I stand still, because it’s easier. I stand my ground, because I’ve proven I can take the punches a lot easier than I can stop myself from tripping and falling when I go forward.

And when life seemed to be going my way, I came home and it would fall apart again. “Only silence, as it's ending, like we never had a chance / Do you have to, make me feel like there is nothing left of me?” Here come the tears again, I would think every time I heard her voice build up to the chorus. Where was all this coming from?

That’s when I had to get help, because I had lost my nerve—the little bit of nerve that years of faking confidence had gotten me. I fell apart, and the worst was admitting I could not pick myself back up again. I had grown up with a father who taught me that you have agency in your life, and I grew up seeing proof of that every day. Admitting that I had allowed myself to fall this far and now I could not just take that control back alone hurt my ego. Because I needed that control.

A day later I was in an unfamiliar office trying to hold it together before I could see someone. When did my life come to this? I thought. Therapy is a stigma no one ever wishes on themselves, but they are stronger when they admit they might need it. That doesn’t mean you have to be heavily medicated every day or believe you are crazy. For many, it’s just a way of maintaining your sanity, because life isn’t always as easily manageable as we make it seem. This stranger made me spill out everything for which I was still harboring hatred—even hatred towards a mother who was no longer here to even justify or defend herself. And it wasn’t fair to her, and I knew that; which is why I never said anything. It was a release I needed. I felt like someone had given my wounds a chance to breathe. “I will be rising from the ground, like a skyscraper.” I finally got it—got what it must feel like to move forward and start to move past everything that had held me back. To not just stand your ground, but build a foundation there and rise above those problems and those changes that influenced you.

Four months later, I spent most of that time reflecting and teaching myself how to stay strong—I still believe in agency. Occasionally, I go back to that strange office, because it helps having someone new to help me sort out whatever I am thinking. That song came back to me one night and I started crying again, because I needed to hear it. Her recovery suddenly became just as important to me as it was to her, because it proved to me that—even though logically I knew it was possible, psychologically I still needed to hear—I can be happier than I am now.

Then I heard her sing her song live for the first time—for my first time. She sat down at the piano and started to speak—we knew what was coming next. Everyone in that audience has been following her, too. “This song is always a little emotional for me to perform,” she began. I felt those tears well up as she spoke about how thrilled she was that life was moving forward for her. She has done so much for herself and others in the past two years; it’s almost like that hollow girl we used to know is but a distant memory. I’m sure, for her, she’s still a close friend, but one she is nurturing. “I want to be able to help at least one person. This is why recovery is so important to me…”

“Because you deserve to be happy.”

That was it. That was the moment I felt all my emotions boil over again. This time, it wasn’t because I wasn’t dealing with it, but because I was, and until I’m 100-percent again, those wounds won’t completely scar-over. But it is okay, I thought. I have healthier ways to release those feelings now—I’m a mess built from a convoluted mess of interwoven problems that tangled somewhere in the middle. And if I’ve learned anything from literature, we’re all a little messy in our own ways, but a resolution is possible. (Unless you’re reading something more Postmodern.)

We, the audience, all had tears in our eyes that night when she sang to us, and so did she. It was a moment where people actually connected through music. There is a power in music, and when we were belting the lyrics back to her—me through teary eyes and a lump in my throat—I realized just how powerful that connection can be. And for once, I felt happy. Because I was better than I was a couple of years ago when the song first released, and this time I was with her—I was singing it with her, and it felt more real than anything I had received in that strange office, yet. But like that strange office, I had received a form of therapy I really needed—a way to let go: “You can take everything I have / You can break everything I am / Like I'm made of glass / Like I'm made of paper / Go on and try to tear me down / I will be rising from the ground / Like a skyscraper.”

I wasn’t singing to her like in a moment of worship. She’s a person, like all of us. If anything, we were reminding each other that the support is there. But when I sang, I was letting it all out and reminding myself how strong I can be. I was reminding myself that there is no need in life for negativity. That happiness is well-deserved for all. That I can love myself and love life even in the darkest of times. I still get stressed and lose sleep—I am a college student, working, after all. But I’m handling it rather than just covering it up. One day I hope she knows how much her story helped mine.

I’m no longer broken. I’m happy.

Sunday Songs LXXVII

2013-03-10T14:30:00.000-04:00

Sunday Songs LXXVI

2013-03-03T14:30:00.000-05:00

Sunday Songs LXXV

2013-02-17T14:30:00.000-05:00

Becoming a Wanderer

2013-02-11T13:37:00.000-05:00

You're only as strong as the glass case you hide in--like a porcelain doll perfectly presented to the world that matters. That's what she taught me. I want to be more than that, I thought. I was just sitting behind a computer screen avoiding more work, because that has become my profession. I manage to achieve a lot of virtual work in a day and remain physically listless until called upon. Like a happy lie.

Rather, I would like to try and achieve all I can because that is what I am sitting at this desk to do. The rest will fall into place when I get up and stretch. Because I'm not an antique--something aging by the day and immobile. I am a wanderer pleading to be let out of her cage. And life is out there, somewhere--for the past 22 years, the world has served me well, to some degree. It doesn't deserve a lie, nor do any of the people about whom I write.

Sunday Songs LXXIV

2013-02-10T14:30:00.000-05:00

***You might have noticed you can only see one post at a time... Just hit "older posts" for more. I'm just trying something new with layout. I might add an archive thing on the side.***

Since my last post was about being brokenhearted, this song popped in my head, but specifically Carly Rose Sonenclar's version of it on this past season of X Factor USA.

Usually I don't care for these shows, but Demi Lovato being a judge made me want to try and watch these kinds of shows again, and I found I really enjoyed this one more than any others. I grew tired of them for awhile.

Carly Rose was definitely a favorite of mine.

Brokenhearted

2013-02-05T21:39:00.000-05:00

Imagery is such a strong tool in language. The ability to take a few words and make someone feel is a powerful and underestimated skill. I wonder who the first person was to coin "a broken heart." We say it without thinking of how captivating such a phrase can be. Because when you have a broken heart, it literally feels as though someone reached for the most vital of your organs and pulled it apart with a grip akin to Samson.

It's sensory--"a broken heart"--because you feel it deep in your bones. Your body heaves as you try to catch your breath--muscles struggling to lift and relax your chest cavity. Then there is a release; you let go. You let go only after putting on a brave face, one you barely have the strength to fake, and you face those fears and the one who has broken you. Because a broken heart means more than just a punctured organ. That heart, now aching, flows life through you and when it breaks, so do you.

That release gives you purpose. You find some sort of supernatural way to loosely mend your heart back together and move forward--because you have to, or because of a revelation you really did find when you fought your way through the torment. Then there is strength. When the most important part of you has fallen apart and was miraculously put together again, how much stronger can you possibly get? You conquered Samson and your reward is tomorrow.

Sunday Songs LXXIII

2013-02-03T14:30:00.000-05:00

100 Words: A Reminder

2013-01-31T14:55:00.000-05:00

Have you ever read a beautiful piece? I did a notable piece, once. I remember my eyes tearing up before my mind had even time to wonder why. My body was working through the imagery before any literary analysis could be made. Because I didn't need the literary analysis to know it was poetry--poetry in motion, poetry flying overhead like a hummingbird. Just like the hummingbird Doyle spoke about in his piece--admirable jewels with tiny hearts racing at ten beats per second.

I tack "Joyas Voladoras" to my cork board in the office, as a reminder of my own heart and the weight it carries every day.

School Days

2013-01-29T18:41:00.002-05:00

I imagine old schoolhouses had graffiti, too. It was probably less of a battle for students to etch their names into the worn wood, though. Then again, all I know about those schoolhouses is what I’ve seen in episodes of Little House on the Prairie. I remember feigning disinterest in the show, but if I was sick and skipping school, I would spend my mornings wrapped in a blanket, with a bowl of oatmeal in my lap and watch the filler-marathons some television stations would broadcast before noon.

There is one old schoolhouse that sits in a park back at home. Heritage Park has many relocated, historical buildings from around the county; even a train. I love that place. It comforts me to know that those “old days” settings aren’t just full of anomalies placed by Hollywood. The park has a schoolhouse, an old doctor’s house and a small shop. It’s nice to know, too, that Laura Ingalls Wilder could not have lied about everything.

I’m focused in class—really I am. There is no real wood to be found in this classroom. These modern classrooms are all carpeted with strong, cemented walls. In fact, this “schoolhouse” holds several classrooms, unlike its historical predecessors. However, the light from the window is wide-open and distracting me just as the large windows of those old structures would have; the rays from the sun are illuminating my notes and the desk in front of me. It’s empty. The back of the chair has Eric’s name etched into it—whoever he is. The words “love” and “fuck” are also etched into the chair so deeply, no paint will reverse the passion and determination it took one or two students to leave their mark.

In elementary school, we learn how to draw pictures on our desks and on the walls when there is a void throughout the academic day—or if clay and “learning” blocks cease to be as entertaining. I don’t know who we learn it from, or who started the trend, but perhaps our urge to scribble on the walls at home fuels our want to destroy public property everywhere. We’re elementarily impulsive at that age, after all. In middle school, those ahead of the social curve are already leaving slurs and phone numbers in the stalls. Where we learn the hate so soon, I’ll never know. You don’t learn psychology and anthropology when you’re a 13-year-old in public school. And those elementary doodles we left on our desks cover more of the desks and trail into our notes we are surely taking in class. In high school, students get creative. While some are still leaving phone numbers and expletives, my favorite piece of vandalism was from a theatre-kid who wrote an entire Shakespearian sonnet in permanent marker across one large wall in the girls’ bathroom. In college, I’m still surprised to see the infantile graffiti. I wouldn’t be as surprised, if our tuition money went to good use, and the clever decided to be thematic in their destructive relief. Perhaps paint and pastels could cover the bathroom walls of the fine arts’ facilities. Perhaps we could use more sonnets on the bathroom walls of the liberal arts hall. Maybe it would be best if all of those complicated formulas from chemistry were written somewhere in the science building for freshmen who take regular trips to the bathroom just to get out of two-hour lectures.

In class today we are flipping through issues of The Sun magazine. In “Hector Isn’t the Problem” John Taylor Gatto asserts that academia is too regulated. What started on the Prairie as a means for learning and thriving has become an institutionalized religion for government—a way to standardize what we learn and divide who we know. I suppose that is right. I’ve seen education from the teachers’ perspectives and the students’. We are filling longer days with less information, but we’re learning something. Perhaps, just like those Prairie kids that learned to read and write just so they could get by are not that much different from us. They fought on the playground and debated in the classroom. What we do learn we carry with us, too. For some, it is art and graffiti, for others, it may be sonnets.

I just find it funny that college students can still get excited whenever they see sharpeners on the backs of large crayon boxes. There’s one in the desk beside me right now. They didn’t have crayons or crayon sharpeners back in the day. But I bet those kids grew up to be young adults still fascinated with the toys they had during their school days, too.

Sunday Songs LXXII

2013-01-27T14:30:00.000-05:00

This song is really powerful to me. I love it.

I'm Happy

2013-01-18T12:05:00.004-05:00

I think back to one year ago, when things were darker, but I managed. I told myself so many times that "I will get through this, and I will improve." But like any resolution, it went unresolved. I am a stickler for self-improvement, but mine seemed to be a slow, painful process. There is something truly liberating, however, in the conversation that preceded the end of the year.

The same thoughts that kept me up for hours for the past few years were released from their cage. I felt something--the pressure softly lifting from my chest. I could breathe.

"So, I'm not crazy?" I asked.
"Of course not," she said. She was a very friendly woman, and I owe her a great deal.

And then I was left on my own, to think again--to consider the possibility that I'm not crazy, but I can't suppress everything. I need to feel, and I'll never be okay until I give myself time to feel. It's ironic, how sensitive I can be and how unwilling to be embarrassed by those emotions I claim to be, and yet how much I held back. And now, here I am dealing with all of the things I put off for so long, and it feels nice. Even through the tears, I feel free--free to feel it all and free to make a change for myself. Why did I allow myself to hold back so much pain?

I'm just one step closer to saying I am 100-percent happy.