I am a woman composed of melting snow and perhaps an unknown spring. My own mother left me to emotionally raise myself, and now she’s angry about how I’ve done it. Yet I love her, this strange, resilient woman who doesn’t even know what I like to eat for breakfast, but these words are not for her. They are for you, my surrogate mother. The woman who taught me what real journalism is, and the difference between the phrases “I did good” and “I did well”. Before I met you I had never felt loved by anybody but God. You praised the wit I did not know I possessed, and on one winter day while I sat in a yard sale reject green chair you listened. You listened. Maternal love was a season that did not visit my childhood home. I had never known summer until you opened your classroom door and showed me that I did not always have to be afraid. I feel like a disappointment to the very ground I walk on, but not to you, and that is something. I am growing; I am learning, thank you mother.
I’m having a lovely day, and this is a very important shirt.
How to Love an Ocean
Her cheeks are discarded crab leg red
as she tucks her feet beneath the waves,
and pulls the ocean up to her chin.
These sand filled palms are all I have to offer,
and she will leave me at high tide.
You were always just a train passing through.
Even If You Are
You are lonely and it tastes like a third degree burn. Nobody can stop you from bathing in vodka and sobbing like a lost child in a grocery store, but bubble bath will feel better, and you’ve got better things to do. Your galaxy face wasn’t meant to be viewed through a dirty window, take a shower darling. There is love in a well-made bed, and a cat somewhere would probably let you pet it if you tried. Be lonely and gentle, or maybe lonely and lost, but never lonely and bitter. Please do not let anyone lessen you for your longings, for everyone has imagined warm arms instead of warm blankets on a snowy night. You are lonely, but there are fresh strawberries in summer, and unread books.
“and when you kissed me, fifteen wild Decembers melted into spring”
— Emily Bronte (via the-lyrics-speak-for-me)
Take your depression out for tea, and tell it jokes until it bursts, because you’re still in there somewhere. Depression may be your writing prompt, you’re not getting out of bed for days, your numbness in the morning because you survived the night and you’re not sure how you feel, but it is not the inscription on your tombstone. It does not deserve you. Last night I tied a belt around my neck, and somewhere within me a voice whispered, “Nobody is coming. Nobody is out there,” but just because the world did not find my lost penny despair that doesn’t mean that nobody will never notice. I am coming. I am out there. May we always find the strength to take our own hands, and guide ourselves back to bed, because I am out there. Though there may be storms within us, we are not shipwrecks. I will take my hand and hold steady at the helm.
“The second time I overdosed, my body couldn’t handle it, and I threw it all up. I texted my dad saying, “I think I took a little too many pills”. And every time I’ve overdosed, I always downplay it. I’ve always tried to act like it wasn’t a big deal. That having the urge to swallow a whole bottle of pills was something daily that normal people do. My dad hurried home and saw the empty bottle and he shook me to make sure I was awake. I kept mumbling “I threw it up.. I threw it up..” while I was drifting off to sleep. He had to wake me up every 15 minutes to make sure I was okay. Let me tell you now, it is a big deal. The third time I overdosed, I slept through first and second period and passed out in the counselor’s office. I didn’t want to go to the ER. I just wanted to go home. All I wanted to do was sleep. Again, I just said, “I think I took too many pills this morning.” The fifth time I overdosed, my dad found the empty pill box. I hallucinated, I had a fever. I couldn’t move my legs. All I could do was scream, “Don’t take me to the hospital this time. I don’t want to go!” I became friends with a girl who had overdosed she’s one of my best friends now and when I heard she was hospitalized as well, it just makes me realize how real this problem is. A couple months ago, another friend of mine overdosed. Do you realize how fucked up it is, that I’ve done it so many times that I know the exact procedure that she’s going to go through? She messaged me saying, “I took a bunch of pills, but I just realized I didn’t want to die. I don’t know what to do. Help.” And I’m screaming at her over the screen that she should throw it up and call 911 because sometimes when someone you love decides that they hate the world, that’s all you can do. You can’t teleport through the phone. You can’t travel through the internet. You can’t be there to hold them and take them to the hospital. Your love is not charcoal that can absorb all their poison in their life. I know, love that you would have done all you could. Sometimes words aren’t enough. Sometimes love isn’t enough. Sometimes a person needs to try dying to know that that’s not really what they want. There’s nothing you could have done. You’ve done all you could. Just keep loving them. But you see the thing is, I got lucky. I’ve made it back from 5 overdoses without a scratch on me. But that’s not always the case. My favorite teacher’s stepdaughter locked herself in her room and overdosed. To this day, her stepmother still has a scar on her heart. To this day, on the anniversary of her death, her stepmother still stays home from school on the anniversary of her death. Her sister is in a bad mental state, and so is her biological mother. Her family has fallen apart. You overdose because you think you will get a peaceful release from death. It’s not peaceful. It is not like falling asleep. It is convulsions, vomiting, muscle spasms, fevers, and sharp stomach pains. An overdose is not instant. Hollywood has you believing, that an overdose is how a lady should exit the world. As quiet as she came in, Peaceful and unnoticed. You will go out kicking and screaming and wishing you hadn’t taken them.”
6:03 p.m. (I think I’m done overdosing)
This is one of my favorite things of all time
My Father Builds Model Airplanes Now Instead Of Bruises
The architect of my fear is playing baseball with my brother, who knows no reason to be afraid. I am grateful, but also envious, because I drown when people say, “Remember when you were a kid?” After an hour long bicycle ride I remove a string cheese from our fridge, and as I excitedly unwrap it I glance up at my father who looks at me with disgust, and says, “All you do is eat.” Now when I guiltily choke on my lunch I wonder if I was just born wrong, and if that’s why he hated me so much. My brother is asking for some ice cream, please, and my father is smiling, and generously scooping some into a bowl. I am being crushed by the weight of all the things I could have been, or maybe, it’s the weight of all the things I never was, because when you’re drowning, you don’t notice whether it’s the Pacific or the Atlantic ocean you’re in. My brother takes swimming lessons in the summer, and my father beams with pride when he leaps from the diving board with no life jacket, and swims to the side of the pool. I am 20 years of not being able to swim, was I broken? Was I broken?
I am a terrible person because I have 2 brothers, but when I paint my all American dream in my mind I only remember one of them. Swallowing the ocean cannot erase my guilt because I remember the last time he ever tried to play with me, just like I remember my mother cleaning shit off the walls at 3AM, and the sound of his body hitting the floor as he had a seizure, a thud like the footsteps of God. Brother, we’re all cut deep with love, but stitched up with fear. Until I met you I never knew that people could be brave, and broken.
It would have been easier if you were angry at me instead, ha. I'd rather you be angry than hurt. I was never a good writer anyway. Why else would I have to resort to something as low as plagiarism if I was? But you should be the one to keep writing, don't let what I've done stop you.
Anger is a waste of my time. It doesn’t accomplish anything. Perhaps because you lost your inspiration, and your answer to that in your desperation was plagiarism. The better thing to do would be writing exercises. I never planned on it. I love it too much to ever let anything stop me.
I'm sorry. I know this sounds like a broken record, but I am. I didn't mean to hurt you as unbelievable as that may sound. I know it was wrong but I still didn't mean any harm. But I know it happened anyway. I'd undo this all if I could. You're a great writer and an amazing person. You've gone through a lot, as I could tell from your writing, and I guess I related to it. It's like you wrote for me. But I shouldn't have taken it. I'm so sorry to add more shit to your life. You never deserved this
I’m not angry anymore, just hurt. The intent of the blow doesn’t take away the pain it causes, but thank you. I really don’t have any malicious feelings towards you, and I hope you’re able to forgive yourself, and keep writing, just make it your own this time.