Who?

A doe named Jane, or, Jane Doe. An unidentified female, or if you please, you can call me Butter. What? A blog featuring my writing, and things I love, which include, but are not limited to, soup, books, and all things nautical. When? Born in July, another one of those 20 something’s. Where? Tragically landlocked in Idaho. Why? For the sheer joy of existing. How? Take a gander and find out. Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.

Thank You for Shopping

I am non-refundable, much to my mother’s dismay. The daughter she ordered came damaged at best, and her receipt was full of things she did not order.

2 pounds of God loves everybody just the way they are.

What a thrilling idea to an ugly little girl. The duckling that toppled out of her mother’s womb with frizzy hair, and a pudgy tummy would proudly announce one Sunday morning that it didn’t matter if her hair stood up because God thought she was beautiful just the way she was, and she would be struck again and again by manicured hands and bullet words that said, “no, he does not love you when you look this way.” Sitting bruised through a Sunday sermon I would wonder if God really loves ugly things or if he just pretends because it looks nice on paper, because all the girls on those pamphlets our church handed out never had acne on their faces, or fat that jiggled.

3 bags of water under the bridge.

“You wear your depression like a badge. You just talk about it all the time. At some point you have to let it be water under the bridge, maybe if you stopped focusing on it, then it would go away. There’s nothing I can do for you, I’m distancing myself from the situation.” I am a situation like a flat tire on a sunny day, and jam on a new white dress. A situation that sleeps with the knowledge that my mother loves me, she just doesn’t love me the way that I am. I have become a situation who turned into a beautiful woman without your words, without your help.

With your coupon you saved 20 pounds of flesh.  

“At least you’re not one of the big girls.” Why? Because mama, maybe if I grow up big then I’ll go from a manageable summer breeze to a hurricane and you won’t be able to stuff me into your shopping cart anymore. My hips will knock fruit off of the displays, and then maybe everybody will turn and look and I won’t be as perfect as you hoped I would be. Mama, you are not bad, just broken by a system that tells you your daughter is supposed to fit in a shopping cart, and look like a catalog ad. I have become so much more than your insecurities, I have become so much more than my disorders, I have grown into my own home where I don’t need to be written into your receipt.

Where I Am Right Now

Depression and abuse have given me strange gifts that nobody should ever have to un-wrap. I am largely a self-soother, and generally the only hand I have to hold is my own, but the past few months I woke up with a desire to jump off of a building, or spend all day in bed crying, no matter how much I tried to make myself better. There’s really no pretty way to write about the desire to not exist anymore. Yet, I am still here, and that counts for something. I’ve moved back home on summer break, and I’m determined to build myself up the best that I can. I purchased some pretty summer dresses, and I’m going to wear them, and love the body they clothe. I’d like to continue to work on my writing, and send more things out to try and get them published. I’m going to get a better handle on my depression this summer, there will still be bad days, but I want them to be less frequent than they have been the past few months. These past few months I’ve also been pondering my sexuality a lot, and I have decided I identify as asexual. It’s been a really weird journey getting to that point, but I’m glad I’m here. I also wanted to thank all of you who read my writing and offer me support. This blog started out as a way to vent, but it’s grown and helped me to become a better writer, and a better person.

For Helga, My Love Poetry Girl

Women and children have drowned in your eyes
because somebody once stuffed an ocean into them
while writing a sonnet. Your skin is soft like a lost
child’s blanket, and men weep because they’ll
never touch it again. Oh my baby, my pet,
my bear in a cage. We are all paralyzed
by your strange, poisonous love.  

Flowers Don’t Grow In My Skin

The gutted volcano of my father’s temper still stains the carpet and my skin. You cannot make a dollhouse out of a broken home, and though
I’ve tried to sew my dresses out of something other than anxiety 
the blood from where my father’s angry lion mouth clamped down still makes everything red. “If you weren’t so stupid maybe you could figure it out.” He said to everything that my mind could not grasp and now when
I am left crying over a math test and jar that I cannot seem to open
I wonder if I was a little more whole and little less disappointment if everything that happened would make sense.
Because there are two of me, the one with the swollen, bruised cheeks going to 9th grade, and the one who wears skintight black dresses
and red lipstick and makes people laugh, but I don’t know if they’re the same. On nights when razor blades call to me like sirens I try and force us together, this scared little girl and me, but all Ican hear is,
“You’ve got to grow up pretty, don’t be like that girl.”
And I am afraid I’ve left her behind even though she still needs me.
I need me.  

Day 1: The Monster Within Me Sings

Who needs a lover when I have the sun? Warmth proves that I am still here. Some days are better than others, but in the early morning hours if I am a very quiet I can hide from the need to exist. The monster within me sings so quietly only I can hear it. It sings songs of “Nobody will notice if you disappear” and “They only say they care because they have to.” I am trapped inside this body. I cannot get away. I will shower and try to forget, but my own stomach startles me with its hunger and softness. Run rabbit girl. They can’t find you if you are oh so small.

“It’s tough to get out of bed; I know that myself. You can lie there for an hour and a half without thinking anything, just worrying about what the day holds and knowing that you won’t be able to deal with it.”

– It’s Kind of a Funny Story (Ned Vizzini)

I move back home soon.
It’s been a really difficult month.
I miss my friends a lot.
But I’m still here.
  • I move back home soon.
  • It’s been a really difficult month.
  • I miss my friends a lot.
  • But I’m still here.

I Take My Eggs Sunnyside Up

There are birds nesting in my curls most mornings, and no flowers growing on my breath. The girls you write about have an hour to get ready before you arrive. But when you spend the night they’ll slip out of bed to brush their teeth, and try to slide back in like a dream slipping from your mind as you wake up. These girls are not water damaged book spines and coffee stained pages. They have never been your stories to tell.

Depression Looks like a Human Face or An Ill Fitted Suit I Guess

Sometimes when I feel indulgent I play sad classical music and take walks in the rain. But on most days I make myself peanut butter sandwiches, tell too many stupid jokes, and try not to focus on the feelings of inadequacy that cling to my skin like tar and feathers that will not help me fly. I do not often go out clad in long black trenchcoats wearing eyeliner that causes me to look like a drunken panda. Nor do I go lay and wail in the middle of the street very frequently. Actually, I don’t think I ever have done either of those things. When people tell me I don’t look like I have depression, I can’t help but wonder what a person with depression actually looks like.

 Perhaps they are some kind of ethereal being vaguely resembling a black blob that floats around parties wailing and make everyone uncomfortable with its general attitude of sorrow.  I must have been gifted with some kind of superior disguise for my depression, because when I go to parties there are no screams of terror as people flee from windows in panic yelling, “Run! It’s her, the woman with depression!” I suppose this event may not be happening because when I have a bad depressive episode I do not go to parties. I do not go anywhere. I have studied my face in the mirror extensively searching for the party trick that hides my depression. I have also studied the faces of others with depression, and after years of scientific research I have concluded that we all appear startlingly human. It may be alarming to some to realize that pigeonholing depression to a particular type of appearance doesn’t actually work.

“But then how are we going to know who the crazy people are if they don’t look a certain way? I don’t want to be around somebody like that.” A boy in one of my high school classes so charmingly said. If you asked me to tell you what someone with depression looks like I’d advise that you look at the person who sits next to you on the train, your best friend, the guy who served your sandwich yesterday, maybe even your grandmother. Depression does not care how much someone has to offer this world. It moves into the mind wearing an ill fitted suit, and pays no rent. It is a destructive tenant who would rather burn the house to the ground than give up living there. It never moves out, but sometimes the landlords of depression are able to put in a pair of earplugs, and ignore the songs of inferiority that are played throughout the night. On those nights I put on something nice, drag myself to a party, and laugh as much as I can. In spite of the destructive occupant at home, we blend in, and we go on.

The Next Day

Spring is using my shower.
Her thighs are tattooed with cherry blossoms,
and there is a garden on her back.
A season has shared my bed.
I do not love her.
The month of April is borrowing my towels
and offering to make me breakfast,
I will never call her back.
There are petals in the drain.