Let’s Go

beautiful, Beauty, Creative Writing, Future, Humanist, Journal, Love, Loving Life, Nature, New, Peace, Personal, Relationships

Everyday I am alive, the realization that I have no idea what I’m doing sets in a little bit more.

That my anxiety is a hormonal reaction, and that everyone sees the world very differently.

I’m discovering how I want to see the world, and the person I want to become.
Seeing what makes me genuinely happy, figuring out how to deal with difficult people/situations, and the ongoing struggle to react in ways that represent who I want to be.

I’m finding that I need someone to love. There is an overwhelming amount of love inside of me that I want to give, paired with my extensive barriers that my experiences have created. It’s near impossible to trust when I have given so much love to find that I was being used. Naïveté in it’s purest form, to love someone who has no intentions of loving you back.

I also have the need to travel, to go somewhere that no one speaks my language and I’m scoffed at for being american, and to taste food that was prepared farther away from my home than I have currently been. I want to ride a plane across the ocean, look out the window and be afraid. I want to skydive, ride in a hot air balloon, bungee jump, and watch the sunrise in India while a bustling city wakes up below me. I want to sip a latte in Paris as it rains, eat a orange in the south of France, kayak in Greece, I want to see and go everywhere.

I want to learn how to love running and to be someone the weak envy.

I want to eat avocado toast for breakfast with a cup of black coffee everyday at five-thirty in the morning before I have to go to work.

I want to save money, and have a life I am proud of living.

That is really what I want. To be proud of my life. Escape limiting beliefs and achieve everything my heart desires. I know I can. I will.

I’m Fine

Creative Writing, Failure, fuck you, Her, Journal, Memories, no trust, Partner, Peace, Personal, Relationships

Tears dropped from her eyes, “I’m fine,” no one was there to hear the statement “I’m fine” desperately repeated in a hysterical plea.

How could she be fine? Her grandfather lay in the ground, deep in a concrete hole. She felt sick – Their last goodbye would always be that; Their last. 

“I’m fine,” the words stuck to her lips like fly paper “I’m fine” a lump rose in her throat, her stomach felt like it was filled with acid.  

Her mother walked through the door, “Guess who hit goal today!” Completely oblivious to the breakdown the girl was having. “The sweetest older couple came in and bought two temperpedics!”

In that moment she realized how much she meant. That her mother’s job had more significance than her tears.

Later that night her sister asked to hangout, they would go driving and get Starbucks, and talk. Really, her sister would do the talking and tune her out if she said a word. Or complain that she never listened and used her for Starbucks because the girl didn’t have a job to pay – when she had been invited, said thank you, and apologized for not having the funds – when her sister had insisted she get something and upgraded her drink from a grande to a venti without asking – but then blamed her. 

The sister would talk about cheating on her boyfriend of the time, about going out and partying, and when the girl didn’t respond with “Ooooh, take me!” She was met with a glare, and asked why she was being judge mental.

Like she was supposed to support getting wasted and cheating – but she loved her sister. She didn’t want her to feel like she was taking advantage of her.. She went out with her sister because it was the only time they spent together anymore.. Even though she felt used and unwanted, she went because it was her big sister. She loved her more than anything else in the fucking world.

“I’m fine” she laughed when she passed her ex on the freeway, making eye contact. 

“I’m fine” when she slept with someone who she barely knew

“I’m fine” when she got an average SAT score

“I’m fine” when the dude who ghosted her popped back into her life and disappeared again.

But the world was crippling her, weighing her down when she realized just how average and mediocre she would become. When she realized she would be like her parents and barely be able to afford to pay the bills. Questioning her ability to survive when she was already thinking about how to kill herself, and had been for the last six years. 

Thinking about her dead grandpa, realizing one day she would die and there nothing she could ever do about it. 

She was anything but fine, in a world that masked and beautified anything terrifying. She felt lost, but didn’t want comfort. She wanted assurance, she wanted answers that didn’t exist, but most of all she wanted to feel loved, when no one had ever taken the time to make her feel cared for.

Burdens You Face

Creative Writing, Family, feminism, home, Journal, no trust, Personal, Poetry, Relationships

We burden her.
She won’t admit it, but we burden her.

We talk, but she doesn’t like being reminded of her burdens.
We cry, and her burdens are overwhelming.
She can’t stand us.

Forbid her burdens have issues that need attention.
Forbid they demand health treatments that cost money.

Isn’t it feminist to be selfish?
She wants to think so, and selfishness it is.

This burden doesn’t react well when yelled at by the Abusive Coward,
But let’s slap a “sensory overload” tag on it and call it good.

That burden doesn’t like being threatened by the Abusive Coward,
It leaves and it’s a bad, bad burden.

The smallest burden, the loudest, it needs attention and her time,
but that time is called for by the Abusive Coward.

The coward, he is the victim when he strikes a Burden.
The coward, he is the victim when he threatens a Burden.
The coward, he is the victim when a Burden cries.

She sees humanity in the coward,
She sees love in the coward,
She sees hope, light, and prospect in him.

Her burdens weigh her down,
Suck her dry, they kill her spirit.
Despite being their mother, these burdens are inhuman.

She carried them around, 9 months each.
9 months to learn to despise them,
9 months to learn she would never have freedom.
9 months to realize she carried the children of a man she loathed.

I am her burden, one which has been steadily growing seventeen years.
I am her problem, which she can’t ignore.
I am the outspoken burden which plagues her,

Plaguing her existence with demands.
Fair treatment.
Therapy.
Vegetables.

Extremities which cannot be fulfilled.
Demands which are impossible.
Requests that are beyond capability.
I am your burden, mom.

Godless Life

Athiesm, beautiful, Creative Writing, fuck you, Her, home, Jealousy, Journal, Love, Memories, Peace, Personal, Relationships

I’ll admit it, I’m happy they broke up – because for a short while I loved him.

I mean, who likes to feel replaced?  Who desires to see someone they would confide in become attached to someone new? not me.

Never me.

I may have disagreed with him on everything, he may have been an asshole at times, but I cared deeply for his shitty ass.

I hate that I cared, but I can’t help how I felt toward him.

But there he is. Sitting in front of me again, his gross hair that flips out at the bottom, his thick red jacket (the one that’s extremely fuzzy on the inside, the one that would keep my hands warm on rainy mornings before AP Psych). He got new shoes, I still wear the watch he gave me. a few weeks after we broke up he wore the leather bracelet I gave him, I wonder if he still has it. Why do I care? If he honestly came to me to make amends and try again I wouldn’t take him up on it – he hurt me too much.

He lied.

He dated Felicia.

He let me meet his family, when he knew he didn’t love me.

I loved him.

I could tell he didn’t love me.

I ignored it.

I’ll admit  it, as shitty as it makes me, I was happy when I found out his relationship wasn’t happy – I didn’t care that much if he loved her, I just was happy she didn’t love him.

He’s christian again,

lives with his crazy dad,

probably going into the military.

I’m atheist as fuck,

want to go to university,

I want to travel and live a godless life.

A life of love, of friendship, of tidiness and sex.

I want to burn candles on rainy days,

sleep in on Sundays,

read case studies and policies while drinking black coffee,

eat pomegranate seeds and avocado toast –

White bed spread.

Black bookshelves.

Wall of windows overlooking Seattle.

Seeing a therapist every Tuesday.

A clean fridge.

A white cat, miniature dachshund.

My godless life.

Reminiscing

beautiful, Creative Writing, Family, Journal, Love, Memories, Peace, Perfect, Small Things, Smiling

It’s 1:30am, I have about 5 hours and 10 minutes before I need to be up, but I can’t fall asleep. So, I’m up. And I’m writing. Because I have been trying to go to sleep since 9pm.

All I can seem to think about are my old memories. Very distinct and exact memories.

I can remember where everything went in my last house – the house where we lived as a family last.

I can still here the way the different doors creaked – I can hear the kitchen door that led out to our Asian patio. The way my mom’s desk looked, the stain on the carpet in the hallway just outside my room. The way the carpet came up just enough to see the green tile in my closet. The way the laundry hamper smelled in the hall. How we organized our freezer and pantry. Potatoes on the bottom shelf, onions too, both in wicker baskets. Those rice and blueberry treats mom would get from Costco. The guest house. How it always seemed to smell of barbecue chicken. The closet, weird coats, how we would go out there just to watch tv. The old cigar box in the guest house garage. The tire swing by the horse pasture, the orange grove, the brick wall, the nut trees by dad’s shop. How the orange trees smelled in the summer, the way snails would gather near the sprinkles, our pool. The second story of dad’s shop, how you could hear rain hitting the tin roof. The old war maps dad hung in his office out there. His big metal work table. The way the old blacktop road would burn my feet, mom’s white porch swing, our pomegranate tree. The lemon tree, the tree house we built with Callie. Mom’s garden. The basil plants. our compost pile. The brick fireplace inside, the big solid wood mantle above it. Dad’s bear hanging in the dining room, my pine piano. Mom’s brown rug. My music rack. The little patio outside the door off our breakfast nook. The lights suspended in there. Tig. The kittens. Our playhouse, and the summer we spent at the house before we moved in, sesame ring pretzels. Too much Febreeze. Mom’s clothes line. When dad worked in Vegas and mom made that bon bon ice cream that the whole block loved. Mom’s fourth of July parties. The vegetable stew she would made during thunderstorms. How we could see the beautiful mountains outside our kitchen window. When mom would wake us up by singing. Getting ready for youth group, that shimmery purple eye shadow I loved. The ivy wallpaper we had in our bathroom, the stone walk-in shower that’s light didn’t work so it was always dark. All the goddamn storage space in there. Our craft closet. Mom’s closet, which was always organized. The little garden outside mom’s bedroom, the wall of windows that were in front of her bed. Her beautiful bathroom, the high windows, tall ceilings, wood and stone everywhere. Our beautiful, expensive, World Market table. The wall of windows in our dining room. How mom would let us make an pillow fort out of the living room during the summer when Lacey and Katie would stay with us. That Thanksgiving when Uncle Winky brought his Brazilian friend, who was probably his boyfriend and we were all just oblivious to how gay he was. Sage and Sonia. Spending summers with the Deitz, their treehouse. Going over there to hang out with Jacob and Nate before any of us were out of the 8th grade. The year Jacob started high school, when he started driving, when he went off to college. When Carson started dating that dude with the weird name – playing in the orange groves outside their house, the palm fans. The mule. Callie’s horses. Going with her to mediation in the hummer, taking her to her dad’s house. Going to see movie’s with her and Melissa, always having diet Dr. Pepper and tootsie rolls. When Melissa would decorate for christmas, and their entire house transformed into a winter wonderland. Ms. Terri’s 15 foot christmas tree, staying out until 1am to help get ready for VBS at Foothill. The red berries. When Mrs. Hengst took her Sunday school class to see Mega Mind and I felt super left out.

Oh my god. Carson and Hayley are both married. Jacob and Nate both have girlfriends and are going to graduate college soon. Callie is a Sophomore. Riley and Katie are in college. Lacey is graduating this year. Sonni is at COS. What the hell happened to my childhood? I will never spend another summer at the Deitz cabin. I will never climb frog rock again or go to Dudley Ranch. I’ll never go hunting with my dad again. I’ll never go inside the 38o house…. I’ll probably never see the Sisto’s, or step inside Foothill.. Who knows if I will even see Delaney or Owen.. But I’ll never spend a halloween at their house, or go into  their treehouse with those weird little brown berries that fell off their tree, or see their clawfoot bathtub filled with plants that DD put outside her bedroom window, or watch Owen obsess over Cars or Nate over spongebob or Jacob playing Call of Duty on their family computer… I will never sit on the Deitz porch swing and hold kittens again, or see Boomer.. I miss their pebble walkway and watching everyone play volleyball on summer afternoons while Melissa obsessively cleaned her house.

I’ve only been writing for twenty minutes, but I just took a long journey back into my childhood.. I can’t believe where I am today, when I used to lay awake at night and think about my future. I never imagined my parents would divorce, and moving to the coast was always a desire but seemed far fetched. Going to a public high school? Unheard of. I’ve had three boyfriends? ALLYSA! Y0u were supposed to marry Jacob, Nate, or Caleb – preferably Max. C’mon! You were going to get married in Gramp’s church, with that nasty blue carpet and wooden pews and green cushions, the weird cross with backlights. But too much for that, because it has all been torn out and redone. Now it’s The Road. Those little lights that used to line the stage are even gone. The smell is gone too..  And you have been in every room in that church now, all the mystery is gone. The fear is gone. Now it’s just a musty old building, and the imagery of Burt is dead. You had your thirteenth birthday party there, it was really fun. You worked there, too. When you were 15. You watched your little cousins roam those halls, now. Oh yeah – Uncle Juano got married and has three kids. Uncle Wink has two. Aunt Ne has Ribbon now, and you lived with her as well. You miss that. You also lived with Nana and Gramps, your room was the one with the weird, old closet that always scared you. The one that used to be Gramp’s office with the bottles filled with sand and coins. Also, I don’t really have to tell you this because you kind of already know, but you don’t believe in God at all. But you already have your doubts.

So much has changed for me… I kind of just want to go to Katie’s trailor and just sleep among the musty old smell and bad internet. I want to wake up to the neighbor’s rooster crowing and the hill we all know is Goliath’s grave…

A Man’s Pants

Creative Writing, Journal, Peace, Perfect, Small Things, Smiling

There’s something about a man’s pants. It’s in the way they hang, the way they tell a story – you can see what he has gone through, whether he wears khaki, faded denim, or a starched pair of Levi’s.

But this man’s pants, they told a story unlike most others. His pants came up high enough for one to see his ankles – but no more.

What is the story behind this man’s pants? What happened to him – what has he gone through? Perhaps he is unaware of this oddity about his pants. Perhaps he knows full and well, and is waiting for his next paycheck to buy a pair that fit him. But the story is there, and it’s not my story to know.