Why I didn't go to the interview.

The voice on the other end was broken up and hard to hear. I initially wasn't going to answer the strange number that was interrupting my lunch hour, but then I remembered I was applying for jobs. Of course I also know that for every 20 applications, you'd be lucky if they spent the time sending you a "sorry, we found someone else" email. Those I don't mind. At least they let me know so I don't answer the phone when strange numbers appear.

"This...Julie...Dos Pub...high School. Is this Kyl..?"

My heart partially skipped seeing as I was trying to piece together what I was hearing. It seemed fitting fate would fuck with me like this.

"Yes, it is" I said, trying to wrap my brain around the situation.

"Hi, Kyleen. I'm fro...blos...ool. I...ted...you..interview. Are...vailable...week..." *click*

WHAT?! Did I just get a phone call for an interview?! I quickly tried to call back, my fingers couldn't push the send key fast enough. Julie picked up again, apologizing, from what I could hear, for bad reception in an old brick building in the school. The phone hung up again.

AH!

This time it rang back and I quickly answered it. Julie's voice was still breaking up, but got better as she explained she was walking out of the building.

"Yes, we wanted you to come for an interview. What time is best for you? We have tomorrow, or the 27th. We know it's about a 5 hour drive from Chico, so let's make it in the afternoon, even though I am a morning person" she laughed. I was trying to scribble down the information on the back of an envelope I found and a dried out felt pen. Why am I always only finding dried out felt pens in this house?

"Yes, the 27th. Yes, I can do that. Sure, thank you so much!"

"You will love this school. It's so great" she began to up-sell the school. A small red-flag popped up in the back of my head. She was almost over-selling it. But I didn't care. I thanked her, hung up the phone, and burst into tears as my entire body shook from excitement. I have never really passed out before, but I can yell you, I was damn near close at that moment. Light headed, shaking, almost sick to my stomach with emotions. I sat down on the couch and just bawled.

I am not sure why I was crying. I think there was this crazy sense of "finally!" in my head, a sense of overwhelming gratefulness, and an understanding logic that it wasn't going to happen...that it wasn't what I wanted.

Ok, so sometimes in life you have to make very hard, logical decisions. I am not usually the kind of person to do that. I am a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants, do-what-I-want-to-do-because-that-is-what-I-do kinda girl. I have never been afraid to take a leap of faith or move or start over or just jump on a plane and fly to Italy because, well, why the hell not. Go to NYC for two weeks for the hell of it? SURE!

But this. This is different. This is real life now. This isn't the life I used to live. Life isn't carefree and wild and fun and "do whatever the fuck you want" any more. This is real. And as much as sometimes real life sucks, it actually doesn't suck. The only thing that sucks now is that when you make decisions, they have potential to ruin you.

Taking this job could potentially ruin me.

The job I applied for was a semester job that starts in the spring, with no guarantee of continuing the next year. That's a gamble. A gamble I can't afford to take.

I have a really sweet gig right now. I mean, I am seriously living a dream life. Ok, so I am not sculpting the future one mind at a time. Not yet, anyway. Instead I get to work from home, at a job I am really good at with bosses who love me and a cat that both bugs the shit out of me yet is the coolest damn thing ever. Entertainment, so to speak. I can afford to pay my bills, I have insurance, I have amazing friends, I can afford to go to the gym to relieve stress, I live in a beautiful place with crazy beautiful seasons and I have my family close enough that I get to see them any single time I want.

That is what I came home for. For moments like last night when I bring Andy to my parents house and I make Susie-mom dinner for her birthday and I take take care of dad who injured his shoulder at work, and my little brother spends hours with Andy and a lazer pointer. Moments like last night when we laughed and I was a part of something, not drifting from town to town, doing random shit. Moments like last night when, after spending time with my family, I spent time with my best friends at a party full of amazing people. Sure, when that cute guy asked me what I did I didn't want to talk about it, because, not just that I am embarrassed, but I don't want to be defined by my job. I am more than my job...yes, I am fucking fantastic at it and the numbers show that, it just doesn't sound good at parties.

When people ask what I do, I always say, "I am an unemployed high school English teacher" and sometimes I follow it up with, "But I sell cabinet doors online. That's what a masters in this economy with getcha". It sounds absolutely pitiful. And not pitiful because of what I do, but because I degrade myself and my situation, when in reality, it's fucking awwwwesome! In fact, it is so awesome, it's not worth giving up to chase after something that might not be worth it in the end. In fact, it is most likely not worth it at all. I heard the pain in my mom's voice when I told her about the interview. My parents don't want to lose me for another 10 years. And I don't know if I am ready to leave them just yet. Not after everything they have done for me. Not after finally feeling like I am home.

I have been agonizing over this decision. I didn't just stop and go, "Nah, I don't want it". I actually sat down and thought out everything. I talked with fellow teachers and friends and family, and in the end, the conclusion was, it isn't worth the risk.

And maybe this God's way of teaching me patience and humility. Still. He's been working on this part of me since I moved here. Before coming here I was a spoiled little selfish brat who got everyone and everything I wanted and more. Things were practically handed to me with just a smile and a wink. Now my cute smiles and adorable personality aren't getting me squat, and it has been quite the awakening experience. Because of this, I have never been more grateful for the most simplest of pleasures and people.

What most people don't know about the job I have now is what it took to get it. There was a lot of suffering before I could finally rest at ease knowing I had something solid. When I got the phone call that I was hired full time and I could quit my other 3 jobs, I absolutely collapsed in a heap of weeping gratefulness. I have never, in all my life, in all my existence, been so grateful for anything ever. I bawled. I was so happy my body shook and hurt because I didn't know how to deal with it and as I drove down from Paradise to my apartment I wept and I shook and I laughed and I prayed and I felt like what heaven must feel like. This feeling that you made it. After everything, you fall down to your knees and give thanks for this almost undeserved magnificent blessing.

That's gratefulness, son.

So here I am in the most ideal situation, trying to grasp at things beyond me because of what? Because I am embarrassed of telling people at parties what I do? That's stupid. Right now, at this very moment, I am where I am supposed to be. I am actually very, very happy and very, very blessed. I have done so many amazing things in life and even got a masters in the meantime. People don't have to know that right off the bat, but over time will get to know me and will be grateful for that, not grateful they met a "hot teacher". If I were to go to Salinas and try for this job, what will happen in the end? I am going to give up the amazing treasures and blessings I was given for a different title? That's stupid. My time is here. My moment is this. I am making the most of this time..learning guitar and piano, writing, dancing, being with family and friends, finding out the things that make me who I am...all the amazing beautiful things life has to offer. I am blessed, and no, I am not going to the interview, but it's ok, because that phone call, that was what I needed to hear. That phone call told me that in the end, life is fucking amazing. And I am happy.

And in the end, that is all I was searching for.

When all that's left is glitter stuck to the bottom of your shoes...

What do you do when the party's over? What happens when the music stops and the lights go on and you look around and find you've been dancing with yourself for quite some time. Glitter and spilled drinks stick to your shoes as you slowly look around and wonder "what the fuck happened?". What was I doing all this time? What has happened to my life? What is my purpose?

Yes, I have a full-time job, which I am very grateful for, but I still feel unemployed. And not the honeymoon stage of being unemployed where you sit in undies because you can and stay up til 4am doing weird shit because you feel free and the possibilities seem endless. No, I'm at the unemployment state where you have filled out countless resumes and applications and have heard every possible interview question known to man and despite all your efforts and work and nicely pressed shirts, it's still not enough to win them over. I wish I could see myself as overly qualified and with so much potential people don't want to hire me for fear of me leaving to become something massively successful. But my ego really feels like a buck-toothed moron, with a muddy personality and a seedy past. I feel like people are turned off by me and no one will tell me why.

That's the thing about applying for jobs. It feels like trying to desperately join the "cool kids". You do everything in your power to impress them and show them you would do anything to be a part of what they are and that you are just as cool as they are, maybe even cooler, but if they would just give you that chance to prove it. You stand in front of them, bare you soul to them, give them what you think they want, and in the end it's still not good enough. And they never say why. They never say, "you're resume was weak", or "you blew it in the interview" or anything that would give you even a glimmer of hope for your next application. Instead you self-consciously apply for the next position in hopes that they can't smell your desperation seeping out of your pores and shakily hand in another application, fearful of more rejection.

When you know what you want to be from first grade, it is hard to imagine doing anything else. When you hit 30 and realize that maybe everything you hoped to be is not at all what you have become, it starts to weigh on you and self-doubt seeps into your mind and as you sit at home in your pjs with your cat, whom you've been talking to out loud for the past hour, you start to wonder, "what the fuck happened?".

I've tried to mask my desperation and self loathing in costumes and whiskey and sex. I mean, they are all fun and games til you wake up the next day with a hangover and maybe a few regrets. By now I should have finished this book, but I let things, mostly myself, get in the way. Maybe I am afraid of success, maybe I am afraid of hitting rock bottom again. I don't know. I do know that currently I am trying not to freak the fuck out. I've recently come to the realization that I never, ever wants kids. Like, ever. So, the purpose of being on earth to procreate has been squashed. That being said, as much as I like sex, do I even bother getting into a relationship with someone? I mean, I am not a "family" kind of girl. The idea alone freaks me the fuck out. I couldn't do it. I can't be tied down like that. Hell, even a cloudy day makes me feel suffocated sometimes.

So what do I do? What the fuck do I do with my life? I just want to roam the world and write, really. I want to have a purpose, but financially I can't do that. It's also not safe, being a small girl and all. I mean, my dream has always been to write for a surfer magazine. Live down south by the beach and write, maybe do a side job at a surf shop for fun. Maybe teach a few college courses at night. I just want to be a part of that world of carefree love and living. Here things are serious...too serious. Life all of a sudden seems serious. I'm not saying I want to rage all the time, but shit, man. I need to do something with my life. I want to teach. Oh so bad I want to teach. But where? What happens when I finally get there? Will I find myself feeling the same as I do now...without a sole purpose? Do I just wait it out here in hopes of finding a job? Do I move?

I'm torn.

And scared.

And confused.

I never thought life would ever be this real. This feeling of anxiety where you haven't lived enough to be ok with dying. Where you know deep down you have this amazing purpose, but you don't know what that is and no one is telling you. It's like all the answers are behind some hidden door and people all seem to know where it is and what's behind it, but no one is telling me. And it is infuriating. And yes, that is my inner control freak coming out, but it's frustrating to know that I am supposed to be doing something amazing, but I just can't seem to figure out what it is.

As I stand here alone, my eyes adjusting to the light that has just been turned on, the music fading, my head spinning, my feet sore, I look around and hope maybe someone can show me the right way out. But no one is there. Just me and the DJ and we just stand there and look at each other. His eyes meet mine and I can sense a bit of pity in his. He has seen me before, but never with the lights on, and he can see I am lost but offers not guidance. So I just stand there, looking around, wondering what has happened to my life, what happened to my shoes?

I guess I just have to start with one thing at a time. I just wish I knew what it was...

If you don't cut it off, you'll never win the Oscar

Sometimes someone comes into our lives and they become our drug. This poison that only makes us feel good when things are good, but when things are bad it is so bad your entire world feels like it is falling apart. They are this kind of person who you can't tell if you are in love with, infatuated with, or addicted to. You can't live without them because they feel like your everything...the only thing that will ever make you happy. But they are also the only person who can make you feel so absolutely devastated you can barely function. Like a drug...with wicked withdrawals.

You can try and kick this habit all you want...tell it no, refuse to use it, try and walk away, but somehow it always comes back. You beg and plea for mercy because you know you just aren't strong enough to say no. So you beg them to say no for you, but when they don't, it's like sticking the needle right back in your track-scarred arm.

Fuck.

I have been trying to kick a habit for 3 years now. And it's not just me, there is an addiction on their side too. It's fucked up. They love the power they have over me and how I turn to jelly when they walk into the same room. They love knowing that despite everything, they can coo me and bring me back to their side...and I love even the slightest bit of attention from them. It's gotten my heart racing and my knees shaking so much that I almost crave the high...even if the crash after is fucking disastrous. And after the crash, when I have told myself I have cried myself to sleep for the last time, I finally get the balls to say "leave me alone"...but I know I will always get a "but why" in return...and the cycle continues.

We both know we are bad for each other, but we can't quit. We literally can't be in the same room because of the sexual tension. His socially inept ways make it impossible to actually enjoy his conversations or his presence, unless we are naked together or texting. It's fucked up. And neither of us knows how to quit. Or maybe we just don't want to.

I told him I would love him until the day he told me to stop. I begged him time and time again to just tell me to stop so I can move on, but his response was always the same, "I can't tell you how to feel"...and that gave me hope. Like Lloyd Christmas from Dumb and Dumber, "So you're saying there's a chance...!"

But in the end, there has never been a chance. Just a boy who loves the way a girl loves him, and to fill his narcissistic ego, he keeps coming back, because he can't quit her either, even if he doesn't love her.

Finally, after years of begging to be let go, I asked him to just tell me to stop loving him so I could move on. "Just tell me to stop loving you and I'll go away"

His words were like they always were, "I can't tell you how to feel" but with a new twist,"Stop loving me, it's best for both of us"

All of a sudden, everything went numb. The words I never thought he'd say. "Stop loving me". Just like that. "Stop loving me". It rang in my mind. Did he mean it? Would he finally set me free and let me go? Just let me be and move on? Was I hurting, was I shocked? I don't know. I was relived because I thought, "If he leaves me alone, I won't have to be strong enough to ignore him". It seemed so simple.

But I know us. And I know him.

That night he came into the yoga room as I stretched. My heart burst in my chest and my entire body was shaking, almost violently. I had to breathe. I had to keep going and not look back at him. Just stretch. Just breathe.

And my eyes watered.

I turned my music up higher and tried to push his presence out of my head even though I was relieved to see he didn't turn around and walk out when he saw me. I wanted him to stay all night, even if I couldn't talk to him. I wanted my fix of him...just a little. Just enough to get me through the night. Just enough to know he's still there.

When he had finished his workout, he lingered at the door as if to say goodbye. I wanted him to stay there and wait for me forever. I wanted him to want me again. But I knew he'd be over it soon, like he always seems to be. He lingered a little longer, trying to grab my attention and then he walked out. I bowed my head down on the mat until my body stopped shaking and my eyes stopped watering. I had to do this for me.

I did my meditation and thought of how life could be without him. What a beautiful, colorful life I could have again if I could just let him go.

"Stop loving me"

I'm fucking trying, but you're not making this easy, dillhole.

Later, after I felt I had freed myself from my addiction, even if for one night, he texted me.

He fucking texted me.

And while I loved it, I hated it. "I was trying to say goodbye, but obviously you didn't want to see me" he wrote.

Of course I wanted to see you. I always want to see you. I want everything to do with you, but you told me to stop loving you, which in my mind meant "leave me alone" and here you are, putting the needle to my vein.

AH!

AAAHHHHH!

I don't know how to live without him. Like an appendage. I don't know how to function without having him in my life, even if all we ever do is text and never see each other. Anything to be a part of his life. It's fucking sickening. And pathetic. But to cut him out is so fucking painful, I don't know how to cut the actual tie.

I feel like he is that arm that is crushed between two rocks and in the end will be the death of me if I don't let him go. I'll stay in this predicament because I am too afraid of how much it will hurt. I've almost given up my survival instincts just to keep him. And here I am now, trying to cut him out of my life and I have hit the tendons...the connection we have...this inexplicable thing that holds us together. I don't even care right now that I am only halfway through and it's just danging there, a bloody mess, I just don't know if I can go through with it...cutting it off completely. Sure, there is potential for a bionic arm which would be way more awesome and cool and stronger and might even have a laser, but it wouldn't be the same. It wouldn't be him.

damnit.

He's my comfort; my security blanket.

Like a security blanket, what he is serves no purpose. The security blanket will never pick me up from the airport, it will never call me, it will never hug me back and doesn't have feelings for me. But I hold what he is to me so close because I don't know how to feel without it and the fear of feeling empty and scared inside is almost unbearable. And as painful as it is, that pain has almost even become a comfort in itself. Something inevitable, reliable but can be healed with one little text, or a chance meeting at the gym.

So I am at that point where I have to believe that cutting off this arm, getting rid of that blanket, or cutting off my supply will save me. That the anchor of this person, who I don't know how to live without, will finally be cut and I can be free.

I'm scared. It's only been a day and though I swear I have tried to quit so many times before, I have to make this it. I have to believe him when he tells me to stop loving him. I have to know that I will be better off. I have to cut through these tendons and bear this horrific pain so that I can go on to better things.

Because, after all, if you don't cut it off, you will never win the Oscar...

Why I stopped posting for a while...

Some things are personal.

My need to walk around without pants isn't so much the case here, but my need to internally find peace is.

The struggle to find both myself and my purpose was definitely the initial point of this blog. Currently all I want to do is make sarcastic remarks and oggle Ryan Gosling and potentially Tatum Channing in Magic Mike if I can ever get myself to a movie theater. Though I am pretty sure that once I sit down I'll never be able to leave until it's no longer in theaters and they have to pry my hands from the arms of the chair and escort me out, drool being the only indication I am still alive.


I'm fine now.

That was the point of this blog...to be ok again. It has been 3 years in the making and I think I have made it to that point.

But wait, I'm not quite done.

Yes so my blogs from here on out are probably not going to be emotionally charged, ridden with bouts of angry cursing and desperation. I'm over that now. It's the ugly you have to get through to find the beauty...or some kind of likeness anyway.

Now that I have cleared my head, it's time to connect that with my body. The unity between body and mind can only be achieved when you consciously strive for it.

When you are lifting weights, how often do you consciously think about what you're doing. Not in the obvious thought of "I'm lifting a weight", but each muscle it takes to lift that weight. Probably not often, but more thinking about the beer you hope to enjoy as a treat for actually showing up at the gym in the first place.

It's ok, I understand that (and I'm pretty sure I am guilty of that). But I have a new outlook on it now.

I used to run when I was semi-unemployed. I ran a lot...most specifically in Upper Park. I would run and cry and run until I wanted to puke, then climb up the mountain and sit on a rock and watch the birds dance in the air to the music that I was listening to on my ipod.

I'm getting spiritual for a moment, just go with me.

I thought that the running was helping, but really, once I was done I would go back to my old ways and I couldn't figure out why everything was continuously so shitty. Einstein once said that insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Einstein never had amazing sex with his ex, apparently.

Long story short, I am trying to break away from the things that still bind me.

My treat after working out is meditating. I work out for an hour, then go to the yoga room and fight the stench of dirty hippies from the class before and stretch and meditate. Short of the stench, it's pretty much my most favorite thing ever. Sometimes I'll even cheat on my workout a little just to go stretch and think. Hell, I'd do it for a living if it paid the bills.

Which reminds me, how do I go about getting paid to go to the gym as my job? Just curious.

Anyway, one of my meditations was pretty deep. Sometimes I consciously move my thoughts, other times I let them go. When I concentrate on my thoughts it's when I am searching for an answer, so I will think about my problem and let the music answer it for me. My usual sound track includes Avery Maria by Beethoven and Clare de Lune (most specifically by DeBussey because his version really sets the tone of what I feel Claire de Lune was really intended to portray...a struggle to find strength in being demure as well as the light that comes with that strength). Go with me here.

In my meditation I saw these stepping stones in a small pond that was overgrown with greenery...it was almost suffocating, but still beautiful and somewhat comforting because it felt like just me and this deep blue pond and the stones. In reality it was the stones that made me feel comfortable. Each stone was close to the other and I was jumping from stone to stone. I imagined what would happen without the stones and the fear of falling into the water was like looking over the edge of a tall building...I didn't want to fall off.

Well, in my meditation I let myself fall into the creepy deep blue water and decided to swim to the edge on my own. That would have worked out perfect if not for the great white wall of water that came rushing at me, blind siding me. I assume this rush of water was my brain telling me that I was about to handle some shit so I better hold my breath and get ready for it.

So before I even reach the edge of where I was heading, the water comes and washes me away...but it wasn't the water from the pond, it came from the ocean. It was a light sea foam green and it was warmer than the cold deep blue water I had jumped in earlier. This wave that came at me ended up pushing me out of the pond and at some point I ended up washed onto a big beautiful beach.

There I was, just me and the vastness of the ocean and the world in front of me. There were no stones, there was nothing for me to grab on to, but then I realized I didn't have the urge to. I was on solid ground and it was utterly beautiful. I played with the ocean and danced around and realized at that moment, if I could just let go of the things I am holding on to, I can be free.

Yeah, so obviously that is easier said than done and I am pretty sure every single one of my friends has said this, but when your brain comes up with it in a moment of trying to find tranquility, then yeah, it hits home.

I am not sure if that meditation at least washed my thoughts out for a moment or what, but since then I have found a different kind of peace and in the midst, I found myself again. The Kyleen that I used to be when I was a carefree kid living in my own head. The one that loved people because she loved herself and found beauty in everything thing. The Kyleen that could sit for hours in silence, just watching, and being completely content because her mind wasn't preoccupied with someone else's life. I have been looking for myself for so long I was afraid I would never find me again. but there I was, all this time, in the back of my head waiting for me to coax me out of hiding.

Fucking finally!

And yeah, this post has been in the works for a while because it is very personal to meditate on things in life then try to explain it and not sound crazy. It's a personal struggle, but I figured maybe someone else might get it. That and people keep asking me to post again, so here. That and I am looking inside for the answers and yeah, I still have a ways to go, but I am out of the stupid rabbit hole for the most part and doing my damnedest to not do that again. It feels good to be free again...now to take off these pants and enjoy the summer...

Floating to the Top...

This moment where I lay naked on top of my sheets, the cool breeze from my windows tickling my skin as I lay alone listening to George Winston's piano filling my room. These moments I never thought I'd live.

I left many things to come here. To be in this moment, alone, at night, the twinkling Christmas lights that delicately light my room as I contemplate both my existence and my happiness...and my alone time. The moments to ponder where my love has gone and why instead it has turned to something somewhat empty and cold, yet easy and underrated.

Maybe it's Chico. Maybe it's that I finally get it, or maybe it's my fears...the fear of being broken like I once was. Maybe these same fears keep me complacent in my current state...or maybe they hold me to something more. Something more than chasing pipe dreams and fantasies that were only once fulfilled when I was younger, more naive and living in the city where opportunities were bountiful. Unlike this town where you grab on to what you can get because there isn't much else. And the fear of being needy because there is no plan B because there are so few options in this town.

The idea of that is frightening.

I had a young friend of mine, a beautiful young 21-year old guy who I drove home the other night who brought to my attention the reality of being young and alone.

"I don't like summer in Chico. I don't like that all my older friends have just left. I used to stroll up with 15 friends and I could turn in any direction and know everyone. Now I go with 5 or 6 and it's scary to imagine not knowing people at the bars". He literally had that epiphany as we were driving and I saw his heart break and he said to me "I don't like this kind of growing up" and my heart broke for him because all of a sudden he saw how big and scary and lonely the world really is...

I smiled at his innocence and the reality he was so fearful of. A reality that, to me, was exciting and adventurous, but to him was the end of his youth and the beginning of a fate almost worse than death....a fate where the world around you is new and knows nothing of you and you have to actually step forth and be present in someone else's moment...and that was terrifying to him.

In a way I pitied him, yet almost envied him for his youth. A youth I was trying not to grow out of. A youth where the entire world was still at my finger tips and there were no limits, except my own fears and insecurities. Maybe I grew up in a different world than him, but I had always been content in starting new things and almost crave it at times. It's those adventures that have given me my boldness and my ability to handle my solidarity with composure and a masked confidence.

We are all afraid, though some of us hide it better than others. We also sometimes realize, in the end, we are all human and are all alone to some degree, but it is what we do with that solidarity that makes us who we are.

If you fear change, you will never grow. If you crave change, you will never be content. But if you embrace change and accept it as what makes life so beautiful, you my friend, will not only be successful, but will find a happiness so few will ever understand.

I loved a boy who always gave me visions of the ocean. I never understood why when I would close my eyes and his hands would caress me that I would always see the ocean, and I was always in it, letting the sea foam green wash over my body, the sweet smell of the ocean, the soft green of the warm Pacific. It was always so refreshing, but I never understood it until that touch became turbulent and my heart was shattered into a thousand pieces by the same man who brought me such peace.

Why always the ocean...what was I trying to tell myself?

When I used to surf in Hawaii and SoCal, the thing I will never forget learning was that you never turn your back to the ocean, you always go with it and never fight the current, it will only exhaust you. When you go with the ocean and let Mother Nature play with you, it becomes almost a religious experience. And that is a lot like life.

And that is what I should have done.

The changes in life are like the ocean. Embrace the waves that come, dive beneath what you know you can't handle and let it wash over your back. But no matter what, do not fight it or it will drown you. Trust that in the end you will float to the top where you can take your breath and maybe catch the next wave in.

Always remember, you will gain more control when you just let go. Go with the change and that will make all the difference.

So as I lay here, I reflect on the depths I have seen and the triumphs I have rejoiced in. I imagine all the ways I drowned myself by fighting against the currents that were trying to bring me somewhere else. Did I make the right decision? Did I embrace the waves or did I take them for granted? Did I lay in that moment and hold it close so that I never forget it? Or did I look past it for the next wave, rather than enjoying the ride of the one I was currently in. I worry I may, out of fear, looked past all the beauty that was right in front of me. Except now. This moment where I lay here, sprawled carelessly on my bed and enjoying every little detail of this night. I plan to embrace these moments and hold them close so that when I feel like I might drown, I will always remember when I floated to the top and took the next wave in...

We Can't All Be Winners (K.T. Chpt 1)

"Oh gross! It’s Kayden!" Kristen Peters cried out as I went to sit next to her on the lunch bench. She jumped out of her seat and bolted to the other side of the lunch area. Her friends followed, snickering. I didn’t realize I had sat next to her, which I knew better than to do, but I wasn’t paying attention. I was too busy looking to make sure none of the guys were around because they always love to bother me when I’m eating.

As Kristen and her friends bolted across the lunch area, my face turned hot and I blushed. I was embarrassed which is weird because this is a daily occurrence nowadays. No matter how many times someone does this to me in a day, it never fails to make me feel horrible.

Kristen was one of the cheerleaders on our Jr. High basketball team. She wasn’t very good but she was pretty and she had a lot of girlfriends who were afraid of her, so when she did anything, the rest of the girls would follow. Kristen was one of “Them”: the group of kids currently making my life miserable, for reasons I’m still not sure of yet.

Her and the guys do this to me all day long. They whisper when I walk by, sometimes laughing and pointing. Sometimes they try and stick stuff in my hair when I am sitting in class. Some days they throw random things at my head when I walk by. A couple times the guys have cornered me in the boy’s bathroom and held my arms behind my back and taken turns punching me in the stomach or putting my head in the toilet. That’s the worst! The bathrooms are so gross! It’s because of this I only go to the bathroom in the locker room because Coach Johnson is there and the guys are too afraid of Coach to do anything to me in front of him. On the days they aren’t whispering as I walk by, they are calling out things like, "Hey Kayden, how is your baby penis?", which is a creepy thing to ask because, one, they have never seen me naked before ever (nor will they) and two, who asks about another boy's penis? Are they really that interested?

As much as I want to come back with some type of witty rhetoric, I know that in the end my words will be used against me, so I stay silent.

That is how it has been since I got to this school…and I hate it more and more.

I used to have friends at my old school. Tons of them. It was great. I felt loved and popular, like I was something. Then I came to this school, Rosemont Jr. High, and my life has been pure hell. Some days are worse than others, but most are the same: The Jerks say mean things, others laugh, people stare, I go home and cry to myself. I never let others see my hate or agony, but I know it permeates through the air...that awkwardness of me just sitting there, taking it. Some day I fear I might snap and hurt someone, just to make them stop. I want them to be afraid of me more than I am afraid of them. I want to rip one of them apart just so they can feel the same hurt I have been feeling for the past two years.

"Hey Dicktard," Marcos Toscano’s voice interrupted my thoughts. Marcos was the jerk behind all of the bullying. He was the one who started picking on me the first few weeks I got here. It was hard enough adjusting to junior high, let alone dealing with him. I clearly remember the first day he started in on me. My neighbor Sally Jenson and I were sitting having lunch together in the lunch area outside. It was a crisp autumn day and we were making jokes about something when Marcos walked up to us.

"Hey, shithead!" he called out, startling both Sally and me because it was a name we had never heard, let alone been called. My heart was beating in my throat at that moment. Sally and I exchanged glances.

“Yeah, shit head, I'm talking to you!” he continued. I could feel eyes on us from the other kids around us. "You’re sitting in my seat, you turd!"

Sally and I exchanged glances again, this time out of confusion. What was he talking about, “his seat”? Sally and I have been sitting in this same spot for weeks.

"Excuse me?" I asked.
"I told you, that's my seat, now move!"

Sally and I weren’t sure if we should laugh or walk away slowly. Marcos’ approach was so out of the blue it was bizarre.

"Hey, me and Sally sit here every single day, so I am not sure what you are talking about"

"I said move!" Mario yelled and he grabbed my shirt and pushed me off the bench. Sally tried to get up, but Mario sat down next to her and said, "You're fine. You can stay here. It's him!” He said leaning away from Sally and pointing at me as I sat on the ground, confused. “This is my seat! Don't sit here again!” He growled.

I stood up and said, "Hey! I don’t care, I was here first!" But little did I realize the power in numbers Marcos had over me. At that moment his two friends appeared, as if summoned by sheer will. Sally and I looked at each other and then at the two guys as Marcos stood up.

"I don’t care if you were here first!" He growled again. “This is my table, now leave before I sock you in the mouth!" I went to approach him but Sally pulled on my arm for me to go with her. And it was that moment when my new-found fate would take place. I would now become the most hated kid in school. For no reason other than sitting at a table I sat at with Sally for weeks. It will never make sense to me. Ever.

"Hey, Dicktard, I was talking to you!” Marcos interrupted my thoughts again as he and his two goons approached my lunch table.

"Shit!" I thought to myself. Am I in his seat? Is there any part of this stupid school that he doesn't ruthlessly claim as his own? I hate this guy. I absolutely pure hate him.

“What’s up, Gay-tard?” Marcos called out as he and his two friends headed towards my table.

I cringed at the sound of Marcos’ voice.

It was early spring and we were finally able to sit outside and eat lunch at the lunch tables. The sun was warm, but the air was still cool. The trees in the lunch area were budding, the flowers still in their cocoon, just waiting for it to get warm enough to open. I was sitting by myself at this point since Kristen and her friends left.

Marcos’ voice was like nails on a chalkboard to me. He approached my table. Kids at the other tables in the designated lunch area started to take notice.

“Hey! Gay-tard! I was talking to you!” Marcos said louder as he crawled onto the bench beside me, his friends joining on either side of us. My face grew hot as they started leaning in to my lunch and grabbing tater tots for themselves. The other kids kept watching.

“So, Gay-tard. What’s going on?” His breath was hot and smelled like sweat socks against my face. It made me want to gag.

I’m not sure why it is that 8th graders forget that there are toothbrushes and deodorant out there. Marcos most specifically. His dark thick hair was always a little too greasy. It was long, just a little past the lobes of his ears, a deep dark black which would compliment his olive skin if it wasn’t constantly broken-out from not showering enough. He wasn’t ugly, rather, a good-looking Italian boy, but he didn’t follow through with hygiene and soap which was a waste of what he was blessed with. His eyes were a dark green, almost brown.

He caught me looking at him.

“Hey! Gay-boy! What are you looking at?!” He said, leaning back as if I had made some kind of advance towards him. I blushed, as if I had done something wrong. The other kids looked over at us again. My face grew even hotter. He was starting to get on my last nerve.

Marcos did this every single day. Every day. And it wasn’t always the same. Sometimes he would just walk by and smack the back of my head. Some days he would trip me as I walked past with a tray. Some times him and his friends would throw grapes or raisins as I sat alone and ate. I have been getting both used to it and tired of it, but I also know there is no way to stop it. Teachers never catch him and if I tattle on him it will only make matters worse. The only thing I can do is take it.

And that infuriates me.

“I was talking to you!” Marcos interrupted my thoughts and shoved my plate a little. The gelatinous goo that was supposed to resemble gravy jiggled, my tater tots rolled into the ketchup. I just stared at the plate. The jiggling, rolling plate. Even my food was being pushed around. Even my damn food was being bullied!

All of a sudden something inside me snapped. I could feel it in the back of my head as Marcos and his friends started pushing me, asking me why I was so gay and what I was going to do about it. I just sat there for a moment, stiffening as I began to clench every muscle in my body, trying to hold back all the anger and fury brewing inside me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, my body began to shake and I could feel a cold sweat beading down my brow. My fists slowly balled and I could feel my short nails digging into my palms. They want me to do something about it? Then fine! I’ll do something about it!

I reached for my tray, picked it up and turned around on the bench, bringing my feet out from under the table, as if I were going to leave. This made the boys stop for a moment as they looked at each other laughing. I looked over to Marcos whose mouth was open in a hearty laugh.

In that moment I took the tray I had in my hands and I smashed it into his face, pushing with both hands and all of my body weight. This shoved them both back, tipping the bench, the tray hitting the ground and bouncing; the plate of thick mashed potatoes still stuck to Marcos’s face as all three of them fell to the ground in a heap.

Before the tray had even hit the ground I was already running away from the lunch area that was nestled in between two enclosed hallways and a classroom. I ran as fast as my small skinny legs could carry me, heading past the basketball courts and to the playing field. I could hear the kid’s laughter behind me and Marcos’s curses and his two goons trying to help him out as he called for my death. I mustered the strength to run faster, my heart beating in my throat. As my shoes hit the grass, I realized that at the end of the large playing field was a large chain-linked fence. I could hear Marcos and his friends’ feet on pavement as they scrambled after me.

I ran faster.

As the fence came closer, all of a sudden something landed far in front of me, as if it were thrown at me. As I ran past it, I saw that it was a sandwich.

“A sandwich?” I thought to myself. “What in the…” all of a sudden an orange flew past my head and landed closer to the fence. They were throwing food at me!

As I ran to the fence I took a large leap, but I jumped too soon and didn’t end up as high on the fence as I had hoped. I scrambled up, as quickly as I could when an apple whizzed past my ear, hit the fence and splattered; apple pieces and juices hitting my face and shoulder. My heart skipped as I paused a moment, seeing the apple wedged into the metal diamond. Had that hit my head it probably would have knocked me out cold.

All of a sudden something soft and thick hit the back of my head with a thud and then there was an explosion of lettuce, cheeses and mayonnaise, which began to drip down my shirt. A plastic cup of open pudding bounced off the chain links and splattered me in the face.

They were getting closer.

I climbed quicker.

As small carrots, a soft banana, a couple more sandwiches and a can of soda pelted me from behind, I finally reached the top of the fence. I reached up and got both my hands on the top bar and started to pull myself up when I suddenly got real heavy. I pulled up harder, just to feel myself being pulled down in the opposite direction. I looked down and there was Marcos, one of his hands wrapped around my ankle. I tried to kick him off, but his other hand grabbed on to it as well. I tried for one last final pull, with all of my strength, but at that same moment Marcos pulled on me with all his weight and I lost my grip. I fell off the fence, my back crashing into his face, both of us hitting the hard grass with a strange “thunk”.

Marcos pushed me off and I landed on my stomach. At that moment I looked up and half of the school was already swarming, some with hands full of food, Marcos’s goons leading the pack with arms full of whatever they could steal off of tables and out of the garbage I’m sure. As they approached they continued to lob food at me. Marcos stood up, kicked me in the ribs and grabbed an apple from a kid and threw it at my back. It hit, but not as hard as I had thought it would. My long-sleeved, button up, plaid shirt now resembled a modern piece of art as kids continued to pelt me with food stuffs. I just lay there as grapes rolled into my pants, my hair sticking to my forehead from soda, and my hands covered in the gelatinous gooey gravy.

I put my head down and took it. I could feel different objects bounce off my head and back. Some kids didn’t have good aim from where they stood in the back and ended up missing me all together or hitting my legs. I looked up for a moment and caught a glimpse of Sally Jenson looking at me with her pitiful honey brown eyes. She didn’t stop them, but she also didn’t join in. She just stood there…it looked like she might cry. I thought I might too.

“Mr. Johnson is coming!” Someone in the far back cried out. I could hear feet shuffling in the grass as they scattered like cockroaches. I looked up and parting the sea of kids was Mr. Johnson, a tall, well-built black man with stunning looks and a voice that would scare the paint off walls. He was Rosemont Jr. high’s basketball coach and History teacher. Most of the kids called him Mr. J, but when he was storming towards you like a bull, you ducked and cowered and responded with a mousy “yessir”, looking at nothing more than your feet as you compared them to his large feet, which were always in nice, clean penny-loafers.

I could hear Mr. Johnson telling kids to “scat” and to “get back to the yard” and kids started running, silent in their fear. Marcos had long since left after he kicked me in the ribs, leaving no evidence of his presence except a lingering ache in my side. I laid my head back in the dirt, laying my cheek down as I watched Mr. Johnson’s nice shoes as they approached me quickly. I could have gotten up, which I would have done normally, quickly and ready to “yessir” him. Instead I just lay there in a pathetic heap, covered and surrounded with food. A sad pile of food and boy. I imagined all the mothers who so caringly packed their child’s lunch, unaware that a sad, pathetic boy would be lying in it later.

Big Fat Bully.

Sometimes we don't know why we are bullied, we just are. Sometimes all it takes is one person to hate us and then it can easily turn our entire world upside down. That hate, which stems from fear, which stems from insecurities can create such a living hell for one single, innocent person. And the fucked up part is that it might not have anything to do with the victim. Nothing at all. Nothing different, nothing wrong, just a person who stumbles onto a situation they cant get out of. Just because of one stupid jerk. And that one jerk will get others to feed into it because of their fears and insecurities. And the victim becomes completely self-aware of everything and is all-consumed with their actions, the things they say, everything that makes them who they are...or what they themselves perceive as different. And it becomes this cancer, this thing that eats at them. These names, these actions, everything hurts more and more and you become sensitive and almost psychotic over it. You hate yourself and you hate everyone and you don't know why, because when it all comes down to it, you never did anything. You just existed, and if your existence alone caused all of this horror, then maybe you would be better off not existing, and instead giving them nothing more to hate than themselves.


I have continually stalled on Kayden's Toby for one reason: I don't want to remember what it felt like to be bullied.

To write you have to put yourself in the place where you want others to go, but what's frightening about that is going back to a place you have since gotten past. A place you never ever want to go again.

I just don't know if I am ready to be bullied again.

Strangely enough, being back in Chico is like being back in a world full of petty shit and rumors. Just like high school, or worse, junior high. God I hated junior high...and in some sick way I loved it too. In junior high I was brought down quite a few pegs. I was a sassy, snobby, run of the mouth little shit. And I got what I probably had coming to me. It was horrible and definitely left a lasting impression (some would say scars) but in the end, I learned from it, but only because I survived it.

Unless you have been through it, you have no idea what it feels like.

Moving back brought back all those horrible feelings again. But not at first.

I came back into the "fun crowd", the "cool kids" the ones that everyone wanted to hang with. We were wild and fun and did stupid shit and along the way I fell in love with a boy who in turn fell for me. Unfortunately, the rest of the group was not ok with it. I was over at his apt all the time and his roommate was getting annoyed and jealous, not because he wanted to be with me, but because he wanted to be with his friend. I never invited myself over, I only came by when I was invited, but soon, even though this boy and I couldn't get enough of each other, the roommate thought otherwise. Soon, between the roommate and a friend of the group I confided in, things were getting hairy. Then the ex gf would call at 2am, and text and all of a sudden she started in. It was a matter of weeding me out.

Nothing is worse than being hated for no reason. For people disliking you out of fear of who you are. I came into that group confident, proud, ready to take on the world. Then slowly, like siblings too close in age, we got on each others' nerves and before we knew it we hated each other and then one day, it exploded in our faces, and I was thrown out like shrapnel, losing myself and everything I knew myself to be.

They destroyed me.

Maybe I needed the humbling. After all, I did move back to find myself. Little did I know I'd find myself broken and torn apart by a bunch of assholes I didn't really know. And that was it. They did not know me. And the things they thought about me were so warped and misconstrued because of their own fears and insecurities, that in the end, the only thing they knew to do was hate.

It's easier to hate than it is to love.

It's been over a year now, almost two, and funny enough, after all of it, majority of them came back and apologized. Not all, but the roommate, the one who helped initiate it all, admitted that what he did was wrong. We are friends again. Maybe a little closer than before. Maybe a little more distant. In a lot of ways, that doesn't change the fact that he and them destroyed my world, but there is some solace in knowing that he has a guilty conscious.

After finally getting my life on track after that, I look back and see all the things that went wrong and I know I am just as much at fault for putting so much emphasis on their approval. But it's human nature to want to be liked. I recently felt the sting again this past week. A young guy and I were hanging out and then things ended abruptly. I have no idea why and the curiosity kills me. It could be as simple as he is a total douche and just used me, or it could be that he heard something that unfairly depicted me, or maybe, in the end, I was the douche.

I may never know.

And I guess, it doesn't really matter. People can have their asshole comments, and dirty rumors, but in the end we are all fighting the same fight and trying to live in the same fucked up world. Maybe it's time we all took a step back and thought to ourselves, "How would I feel if someone was doing that to me?" and maybe we would finally see what it's like to feel like an outcast.

And maybe I will get the balls to finish Kayden's Toby...

maybe...

Just Two Young Kids Who Wore Hats.

Remember when we were young and I loved hats? You said I looked like Audry Hepburn. You used to wear hats to make me smile. I still smile when I think of it. We always thought we were so cool. So deep. So thoughtful...in our hats. You loved my style, but not for anything more than the fact that you thought it was a total representation of who I was. You said you loved me in hats because that is how you met me. In the red one I wore to the show. I didn't know you then. I didn't ever see you. But you saw me. You saw me and you knew I loved hats, so the next time you met me, you wore one too. Yours was straw; like you had just come back from the Hamptons. You knew I would ask you about it and so that is how we met. And we were always together. Somehow.

And we were. Always together, always something, though we never really knew what. We were just a couple of cool kids hanging out. We were thinkers and movers and kids who didn't believe in anything but were willing to believe in everything. There were those nights we would brood over the day's laments and question everything. Were we doing what we said we always would? Did we really believe in the things we believed? Was it true that love existed, and if so, did we love each other? Maybe.

I will always remember that night at that party. The one where you insisted I wear the red necklace you got me because you said it complimented the fire that burned deep inside me. That same fire you said set fire to us that night...and burned up everything. You stood in the hall and waited for me. You cornered me and asked me continuously about the strong young man I was talking to in the kitchen; the one who poured me a drink and touched my shoulder softly. The rage in your eyes that night was frightening. The jealously was off-putting and something about us broke. After you cursed at me in a way I had never heard, you walked away and left me there, broken hearted. I felt like a fool. I felt like nothing. I felt that after everything, there should have been more. But there was not.

One afternoon, many months later, I came to you. You were still mad. You sat by the window and pretended like we hadn't sat in that same room many times before...in love. As friends. Now we sit here as mortal enemies; angry about assumptions made and never really knowing what went wrong. I wore your favorite hat. I wore your favorite dress. You just looked out the window. Tears streamed down my face. I wanted to get down on my knees and beg you to let it go, but I knew you were too hurt to forget, and I knew I did nothing wrong. So we just sat there. And stared. We stared past each other. We stared out the window. The room was cold in the silence despite the nice warm spring breeze that came through the window we both so meticulously watched, maybe hoping the answers would just come in. But they did not. So we just sat there. In our pain.

I was reminded of one July afternoon where I wore my red and blue shirt that you made fun of me for, but also said it was one of your favorites because it reminded you of us. One red hot, one stone cold. You never said which of the colors were either of us, but I think we both knew, especially now, with your cold stare and bitter silence. We laid down that night after watching the sky light up with fireworks, the smell of sulfur and BBQ in the air, our lips sticky from watermelon. We talked about our dreams and our hopes and what we always thought to be true...that we would always be friends.

That was the first night we kissed. It wasn't passionate, but it seemed necessary. Two cool kids, too cool to really fall in love, but not too cool to explore one another. Your lips were soft and sticky, and sweet. Your kisses were gentle and it made my legs tingle in a way I had never experienced. When we pulled away, you looked me in the eyes and I could see a smile begin to form on those soft lips. But then you put your sunglasses back on and laid back down and stared at the ceiling. The room was silent for a moment, and then your voice broke in. "I love you". I waited a moment for my legs to stop shaking as I sat on the floor. "I love you too". And then we sat there. So long ago.

We were kids then. We didn't know better. Just two young kids who wore hats.

And in the end...I left the beer...

I ran out of sleeping pills so I went to the grocery store to pick up more.

Things look different lately.

Sometimes I hate writing in this stupid blog because it just brings to light the things I don't want to admit to.

It was late and the store was quiet. Now that I think about it, it was eerie. I don't recall the music playing like it usually did. A few people meandered around the store. I walked straight to the medicine isle. I knew exactly where to find what I was looking for.

My roommate hid the alcohol from me, but I already found it this weekend. Everyone always hides it in the same spot. It was easy enough to get to with a chair. But to keep to my own promise to myself, I left it in the cabinet and decided I would only get to it on the weekends. I would not drink during the week.

The feeling of not being able to do what I want at that moment is not easy, but I let it go.

I just want to wind-down, relax. Yet I have this pull to make a small drink and enjoy my time alone watching movies, my new favorite pastime. Mostly romantic stories, but every now and then I throw in something abstract, like Factory Girl.

This new addiction feels good.

I found my sleeping pills and in the quiet eerie store I walked to the cashier. As I stood there, something pulled at me, so I got out of line and walked to the beer isle.

I grabbed a six-pack of Red Stripe.

I started walking back to the cashier, but as I approached the end of the isle I stopped. Pills and booze. Did I want to go down that road again? I turned around and put the beer back. I kept the pills and walked back to the cashier.

There is something to be said about how I am seeing the world currently. Almost like an indie film. Things look different. Music sounds different and it's as if I am seeing things through a 35mm lens. It all just looks so different. Clearer. As if I am following myself with a camera.

This weekend I did everything alone, but I didn't notice. I walked the parade with my camera, capturing people in moments they will never remember, but that I would. I sat at Upper Crust and got lost in a book as I sat alone enjoying the bustle of downtown on a sunny afternoon. On Sunday I went to church in the old El Ray theater, and again, it was as if I was outside of myself. I couldn't explain it. Everyone was completely unaware that I was observing them and everything that was felt in that theater. The walls are painted with such eerie looking fairies. Chubby, cross-eyed, peeling fairies. The ceiling was high and the paisley design was so abstract and out of context yet it was so perfectly exact as what it should have been. Then the music made me cry because it reminded me of everything I had prayed so hard for this past year...for peace. For that hand to reach down and pick me up and brush me off and remind me that it was all just a stupid illusion and that this is where my mind should be...clear and peaceful and that what I went through was just a test. And as I am being brushed off and we are laughing at the whole thing I am told "You passed. Welcome to your new mind". And then I see it all...the fog is lifted.

Something happened. I don't know what it was, but something huge happened. And I don't know when it was, and I don't know how it was, but I woke up, and the heaviness was gone. It was gone. I can't explain it anymore than that. This heaviness that suffocated me and was slowly killing me for so long just up and left.

And I have no idea what it was. But it left.

I hate confessing on this blog. I hate that people can read my mind and feel my feelings. But the times that I feel compelled to write it, I tell myself I must post it because someone always gathers something from it.

So I do.

I left the beer, I took the pills. I swallowed half of one about 20 minutes ago. There is something inside me that hates that weakness I feel when I need that comfort. That small little something that makes me feel ok. And it's not that I don't feel ok, but there is is this want, this craving, this feeling inside me like an itch, a very small one, but it just wants to be itched. It's small, it's waning, and soon it will be forgotten.

I cannot remember the last time I felt so at peace with myself and the things around me. I know I am babbling to some degree, but I cannot get over how absolutely beautiful and free I feel right now. All the things that took over my thoughts and my emotions are gone. I felt like this since before my party. Something happened and whatever it is, I finally feel normal again. After all of it. After everything, I finally am at peace with everything.

And I left the beer.

My house is absurdly peaceful. The t.v. is not blaring, there is no music on, it's just the simple sounds of the wind in the trees outside, of the cars that occasionally race down Mangrove, bringing and leaving a hum with it. The sound of tires running on pavement. It's such a simple soothing sound. A rush that leads to nothing but its fading echo through the streets.

The sound of nothing used to give me anxiety. The feeling of nothing to do to fill my nights was maddening. I don't know what happened, and I don't know why, but at this moment, I feel at peace. Dare I say it's because of the heaviness of some people? It might be, I'm not sure, but lately I found the more I rid my life of those I feel who bring me down, the greater I feel. Maybe they were the heaviness.

And in the end, I left the beer.

Sometimes you just have to leave some things behind to move on.

Nothing More Than a Fictional Depiction of Love...

"Am I lovable?" I asked softly in the quiet of the night, my eyes heavy with sleep.

We laid naked in each others arms on a cool spring night. Under his covers, he pulled me close as I asked, "I know I'm a lot, but can I be lovable?" I didn't know what kind of answer I was expecting. Maybe the truth, or what I perceived to be the truth, that I was not. Not in the way I believed I should be.

He kissed my forehead and held me tighter and laughed, as if what I had asked was like asking if the sun would rise tomorrow, "Yes, you're lovable" he responded softly, his lips still on my skin. His tone was believable, and maybe it was because of the way he held me so close. Usually we sneak over to each others' place and hold each other. Before it used to be purely sexual. Wild, ridiculous sex. Meaningless, cold sex, that I always wanted to read into. I had always hoped that if it was passionate enough he would see what he lost an came back. But things are different now. I understand that what we have isn't what it used to be, but rather, something more complicated, yet simple. My emotions are not clouding up the room and I see him, and us, for what we are. Close friends.

We aren't together. Any more. We haven't been for years now. Years? Is that right? Yes, that's right. Years. And yet we can't seem to let go, even if we don't know how to hold on. At least once a week we find ourselves embraced at night, holding, loving, thoughtlessly together. There is something perfect about our fucked up and complicated situation. An underlying love that for some reason, we can't seem to break. Maybe it's out of loneliness, maybe it's because we really do care. Neither of us knows, I'm sure, but then again, neither of us care. All that matters is at this moment, I am being held. And though my heart is no longer anyone else's, but my own, and it doesn't flutter and flicker at his touch, there is something to be said about being held by a man you longed for for so long.

As he held me closer, I could feel myself letting go, and tears began to stream down my face. I tried to hold my breath, but everyone knows what it sounds like when someone is crying. No amount of controlled breathing can conceal it.

"What's wrong?" he softly and genuinely asked. His bedroom voice was always my weakness.

For so long I thought he was a cold-hearted asshole. And maybe for a while he was. But he needed to be. I needed to move on. Now, here we lay and though we were laughing and joking, inside I was hurting, but not because of him. Because of other things...things that made me feel unloveable. I wanted to hold in what I was thinking, but it slowly slipped out in tears that streamed down my cheeks. He held me closer, and softly again he asked me what was wrong. I didn't want to talk about it, because it didn't matter. In the end, after everything, none of it mattered, but at that moment I was hurting, and being held only squeezed the words out of me. And though I couldn't really feel it in my heart, I knew he cared. I was just so conditioned to ignore any sign of hope that he would want me back that it was hard to accept him when he was genuinely concerned. It was hard to open that door again and let myself feel for him again. And maybe it was because I knew once the light came through the windows in the morning, and once I left the comfort of his arms, I would also leave his thoughts, and we would go back to be nothing more than good friends who text out of "boredom", or for a late night hook-up.

And I would be back to where I have always been. Alone.

I don't mind being alone. That's fine. It's the rejection that hurts.

For so long I had felt rejected by him. Slowly that turned into something different. We have developed a bizarre friendship that I can't imagine living without. Now I am feeling rejected by people other than him, and that hurts the same. As I admitted these feelings to him, he kissed me softly and pulled me close and as much as I tried to dismiss my feelings as being stupid, he told me, "You can feel this way, it's ok. You're aloud to feel this way. And you're not alone. You have a lot of people who are there for you" and what his words really told me was that he was there for me.

I let the tears stream down my face and fall onto his arm. "I was just trying to get past you," I admitted, softly sobbing. "I have been trying to get past you for so long." He loved the way I loved him. I know no one has ever loved him so selflessly and foolishly and I knew it meant something to him, even if he didn't feel the same.

"I will always love you, even if I am not in love with you," I admitted, my words were muddled and broken, but he heard them perfectly. And though he couldn't say the same back, he tried his best to show that it meant everything to him, so he pulled me closer and kissed my forehead softly. And in the night we lay together, naked, close, vulnerable, and no longer in love like we once were. We both knew that much.

There is a comfort in becoming cold to emotions. There is a sense of relief when you no longer care what others are thinking or feeling or doing. Being able to let go isn't easy, but once you can break those bonds, you find a freedom in yourself that is unexplainable. I like being free from those bonds. I like being content in my own life. It has been years since I have finally been back to my normal self. Maybe it's that I don't have the fear of losing him, maybe it's the fact that spring is here and I am free to run and play in it. Maybe it's that I am finally finding what makes me happy; a journey that has been far from easy.

Or maybe it's the fact that my heart has finally moved on. Maybe not far, but far enough for me to be ok with it.

When the sun finally creeps into his room, I slide out from his warm arms and into the cold morning air, sliding my cold jeans over my bare legs. He watches me and we laugh. Lately we laugh more than usual. I am comfortable with him, unlike the days when I was awkward and nervous and frightened that anything I would do would scare him off. Now I sit at the edge of the bed sliding on my shoes, leaning in to kiss him good bye. And as loving and soft as the kisses are that I leave on his forehead, his closed eyes, and his soft cheeks, I know that there is something missing. In place of it is something inexplicable. Maybe it's just a comfort. Maybe it's friendship. Maybe it's absolutely nothing at all. I avoid looking into his eyes for fear that he won't look back, or even more so, looking back and not looking at me like he once did. He does the same. Nothing lingers like it used to. Instead it is nothing more than a thing we do. We come together, we cum together, then one of us leaves. Sometimes we wait a day to speak to one another for fear the other will assume we like the other, when in reality, though we might on some very small, deep level, we are both just two lonely confused souls too weak to fall in love again...

Making what we have to be nothing more than a fictional depiction of love...

Falling Off the Wagon with a Margarita in My Hand...

There are many reasons why I haven't been writing.

One, I am feeling at peace, so I didn't have anything to write about.

Two, the things I wanted to talk about are not easy to put into words.

Three, I didn't want to be judged for what I am about to say:


I fell off the wagon.


A lot of you are now imagining me completely hammered and stumbling around dressed as Peter Pan in some ridiculously small costume.

It wasn't like that.

And it wasn't then that I slipped up.

On April 7th I went to Tres with two of my girlfriends. We sat at the bar where they grill the food in front of you. Kristin suggested we get a pitcher of margaritas and asked us what kind we wanted. I sat there silent and smiled softly, knowing that my opinion didn't matter anyway, so I just looked at Sarah. They ordered Passion Fruit and we sat around talking. When the pitcher came the girls looked at me and I could see that my "not drinking" was creating a bit of awkwardness. We laughed a little and then the girls turned serious.

"You know, you can have some if you want. It's ok. We won't tell anyone," and they poured me a small glass and set it in front of me.

Around me the restaurant was busy and loud. The man in front of me grilling dinner was quick and efficient; the smell of chicken and bell peppers drifted in my direction. I just sat there silently staring that the glass in front of me; the girls were beside me chatting away excitedly.

I just sat there and stared.

As I held the glass in my hand, my eyes began to well with tears.

I was softly shaking. This was a door that I wasn't sure I was ready to open. This was a moment that I didn't know I was ready for. And this was a moment that I knew I would be judged for by many, many people.

So I just sat there. I wiped the tear that began to well and slide down my cheek. At that moment the girls turned to me. I looked at them pathetically, confused and scared. They leaned in.

"It's ok. We'll take care of you. We promise nothing will happen"

I looked back at my glass.

"You are here celebrating with friends. You don't have to if you don't want to, but we promise we will make sure nothing happens and we won't tell anyone."

I smiled and lifted my glass. We cheered to the night and to happiness, though what I had wished for more than anything would be a cheers to inner strength.

I lifted the glass to my lips and for the first time in 4 months I let alcohol run through my veins again...


Opening that door was not easy. Closing it again is going to be even harder.

There was an initial sense of relief that I felt in opening that door again. The idea that I am strong enough to not drink if I don't want to.

I lied to myself.

I have since been drinking more and more. It started with the day before my birthday with me and Jennine at a restaurant, that led to The Bear and more shots. Then the next week it started on Wednesday and continued on until last night. I had been drinking every single day since Thursday. And not just socially. I caught myself drinking alone again. A shot of whiskey here, a shot of vodka there. Nothing too crazy, just a little bit, but I can feel myself leaning back into those habits.

And I am not drinking because I am sad, but rather because I have been so happy I just have an urge to celebrate with myself and bring on those feelings of elation and happiness.

The feelings I should be finding in myself.

But the thing about being alone is sometimes you forget how to find those feelings.

I did not think I would use the entire month of April to drink. I thought I would chose one night and decide if it is what I want. Because I broke the bond early, I kept saying to myself, "It's ok, just one more" and now I am feeling that I am slipping back into my old ways.

And I'm scared.

My apartment is full of alcohol. Vodka, Whiskey, Bourbon...all left over from my party. Currently it sits on my counter and I can feel the pull of it's temptation as I write. And I hate it.

It was easier when the temptation was hidden and not right in front of me. But seeing it, like seeing a candy bar, makes you want it, even if you weren't initially craving it.

So now I am at a crossroads. Do I continue on drinking or do I follow through and not drink for the rest of the year? This conundrum is such a difficult question to answer. When I started this blog is was easy to get through (kind of) because I had to own up to my word. The fact that I have broken that word kills me. But then I have to think, am I doing this for me, or you? And that is what bothers me the most because in the end, I find that I am strongest when I have to do it for another person, but don't seem to have it in me to do it for myself.

Maybe it's because I have been missing the gym. When working out I found such amazing results because I was eating better and not drinking. I know the first action I have to take is to hide what tempts me. Put it out of sight. I have to make sure not to drink at home anymore. It's an easy slope to fall down when you are alone a lot and sometimes find drinking is a source of simple entertainment. And lastly, I have to do this for myself and remember why I wanted to stop...because I could.

I don't know what I want to do at this point. In a way I LOVED the control I had over this, over all of it. The fact that I was doing what so many others fail to even attempt. But I think that whether I decide to continue on this journey is going to have to be between me and myself. This will just have to be something that I decide for myself. And maybe you will see me out at the bars drinking, but you might not know what it is. I am not sure where I want to go with this, but I think that at this point it is important to find a happy medium. A point of contentment in knowing that I have control over it whether or not I let it back in.

I'm not saying I am not scared, but I know I can do this and I know in the end I will be much happier.

I think drinking again has given me a lot more clarity than I thought it would. I am not sure where I am going with it, and in a weird way, that feels metaphorical to my life. I know that because of the right choices I am making, where I am going will be something grand. And at this moment, and sharing with you my weaknesses, it brings me a sense of peace and relief...something I haven't felt in a long long time...

Everybody’s shit stinks…though, at least yours isn’t in a bag around your waist

Recently someone posted on Facebook about how they were sick of hearing about people complaining and my stomach sank a little and I realized I was the first culprit.

Sometimes venting helps.

But sometimes venting makes you dwell on something that isn’t worth dwelling on.

Yeah, I get it. In the scheme of things, I ain’t much, but sometimes we struggle.

And then someone talks about shit in a bag, and things completely turn upside down.

I never heard my mom complain about being sick. I never heard her say anything, and she wanted it that way. Over the weekend, during one of the bands playing, I, for a moment, imagined her struggle and how alone she must have been because she didn’t reach out and I wondered how it felt. That definitely put my ass in perspective.

While my venting (or others’) may seem really selfish to some, to others it is a voice to their struggle as well. I am not saying I have anything to complain about because really, I am seriously blessed, but sometimes life hurts and it’s confusing and you want answers. That is what I have been striving for. And I figured if I am gonna do this, I am gonna do this right….though I do seem to keep doing it wrong. But those are my weaknesses.

I initially wasn’t going to keep blogging because I was sick of the sound of my own voice. But then I kept getting people who would come to me, thanking me for what I was doing, which people considered brave. I considered it foolish because really, now everyone knows that I am not the self- titled amazingly awesome strong chick I pretend to be. I’m human.

We all are.

And we all shit.

Just be thankful, like my friend reminded me, that at least it’s not in a bag wrapped around your waist.

Now go out and enjoy the beauty life has to offer and let go of what has been holding you back.

Easier said than done.

I know.

I’m working on that too.

Finding One's Self is Like Giving Birth...It Fucking Sucks.

When the chance comes to fight or flight, what do you end up choosing?

My usual? Run.

My current situation? Cornered, so I am forced to fight.

And I am getting my ass beat.

But it’s ok because I am learning a few moves and soon I will come out of this as a warrior.

Yeah. I’m getting deep here. Go with it.

These past couple of weeks have been brutal. Hell, the past couple years have been brutal, but this more so. Maybe it’s finally time. Maybe this is the point in life where I am so fed up with letting myself get beat up that I stand up and say, “Fuck you. This is my life and you are not going to be the one to define me or my happiness”.

Easier said than done.

I recently stated the following: “Finding clarity and purpose is a lot like giving birth. It fucking sucks, hurts a shit ton, everyone is crying (mainly you) and you think you are going to die because you don't see an end to it. All you can do is pray that after all of it you get something beautiful, healthy and strong that will last a lifetime...”

Yes. I feel like I am absolutely giving birth.

I feel like I have said this before, but that was just false labor.

This is the real deal, folks. And if not. I’m out. I am not sure how much more of this “false labor” I can handle. Like, I am serious when I say it sucks.

Maybe it’s because I am home all day alone working…with nothing but a cat that smells like farts whom I have diagnosed with schizophrenia. There is something maddening about the same four walls everyday. I’m not saying I am suicidal, but I am getting quite certain I should not be left alone for any long periods of time right now.

Maybe it’s cabin fever. Maybe it’s just a case of claustrophobia, but I am telling you, these walls are caving in. And I keep feeling this heaviness…like a true physical heaviness on my shoulders. A weight I decided to carry that I really should not have. The only time it is alleviated wholly, even for a short time, is when I am texting Kalene the things I am not supposed to text others. Maybe my issue is I am concerning myself with other people I should not.

Step one: Breathe.

It’s hard to breathe when you are holding your breath for someone. I have been holding my breath for 2 years now (add about four months to that…I am a repeat offender in these matters, apparently). I am not sure why I feel like I am always waiting for someone. Always waiting when I never used to give a fuck. In fact, I was so lost in my own world I forgot about other people. Not selfishly, but definitely not in the sense where I need to hear from someone to be complete. That’s not me. And that’s not healthy. And I know it, so I am trying to let some people go. And though I have been trying to cut ties, some ties you don’t want to break no matter how much they are hurting you.

Step Two: Find comfort in yourself.

It’s hard to find comfort in yourself when you look for comfort in others. I miss the way the Tall Pretty One would hold me, Yes, I confess it. I loved the way he made me feel loved. He would hold me and kiss me so sweetly that I forgot how much I loved being loved. And he opened up a small wound from a long time ago, when I knew what it was like to feel loved. And then the Tall Pretty One, one I didn’t care much for nor did I want much to do with, broke down my walls and held me like I had so longed for. And I fell for it. Hook line and sinker. And I lost myself.

Not that I wasn’t already lost, but I was on the cusp of finding more of myself. I thought I was strong enough to be ok with what we had. But I wasn’t. I wanted to be his everything because I felt worthy of it. Instead I was just his something, and that wasn’t good enough for me. So I had to let it go. And it hurts. Especially since there wasn’t much of a fight, short of a “good riddance” from his end, and tears from mine. Now it’s time to fill the hole he left with love from myself…though never did such a hole seem so deep.

Step three: Listen.

Listen to everything. Your heart, the words of friends, music…your soul. Your soul is always searching for the best of you, so when you suffocate it, you lose it. I suffocated it with insecurities and a yearning for that feeling I would get when held just right, or when that text was finally answered and that lust was finally met. Instead of listening to the agony it would cause later, I only dealt with the needs of needing comfort. I used to find comfort in alcohol, so then I started finding it in someone else. Now the true test is finding it in myself. Currently, my heart is a vacuum and to look inside myself for that is maddening, so I have turned to friends.

Never in my life had I ever realized the resource of amazing people in my life. I have complained so often of the horrible people in this town, but what I haven’t listened to are the amazing souls who have been there for me. Those who have seen this struggle and have been watching me give labor to whatever it is I have been laboring over. Tonight alone some of the most amazing people I have ever met in my life offered me words of wisdom beyond my scope. And maybe if it were them I would have good advice, but because it is myself and I am blinded by this struggle, I wouldn’t know how to listen if I offered.

Music is my everything. I may not be a musician, but I know that I could never live without music ever. So I turned to my music guru for help. I also turned to my spiritual guru for help and lastly, those fighting this same struggle with me.

On Saturday I listened to Birds on Fire play their last show in town. I didn’t know what to expect and while uncomfortable, sober and ready to leave, their last song grabbed me and sat me back in my seat and told me to listen. So I did.

And never was I more grateful.

This is what I saw when I closed my eyes and listened:

“I was the leader to a pack of warriors. In this vision most of them were girls…my girls, but all of us were warriors charging to the heavy beat of a drum. We came upon a dark castle, something like Lord of the Rings. As the drums beat faster and got heavier and the rest of the band joined, my warriors and I were on the castle, destroying everything dark and horrid about it. It was mostly men, being beaten and cut down by me and my worriors. It was a pure blood bath. I continued to lead the pack and the men began to fall like flies, dirty and bloody, dying all around. It was a massacre. A beautiful massacre of the dark things that consumed us. And as the music crescendo'd into what felt like the climax, I plunged my sword into the chest of the man I stood on, ripped out his heart, held it in my hand and took a large bite out of it. With a scream of triumph, the music took us to the top of the tower where we all stood, looking back over where we came from. Behind us dark ominous clouds, but before us a clearing. We just needed to get there so we stood on the edge and on our backs, huge magnificent wings sprouted and burst from us and the pain was excruciating yet blissful. They grew over ten feet and were magnificent, so we jumped and our wings took us up higher. They flapped and flapped as the music took us soaring and coasting, tears in our eyes as we finally felt the freedom…we took back our hearts and now we were free to fly towards something beautiful and almost holy. And we just flew, and soared and we owned the sky and everything around us. We were free and ahead there was so much glory, it was almost unfathomable. So we just kept going towards it…we just went”.

And when the music stopped and the boys in the band embraced one another, I left quickly. I wanted to run out and keep running until I too took flight and soared out of this god-forsaken town. Instead, buzzing from the night I went to get a movie and some food. It was rather anti-climatic, but I was so afraid of being alone with nothing to do but think, I felt I had to get a distraction.

Step four: do.

It’s one thing to say it, it’s another to do it. I used to be afraid to say how I felt for fear of judgment, but currently it seems there are more people on my side and fighting this fight than I ever thought possible. Some of the responses I get bring me to tears. When you bare your soul, it’s hard to imagine anyone else understanding. Then when others find comfort in your struggles because they are struggling too, you cannot imagine the gratitude.

So I write. That is what I do. That is what I was always meant to do. I am not sure why or what for. I am not sure why I am breaking myself down to its rawest form, but I am. And I don’t really know why I quit drinking, I just did. And now, here I am. Fighting to stay alive every single day. Some moments are excruciating and they scare the fuck out of me because I sometimes think my mind will be my ruin. Writers and thinkers are always looking for contentment, but in the end that is impossible because that would mean becoming complacent and a true thinker and writer is most uncomfortable in their comfort.

One day when my work is done and in a cover, I will be happy. But not just happy because I have found comfort in my success, but because more doors will open and I will be forced to find more things to write about. And that absolutely thrills me.

So until then, I am trying do all that I can to keep my sanity, which currently has not been easy. I don’t like putting my struggles up on my blog because I don’t want people to see a snapshot of my emotional life and think that that is all I am. I am loving, happy and all too willing to go out and have fun. Currently I am sad and hurt and am trying to find myself in my sobriety and my solidarity. Never were two feats more harrowing. But if I can conquer this…if I can out live this, I am pretty fucking sure I will never be stopped…the truest of warriors. A warrior who put their life on the line to maybe save someone else…

Break Ups, Sleeping Pills and Whiskey...

I liked drinking because I thought it was conducive to me becoming a great writer. Not because great writers have been known to be drunks, though most of them are (as well as manic depressive), but because it took down walls and opened up a flood of some of the most amazing things I have ever written. The same can be said for Benedryl, but that doesn't sound as exotic and gritty.

When I first moved down to Chico a couple years ago, the guy I was seeing and I had hit a rough patch. Soon I felt it was in my best interest to leave, so I did...and though I had hoped for more of a fight on his end, it did not happen that way and in the end it just proved that he didn't like me as much as I thought he did...and that is what hurt the most: not being wanted.

It also didn't help that I was unemployed, adding fuel to the inadequacy fire. Because I didn't have a job and because he lived literally down the block from me, it was inevitable that I was not going to be able to handle the break up well. With no distractions and a broken heart, I found myself drinking more than usual. And because my mind raced because I had no money to do anything other than sit home and because I lost all my "friends" in the break up, I was left alone with nothing more than a bottle of Jameson and a couple of 1000 piece puzzles. So that is what I did. I drank whiskey and put together puzzles.

Soon I started taking sleeping pills with my whiskey to stave off the thoughts that so hauntingly cluttered my mind. The combination of the pills and Jameson was both peaceful and mind numbing. It was to the point that I was so absolutely distraught with feelings of inadequacy and failure that I could do nothing but cry myself to sleep otherwise. I had a Masters I couldn't use, a debt over my head and a rent I couldn't pay. To ignore all of that I slept through my days and partied at night...anything to ease the hurt.

I don't like emotions. I don't know what to do with emotions when I actually get them. I'm used to being cold and callus. I slept through the day my mom died and went to work the next day. Usually breakups get me for about a week and then I move on. I am a girl, so emotions are inevitable, but in the end, I am as cold-hearted as any man.

But the breakup I had that summer has lingered...for a couple years.

It finally came to head that we would stay friends. He comes over and holds me and we just sleep in the comfort of having someone there. The connection we have, both sexually and emotionally is beyond anything I can explain...and maybe that is why it hurt so much to break up. I finally had to put an end to our hook-ups because it wasn't healthy for me, or us, despite how amazing it was.

I had to move on.

And maybe in the end the drinking wasn't so much my addiction as much as it has been him. Him and the beast that we created together. Us. An "us" that neither of us can seem to quit, no matter how many times we say we have to. No matter how many times we try and walk away, someone always brings "us" back with a text. I never loved a man in my life like I had loved him. Ever. I was never so selfless and willing to drop the rest of my world to be with him.

I have moved on from that, to some degree. He was my ultimate drug. He was my beast. And maybe he still is. True love never really dies, it just sits dormant in the back of your mind, remembering what you once had and what you may never get again. And because of that, no one else gets in...and even if they do, the hurt from before was so bad, it's not worth letting go of.

Recently I was willing to let go and try again, but the person I chose was exactly like me in every way. Scared shitless. The difference is I was willing and ready to do it, despite what it might do. I was willing to fall again just to feel what it felt like to be held in strong arms. To be small and safe in the arms of a man who adored me like I felt so deserved of. I was willing to let myself fall...just to see where it went because I believed in it, and I wanted to remember how amazing it felt to be loved again. And in the end, I got hurt once more. And I learned. I learned that my beast still haunts me. I will always expect to be adored, like I once was...like I am someone's everything. And until I see that look in someone's eye, that undeniable look of love, I will never be content and I will leave...

I wish in the matters of breakups it was all completely logical: You don't like me + I can see you will not give me what I feel I deserve = we don't sleep together anymore and you don't get me. But sadly, the feelings of rejection overshadow the logic and it all becomes an emotional confusing mess. Which brings me back to: I don't like emotions.

But this time, I face them head on...no whiskey, no pills...just me. And no one understands how hard that is. I can't go out on Saturday and drink and dance the night away. Not that I would anyway because La Salles fucking blows now and everyone takes themselves too seriously. WHY?! It's Chico for God's sake...it's LAME! I mean, the place is beautiful but the people for the most part SUCK! They all do the same thing every night...gets belligerently trashed at The Banhee or Crush then go to La Salles or The Beach and get kicked out. The music SUCKS and frankly, it does nothing for me on either an intellectual level or even on an entertaining one.

It's like a constant re-run of a shittier version of Jersey shore...a really non-entertaining one. And no one is there to have fun...all anyone does is oggle chicks for a quick hook up then move on to the next. Where is the class? Where is the sophistication? Where is the fun?

Yeah, so I dress up like an asshole sometimes in a small costume and hang with my friends. How different is that from a short skirt that leaves only 3 inches of fabric from showing off your coochie? At least my efforts are to not take myself too seriously and have a good time. I think this town could use that. It used to be that way, but something happened. Something left. I think it was Matt Armstrong. That guy leaving left a hole in the heart of Chico.

But I digress. I guess my point is, I came home to find myself and in doing so, I found a clarity unlike anything I ever could have imagined. I wish everyone, every single person would just for one month stop drinking. Just stop and see what happens. Go out and socialize without it. Meet new people without the predisposition of wanting sex, but rather to just interact wholly with other human beings.

Or am I living in the wrong world for that?

I recall when living in L.A. I could go to lunch or have a drink with a man and not assume he is trying to get into my pants. I have been close with men as friends before and nothing came of it but some of the most amazingly deep conversations. My best friend Mike is practically married with 3 kids and he and I connect on the most amazing of intellectual levels...and nothing more. People lack that in this society. Honor is not up held and women do not hold on to what should be considered sacred and only valued by a man who fought hard enough to get her. Now the girls are so sad and desperate they just give it pathetically and willingly in hopes to get men. All anyone is getting are STDs.

Go Chico.

So anyway, I guess, despite my rant, I have come to see what it is I want in life and what it is I expect of anyone in it. I am passionate, beautiful, strong and smart...with a little wit to boot. I know who I am and I know it is worth holding my new found ground. I am taking flight and though I am not sure where I am going, I don't care that I don't know, so long as I make the journey worth it by enriching my life with new wonders and sights and let go of the things that hold me back and make me feel less than who I really am.

I think this Phoenix has risen...