I am emotionally compromised. I laugh as I say that because thinking about it being funny instead of sad helps me to deal. Truth is, I've probably always been this way. I told a friend a story a few nights ago. It wasn't a particularly thrilling tale of lust, drama or suspense. It was merely a memory... an early memory from when life was still carefree and simple. My mother didn't murder my father or anything tragic like that. It's the moment my life went from simple and carefree to worrisome and fear ridden. The day that my parents told me they were getting divorced. My father turned into a real
prick after. I guess it's why I always expect the worst is going to develop even if it's been fantastic for years. People always disappoint me, and maybe I cause it.

So, emotionally compromised. I'm too analytical and up in my own thought most times to really pay attention to what's happening. I don't know how else to be right now. There'll be no changing it until I can afford therapy... this is the best therapy I can get. So, for now... you are my therapists. I'm not paying, okay?

Girl's Night. Girl's Night is just about the most fun I ever have, ever. Last night was Girl's Night. We go out in packs (strength in numbers I guess), in dresses, painted nails, make-up we helped one another apply, necklaces or earrings, and a fancy peep-toed pump to finish it off. Getting ready for a night out with the gals is nearly just as fun as having it. I have quite a few male friends, but it's not the same. With my male friends, I spend much more time smiling politely at compliments... awkwardly, I might add. I try to gracefully accept the comment. I feel exposed, and put my jacket on. I feel... crowded sometimes. I don't feel that way with the girls. If they comment on my blouse, it's because they actually LIKE my BLOUSE, and not what's under it. We talk about where it was purchased, and how much was paid. We gasp at it's expense high or low.

We help one another pick out everything... clothing, shoes, hair, make-up... men. We rely so much on our girlfriends.... but, we have so few, and sometimes we treat one another like the enemy. That's a damn shame.

So, last night I had girl time. It was exactly what I needed. I hope it helps me to release all the frustration I've been carrying. I'm lugging around a heavy weight. It's difficult to think about letting it go; I almost don't want to. If I do, then I let that person go associated with the weight. But, I guess I have to do so.

It still pains me, but a night out with the gals lessens the blow.

upon others reflections

I've had a lot of good friends... most of them I still keep in my heart even if I haven't seen them in years. We still speak, and they still know me. Three of my friends have said to me, "You are my phoenix." Now, to be called this, is rather fitting. I am constantly rebuilding myself from my mistakes or failures. At the same time, I am not vain enough to believe I can be compared to this mythical beauty. These three friends do not know one another... they have all been in different moments in my life, different periods of repairing. They've said how they admire my independence and ability to take my happiness into my own hands. They say so many wonderful things.

Another friend wrote this to me recently upon my compliments to his writing (and I think you'll see his words are well placed and the ideas are executed perfectly):

"I think there's always been a distinction between you and I as writing goes. You do have a gift for poetry and prose. It's understandable that you might feel humbled enough to hesitate considering yourself a poet. Still, if you aren't, there never was one. I'm a bit more of a novelist for sure. I rankled at the rules imposed on how I could express myself creatively in writing when I was in school, especially in poetry. I tell stories, yet you...you bare your soul (forgive the term) like a woman stripped, standing unashamed of her naked body, allowing those who see to decide for themselves whether to approve or not. There's a clear difference in the amount of self put into writing and I admire it about you."

Coming from him, that is a billion dollar compliment. Priceless, even.

So, my friends and other people in my life have seen my worth and dare to measure it.

My point? Why the fuck can't I see it?

fuck your reasons

Again. Again it's one of those days when crying seems to be in order. It's as if there is nothing else I can do, but cry.

I've been there for you. I've been your friend, and you have been mine... mostly. You have been my friend when I fit into your life. When I haven't fit, you have broken up with me... you have cast me aside as though I were just a sour piece of salmon. I've taken you back without any questions... with open arms and a happy heart.

Again. You're doing this again.

I don't fit in your life anymore, and now you're tossing me like I'm bad milk. You poured me down the drain and rinsed out the carton. You were sure to confirm there was nothing left inside apart from a sour smell. You are thorough.

Have you ulterior motives always? You've never been my friend because that's what you wanted. You've been in my life under false pretenses.

If this is how it hurts, it couldn't get much worse.

Again. You've broken our friendship. You've defeated me... I am crippled... soaking in a salty pool of my making. I am devoured by my broken will to be in your life.

I want badly to be angry instead of saddened.

Forget what you know about betrayal. THIS is betrayal.

I can't forgive you, again.

so very vain

I've said before... I really only talk about myself. I'm big on self-reflection. It's important to me to see what is really "there" and not just what appears to be "there".

So, I love my blog. I love it because I get all these thoughts on "paper". They'd bounce around in my head and probably do some brain damage if I didn't. Also, my blog is not private. Not many read it... three people I know for sure, and a few anonymous whom I don't think I've ever met. But, it's out there for anyone to find. Google knows my address. Anyway, there is a certain satisfaction in an online journal... it's exciting and satiating to know someone finds you interesting enough to read your vain rantings. So, for many years I've kept an online journal... and, this is actually my second.

A friend bought me a new journal. It's beautifully bound in dark leather and filled with blank lined ivory pages. It has a book mark and a leather strap to hold it closed. I have about 30 or so journals in a plastic case. Some of them aren't completed. I've become so reliant on being able to type out my thoughts that my penmanship has been reduced to a scribble... worse than it was years ago. Despite these facts, I plan to fill it with words I won't put online. It's never going to pass eyes apart from my own, so, it might be therapeutic. That was my intention before the blog craze began.

I'll record my mysterious memories here always. It's like an addiction. I'm addicted to my readers, be them few or many. You give me a rush... a sensation that's difficult to describe. It's adrenaline. It gives me goosebumps to know you find me interesting... when I only find myself rather vain and self-absorbed.

So, well, thanks for reading.

Earth's New Start

In the end,
no one wins.
When Kingdom comes
with walls of sea,
to wipe us away
and begin again clean,
our medals
disappear over folds
of salty cannons,
our bodies
decay and mold
with submissive action,
and all scars made,
melt away,
in a solitary wave.
In the end,
only the Earth wins.

A new Winnie the Pooh movie is set to be released. I've read it's the old-school-new Pooh, for which I'm very pleased. Winnie the Pooh is a fond memory from my childhood... what little time I was actually able to be a child anyway. I can barely remember care-free moments growing up.

-Playing at the corner with my sisters in the dirt searching for horny toads. People would drive past and yell, "Those things will give you warts!" We didn't believe them. I don't know if that is a myth or truth, but several years later, we all had to have warts frozen off our skin. That was painful. The second part of that is not really a happy memory.

-Running down to the creek by the school to catch tad poles. My dad had a tank big enough for us to swim in that, during the warm months, he'd fill with water, and we'd fill with tad poles in hopes they'd become frogs before our eyes. I can't remember if they ever actually did. I do remember the joy I felt running around, and getting dirty with my sisters.

-My first black eye. I was playing catcher for baseball. Let's just say my hand-eye coordination was weak. I was proud of that black-eye, though. I didn't cry. I was about 5 or 6, I think.

-Learning to ride a bike without training wheels. I have two older sisters, and wanted desperately to be just like them. I had my dad take off my training wheels at three years old. I remember him saying, "Are you sure?" I said, "Yes, Daddy. Take them off." Only a few hours later, and several falls, I asked him to put them back on. It was a few days later I asked him to remove them again. He said, "I'm not putting them back on this time." I guess it was difficult to do. My sisters helped me to balance, and I was riding like mad in no time.

And, Winnie the Pooh. My mom had an old copy of Winnie the Pooh stories. I remember the inside cover had a map of the 100 Aker Wood where Christopher Robin would visit Pooh and his friends. I used to study it. I loved Winnie the Pooh... "Oh bother," I would sigh sometimes, just like Pooh. His best friend was Piglet, and they were so sweet together. Tiger was bouncy, Owl was wise, Eeyore was sullen, Ro was young and energetic and Rabbit was obsessive. There were so many different characters with whom I identified. Most of all, it's one of the few times I remember my mom reading to me... sitting down and spending quality time with me. When I was young, my parents divorced. I had only just finished kindergarten when she started college. She didn't have time to help me study because she herself was studying to make a better life for us. I developed ways to learn on my own. It made me an efficient learner and student, but I think I lack other things because of it. I guess that's the way of things, though. You're always going to be heavy on one side or the other of everything life has to offer. If it can be offered, it can be taken away.

I digress... It wasn't long after my parents divorce that my mom became highly distracted by school/work and the general business of being unhappy alone. Then, my teenage years seem to converge on me like a hurricane. So, Winnie the Pooh... it makes me feel young again. It makes me remember the times when Mama read to me. I'm definitely going to see this movie.

"I wonder what Piglet is doing," thought Pooh. "I wish I were there to be doing it, too."

read me

I don't tend to hold eye contact long. I'm afraid for the world to see me. They would be able to see inside me, and they might take pieces away. I can't afford to lose any pieces. I need all I've got left after all I've given away, and what's been stolen. I'm hording the rest of me. It is polite to ask for a piece, but fantastically unfair to demand it. And, even more shameful to be angry at denial.

I know that I'm not easy to read. I'm not easy to read because I don't allow it. I don't want to allow it (see reasons in first paragraph). It would be tragic if no one ever knew who I was, though. I've been hiding me for so long, I'm not sure I'm able to read me. So, what if I shelter me for too long, and end up trapped inside? I guess, for now, it's something I'm willing to risk.

Don't ask me, "what do you want?" You and I both will be frustrated with the answer. The truth is, I've never known.

I feel like a giant shipping vessel at sea taking on water. My heart is a life boat trapped inside. No matter what she does, she keeps taking on water. She'll soon drown leaving me without cargo... Leaving me alone sinkin into the sea. I fucking hate the ocean.

BOUNDARY

I stretch

until my fingers graze

the edge

of the line.

I stretch

until my back

is aback

your back.

I stretch

until you

tell me

to stop.

I stretch

until you think

I've over stepped

your limits.

I stretch

until

I reach your end.

I stretch still.

I stretch

until you

stop

me.

words meet heartbeats

I feel like I make a mess of myself, knowingly, like, on a daily basis. I'm so angry with me. Maybe that's my biggest problem. Maybe no one has to forgive me, but me? But, how the fuck do I do that? I've made mistake after mistake. I can trace it, because it's so damn transparent. It's in every move I've made, and every word I've written. I wear it on my shoulder like a badge of shame. No one else blames me. It's just me. I'm in so much trouble. I threw myself here.

"You can't break a broken heart." LIES. It can be broken into an infinite number of pieces. There is no limit; there's only a cap on love. All it takes is for someone to speak the sweet words of heartbeats, and I'm smitten. I'm going to fight it.

I just can't love anymore. Keep it.

"There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of overwhelming grief...and unspeakable love." --Washington Irving

I just want to cry today. I don't know why I feel such sadness sometimes.

It's sort of.. uncontrollable. Maybe it's empathy. I am sad for others misfortune. I am sad for it.

I just want to cry tonight... and so I'll sit here, and weep for others as an extension of my own sadness.

I'm a surgeon.

If you have a broken heart, bring it to me. I will mend it. I will make you seemingly whole.

I've become an efficient heart surgeon. Disappointment looms over every horizon and after each sunset. But, it's become less and less hurtful. Scars litter my heart, and it's full of broken and mended tissue. It was full of character, but now it's verging on downright ugly from the repeated stitching... which in the long run, can't be good.

I'm a combat medic. I can recover in battle. I find myself absorbing others pain. I ball it up and keep it deep in my chest. In some ways, it's beginning to overwhelm my lungs, and ability to breathe. The longer I sit still, the more I feel its effects. The more the sobbing increases. I have to move; I have to find another rhythm to restore.

I'm a heart surgeon. I'm bound to get sloppy and nick an artery soon...

I know what the trick is going to be, but I don't know how to get there.

I know the idea is to be satisfied being alone. But, how do I get there? I guess I have to start by being alone... romantically, completely. I don't want to take that step. Losing the amount of affection I currently possess would send this addict into raging withdrawals. There's bound to be lots of crying, drinking, and heavy partying. I'd probably write so much my fingers would bleed.

It has nothing to do, really, with any one particular person. It's affection. It's everything about it. I feed off of it. Rely on it. I don't know how to break my addiction, and still have it in my life?

O sweet Affection,

I'm an addict for you,

raging in withdrawal.

My skin turns blue from

the air between us.

It's sundered,

like rain falling from clouds.

All involuntary disrupts,

like drowning leaves

weeping death in puddles.

I curse the separate space,

the next embrace

and last kiss.

I curse empty.

Bi-Polar Heart

Sometimes, I drive down the road with all the windows down. I sing to fun jams until my throat hurts, and I'm completely out of breath. I feel so happy with the warm breeze tossing my bangs around, or the cold air stiffening my nose and heat on my feet. I smile, sigh heavily, and feel as though all is well.

Sometimes, I drive down the road, and I can't stand to have the wind in my face pelting me with strong gusts that jet my hair into my eyes. I hum solemnly to slow sad angsty modern-day poets. I can't find the right temperature on my heat or A/C. I'm uncomfortable, crumple my brow, sigh heavily, and feel absolutely lost.

I don't quite understand the disconnect experienced in the space between the two paragraphs above. The emotion, yes... the emotion is exact opposite in each. But, why? Where does this bi-polar heart originate? It's this behavior that concerns me. Will I always be a roller coaster? How am I to be loved if I can't even answer, "what's wrong?" Would I love that girl? Well, I think I love me, so maybe the answer to that is, "Conditionally."

Tonight, as I drove home, it was the former. I was smiling and laughing at my terrible singing. I don't know what's more important... having more evenings with this feeling or more consistency. I think consistency would be nice. I confuse me. This is not a good sign. I confuse everyone; someone has to have clarity on the issue of "me". It has to BE me. Being me is really getting on my nerves. I just want happy, and I want it more often than, not equal to, sullen.

I don't want to be a sullen wilted girl.

So, either everyone on the planet is intuitive about my feelings, or I'm easy to read. I wouldn't be surprised to hear that I wear my emotions in my eyes, unmistakable. In fact, I'd call you captain obvious if you told me such. Even in a text I can't hide how I'm feeling.

Man, that is frustrating. I couldn't be someone else if I wanted. It also makes me a really bad liar, so I guess that's a good thing. But, it would be nice to build a little mystery, ya know? I mean mystery is something to which I'm incredibly attracted. I wish I weren't, however.

Bad? Good?

Whatever.

putting my love in storage

Two years ago, damn near exactly, I spoke of a broken heart. And, again, a boy did not take it, but it heaves broken in my chest, somehow, able to beat. Life takes away my happy and still sends me inward. I'm always trapped in reflection, which seriously is annoying.

I still think back to being 19 and destroyed. I was destroyed by a boy. I gave a boy my love like an expensive gift, but he didn't return it when our romance ended. He still has it in the pocket of the pants he never wears stuffed in the bottom of his closet... they are too small for him. It's as if he keeps them in case they fit again someday. And, maybe, just maybe, that's why I don't demand he give it back. Maybe I think I'll fit again, which is just silly. I mean, at this rate, he's not getting a refund for anything he returns. After all, it's been 11 years. I still remember his phone number.

I don't know if I can love again. It's never been the same. I've never been the same. There is no abandonment of all inhibition anymore. There is no going back to those days. That makes me so sad. I don't want to try anymore. There is no unconditional. Trying is stupid. I wish love would stop finding me. The bastard is sneaky.

So, it's in writing, I don't want to try anymore. But, there is still a need for human affection. How do I get that, and keep my fickle heart at bay, AND keep from hurting someone else? Somehow, I must. So, for now, I'm not searching for love; I'm fighting like mad to keep it away from me.

I don't know why, but I'm constantly amazed by the amount of love I have around me. I have been searching for romantic love like from the movies. So many little girls will be crushed to know it only exists in stories. So, I've been in pursuit of this fairy tale love, when all around me, love envelopes. I'm so loved. I do not feel deserving. I'm not certain from where this emotion stems, but I feel it in the simplist of gestures. I'm so fucking loved. How did I not see this before? For so long I've felt thankful for the people in my life, and never once did I think they'd be grateful for the same. It's a lovely discovery. I promise I won't forget. I promise to try to see the value in me others have seen for years. I hope the objects of my great affection feel it too. They are plenty.

I am in good company.