true for me, not for you

I have been shutting myself down when it comes to writing
Pulling the power cord on my creativity

You know why?

Because I thought I was selfish
I was selfish for writing about my trials as a twenty-four year old average looking woman
who came from a well off family with parents still together

I felt silly
I was given such a simple life and I make mayhem of it
I feel my emotions are self imposed
That all my “problems” are self created, and my revelations are only applicable to me

And guess what?
The later two are true

And that's life!

I cannot tell you what is true
My truth is magenta pink with winks of orange
Your truth may be chrome, thick as steel
Or maybe it’s soft, like your puppy’s fur

I don’t know
And that’s not why I am here

I am not here to tell you what is true for you
I am not here to tell you what is right from wrong
And I am not here to impress or spark your fancy

I am here to express what is true for me
I am here to be the largest expression of myself, crushing self imposed boundaries
I am here to be the truest of true to me and not you

And here I am writing again
This is for me, not you
And maybe, just maybe

You needed to hear it too

tip toeing

I have been avoiding it
Tip-toeing around it
Occasionally getting a sharp piece of glass lodged in my foot
Quickly I pull it out
Being numb to the pain, for it is over ridden by fear
I can’t do it again,
I remember this pain

Then I look down
I see blood
Thousands of little shards of glass stuck to my soles of my feet
How did I not feel them?

Why, it was the fear
Larger than life in all its shadows
It had distracted me
And the very thing I feared had happened
Yet I hadn’t noticed
And I was still standing

How could it be?

If you have ever picked glass out of your feet, you know
You know the time it takes to gently remove each little sliver
The eyesight it takes to see the invisible thorns
The patience it takes to continue to dig until the sliver is out

And you still do it
For you know if you do not take time to remove each piece
It will hurt more, lodge deeper in your sole

And when you’re finished
Your feet are still sore
Don’t worry though,
They too, will heal completely

And maybe you learned a few things~

Maybe you learned that fear is an illusion
That the very thing you fear, might not be as painful as the fear itself

Be the One

Be the one who speaks up when others fear the repercussions
The one who forgives easily and recognizes the humanness behind it all

Be the one who gets naked first, encouraging others to love themselves
The one who isn’t “perfect” in any way, shape or form but doesn’t give a damn

Be the one who never settles, knowing that settling is giving up
The one who does not fit into the mold society so carefully sculpted

Be the one who undresses their soul, unafraid of who will see
The one who feels the fear of rejection but risks it anyways

Be the one who feels all of the feels-- the highs and the lows, recognizing both as beautiful
The one that cries when they are sad, to laugh in the next minute at the emotional release

Be the one who says sorry first, not because of necessity, but because you feel it in your soul
The one to admit when you messed up, unafraid to be humbled

Be the one who says I love you first
The one who is fearless and courageous in their love, knowing it needs to be expressed

Be the one who goes against the grain
The one who gains tough skin from the constant rubbing of “shoulds” and “shouldn'ts”

Be the one who looks people in the eyes, recognizing their individuality yet acknowledging their sameness
The one who sees past others egos, straight into their hearts

Be the one who understands
The one who listens to the things said and unsaid

Be the one who seeks
The one who knows there is a purpose behind everything, yet is curious to dig a little

And lastly,

Be the one who lives authentically
The one who lives every moment in honesty
The one who wakes up each morning with expansiveness in their heart and a fire in their soul
The one who knows their time is short and they damn well will make a difference

Be the one you feel authentically being

On rejection

"You could be prettier,” he said.
He then added,
“You could have a more feminine face.
And you could be skinnier.”

And that was that. This was the third time I was rejected by a man in a year.

That's a lot, huh? I could go on thinking, oh it must be true. I am too fat. Too obnoxious. Too ugly. Too manly looking. Too fiery. But that isn’t the case.

I would be lying if I said I don’t give a damn what other people think of me. I do. I most definitely do, but to an extent. I approve of myself. I think I am pretty. I think I am badass. And I think that I am who I am for a reason. However, that’s not what I’m writing this for.

You see, it is no coincidence that I keep coming up against the same experience. Being rejected is many people’s worst fear. We go out of our ways, and in many ways conform, out of the fear of being rejected.

Being rejected stings. It screams “YOU ARE NOT ENOUGH AS YOU ARE!”. It sucker punches you from behind and then kicks you while you’re down.

However, it teaches us just as much as it hurts us. It reminds us that we have to choice to let the daggers of rejection skim our shoulders without stabbing us. It reminds us, that no, we are not for everyone (and that’s a good thing)! It humbles us, and forces us to become more firmly rooted in our being. It makes us look at ourselves on the inside, and (can) strengthen our beliefs about ourselves. And most of all, it allows all that is not meant for us to move along, so we are available for what is meant for us.

As I spoke to a few people close friends about my experience, all of them had the same response, “Are you fucking kidding me!? What did you say back?! He says YOU’RE not PRETTY enough for him?!! Fuck him!”

And I have laughed at the absurdity. I didn’t say anything mean back. What would I get out of saying hurtful things to him? Assurance that I hurt him as he hurt me? Hurt people, hurt people. Read that again. Read it over and over again until it is cemented in your consciousness. Hurt people, hurt people. It’s something I have learned the hard way, and it is something I still recognize daily. I have hurt people out of fear of being hurt. It’s a sad existence.

So you’re probably wondering, how did I react? Well, I just said, “huh, that’s interesting. I feel I am decent looking. And I like myself. So I guess that’s your opinion.” I was a little drunk, otherwise I would have walked the rest of the way home. Not out of spite, but out of respect for myself. As we sat quietly, I felt his eyes searching my profile for a reaction. He said, “how does that make you feel?”

I turned half facing him and said, “It doesn’t really make me feel any which way, it just shows me how you feel.”

How you feel about me, how it is a reflection of yourself, how hurt you must have been in the past, how afraid you are of connection and hey, you really are not attracted to me.

To put things into perspective, this guy is someone I found interesting. I know, I know, if you are my good friend you are rolling your eyes (I’m talking to you Cam and Brendan). He is bizarre. He HATES religion (his reasoning is interesting), he hates people knowing his business, he is extremely clever, good at what he does, and (I think) has difficulty connecting with others.

I was curious, very curious. And hey, he was catching my drift. We went to drinks. We went exploring. And it didn’t work out.

I know, I know, rejection still hurts regardless if we have strong positive beliefs about ourselves. Yes, it does. And there is beauty in the hurt. It reminds us that we are social creatures. It reminds us that yes, we do have a heart, and it can be hurt. I get it now. I will keep on coming up with the same experiences until I tune into what it is that is being taught.

I am emotionally unavailable. I have been avoiding that statement now for a year. I have found multiple almost relationships and one real deal. Guess what happened with the “real” relationship? I ended it. I sabotaged it. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t able to be the person he needed me to be. I wasn’t able to be emotionally committed. I wasn’t being my best self, and that is what relationships are about-- being the highest version of yourself while simultaneously helping the other do the same.

So yes, rejection hurts. However, I believe it happens for us. Not to us.

Maybe you disagree. That’s okay. Like I said, that’s your opinion. If you’re open to adopting a different outlook, try on what I said just for shits and giggles. Who knows, it might fit.

On getting crossed

Hate looks really bad on me. So does resentment. My eyes become perma-bloodshot and my skin breaks out. I am constantly overheated and I don’t sleep soundly. You think I’m kidding (or out of my mind), I’m not. You have probably heard the saying that hating someone or something is like drinking your own poison. For me, it quite literally feels like that.

I was hurt. Then I was sad. Then I was angry. So effing (your welcome mom for not cussing) angry. I wanted to spit fire, yet I knew better not to. What would I get in return to react and hurt another? Why was I angry? Because someone did not like me and find me attractive? Because someone was straight up rude to me? Because I believe the things they said? Nope, I was angry because my ego was threatened. I was angry because I had treated them very kindly and put out my hand when I felt it was dangerous. I was angry because I felt I had received a wrath I did not deserve. I was angry because it’s easier to feel angry than to feel hurt.

And just like that the anger is recognized. However, my body has paid for it.

So how do I let go of anger? How do I let go of hurt? How do I act lovingly to myself when I have to see that person every day? How do I act lovingly to them when I just want to teach them they cannot treat others in that way? The answer is simple--stay grounded and keep my energy internal. For someone like me, that is a challenging practice that needs maintaining every day. What does that mean? It means for me to recognize my emotions, their flighty nature and to focus on my heart. I know that sounds corny, and maybe it is. For me, it works. I am a visual and kinesthetic person, so this makes sense to me. As I touch my sternum, I feel grounded. I feel warmth and I feel a knowing that I will be okay. I feel lucky to have this practice because it’s incredibly simple. No, I am not religious, though I may be a witch. And no, it likely won’t work for you because you are different than I. And I am different than you.

Letting go of what hurts us, in this case anger, is a choice.

Anger goes hand in hand with being a fiery person. That, I definitely am. Watery too. A bizarre mix. I am constantly looking for ways to balance the two. Be kind, yet hold boundaries. Be empathetic, yet feisty. Be deep, yet wild. I am reminded of my nature; that I am not perfect, and I am trying my damned best to be my best self. And that's what matters, right? To go to sleep each night knowing I touched others hearts and I lived my day with the intention of kindness.

With that, I realize, this too is just another experience to teach me to balance the two.

Remembering

Why am I so bent out of shape over the Brock Turner incident? I couldn’t figure out why. I thought it was maybe because I felt people were making a huge deal about it. This stuff happens ALL THE TIME. Then I thought maybe, just maybe, she had part in it too. How could I even think that?  She didn’t ask to be assaulted! Then my curiosity sparked. Why would I think these thoughts? Why did I feel so strongly about this incident? Yes, many people are posting about it on social media, and yes many people are upset about it, but this felt different. The hurt in my heart was deep. It was familiar.

I now know why. I was her. No, I was not sexually assaulted behind a dumpster. And no, I never found out for sure if I was assaulted. I just remember the feelings.

I was fifteen years old and school had just gotten out for summer. It had been a difficult year and I had made few friends at my new high school. One of them being a girl whom was a wild card, or as I now see it, really bad news. She had a history of sexual abuse and she was much more sexually evolved than myself. She had sex with guys and was sexually equivalent to a college graduate. I didn't think anything of it. I accepted her. I knew we all are different, and who was I judge? She was my best friend. She was sweet, kind and rebellious. Just like me.

I don’t remember the date. I don’t even remember what we drank. But I remember exactly what I was wearing. The red and black plaid shorts, the fitted black t-shirt, the pink St. Christopher necklace, the underwear, the bra. I remember the specifics. What I felt. What I saw.

I woke up without pants on in a bed with a guy I had never seen in my life. I later found out he was 18. I remember waking up, still confused and disoriented, seeing my friend across the room with the guy she was seeing. Why were they in my parent’s house? And what the hell happened?  Was this a fucked up dream? Why couldn’t I remember anything?! WHERE ARE MY SHORTS? I panicked inside, feelings so disoriented it was difficult to walk. Embarrassment, shame, disgust and fear washed over me when I stood. I scanned the floor for my shorts. They were nowhere to be seen. I didn’t show panic. I didn’t show any emotion. I couldn’t. My young self was afraid to rock the boat; I didn’t want to make anyone feel bad. I had signed up for this the moment I took a sip of alcohol, hadn’t I?

I remember showering and feeling numb. I didn’t even begin to think what happened. My brain was in fragments. I just needed to know I was still breathing. I felt my chest. My legs. My knotted hair. Looked at my hands. My arms. My breasts. I was still there.

What happened next, I don’t really remember. I don’t remember them leaving. I don’t remember any conversation between my friend and me. I don’t remember her leaving. I do remember my mom questioning me furiously about the call she received about two guys hopping her fence. I denied it. My brain wasn’t working right. Hell, my body wasn’t even working right. I was uncontrollably cold when it was scorching hot outside. She questioned my brother, the likely offender. He denied. She wouldn’t give up. She questioned me again. I admitted. Stunned, furious and downright out of her mind, she talked to my friend’s mom. The questioning began. As she questioned me, I knew I couldn’t lie. However I knew no specifics, I didn’t know who they were, I didn’t know where we went, and I didn’t know what I drank. I didn’t cry, I didn’t get angry, I didn’t get defensive. I just tried to keep my mom calm. I made this mess. I needed to clean it up. Both my parents questioned me. I answered what they asked. I told them everything that I knew. And they had no idea that I may or may not had just lost my virginity.

I couldn’t remember anything about the night. I just felt different. Behind my parents back, I reached out to my friend and she filled in some of the blanks. Her boyfriend had carried me up my driveway because I was passed out. I had drunk Southern Comfort like it was water. We met them at the elementary school up the street. I seemed to like the guy I “hooked” up with. I seemed to “like” him? Wasn’t I passed out? I hooked up with him? What does that even mean? My naïve fifteen-year-old self couldn’t hear anymore. The more I heard, the dirtier I felt. I had let this guy stay at my house. Wasn’t it my fault?

That summer I fell into what I now know is depression. I went through the motions. I played soccer. I hung out with friends. I went on family vacation. I ran countless miles. I got my fastest mile time. And I didn’t feel like myself. I stopped looking in the mirror. I hid my sadness and shame behind a fit body and determination. I had hurt my parents so significantly and I could not burden them anymore than I already had with my well deserved shame. It had been my fault after all. I had chosen to drink. I had allowed those guys to come to my house. Unconsciously, I decided this was my mountain, and I was going to conquer it alone.

Summer was over and it was time to go back to school. No longer did I have a best friend. I had betrayed her by telling my parents what had happened. I deserved to be alone. I showed up to the first day of school, empty. I had lost a significant amount of weight due to stress, and older guys began showing interest. I was terrified. I know the writing was on the wall; I now see WHY I felt the way I did, and at the time I was confused. Shouldn’t I be interested in handsome older guys? Shouldn’t I enjoy the attention? Girls in my grade started befriending me. I was becoming “cool”. Something wasn’t right though, and I knew it. I stopped sleeping soundly. I stopped wearing makeup. I stopped eating. I started running more. I encountered another traumatic sexual interaction.

Cue anorexia.

I never in one million years would have associated my experience with anorexia with maybe being sexually assaulted at age 15. Now I can see it clearly. I felt out of control, so I controlled the only thing I could-- food.

I still to this day do not know what happened, or if it would even be classified as sexual assault. I don’t know if I was conscious. I don’t know if I drunkenly said yes. I don’t know if I was drugged. I have no clue, and that’s what’s scary. I don’t know. I don’t know if I lost my virginity to a eighteen year old dude I still to this day have never seen again. I dealt with my shame, guilt, fear and disgust as best as I could.

Writing this was weird. I know it will break my mom's heart. I know it will make my dad cry. I know it will leave my brothers fuming with anger as a shield for their sadness. I know my guy friends will tense up. And I know many of my girl friends will be surprised to read this. I am an open book. However, this experience was hidden from even myself.

I haven’t consciously thought about it since it happened. I know that sounds insane. I know my parents remember it. But how could I not have thought about it?! Don’t experiences like this haunt people for the rest of their lives? From what I have heard, yes. However, at the time, I was determined to move forward. It hurt too much to process and I didn't have the tools to do it. So my brilliant brain did what it could to protect me, and suppressed it. Though it was suppressed, it definitely came out to play in my dreams, during times of sexual intimacy and when I drank too much. 

I have done a lot of work on myself in the past five years. By a lot, I mean a lot. I went to wilderness therapy. I went through a depression so dark, I thought it might consume me. I faced countless fears. I moved multiple times, alone.  I had quite a few different romantic relationships. And no matter what I was doing, where I was living, who I was dating, I kept coming up with the same irrational beliefs. I do not deserve to be loved. I hurt people by being who I am. I do not deserve sexual pleasure. I need to be fat or ugly so people will not take advantage of me and will actually like me for who I am. If I become the best physical version of myself, I will become a whore. I deserve all bad things that happen to me.

Reading all of those beliefs, you are either laughing at the absurdness, surprised I have those beliefs, or your heart hurts because you too have some effed up beliefs. I experienced all those reactions. WHERE DID THESE BELIEFS COME FROM? I couldn’t figure it out. I meditated on them. I asked for guidance from my dreams. I saw spiritual healers. I even talked out loud to God to help a sista out. All of this to no avail. And then BAM! Now I am understanding. 

Maybe it wasn’t just this incident that messed with me. I don’t know. I don’t feel like a victim. For all I know, he never touched me. I don’t know if he was blacked out or not. I don't even know if that matters. I don’t know. I don’t feel sad about it either. I feel the sadness has passed. I felt it for four long years, and now I am in a place of untangling. I now understand the root of my beliefs. I now understand why I never feel fully sexually satisfied. I now understand why it has been such a difficult experience to stay in my body. I now understand why I hate being pursued by guys and why I feel more comfortable approaching them. I get it.

A veil has been lifted. It is too soon to say how this will affect me, and I can already feels it’s lightness. 

As for the young woman Brock Turner assaulted, I feel for her. I hurt for her. I wish I could hug her and hold space for her to breathe. I wish I could tell her she will be okay and that she can do it. I know her future feels bleak right now, and she will be okay. She is incredibly brave and she is helping multiple people by sharing her story. She is in her twenties, a time where everything is up in the air, and she is bold for coming out and saying what happened to her is not okay. I pray that she has support, understanding and forgiveness. Forgiveness of herself, the perpetrator and the situation.

As for myself, I will be over here untangling.

I feel a lot of compassion for my fifteen-year-old self. I know she did her best, and damn, she was tough. 

Gray

The Gray.

Oh the gray.
Gray skies, gray moods
Gray walls, gray sheets

Everything is gray
my mood
my single strand of hair
my eyes
my outlook

I have forever feared the gray
the place where no thing looks different
everything the same monotonous color
the same pace
the same feeling

I have avoided it for years
maybe even for lifetimes

I don't belong in the gray

It feels heavy
a burden that I didn't sign up to carry
a person that no longer connects with me
a habit that no longer serves me
extra weight that is slowing me down

The gray and I have not been friends

But today, well today, I may just befriend it