Cowardly Lions

I’m fucked up. That statement, in itself, is something people throw around just as carelessly and often as the phrase, I love you. I myself have used those very words to explain to someone just why I was incapable of functioning. Last semester, it was the answer to everything. I was going through major bouts of depression, and demons from my past just kept coming back to haunt me. It literally got to the point where I struggled to get out of bed in the morning, missed several classes, and proceeded to ignore mass calls and texts from concerned parental unit and friends. I even contemplated what exactly was my place in the world. The answer was I just didn’t know. I was broken and empty. I felt like my world just kept crashing down around me, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I cried myself to sleep night after night and it had gotten to the point where I was lucky if I slept at all. I only functioned because I knew I had to.

Coffee and the dark became my drugs and the only thing that kept me sane. There were points where I was so stressed, exhausted, and depressed that I would literally break down in tears for hours, even if I was in the middle of a classroom. I disappeared from the outside world and barely spoke to anyone. I went to and from class (on the days that I was able to function enough to sit there, that is), to and from work, trudging up the UVM hill for trauma therapy, and stumbling to the cafeteria for food only when I’d reached the point of weakness and starvation. Even then, I only ate enough to sustain myself and keep the hunger pains at bay. I knew I was driving myself into reckless abandon, and slowly, I was killing myself. Emotionally, I was dead. Mentally, I was close. Physically, well I still walked. Nothing made sense except for the fact that I knew I was numb inside. There was a huge, gaping hole that I couldn’t see, but I knew was there. I just didn’t know if I’d ever be able to make it go away. I was a good girl and listened to my advisor and went to counseling twice a week, but nothing helped. Then, one night, it all changed.

I woke up one morning and decided I was tired of being miserable. Tired of being weak. Tired of giving up. I hated to lose-yet here I was losing track of my whole life. I was letting the demons and the negative influences in my life win. If I continued, I would sink so far into the darkness that I would never pull myself back out. I realized that maybe I was fucked up, but I was only empowering it further by succumbing to the demons and the negative aspects that had haunted me. I was always a fighter, always the victorious. So, why wasn’t I fighting now? I didn’t want to be the girl who haunted the darkness, drove herself into depression, or surrendered her feelings to the bottle every night. I’d lived recklessly in the past, and I didn’t want to do it anymore. I had a bright, promising future at hand. Hell, I’d worked my ass off for it for four years, and here I was on the brink of destruction. Was I really willing to throw it all away because I was too weak to fight this battle? Maybe I wouldn’t win, but I sure as hell could put up a fight. I didn’t sleep for days because I was too focused on trying to find the good in my life and get reacquainted with what I defined as my happiness. That’s when I decided to stop planning and start living.

I fought my way through my darkness and through my demons; because I knew that I had so much to live for. For too long I was weak. I was better than that. If anyone knows about an unstable, hell-driven life, it’s me. Maybe not as hell-driven and terrible as some, but more than a lot of people I know. Sure, looking at me you would have no idea what I’ve been through-you’d think I was a happy, intelligent person who was driven to succeed. That’s because over the years I’d become skilled at hiding the demons and creating a mask for outsiders to see. If I never let anyone in, then perhaps it would weaken their power to hurt me. I’d learned to live with my secrets, though they ate at me everyday. But if you really looked at me, and really saw, you would know. You could see it in my eyes, though it was carefully hidden. Only a select few ever could.

This summer, I thought I’d found a new form of happiness. I was given a second chance at something. For awhile it seemed maybe it was enough, maybe this time, it was worth fighting for. I was wrong. Sunday, on a day that was supposed to be celebrating my brother, came crashing down. All with one simple phrase: I’m fucked up. I just stared. Are you fucking kidding me? Now, after so long, this is going to ruin it? Anger bubbled inside, but I tried to keep it under control. If it was anything I’d learned, it was that sometimes it’s better to keep my temper in check. Otherwise, things would get real ugly real fast. Two and a half hours later, I was back to square one. All the words, all the tears in the world, wouldn’t erase the mark that I’m fucked up had left. I couldn’t believe this was happening. Had I really been so stupid again? I had let that phrase dictate my life for too long, until my mother told me the harsh words that I didn’t want to hear, but knew I had too. You’re only as fucked up as you let yourself be. It woke me up and made me realize, that yes, I was crippling my future and my life because I was enabling this monster to succumb me. I wouldn’t let it be victorious over my life, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to stand there and watch as it crippled yours as well.

You didn’t like what I had to say, and you may hate me for it, but someone had to tell you. I could never go back to what there was before, because those memories, that connection, had died a long time ago. The loss hurt for a long while at first, but then it faded away. I gave a second chance, but I sure as hell would not falter my ground. I wouldn’t hurt myself like that again. I would not, would not give a third chance. Not if I wanted to keep myself sane. This time, I was first. I was the one who decided to walk away. Never again would I let the words, I’m fucked up dictate my life. Because, in truth, it was a cop-out. It was the answer everyone gave, the shield everyone hid behind, when they were too much of a coward to take a chance on something that could’ve perhaps been one of the best decisions in their life. Life is full of risks, chances, and curveballs. Sometimes things really are cut and dry. It’s not everyday that you’re given second chances, so don’t pass them when they come around. Usually, you have to stop planning and just start living. Without risk, without daring, without courage, you will never have a real life at all.

Not A Rebound Girl...Right?

Sometimes I feel like I’m just a replacement for her. You don’t want people to know we’re dating, and the only question I ask is why? I think it’s because you still care what she thinks, what she’s going to say and because you still want to be with her. Sometimes I wonder if it’s really me you want to be with, or if I was just a replacement to prevent the emptiness from consuming you. You said you’ve wanted to be with me for over 17 months. You never asked because you were afraid I was going to reject you. You didn’t even take a chance. And then you just vanished.

Over sixteen months later, I get a text from you. You want to come back into my life. And because I missed you, I caved in. You tell me you never stopped caring about me, and that you thought about me over the sixteen months you were with her. Now, you have me. You look at me with that smile, brush the hair out of my face, and tell me I’m beautiful. Sometimes I want to know what you’re thinking when those brown eyes meet my blue ones. But, as always, you refuse to tell me. So I stopped asking. I thought I made you happy. Or at least that’s what you always tell me. Sometimes, I find it hard to believe. I’m so used to false words, that why would this be any different. I know you were together for awhile, but I’m tired of constantly feeling like your past is going dictate our future. It’s starting to weigh heavily on my mind, and my happiness.

You’re worried that when he comes home in 19 days, it’s going to change how I feel about you. I already gave you my answer. It isn’t. If I wanted to be with him, I wouldn’t be with you. Now would I? Yes, for a long time he still held my heart. Yes, I want to see him. But only for closure, so I can finally come to peace. So I can finally heal. And be free to give my heart to you. When I go to bed at night, it’s you I wish I was laying next to. When I wake up, it’s your face I want to see. During the day, it’s you I think about. Not him. So doesn’t that give you your answer? I choose you. I told you this. I thought it would make you happy. I mean, isn’t it supposed to?

I’m not her. And I never will be. I once told you I would never hurt you. I just told you I would do anything for you. I am nothing like her, and I pride myself on that. You tell me that’s what you like about me. So, then, why do I feel like you want me to be like her?

If you’re so happy, and “over her,” then why do I constantly feel like I’m second to her? You say you’ve finally got what you wanted. Me. So, then, why do I feel like you’re ashamed to be with me? Why do I feel like I’m not enough?

Second chances do come around, right?

Friday night found me in a car on the way down to Southern Vermont. Didn't I just finish saying that I wasn't going to come home until August? After work I caught a ride in a beat-up blue pile of junk with my co-worker. The two hours passed by fairly quickly. Around 5:30,  6ish, I was rolling into the Shaw's parking lot for a last-minute pick up of orange juice and Cool Ranch Doritos (not my idea of a feast, but, hey, it wasn't going in my stomach) and we were pulling into the driveway of the ramshackle house that I call home. I step inside and find that my mother has redone the house...Again. This wouldn't be the second time, or the third time within the last three months...this would be the fourth. Although, I've definitely got to say that this time, I think she nailed it. Stepping into the kitchen, I felt like I was at a cafe on the verdana, expecting to look out our not-too-large windows and see the rolling hills of Ireland or a bustling street in Paris. Instead, all I saw were the worn, gray sidewalks of Poultney.

Up the stairs, I find that my room, or rather the guest room, is painted in gray and white stripes, accented with a god-awful red floral comforter and pillows that don't look too comfy to rest your exhausted, more-than-likely-too-many-shots-and-twelve-beers-in- head on. Hermanito's room is awesome-the rock and roll haven of a teenage boy-black walls, guitar carpet, and lime green accents. Down the hall, past the never-ending shelves of DVDs and old school VHSs, I pass mother's room. It's a peaceful, hippyish retreat full of warm colors and soothing patterns. I could almost feel the positive energy coming out of her room. Last stop is the bathroom, which has transformed into some kind of island paradise. The crisp, white walls make the room seem larger, and the brightly stacked towels give the space a shout of color. Palm trees adorn the bath mat, soap and toothbrush dispenser, and even the toilet paper rack. Oddly enough, I think this would have to be my favorite newly done room in the house.

Confessions of an Insomniac

3 A.M. I'm sprawled out on my improvised double bed, staring out the window. Into darkness, into nothingness, I don't care what it's called.  I'm exhausted to the point I want to cry, yet I cannot fall asleep. The room's a cool 67 degrees, a merciful reprieve from the sauna that my room at 215 has become. It's quiet, dark, and peaceful-except for the thoughts screaming in my head.

At 21 years, you think I'd know what I want. You think I'd be able to tell you that I have my entire life planned out for me. But, the truth is, I have absolutely no idea. All I know is that right now, nothing makes sense. What I have planned for my life is as apt to change every given minute. Although, I do know that in eleven months, I am going to seize the chance to get out of here. There is one thing that keeps me going-the thought that I am constantly looking for something-for the meaning of life, for who I am, to understand the why of things, my other half, a passionate night in Italy, a best-selling book, a discovery of an Egyptian artifact,  unconditional love-I don't know. I just know there is something out there. For me. Because of me. It just keeps me going. At this given moment, the only thing I can tell you is that my plan is to enjoy life, and think about the consequences later. I'm a grown adult, and mature and all, but I'm still only young once. For awhile, I'd forgotten what made me happy. Perhaps it was because I was trying too hard. Lately, I've remembered that it really is the little things that make me laugh. I'm just going to appreciate what I have, enjoy every day, and the rest will eventually fall into place.

Roadtrips and Reunions

Another weekend in Southern Vermont. It started out as a good one. So, after walking home on Saturday morning, feeling like I was doing a walk of shame (although it clearly wasn't)-dragging along in the heat in a red even dress, black flip flops dangling from my fingers-I spur of the moment decided I was going to drive down to Southern Vermont a day early. Within a half-hour, I'd showered, dressed, and packed a bag for the weekend. It was a rather nice drive down through, although it was unbearably hot, even in my cotton sundress, and I only hit major traffic issues in small towns. Such as sitting for half an hour in a Mobil station parking lot in Shelburne, waiting to just be able to even pull into the road. That was ridiculous. All I wanted was a fucking cup of coffee. Eventually, a twenty-something guy in a Saab let me pull out in front of him. So, I headed home.

With the windows down, and my stereo blaring a mix of rock, metal, and country music that Dave had been nice enough to burn for me, it was rather peaceful. It gave me time to think and attempt to make logic of anything that had happened in the last 48 hours or less.
Why was I looking forwards to going home, when even after a day, I'm tired of the place?
I really miss my family, cannot wait to see them.
Maybe this time my friends will actually make an attempt to see me.
Why am I still wasting my time with this?
Why do I always choose the things that are the worst for me?
I'm so tired of men I want nothing to do with making passes at me every time I go anywhere. Don't they understand I'm not a piece of meat or a juicy piece of fruit waiting for their pick?

Finally, after 3 hours, I was finally home. And exhausted. Popped in to see Andrea, and as soon I got out of the car, this kid I'd never seen before gawked at me as I walked up the stairs. I don't know if it was because of the dress I was wearing or the fact that I was a female, but I wanted to deck him. Had a nice chat with Andrea, decided we were going to hang out for the first time in forever, and then I retreated home for a nap. Only to be woken up by my sister an hour later. A nice steak and salad dinner with just the four of us felt really, really good. It'd been a long time since we felt like a family. Of course, mom knew I was going to go see my friends later, although there were only two I wanted to be around: Andrea and Rich. I was wicked excited that I was going to be able to see my Favorite on Sunday. I went to get Rich with much of my mom's encouragement. It's sort of ironic how she adores my best friend, but never adores anyone I'm dating. She's already pulled the "you two should date" thing, even though I've expressed a thousand times that we are only, and ever only will be, best friends. It was good to see him. Just the two of us. It hadn't been like that in awhile. We were just content to do nothing, sit there in silence. Eventually, he passed out in the chair in my living room, and I suffered from insomnia as usual. I don't understand why, but I was restless. Maybe it was because I had too much going through my mind.

Finally at 12:30, Andrea texts me, and we met up for a long, much-needed, walk. We wandered around Poultney in the dark for an hour, just like we used to years ago. When we were seventeen and our lives were simple. Well, more simple than they are now, anyways. We talked about everything that was going on in our lives. It'd been months since we'd really discussed anything. We're both caught up in our own lives, I guess. It was nice to be able to spend time with the person who had been part of my life, everyday, for so long, but had been absent from it during the months past. I think the easiest thing to do would've been to forget the emotions and just swing away our problems like we used to.

At 1:30 in the morning my phone rings, and it's my Favorite, telling me he's finally home from Ohio. I couldn't wait to see him. Andrea and I wandered around the streets, looking for him in a came of tag. I finally saw a body wandering down the street, and I instantly knew it was him. I handed my phone and keys to Andrea and instantly took off running. I would've tackled him if we were on concrete. We'd only been around each other for mere seconds, but instantly things fell into place. Just like they used to be before he ever left. For the first time in weeks, I felt happy and content all at once. We wandered back to my house and decided we were going to take a road trip to Rutland for food. At three in the morning. Just like old times.

It was nice, being surrounded by my three best friends. Even though we road in silence some of the time, it was just the fact that we were around each other. Rich escaped a bad memory, Andrea escaped a fight, and Favorite was just glad to be back with his Favorite. It was almost like paradise, the silence. Just for a few hours, we were everything we wished we could be.

An ironic sort of white

Today I was supposed to say
"I do."

Smiling
at your elation
as I
walk down
in a white cotton
sundress

barefoot on the beach.

Mama's front
and center
in the white,
plastic folding chair
see-saw in the dirt.

A single tear
neglected by
the grin
that extends
ear to ear.

She's so proud
 the day's come
when her baby girl
has finally found
happiness.

Today the tears
spill
from
bitter eyes.

Today
was the day
I never got to
say "goodbye".

Can I never be content?

I have my Burlington Summer. I have my job, my internship, my friends. I escaped from Southern Vermont. So why don't I feel complete? Can I never be content with anything? I can't shake this feeling that something is missing out of my life. I can't help but think that I will never feel complete. But what defines me as complete? Is it achieving everything I ever set out to do? Is it being surrounded by crowds of my best friends? Is it having someone to come home to every night, to call a love? Or is it maybe that because of a shattered past, I will never understand what it means to experience love, or to know love. Maybe I only think that I know what love is, or how I should love, or even be loved. Maybe I'll only experience half-loves and flings for the rest of my life, because sometimes I feel like I'll never find the person who can complete me or love me the way I should be loved.

Maybe I don't even want to be completed. All I want is to find that other person who will be my missing obscured puzzle piece. Even if we don't fit exactly, we fit in all the places that it matters. Sure, the edges will be worn, but isn't that what will make it wonderful? I often find the beauty is within the worn, cracked edges of memories. Maybe it won't be a lover, but just a friend. A friend who fits me, who understands me. Who knows me. Someone who can know what I'm trying to say, just by understanding the signals of my eyes. Who will accept me at my worst, because only then will they deserve me at my best. Someone who will understand that yes, I'm fucked up.

Yes, I have my secrets, I have the skeletons in the depths of my closet. I have my inner demons that I battle every damn day. It's a constant struggle not to give into the darkness that I know waits at the edges of my soul. I can feel it. But something keeps me going, whether or not it's the fact that I'm strong or that I hate failure, I don't know. But within all this, sometimes I struggle to face the light and I can feel the blackness in my eyes, the blank stares when I look at you.

But all I ever wanted was for my other piece to be there. Not to solve my problems for me, not to fix my broken heart, or bandage my scars. Just to be there in the darkness, and in my weak moments, hold my hand and give me the tiniest hope that everything is eventually going to be alright. I would never openly admit it, because I'm incapable of showing emotions and admitting my weaknesses, but though I have a tough exterior, sometimes I'm fragile too.