Little Orange Pills.

I shake the prescription bottle, the little orange pills clang around in the neon yellow plastic holder. The sound of it gives me relief, and even though the feeling leaves me a little embarrassed, I’m actually really glad I found a doctor who is finally listening to me.

The sun is shining through my bedroom window, and it’s pretty because the fall leaves give this burst of color against the blue sky, sometimes with this stark contrast, other times more gentle, and during the sunset there are times the layering of colors are almost seamless and I love it. I think of God when I look at things like that, taking out those quiet moments to pay attention to something with intention, with warmth. I think of God when I look at a lot of things in that way, but along side this gentle rush of joy, my heart is sick and filled with anxiety. Just like it has been every morning, for the last three years.

Back to the neon yellow prescription bottle, still sitting in my hand.If you turn it to the left, the label reads clonazepam.

Klonopin. My new best friend.

How many are left? Twenty or so. A sigh escapes my lips, as I fill the glass with cool water, and drop one of the tablets into my mouth, swallowing it down hard and fast with a deep breath. Leaning up against the bathroom counter, the pill sliding down my throat and landing in the base of my stomach as I stare myself in the eye. Most days, I don’t recognize the woman looking back at me. She’s pale. Her skin is dry, and the eyes are heavy from the med’s, sleepless nights, and let’s face it, the pain. I’m embarrassed, ashamed and I miss the woman I once was. It’s been over ten years since I took anything for my panic disorder, and if you asked me three years ago, if this is where I’d be, I’d laugh.

I’ve learned to be a little less judgemental since then.

Let me just say, I didn’t wake up this morning thinking to myself, ” I can’t wait to share my weaknesses! yay!” Not at all, I actually hate this right now, my heart is rebellious, I’m angry at my feelings and I want to slam this laptop closed, and go lose myself in my art work, but I made you a promise. I promised I would share it all, and these fragile and unsteady days are the hardest to write. Because it’s not just the fucked up story, this is me, exposing the lies I tell everyday. The little ones, that are so damn big, like… “I’m good, how are you?” or “I’m fine.” The small lies, that eat you up inside, chewing away at your heart, because after a while, that’s all you’re really saying, and in the end no one knows the truth.

This is me, saying, yeah I’m a mess a lot lately, and that’s just not something most people feel very good about admitting. At least not continuously. They may for a moment, to someone they trust, but it’s certainly not looked up upon in our society to admit the wallowing.To recognize, the coming apart at the seams and how after tragedy, it can take years to heal. People just don’t go around talking about it like that, it’s just too unbecoming to be honest about the despair. Society, even our friends, family, television and sadly even the church at times, urge us to hurry up and move on. To find the light of day, be positive and find the strength to rebuild. And as much as I agree with that, I also feel strongly, that before that can truly happen, we all need and deserve the time it takes, and it’s different for each of us, to process. To become aware of oneself, and internally work out what we’ve been through, whatever that may be. But, because it’s not considered attractive in any sense, to lurch around in one’s own suffering, many of us are left alone to do this. For many reasons. And because of these shitty reasons (fear of judgement, shame, crappy morals from a dysfunctional upbringing, religious reasons, anxiety, the fear of appearing weak and the list goes on…) it can take a really long time to reconcile within. It’s like, we’re allowed to stumble, but we’re not allowed to fall. And if we fall, we’re pressured to climb back up, as fast as we can, screaming love in the face of adversity, revived, hopeful and running toward a future that is waiting with open arms. But here’s the thing….

As I lean up against that bathroom counter, taking deep slow breaths and waiting patiently for the medicine to work…I’m still frightened of my future, of what it holds, just as much as I have hope for it. The hope and the fear are equal parts. And even though, I pray often and keep an open communication with God, I still hurt.

I still hurt, and that’s okay.

I guess what I’m saying is, give yourself, and the people you love, the freedom to be in pain, let them hurt. Give yourself, and others the time they need, to process. Of course it’s important to edify, to speak life and to support someone. But, there’s something to be said, about patient silence. Just sitting with someone. If your words are needed, you’ll feel it. Prayer, is prayer for a reason, and one of the beautiful things about it, is if someone isn’t ready to do it WITH you, you can totally do it behind their back. Choose to meet them where they are, and put down your own agenda. We can be SO selfish with our agenda’s can’t we? and they can really hurt those closest to us. Don’t be the kind of person that your friends or family cross of their list, when they’re in crisis. And don’t be territorial with your support in their life, that’s messy, gross and unbecoming. And nothing like a friend, in the way God intended friendship to be. In the way love intended friendship to be. So, with that being said…

I still hurt. I still cry at least once a day, but I laugh too, and I’m not ready to run screaming in the face of adversity yet, I’m tired, and I want to take my little orange pills, talk and write my story, and create things, paint, draw and eat. Rest and sleep. Pray and go for walks. Learn how to live once more, before I get all up in life’s face again.

Ernest Hemingway says beautiful things that I really like, so here’s one that made me smile.

“Forget your personal tragedy.We are all bitched from the start and you especially have to be hurt like hell before you can write seriously.But when you get the damned hurt, use it-don’t cheat with it.” ~Ernest Hemingway

God bless each of you, on your own personal journeys..brothers and sisters xo

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Meet Granny.

“You little bitch. You stupid little bitch. Get the fuck in the house. You know where I want you. You get your lying little ass to the table! And don’t you MOVE until I get there.” The weight of her hand on my shoulder, squeezing so hard I can feel her fake nails digging into my skin through my sweater, and it hurts. “You better get your fucking ass moving.”  The voice was solid and commanding, like a drone reverberating over iron. 

Like a long, cold, hiss… loaded with threat. Sending shivers up my little spine, and my small body would freeze up. 

It was coming, and there was nothing I could do to stop itThe helplessness of a child lost in a hideous and malicious adult playing field. Abandoned. 

I could hear her voice, even before we knocked on the door. That all too familiar shrill, the undertone of her raspy growl, all those  years of smoking pack after pack, of cigarettes. The voice, that I’m embarrassed to admit, still finds me in my sleep, and I wake up crying in a daze of a familiar hell.

           Trigger Warning : In this post I will diving into a very dark part of my past, and begin sharing my experience of satanic ritual abuse. I would like to take a moment and gently remind you that some of things you’ll be reading can be very powerful and deeply disturbing, to some.  Due to the nature of this post, and the ones following it, please be aware that if you yourself, are a survivor of abuse, in any form, reading my story may have the ability to create “triggers” which can lead to“flashbacks”. Flashbacks are defined as “a sudden and disturbing vivid memory of an event in the past, typically as the result of psychological, spiritual or physical trauma.” Flashbacks have a been a part of my life for a long time, and I understand just how debilitating they can be, and so for that reason, I ask that you proceed with caution, if you feel that a trigger is imminent, due to the nature of my story. With that being said, moving on…

Even though I was only four years old, I can still remember the walk up that drive way. The weather’s always damp and cold in my memory, the kind of weather that gets stuck in your bones, that chill you get over the surface of your skin, when it’s been raining all day, and you find yourself shivering for hours, unable to get warm. Maybe, some kind of fore boding added in my kiddo mind, because I know for certain, I visited that house many times and in all the different seasons we’re so blessed to have here in Canada. Anyways, it wasn’t the normal things you’d remember, not the flowers or bushes that I’m sure she had lining the walkway, nor the dog barking or any other normal perspective one would have as they are about to enter one’s house. Especially a family home. A place most people would feel safe. What I remember, is the feeling. The sudden anxiety that I had done something wrong. That heavy feeling, that kids can understand, that you get right before you get in trouble. Except, with Granny, I was never sure what I had done. Only this pit in my stomach, the fear coming in panicked waves, and this uncertainty of myself. This abrupt self-consciousness and harsh self examination. I wasn’t good enough to be here. I wasn’t good enough. My head hung low, the palms of my four year old hands are sweaty as I reach towards my mother’s. Her long red fingernails, and how tall she seemed to me then, all four foot eleven of her.

The knock on the door. My tummy in knots. The little heart beating faster. 

If my Mom was the one dropping me off, Granny made sure to be herself, no holding back. No smile, no nonsense. Right to business. I can’t really remember what she was like with any of my other family. The ones who never knew. She could of been a bouquet of stinking plastic roses for all I know, because I can’t remember one good thing about that woman. Who’s still alive by the way, both her daughters die of cancer before the age of fifty, but not her. After smoking a pack a day all her life, being one evil bitch, and contracting blood poisoning in her 80’s, you’d think the broad would croak already. But no. Go figure. Anyways. 

And so the front door would open, and there she’d be, standing there in her sheer robe, and I mean sheer robe, nipples exposed and everything else you wouldn’t dream of seeing on your Grandmother. Cigarette in hand, a scoff dripping from her tight lipped mouth. Disgusted with us. Her short hair and lanky body, bending to support the hand on her hip, peering at us through the slits of her suspicious eyes.

“Get the fuck in the house.” And immediately, as she walked in with obedience, my Mom would let go of my hand. The vibe changing instantly, and I knew why. And I also knew, I was alone now. Mommy was no longer my Mommy, not here anyways. Everyone belonged to Granny, even her, and that role trumped me, her daughter, every time. And so, I’d take off my little pink rain boots, the blond hair falling over my eyes, those super blunt 80’s bangs. And even in her hate for me, I wanted to hug Granny, and even though I knew better, I had tried a few times before. Only to be met with a rigid body, severe backlash and a hard,

“Don’t fucking touch me, you lying little bitch.”

So, it didn’t take long for me to let go of the hugs I would never receive, unless someone “who didn’t know” was watching. And I got used to the “table” routine. The same talk we had every time I visited. Within five minutes of that front door opening, that’s where I’d be sitting, waiting. Waiting for her to come meet me there, and take the worst verbal beating I’ve experienced. Over and over, and over again. Most of the time, the berating would take so long, I’d have to go pee. Only a couple times, did I ever ask to go. Because she would never let me. She would force me to hold it in, she took pleasure in watching me squirm and fuss, and if I had an accident, it was bad news. But we’ll talk about that another time. And so came the words, and the prays of spit. The yelling, the screaming. Her face lunged into mine, and the hate that came with it. Often, her words would end with her jabbing her fingernail into my shoulder, going something along the lines of this-

“You stupid, finger jab, fucking little bitch.”  Finger jab, then a loud sigh.“You know, if your father knew what a little cunt you were, he’d leave you for good. Finger jab. You’re lucky to have us, you know. Because I bet you spent the last two weeks playing your little lying games, and making everyone believe what a good little girl you are. Finger jab. But I know the truth, we all know the truth about you. You’re just a worthless piece of shit. You mean nothing. Look at you, finger jab, you’re just an ugly, lying little thief. Finger jab. And don’t even get me started on how you manipulate everyone around you, trying to make us think you’ve changed. You’ll never change, finger jab, you’ll always just be the stupid little lying bitch you are. Finger jab. Don’t you ever forget it.” And at four years old, I would sit there silently, soaking up every word, and believing them. Responding internally, with that childlike acceptance every little one has in their heart. To secure the truth in their mind when they hear it. And Grandma’s don’t lie. Daddy’s don’t lie. Mommy’s don’t lie. Right?

And so, she would go on in this way for hours, and sometimes I peed my pants, sometimes I didn’t. And when I didn’t it was a blessing. Running to the bathroom, holding the crotch of my pants and hitting the toilet with a kind of victory that’s hard to explain. This happened to me for years, along with the sexual, ritualistic and satanic abuse.  So, to the one’s who have walked with me throughout my life, for the ones curious about why I’ve been driven to hate myself all these years…

Well…

I was trained to.

 

“The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places…”~ Ernest Hemmingway

 

 

 

 

This Weary Tattooed Body.

I wanted to write something this last week, but I found myself drawing for the first time in over two years, and it felt so good that I just couldn’t take a break to post a new blog. My hands were moving freely, unlike the stiffness I had become so used too. And for four days, I did hardly anything, but play around with my pencils, getting my hands dirty, pushing graphite over stark white paper and spilling my imagination across the torn out page of my sketchbook.

If you draw, paint, or create anything with your hands really, you know what I mean when I say, I had gotten used to stiffness. Where movements that once felt natural, have now become tense and strained. The fingers and wrist are rigid, pushing back against you and leaving little room to create the thing you have swirling around in your mind. It’s frustrating as hell. But, this time, it wasn’t like that, and it felt amazing.  It felt amazing because, in all honesty, my body, mind and heart haven’t allowed for that kind of thing lately. Life’s been harsh and sharp, and some of the most authentic parts of myself had fallen asleep. Laying dormant beneath the ash and rubble of a life once lived, and now only endured.

So when the pencil hit the paper, and things were happening the way I wanted them too, I couldn’t put it down. For the first time, in over two years, I felt a part of myself alive and breathing again. Rubbing my fingers into the grey powder, the metallic smell lingering. Pencil shavings filling my ashtray, smudging line after line, until the shapes began to come to life, impelling the weight to lift from my shoulders, and wander away to the place it belongs. In God’s hands.

It gave me hope. And it validated, that I was still here. That I was alive, and somewhere in this weary tattooed body, I was in there.

So, day after day, in my joggers and baggy t-shirts, one cup of coffee after another, cigarette after cigarette, I created a piece of art that I am proud of. Too some, it may not seem like that big a deal, but to me, it’s everything right now. It’s a piece of tangible evidence that I am not dead. That I’m still rooted in my body and that I can still create something beautiful. That I can DO SOMETHING. That, I still have a loud and passionate soul, willing to expose itself, vulnerable or not, to my fellow-man. To my creator and Father, who shaped these gifts within me.

At the end of the day, it had made it known, that it wasn’t too late for me. As depressing at that sounds, I was tip toeing on that ledge of deep despair, and now I had some hope back in my life. And I think that’s the beauty of creating something, it confirms our authenticity, mirroring our own mystery and showing us a piece of ourselves we may have lost or simply forgotten was there. It is a form of expression that can untangle our own inner web of chaos, simply because of the release that can happen there. Taking down the guard, to liberating something beautiful and unique from within, in turn, maybe even smoothing over those jagged parts that have become so raw. It gives the creator a chance to look at oneself, and perhaps decide, that they still have something to offer, even under the suffocating soot and residue of things past by. Things past by, but at times, and often for myself, relived everyday.

At the end of this post, are a few shots of the piece I was working on all week, if you wanna check it out.

As I said earlier, I needed a break from telling my story. The beginning of the week was rough, and after a few sleepless nights, waking up in tears, I decided I needed help. So, on Tuesday, I found myself sitting in the doctor’s office, mid panic attack, covered in tears, emotional and weak as hell. It took a lot of courage on my part, to expose and vulnerabilize myself to a man I had never met. I’ve never been one to trust doctors, and asking him for anxiety medication was hard. I was embarrassed it had gotten this bad, and I was really nervous about the whole thing. Talking about cancer screening was even worse, and it left a kind of pit in the bottom of my stomach. I’m not looking forward to those appointments, at all. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about my Moms death, that she was a young 48 years old, and I’ve unknowingly taken on a deep fear, that the same thing will happen will to me. I’ve even caught myself counting how many years I’d have left with my son, if I died at the same age. Just like my Mother, and her sister, who also died of cancer before the age of 50. I have to stop myself when my mind goes there, sometimes violently, because in all honesty, I’m terrified. And so, these are the thoughts that wake me in the night, my pillow case drenched in tears. Amongst other terrors from within. The old fears, and the new, swirling around my subconscious, creating a circus act of horror I’d do anything to escape. And so, the doctor’s office and the newness that came with it.

I promised I was going to walk you through each and every detail, the details of a fight to save my own life.

To rise to the place I belong.

The fight to tell the truth about what happened to me.

The reality, that on all scientific counts, I should die of cancer within 20 years, and the way that I have chosen to deal with that.

To not only heal, but to overcome in a way, that the story of my life represents a truth I would die for. The truth that, not only can each of us survive absolutely anything, but that God can take the cruelty and suffering each of us has endured, conquer it in all His strength, and wrap them up into stepping stones towards a life that would baffle the enemy. Stealing away his efforts to destroy us, and instead, building a house of truth over his lies. A house, a life, that represents what trust in God looks like. Free, and beautiful, and overflowing with gardens of abundance. Loved.

I believe God can do that in my life and I believe He already has. Even in the tears, through the panic attacks and the sleepless nights. Through the death, and in the worry. The dark, and back to the light, through prayer, where I always reunite with my authentic self. Because that’s where Jesus is.

And so, tomorrow, I’ll go back to the place I was before, and continue telling my story. Until then, I thank you for being my friend and for reading.

“Although the world is full of suffering, it also full of the overcoming of it.” Helen Keller 

 

 

Getting used to my pencils again.

Getting used to my pencils again.

Coming together.

Coming together.

Hit it with some graphic overlay and editing, and voila!

Hit it with some graphic overlay and editing, and voila!

 

Our Hands will Bleed, but Our Hearts will Beat.

It is through the deepest of our pain, that we are asked to stand.

When darkness stalks us, a black oil suffocating… faith.

When our weakness’s mock us, and stare us in the face.

Grim and shameful a thing.

When all strength has left our limbs…sitting fearful at the edge of the cliff.

That the deep breath fills our bodies.

Fill me up, Lord. Fill me up.

The breath, of life.

Called in the night of our dreams, in the weight of our tears.

The whisper tugs at the straps of our souls.

Be of hope, child. Be of hope.

The earth beneath your feet, cracks with uncertainty.

Tree roots lifting, clinging.

White knuckles, grasping.

The dust catching your eyes, that awful burning.

You curse your own flesh, in its weariness.

Our hearts pulling to catch up, when things change…too fast.

The place between your mind, and heart, a criss crossing of wires. Sizzling.

But He calls.

That cool wind, to sooth the burn.

A love ointment, for a mind infection.

An intimate pull of heat, a love that runs deep.

To the very nature of your cells.

The voice upon the waters.

Be of courage, child. Be of courage.

Catching each tear, in His mighty hand.

Storing them up in the Great Heart.

Restoration. Is a promise.

Do not fear, child. Do not fear. I hold the stars in my hands.

Joy comes in the morning my love. It always comes.

A lullaby of Truth.

And even though the world around me, shakes, it crumbles…my hands are bleeding…You Father, ARE BIGGER.

The cool wind to sooth the burn.

The love’s breath to heal the torn.

The All. The Is. The Forever.

Yes, child. Nothing in vain.

Nothing….in vain.

It is when the tidal wave hits, that we are called to stand against the crashing waters.

Hand in hand.

The salt waves whipping our cheeks, matting our hair, stinging our eyes.

A wall of brothers and sisters.

Our hands will bleed, but our hearts will beat.

Oh they will beat, the glory of God.

My hands are ready.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Day They Paved The Road.

When I left the house this morning, my eyes were already filling up with tears. Closing the front door, flipping my iPod to Jesus Culture, and making sure my sunglasses were masking my tired, puffy eyes.

It’s been a really hard year, and recovering from it has been… an uphill battle.

Last fall, we lost a baby. That December my Grandmother died of Cancer, and the day after her passing, a close friend of the family was shot three times, sticking the knife of grief even further into our bellies. Two weeks ago, we lost a very close member of Biker’s Church, a husband and father, laying to rest another piece of our family. That same week, my biological mother, “texted” me to tell me she wants nothing to do with me, only days before I would go with her to bury my Grandmother’s ashes. Somewhere in between all this, I had repressed memories of sexual abuse surface, leaving me a mess. Trying to accept that you were molested, is uh…heavy, to say the least.

So, like I said I was already crying when I opened the door this morning. Hoping that a walk alone, would give me enough space to feel something and let go. I did feel something. I felt God. I walked, my music turned up loud enough to drown out the panic of my mind. Have you ever felt trapped in grief? of course you have, you’re human. And if you haven’t yet, you will.We all do, and we all have to learn, to call on hope and power, when there’s nothing but pain and fear. I know that Jesus was walking with me this morning, telling me, He’s here with me. I see Him in my mind, bare feet next to mine. Step by step, walking through life with me. And it’s in those moments, I have to choose to believe Him. And just LET HIM walk next to me. My tears didn’t stop, if anything they flowed harder.Just because God is with you, doesn’t mean the pain goes away. If anything, He draws it out of you, and it’s you’re choice to leave it in His hands, and commit to letting Him work things out for you. The only thing I’m ever called to do is…trust Him. So as I walked, I just listened for His voice. Crying still. Letting Him draw out of me, the anger, the fear, the pain, I had bottled up inside my chest. That thing I do, that happens so fast, I hardly notice it. Until one day, I just break…and everyone’s just kind of staring at me. But I know God sees me, because He kept telling me that this morning. Even if my own Mother doesn’t see me, after all I’ve overcome….trying so hard…to finally be noticed by her…..God sees me.That God notices everything I feel, and understands…always and ever understanding and good, and kind.

The day we lost the baby, it was because I fell. I feel, jogging in the rain. And on my walk this morning, I found myself on that road. When I realized, I was almost at the corner where I fell, my heart started racing. I noticed they were re-paving the road this morning…the spot where I had hit the ground running, smashing my knee into the rough concrete…was covered by black stinky concrete. I cried. If there had been any trace of the blood from my knee, it was gone. The deep cracks in the road, where I had tripped, they were filled. It’s sounds crazy, to cry at this right?! It’s a good thing they fixed it. But I was pissed. To me, this spot, is like a memorial. I felt like someone had stomped on the flowers I had left at her grave. And the rest of the walk home, I remembered that day. How I had limped home bleeding, the cramps radiating through my body. The robotic numbing daze I was in. Because the moment I hit the ground, I knew. She was gone.Maybe next time, I’ll walk another route…or maybe I’ll always go the same way…because the last time I held her inside me, it was at that spot.

Anyway, I don’t know if any of this makes sense, and in all honesty, I just needed to write it out, because for the rest of the day, I will be entertaining my three year old son, and putting a smile across this sad face. I just have to say that, just because I’m sad, doesn’t mean I don’t have hope. For the first time, in a while, I have hope through the tears. I wish my Mom would stop being a selfish and sick woman, but she won’t. I wish that my Grandma was still alive, but she’s home now instead. I wish we had our little girl in our arms, but I will one day in heaven. I wish I hadn’t been molested, but I was. And I’m a powerful and brave person because of it. I wish that I could just hug Jesus every day, but instead, I’ll just have to trust that He’s walking next me in His bare feet with his hands around my heart. I wish that people didn’t have to die, but they do, and one day…I’ll be with each of them for  eternity. So until then, you’ll find me….ever fighting.

Because I promised…I’d never give up.

 

 

 

 

Even When Fear Stalks You.

Don’t LABEL yourself. Living up to that label can bleed you dry.

Don’t ALLOW yourself to be packaged and sold into the views this world has of you. BE YOU. That’s what you were born to do.

POWERFULLY.

HONESTLY.

COURAGEOUSLY.

AUTHENTICALLY.

Without fear. And even when fear STALKS YOU,

Fight anyways.

Because the fear needs to know, you’ve got this beat.

AND YOU’RE NOT GIVING UP.

Stand Up, And Start Walking.

Again, this is one of my older posts, as I’m trying to get everyone caught up before I post my most recent Memoir entry tomorrow. This post is titled “And Then There Was Him.” Another hugely genuine thank you on my part, to each and every one of you who take the time to read my entries. God bless.

~And Then There Was Him~

I’m sitting outside, on the wooden bench out front. I’m alone, smoking a king size Du Maurier cigarette. My elbows leaning on my knees, head down, so I don’t meet the eyes of the people coming in and out. I have no business looking at anyone around here,and they have no business looking at me either. I’m a jaded, lonely, sinking girl.

I didn’t notice him at first, when he busted through the front door. Standing alone, looking around for a familiar face. He walks up to me slowly, asks if he can bum a smoke. I say yes, hardly looking up to see him. He sits down next to me on the bench as I hand him my lighter. I’ve seen him around here before, but we’ve never met until now. To this day, I wish it never happened.

He tells me his name, and I get caught in his eyes, as ours meet. It’s not that I think he’s hot, it’s just those eyes. Something different. Hard. Dark. Addictive.

He has this air about him, like his surroundings don’t affect him. Like he knows better. Like he’s carrying a secret. A secret I want, and I immediately felt safer. We’re sitting there, quietly smoking our cigarettes and I begin to breathe again. I feel lighter. His affect me on me is heavy, and I’m a little ashamed of it.  Already, I don’t want him to leave, and we’ve only just met, not even ten minutes ago. Has that ever happened to you? like you’ve been missing a limb, and this person enters your inner world, re-attaches your leg and tells you to walk? and you stand up, and start walking. That’s how I felt next to Tyler. Just one look from him, with those dark, authoritative eyes, and I’d move. Something about him, gave me the courage to get the fuck up and keep fighting. He must have gotten the vibe too, because from that cigarette onward, we we’re always together. He put his arm around me, picked me up off the cold, rough ground, and set me upright. We didn’t even talk about it, not even a whisper. We never had to, it was an internal dialogue, played out by the both of us. He spoke with a kind of guiding supremacy, that plugged into me, a confidence and will I would not have found without him. Like I said earlier, this wasn’t a love thing, neither of us were down for that. It just wasn’t there, but was there, was this heat. This pulsing, live thing, born, and materialized, by our abrupt connection. He created for me, a place to hide away, a warm cocoon nest of denial and fantasy. The truth of my reality, becoming all the more easy to deny, when standing next to him. Tyler made everything feel sugar-coated. Even the most bad of things, becoming more livable through his eyes. Farther away. The cutting pain of my not so far way past, getting lost in the haze of my present place. Holding on to him, like a junkies last, and only fix. Black tar running through the veins. I was hooked. He knew it, I knew it. He did nothing to stop my fall in the end, except keep his mouth shut and go on with his life. He’ll leave me in the dust, when it counts, showing me again, how truly alone I really am. I’ll have a scar in my heart, belonging just to him. He won’t even know it, and we’ll never smile again with each other. I’ll wonder, even now, if he ever actually cared about me. If he was looking too. For that one person. The one person who’ll accept his hook, and willingly, hang from it in ignorance and weakness. Like I was. In my gut I’ll know the truth, and remember her face.

The girl dangling from my hook, while I’m hanging off of Tyler’s.

I’m not innocent.

I’m a puppeteer.

Just as much as he is.

Pulling her strings, will fully ignorant to the damage.

The three of us, tied together by hot, cutting barbed wire.~

To read the post that follows this one, simply click the link as follows, it’ is titled “Downers And A Straight Jacket” http://thisbeatingheart.com/2011/11/21/downers-and-a-straight-jacket/

Police Raid Fairy Tale

For two days we stayed up partying in that cheap, dim lit Inn.

Hip hop vibrating through the T.V speakers.

Cigarette smoke filled the box of a room. Beer cans and liquor bottles trailed across the side tables, and dressers. A couple half lit joints, sitting in dirty ashtrays. The door swinging back and forth, as friends came and went.

With each knock I’d imagine uniformed officers, the unrelenting beeping of their handsets and my spine would stiffen. Anxiety pulsed through my body, quickening my breath. Reach over to pour another drink. Lean back against the head board of the dingy motel bed, and take a deep breath. Roll another joint, something to cut the restless paranoia. Wired tight with fear, the despair that covered it, masked as contempt.

I knew I was alone. I’d always been alone. All too often, grasping at people like a terrified child. And even though I never formally begged them to stay, it was obvious that’s how I felt. No matter how hard I tried to keep them, they would always wonder off to a safer place. I scared people. I’d always had. I was too fucked up, and I knew it. They knew it, every time they looked at me, it was written all over their face. This pathetic empathy poured out from their eyes, and I hated it.  I hated the way they couldn’t linger too long, but would look away. Fidgeting with their hands, and lightening the subject. The truth was, that they weren’t going to last. No one lasted, not with me. I was a plague. I brought nothing with me, but disease and I knew that.

So with each police raid fairy tale, I had the feeling, a stirring within, that this was all going to come to a disastrous end. A looming guttural truth crept up behind us like a night watch stalker. A cold breathe lifting the hairs on the back of my neck. Turning around to find nothing, but the unrelenting emptiness.

A lingering threat of an unwelcome whisper.

I’m coming for you Angie. I’m coming for all of you.

Is that You God? Or is it….him.

Tainted Crooks.

I had no idea where Tyler was.

He always had other places to be. I never asked anymore.

We stumbled through the dark city, stopping to take in mouthfuls of liquor. The only people filling the early morning hours, other than a few Taxi’s. The busses weren’t even running anymore. It was still. Quiet. And we were drunk.  Puffing on cigarettes and meandering around audaciously.

Downtown wasn’t that big, he’d be around here eventually. Hopefully. I needed his fake I.D  to rent the hotel room, and if we didn’t find him, our only option, was too squat around on some filthy sidewalk and finish the pungent remains of the glass bottle. But before the thought sunk in, I saw him walking under a bridge across the street.  Kicking his heals in that thug swagger.  Rushing my steps to meet him, I realized just how excited I was to tell him we had money now. Competitive, like a boy would be. In a “I don’t need you, I can take care of myself” kind of way. And if you could’ve looked into my heart, you would have known it was total bullshit. Mostly. I advertised it anyways, with a sneak peek at the brown bills stashed in my pocket. She, animatedly recounting the details of our elicit visit in the hefty students apartment. Yanking on his arm, like she always had. Grabbing and pulling, the vibrant smile splashed across her pale face. I could tell he was relieved, not by the underhanded story, but by the money. Weren’t we all just a bunch of tainted crooks.

Vulnerable in our transparencies.

“So which hotel do you want to stay in? I’ll call some friends, we can party.” he says, putting his arm around me, leaning in. If only I had a fake I.D. Then I could bitterly abandon him. Instead of, chasing him around like the pathetic girl I was.

Sometimes insecurity radiates off of me like heat on a tin roof.

Sometimes I despise myself with a hatred to strong I shake.

Sometimes, I want to slice my wrists open and bleed out into oblivion.

But, for now, in this moment, I’ll just keep drinking.

There’s always another day to kill oneself.