Rest in [finding your] Peace.

Rest in [finding your] Peace.

There are a lot of things I am willing to fight for. My family, my friends, my integrity. If I’m being totally honest, I wish my defensiveness subsided with my growing pains. But it didn’t. And if you call me a liar, I’ll show you a liar who’s also hell-bent on making sure you know better than to call me a liar again. If that sounds scary, it is. I deal with that kind of blind rage from time to time and only a handful of people in this life have provided me with tools to combat the intense need to get my point across. I’m not proud of it. Nobody’s proud of how they got here, only that they made it.

This week I learned an invaluable lesson. I lost my best friend [and a mother to the same scenario in earlier months] but gained a huge perspective about my role as a human being.

I am not here to fix you.

I will only love you as much as you let me without hindering my own happiness. 

“Adults don’t get to tell other adults how to behave” she said, as the pain of my mistakes drew whatever was left in the salty canals of my bloodshot eyes. My sister has a way of always reminding me that whatever sadness I’m feeling is only in direct correlation to a poor decision on my part. On letting someone do damage, by giving them a platform to upset me. She was right. She’s always right. 

Since when was it such a crime to tell others that what they were doing wasn’t OK? Especially if you weren’t totally convinced that they knew better. And I wasn’t. But that wasn’t my place. I’m an adult and adults don’t get to offer unsolicited advice; the downfall of so many relationships.

Nobody was there to prepare me for the kill. Just like that, I fired the bullet directly into the weakest part of my favorite friendship. And silenced it’s existence in one shot. Looking back on it, sabotage is just my guide’s way of making sure I pull the proverbial trigger quick enough to blast any opportunity of survival straight out of the park. They know I hang on to pieces. They couldn’t let me find pieces.

I entertained the idea that enough good outweighed the bad for entirely too long. I made sure to make excuses for the things that brought me anxiety and only highlighted the moments I knew you weren’t sick. But, we’re all a little sick when it comes down to it. I was sick of you and your were sick of you and we were both pretty fed up with pretending we weren’t always one “I’m running late” text away from giving up on each other.

But we were soul friends; the kind of person you could sit in complete silence with and feel comforted. I loved you like a sister, down to making sure whatever happiness you needed me to create, I’d manifest at my soonest convenience. I knew you better than you wanted to believe I did, and I probably won’t ever get enough credit for the way I handled the pain you created every time you abandoned me without reason. You knew exactly how to fail me. And in letting you do that, I failed me.

Nobody to blame, but myself.

Rest  in (finding your) peace.

Vigilante of Love

Vigilante of Love

I am an advocate for healthy relationships. Don’t let my all-too-often cynicism make you skeptical of my allegiance to love. Or romance. Or that [sometimes] painful, but ultimately raw intimacy that only a few of us find in our life time. I believe in good people and I hold constant faith in a humanity that has let me down time and time again. I always keep hold of it, because we only allow opportunity to cease when we stop believing in it’s ability to exist.

Somewhere between wanting to fall in love myself, and watching everyone else fall in love around me, I found a bit of a knack for drawing from people, their truths. And even when they don’t want to give it to me, I sense their lies deep within my core. One small reminder that I’m not the kind of girl who’s eyes are easily covered with wool and people just kind of share their skeletons before either of us know what’s happening.

“I’m a heroin addict. I want to cheat on my girlfriend. I hate my wife.

The only thing that feels good is this. New interaction.”

I’ve been told I feel comfortable. I assume people mean that they lack a filter in my presence and it feels….well, OK. I want every time I hear this to be special, because it’s nice to be able to console another human being with just your presence. It’s even nicer to change people’s lives by simply lending an ear. The truth is, being comfortable to strangers has found a way of making me less-than comfortable more often than not and holding too many secrets is a sure fire way to make yourself miserable; or so I’ve learned.

Earlier this year, I lent an ear. And then I lent some advice. And then I totally used all of the intel I received against the person who I made comfortable enough to give it to me. But, frankly…he had been cheating on his girlfriend for too long, and fuck you, girl power. I’m not telling this story because I want to rat myself out for being a rat. I want to share this story because it went from a tiny step to clear my conscious, to one of the bravest and most important things I could have ever done for a stranger.

We swiped right on each other. His profile suggested he had been single long enough to be serious about a real connection. A handful of messages back and forth lead to the exchange of numbers and then almost immediately a phone call. He told me he lived with his friend, that he couldn’t wait for me to meet his dog, and that he had an ex who was ‘crazy’. As progression would go, I found his facebook profile a few days into our dialogue and there she was. A girlfriend of a lot of years.

It’s happened to me a few times, but usually when I call a man out for his blatant display of a relationship on social media he back pedals and apologizes for wasting my time, then ghosts like a true millennial. This one was different. He spent hours, days, weeks telling me sob stories about how he was being emotionally abused by this woman he barely sees anymore.

Fast forward to a month later when my gut tells me to reach out to the girl in the photos labeled ‘in a relationship with: the tool on tinder’. I went into it thinking I’d be a fool to think she would even believe me. Broken relationships are always filled with denial. I would know, I frequent that step of the grieving process often. She didn’t believe me at first; shocker. I provided her with months of back and forth conversations that otherwise deemed all of his stories a lie…down to the revelation that his roommate he spoke so frequently of…was in fact…her.

Man did that suck. Relaying to a woman who knew her relationship was rocky, that it was even rockier on the outskirts. And that someone knew only half truths about the woman she was because her sociopathic boyfriend confided in a complete stranger about their relationship, seemingly using the foundation of his twisted story to fuel compassion. He lied about the way she treated him. About the seriousness of their status. But most importantly he lied about being a victim to someone who truly played the part, every god damn day.

This story has a happy ending folks…cause when she found out, she eventually left him. It took her a couple months, as most many-year relationships do, but it finally happened. And despite how horrible it sounds to break two people up, I’m so grateful I was given the opportunity to do so, and did it without fear of repercussion.

This shit doesn’t fly with me anymore kids. I can smell a liar from across our cell signals these days. Don’t play me for a fool, or I’m gonna make your current girlfriend my more current best friend and we’re gonna roast the fuck out of your dick pics in the comfort of our own single-hood. It’s been a while since I’ve felt like a superhero, but if being online and trying to date makes me a vigilante for love, keep me logged in and signed up,  cause I’m ready to detect the bullshit you douche-canoes keep feeding me.

 

Boom. Nailed it. 👍🏻

Plateau

Plateau

Rock bottom isn’t just a bar and grill, to some, it’s a platform for change. I’ve swam pretty damn close to the depths of sunken debris, where fellow friends visited and found permanent residency in the strength it provided. But, my lowest of lows never seem to be “bottom” enough. I haven’t been an unlucky divorcee, I know nothing of addiction, and frankly even amidst my saddest hours soaked in misunderstood tears, I’m still not seemingly low enough to always find a higher self. 

I find a bit of guilt in wanting to seek a lower-low for the sake of a higher-high, but this is a cliche and monumental line that makes me think about the what if’s of its potential. What if I already hit my rock bottom and did nothing with it? What if one persons rock bottom looks nothing like someone else’s? What if rock bottoms aren’t for everybody?

They aren’t. And it’s fucking purgatory

A place where we stand in limbo, totally dissatisfied with where we are; destined for neither hell nor heaven. What do we do here? Funny I should ask, because I’ve been told that the definition of hitting it is the moment you begin to question everything that you know to be true. 

I’m here. It’s happening

I never thought I’d long for a crash so fatal. The kind of carnage that leaves me with just a skeleton of shambles that need rearranging. For too long, I’ve been lost, playing hide and seek with myself over fifty states and too many years to count on one hand.  

At the bottom, you can look up and see how far off course you were. Staring at a road you paved with other people’s ideas of someone you never wanted to be. At the bottom, all of your previously-ignored defective behaviors are projected into the light. Finding each of your faults floating freely; as you sink deeper. At the bottom is a fresh perspective; a positive perception of a life that felt unsatisfactory. At the bottom is responsibility, humility, but most importantly prosperity. 

I’m starting to think “hitting the bottom” isn’t a once in a lifetime occurrence. It can facilitate its way into our lives on a weekly basis if we aren’t cognitive enough of it’s purpose. Just when I thought my bottom wasn’t as low as others, I realized quickly it was bottom-enough for me to hit restart and re-establish the person I am. Not only that, but publicly. 

This blog is a constant rock bottom. I come here to recognize my failures. To accept self pity and take responsibility for how my life is lived. It gets me out of hiding and allows me a platform for vulnerability when my feelings feel hardest to feel. It allows me to loath, to be thankful and to sometimes be completely numb to everything I just stated above. I witness it connect me with old friends, and often times it connects me with complete strangers; but most importantly it connects me with me…time and time again.

The Coward With The Key

The Coward With The Key

I think I’m going insane. 

Not the kind that voids me of being a productive member of society and forces me to medicate pharmaceutically, just the kind that makes me cry on my drives home from work to songs that are other-wise meant for dancing. I used to chalk it up to mother nature; engulfing my hormones into a fiery inferno of mass hysteria every month like clock work. Making me eat chocolate chip cookies by the handfuls and overreacting about literal spilled milk. [I’m clumsy, it happens.]

But this, this isn’t my menstrual cycle anymore. This is a men-suck cycle; this is war. Some would say I ask for it. And those people aren’t totally wrong. I ask for the attention by way of social media, by the way I wear my makeup or the low top cut I adorn. I ask for it on the dating profiles I solicit; in the blog I post publicly for everyone to read. It’s funny cause I rarely get what I seek. The kind of attention that is more than just a hit off the pipe, the kind that starts as a friendly gesture and could manifest into a true connection but finds its way instead to be reckless and debilitating.

I may have asked for ‘it’, but ‘it’ is vastly different to two totally different people who’s lives have yet to collide on anything deeper than a filtered selfie and a couple of drunk late night “I miss you’s”. These days, I miss you is equivalent to “I miss your body”. I want you is just backwash for “I’m scared to be lonely”. It, to me, is always just some sort of foundation of reliability from an outsider. The ability to come together as two humans with similar interests and mutual respect. Day one, we’ve got it. Day thirty six, it’s gone. 

I wish people who plant trust-seeds in strangers’ hearts and forget to water them weren’t long for this world. I’d say I understand the idea of being selfish, but I really fucking don’t. Even people whom I don’t believe deserve a second more of my time, got it. Why? Because communication is the key to mental health stability. And everyone’s just walking around with all of the answers in their pockets; tight lipped…destroying society. You know what changes the whole game? Not even playing one. Just being as straight forward as it’s physically possible to be to make sure that every word you say is followed by a similar action.

Because, when things don’t make sense, and the world seems so very fucked…that’s when the mind gets weaker and the heart grows an aversion to love. And frankly, that’s all we ever need in this life. To love and be loved. The idea that someone can strip us of that possibility feels like murder: Death by coward; the one with the key. 

Ex Marks The Spot

I get it, Ex’s are an ‘off-limits’ topic. They fuel insecurities and create unnecessary reminders of lost time. But, most importantly they are pieces of our past. A past that molds who we are today.

Understanding your current partner’s previous relationship is equivalent to taking Calculus your senior year. Nobody wants to do it, it’s going to seem like a giant waste of time, but in the end, it’ll get you to where you want to be much faster.

The Ex is around somewhere. They exist. Find them and research their failures. Or, when that feels entirely too invasive, simply…just ask your partner. Your significant other’s ex’s faults are a streamlined path to triggers that could be easily avoided with the knowledge of their existence. They say, that what we don’t know can’t hurt us…except in this very instance.

What made him leave? Why was their relationship less than successful?

Before doing some irresponsible social-media stalking take a moment to engage with your partner and find out from them what they were looking for, and didn’t find, in a potential spouse. Sometimes you will get the ol’ “She was crazy” which you will come to find out translates into “stayed out late drinking and fucked my best friend”. Note to self: don’t do either cause it doesn’t label well. Clearly infidelity is a huge turn off for everyone, but more specifically it’s important to remember that the partner with this kind of “EX-file” is probably more fragile when it comes to trust.

You may even get the “She wasn’t my type”, translating into: “She let herself go about four months into the relationship and by the time we moved in together she was able to eat a slice of pizza off of her belly Fat-Bastard style”.

Whatever you get for a response about what was enough to end their relationship, it’s enough to help you not end this relationship. And that’s such a one up, it’s absurd. Grab a front row seat to any kind of evolution, even if it’s a taboo topic like who your boyfriend used to bang. Honestly, being aware of you AND your partner’s boundaries is probably the single most important influencer in the confidence people need to create solid connections.

Normalize your past, align your objectives and TALK ABOUT YOUR EX’S.  It’ll make things so much easier for you when you realize your not asking someone to repeat any former regrets. You’re setting them up for success by giving them the tools they need to not be another tool you don’t need.

Don’t Tell Me How To Love You

Don’t Tell Me How To Love You

A broken woman is like a dirty diaper, nobody wants to touch it. One quick change though and everything’s fresh again. I’ve learned a lot on my journey to thirty. Absolutely nothing about baby-changing protocol; mostly about which diners serve the best sweet potato fries across the country, but you all knew how bad I was at analogies from the beginning, so…you’re welcome.

Real men change diapers. They just do. Now, I’m not a parent but I can imagine it’s probably incredibly endearing to see your partner (who has no innate child bearing tendencies) fasten your baby to a brand new under garment with joy. Wanna know why? Because, those same men are the only ones who will offer a shoulder to cry on when it’s the 8th day of your period from hell and life is just too hard to life. So, maybe this has nothing to even do with diaper changing and everything to do with being a good human, more importantly a good partner

Nobody likes to do the shitty stuff. (Pun fully intended) you know, like console an upset girlfriend. Frankly, I wouldn’t ever expect a man to blatantly offer himself up to be the punching bag to my insecurity jabs, but if he chooses to love me; he chooses all of me. And sometimes me, is shitty. Thats why I would hope he would change my proverbial “dirty diaper” without hesitation. My broken pieces most likely just need to be coddled with care, not stared at like a disorder. 

All too often I notice the silence. When it would mean the most; that’s when men are the least. Defense mechanisms tend to prevent them from offering themselves up to the fire that is an argument, but sometimes you just gotta go through it, to get to it. Most of us women just want to be heard. Forget that it’s half truths and jargon, just lend an ear and accept me for my mistakes; they’re the only stepping stones to any true happiness…

I Need An Adult 

I Need An Adult 

First rule of 2017? Don’t talk about 2016. I guess I can’t consider it the worst year of my life. (Shout out to 2014 for being 365 days of horseshit) BUT it definitely didn’t hold out on all of its promises. With that said, I got to live in a whole new state and what I learned far exceeds any reasons I’m not staying. 

Below are 7 of the most wonderful lessons Colorado has left me, as I leave it. 

1. I learned that as cool as snowboarding sounds, it’s not for me. 

I’d only been once before. When I was 12 my parents took me boarding in big bear. At least I think it was big bear. I was kind of youth-drunk on pain killers cause my dad was avoiding taking me to the hospital after I broke my hand the weekend before our family trip. Turned out the hair line fracture became a bigger problem when I spent most of my time on the bunny slopes falling on the fucking thing. I wish I could have blamed the inability to get up at age 29 on an inoperative appendage, but the only thing broken at the base of Arapahoe basin was my soul. 

2. I learned that “natives” is just another term for pretentious assholes. 

 Every single time I told someone I was from California (who grew up in Colorado) they spent the next three to six minutes of my life that I will never get back griping about the legalization of marijuana and how it’s been the downfall of their local society. Yada-fuckin’-yada. Yea cause I didn’t come here for the job market that wasn’t devastatingly depleted or because the cost of housing (was) about 35% lower in suburban areas. I didn’t come here for the 14ers or the hiking trails. And god for bid I chose this state for its perfect seasons. That would be CRAZY. 

3. I learned that traffic is everywhere.

The world is just overpopulated, and the only way through your shit, is to sit in it. Like, you just gotta find yourself in those 30-60 additional minutes you’re not even sure are going to happen. Let the world brake check you. We’re all in this together. Except Connecticut– the only “C” state without bumper to bumper rush hours. 

4. I learned that, to some, beer is life. 

Breweries, brew pubs, pub crawls, beer bars. What do you want for your birthday in Colorado? Beer. What time are we going out? Beer:30 The microbrew community is unrivaled in this state and it’s awe-inspiring. Per capita, this state has more brewery options than I was even capable of or prepared to handle. Side note: I’m still going on record believing that they only legalized marijuana to provide relief for everyones coors-hangover. 

5. I learned that altitude tolerance is real. 

Going back down to sea level is gonna make me a flippin super hero. You guys have been getting so much more air than me down there! If I’m not a total beast in the gym…then I need to not let anybody know cause that means I’m really out of shape. It’s a real struggle up here at a mile high, but after living in Colorado a year and a half I notice nothing. That is, until my first breath back down by the beach. 

6. I learned that every amphitheater should be built inside of a rock. 

Red Rocks, I feel, is something everyone needs to experience. It’s like cupping your ear and listening to your tv on the most grand of scales. Frankly, all musicians should play here. Sound systems are so-49 other states. 

7. I learned what it’s like to be part of a community that wins.

The Broncos won the super bowl while I lived here and frankly being a niners fan, it may be a long time coming before I can be apart of such a sweet sweet victory again. Also, I’m going home to a state who created raiders and charger fans. All I can hope is that Rams fans are significantly less likely to stab me.

I’m on to a new adventure, one in a state I grew up in but never explored. I took my travel bug within and ventured to lands outside my comfort zone. Now I want to explore my original comfort; my birthplace. I know they say life begins at the end of your comfort zone, but I’m ready to take lessons learned from across this country and apply them to miles and miles of the golden state. Colorado you were fun, but it’s time to cure this home sick girl with a piece of her past. Later landlock ✌🏼️

15 things I want to do before I die. Which could be tomorrow, no pressure.

15 things I want to do before I die. Which could be tomorrow, no pressure.

1. Live in a different country. 

On the off chance that I don’t immediately get raped and murdered in a hostile because I refuse to learn the language of the people, I’m thinking about a green card marriage for those bonus life points every little girl dreams of. 


2. Invent something. 

I don’t care if it’s a better way to take a shit (shout out to squatty potty for their shamelessly flagrant lack of fucks entrepreneurship, cause yes their mascot is a unicorn with rainbow squirts) I want my name attached to some sort of product that make people go “why didn’t I think of that”. Plot twist: cause I did; you’re welcome. 


3. Bare child. 

I can imagine I’m gonna be one of the top ten worst mothers ever given life, but that didn’t stop me when I got dogs, and they’re still alive. So, let’s get this pregnancy party started. Eating for two: party of one. #lifegoals 


4. Hug a wild animal. 

I’m seeing koala. You’re probably imagining tiger. Preferably interested in an animal with less body mass than me so that if we get into a fist fight it isn’t able to scalp me with one swift swipe. Speaking of swiping, I realize my tinder profile isn’t complete without the latter, but if I’m gonna piss my pants it’s gonna be in death not pre- mortem. 

5. Watch all the movies that people think I’m a complete moron for not seeing. 

On average 600 new movies are released each year. At a norm of 90 minutes per viewing, that’s 54,000 minutes, 900 hours or 38 days straight of finding out that theres still nothing worse than Mariah Carey’s “Glitter”. I get that casting, directing and plots are all subjective to it’s viewers, but for the love of Christ stop telling me that I’m scum of the earth for not seeing The Green Mile. I’ve got better things to do, like watch Magic Mike one AND two. 


6. Pop a bag of popcorn to its fullest capacity. 

I used to think it was 2 minutes 10 seconds on the dot, no questions asked, no “popcorn” button pushed. Then I went from Orville Redenbacher to Pop Secret and I burnt the ever loving shit out of the last thing I had to eat in my pantry. I’m not a waster, it’s not in my blood to throw away unpopped kernels. So, it’s my snack-enthusiast duty to make this happen before I die. (Side note, one or two kernels would still suffice) 


7. Write a book. 

They say never wrong a writer, we get our revenge in print. And I look forward to the day where pure bliss meets the desire to give the middle finger to my finally forgiven past. I’m probably gonna start it and not finish in an ode to my less than worth it previous relationships, but how funny would that be to hook a reader in for 350 pages and just ghost the fuck out of them? The critics won’t know what to do with their hands.


8. Make a gym my second home. 

I guess I gotta stop leaving states if I want this to work, huh? Fitness is super important to me, but rears its most difficult head when it comes to timing. Nothing is ever close enough, friendly enough or comfortable enough for me to frequent happily. So, before I die I hope to find a swolemate to make sure my squat form is impeccable morning and night. And please don’t let it be that 18 year old trainer at 24 hour fitness who’s got cougars on his “25 things to do before I die” list. 


9. Keep up with the Kardashians. 

I have a couple guilty pleasures and one of them is this family. I can’t explain it any better than that I just get them. Having three siblings and parents who are questionably difficult to deal with, I see myself in all three girls. If I’m not sympathizing with fat-Khloe, I’m totally feeling the sexually deviant-Kim and every once in a while I yearn to be as put together as Kortney as she raises not one, not two but three children. Did I mention they are really quite amusing to listen to if you just take your robe off and stop judging? I’m keeping up with the dash-fam until one or all of them dies. 


10. Face a fear. 

I ain’t afraid of no ghosts. Ok, yes I am. Absolutely terrified actually. I don’t do haunted houses cause frankly it’s all fun and games until someone does bath salts in line and eats your face. I hate snakes, the ocean, can’t stand heights and publicly refuse to speak. So if I can just do a cliff dive holding a rattler while wearing a old-navy-like headset and speaking to a crowd below, I’m golden. 


11. Learn to dance. 

If there is something worse than two left feet, I have them. Two very badly broken and misfortunate feet maybe? At almost thirty I realize I’m never gonna win So You Think You Can Dance, so my life goal is just to be able to make movements that someone can identify as a genre. Something like The Cha Cha or The Samba not “drunk girl at a dive bar” or “grand mal seizure”. 


12. Protest something. 

I don’t let people eat burgers anywhere but Del Taco. So, I’ve made my claims here and there. But I want to picket or ticket on something I’m super passionate about. Mostly because I’ve got a really good yelling voice for long winded chants, but also cause I love making people listen when I know they don’t want to. Why else do you think I have a blog? 


13. Confuse a stranger. 

My whole life has been a series of what in the actual fuck moments and for once I just want to walk up to someone, hand them a tree branch and exclaim that “with great power comes great responsibility.” I’m sorry I’m not sorry, that’s what you get. You get to wonder who I was, what I was doing and why I gave you that gift. Because, I’ve got like sixty three unresolved mysteries that dateline NBC wouldn’t even want to touch. I have enough karma points to offset if this one moment ruins said strangers life, so we good. 


14. Successfully build something. 

A bookshelf. A bear. A loving relationship. My options are endless. If any of the above look like the IKEA bed frame I just put together with the wrong screw driver, I’m screwed. Pun intended. If I get reincarnated and come back as anything after death, it’s gonna be a stripped screw. The epitome euphemism for my previous life, and basically everything I’ve ever tried to build without a partner. It’s safe to say, to accomplish this, I’ll need an adult. 


15. Make a difference in someone’s life. 

Life’s purpose isn’t always as translucent as we’d like. Whatever mine is, I hope it makes a difference. I hope someone feels better about themselves cause my life wasn’t going as planned. Or they find my exhausting but hopeful desire for real love to be compelling and inspirational. The kindness challenge is an everyday struggle but if I can permanently change someone’s life for the better then I’m cool to go into the light…

The Girl Who’s Good At Goodbye. 

The Girl Who’s Good At Goodbye. 

I’m kind of obsessed with the idea that nothing in life is permanent. That the only thing I’m forever fastened to is, well; me. 

I see people caught in empty promises and painfully unrealistic goals all the damn time. Stuck in jobs that aren’t lucrative. Stuck in relationships that are unfulfilling. Stuck in being painfully stuck. 

I hate leaving anything. My bed in the morning, a job field Ive become knowledgeable in, a home I’ve created. It feels like I’m abandoning comfort. What the hell is your damn problem, gypsy? I rattle the sheets of my seemingly content lifestyle once a year like clock work. And everybody flinches. Except my future self. 

I live a simple life. Debt free. With just enough pieces of furniture to not scare potential suitors away from my second story apartment home. And in that home I spend my evenings looking up ways to leave. I’m always wanting to go, somewhere else, somewhere that’s not my current situation. Not because I’m not happy, but because I came, I saw, I conquered. Next

You don’t have to understand. You can shake your head in disappointment as I flee the scene. But this is nature. Fight or flight. I’m a lover not a fighter, but most importantly I’m a full-fledged-flighter. The beauty of it all is that it doesn’t have to make sense to anybody but me. The only person I have to answer to at night is my well-traveled-ego strumming the chords to the opening credits of some of my most wildest dreams.

Someone once asked me how I can afford to keep doing this. This, as in being alive and never settling? Well, Its possible that I sold my first born in a past life for a nomadic soul that ceases to stop moving through her lifetimes. But realistically present day me lives as follows: 

Step one. [cut a hole in the box] No but really, step one: don’t be lavish. Cut a hole in a box and keep your collection of change ever-growing. I love knowing I’m never completely out of money. It’s helpful when you need to register your car in the third state in three years. Simplicity is the greatest gift you’ll ever give your future. Coupon, refinish, pawn. Do what you have to do to make sure you don’t have buyers remorse or even worse; a lifetime of regret for being stuck. 

That’s literally my only advice. Just don’t be scared or broke and you can make all 50 states your bitch. Goodbyes are easy when they become small tokens of knowing and loving people in more than one place. Your goodbyes [or bravery] LITERALLY make you rich. Rich in knowledge, experience and most importantly love. For yourself, for your roots and for places you may never get the chance to see but were never afraid to try. 

             With that said Colorado, Goodbye. Cha-Ching! 

Got Guilt? 

Got Guilt? 

Guilt is the devine creator of some of the most extravagant lies I’ve ever heard. A guilty conscience manifests itself in our hearts and bleeds heavily if it’s sin. [In false pretenses or hidden agendas.] I speak, with guilt, in truth. And it’s almost impossible for me to find a like minded soul in a millennium of storytellers. 

Once upon a time, you didn’t wake up and forget how to be a good human. Nobody is that absentminded. And I am not that dumb. If, one morning I wake up, completely void of feelings for the person I had been pursuing, I would, without hesitation gift them with reasons, not penetrate their confusion with excuses. In the moments that I feel shame for change, I also feel courage for sincerity. And you should too. I share that bold and beautiful attribute with everyone I come in contact with. The good, the bad, and the I wish I never gave you my number. 

I know you don’t want me. 

I know you hate pressure.

Or the way it feels to get caught up in something outside of basic routine. I know that it’s easier to have a story benefit your conscience by manipulating the content. That’s life, and it’s awful. 

I am not a moron. I am, however, stupid enough to pet the dead cat. It’s cute, it has nothing to offer me, but it’s cute. 

                  God I’m bad at analogies. 

You can stop pretending. The weight is only lifted when honesty is present. 

When I was younger I was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder. I came to terms with my impulsivity by redirecting its usage. I impulsively loved while the untreated impulsively lied. I even loved the way people lied. (Cue Eminem and RiRi) It kept bringing me back to this streetlight of uncertainty. Sitting at a red light, staring at people knowing exactly what to do, and then there’s me, the asshole, full-fender-freak out

Feelings for you are like an intersection in a power outage. A total blackout of direction; constantly waiting for a green light…

I think I’ll die in this car. 


Terminal. 

Terminal. 

You are a special kind of awful 
The kind that disguises itself as understanding; sucks me from vulnerable to empty, ground to air.

Cloud nine-hundred and forty two

That’s how many times our cabin pressure has dropped.                       Your eraser apologies are translucent like the window of the exit. 

The way a parent lies to their child as the plane goes down; thats how you coddle me. 

Everything’s gonna be ok.

The heat rises. 

You’re safe with me. 

Alarms sound. Flames and flames and flames…

I wish I could black you out like the impact of metal into the softness of unprepared soil. Release myself from the seatbelt of your consistent carnage.

Save yourself before you save another. Masks drop. Pressured bodies. 

                      The way I feel when we lift off. 

The way I feel when we’re going down. 

Always taking off, barely landing…

Accu-tamed: My Accutane Journey. Month 1.

Accu-tamed: My Accutane Journey. Month 1.

My entire life I have been so good to my skin. I never went to bed without taking off my make up. I moisturized, exfoliated and applied SPF everyday without fail. Not because I was supposed to, but because I always felt that one day my efforts wouldn’t be in vain. As a kid, mud mask parties were my savior. While everyone else just hid behind cucumber peel off’s to expedite puberty, I needed them to soothe the pain.

ms doubtfire
I remember my father taking me to the dermatologist weekly to try an array of new ‘technology’. Prescribed the tetra, the doxy and the my-god-is-that-enough-cycline’s, I found no comfort in pumping my adolescent body with antibiotics. We tried injections, pills, and what Stacey the esthetician called ‘the blue light special’. Despite what my father wanted to introduce into my very young body, my only hope was an attempt at balancing my hormones by starting a widely known medication called birth control. Funny story, I could hardly remember to do my homework at that age, let alone take a tiny white tablet every morning at breakfast. So, that was a giant waste of a copay. Additionally my father assumed that because I could now control birth, I’d try to test its boundaries by becoming the town whore or something. Yea dad, like that was gonna be the answer to my pustular prayers; a baby.

herpes
Life became a little less stressful as the years went on. Boys were my biggest concern and the only flare up they caused was in my pants. I found that makeup was my greatest tool; and ultimately perfected this asset to achieve a flawless complexion daily. The truth is guys, make up gets old. And so do you.

On my 29th birthday I sat around my friends listening to them talk about their botox appointments. All I could think of was how I wished I could even find the wrinkles underneath my acne. I was still dealing with a childhood disease that now found it’s way into an onset of adult hormonal acne. Don’t google that. It’s basically your entire jaw line attempting to exit through your pores in very large cysts that are painful and cumbersome to heal.  I had to see somebody. Anybody.

help

My doctor was in shock at how bad I let it get before I saw her, and insisted that she had the cure. A medication called Spironolactone. Taken by men to basically become women, but also widely know for it’s effects on treating this type of acne. Essentially this diuretic was to regulate the hormones in my body that produced such horrible skin irritants. The bottle read “Call your doctor if you develop any side effects”. Whatever the most graphic synonym for side effect is, that’s what happened to me. My face broke out into more open sores than I had pores, and I was sicker than a dog. Dizziness, headache, muscle pain, and most of all an acute onset of SEVERE break outs.

“It’s got to get worse before it can get better”

Le Sigh. We started on a laser light therapy equipped with a gentle suction facial every two weeks during this medication trial and she still had me continue it at it’s largest dose for almost FOUR MONTHS. I cried myself to sleep every night  as I painfully washed the layers of make up that barely covered up my bumps. People take for granted that their skin is clear, all I wanted was a minute of relief.

After eight months and thousands of dollars in treatment later, I walked into my dermatologists office with tears in my eyes. I remember seeing her before the holidays and telling her that my one wish was to go to the pool the following summer without make up on. She looked at me disappointedly. It was time to bring out the big guns.

guns

Accutane, has been and will always be my last resort. The amount of side effects and regulations the FDA has announced over the years makes it almost impossible to want to swallow this pill daily. But, she and I knew that the reward was worth the risk at this stage. My quality of life was at an all time low when it was painful to do simple tasks like eat because of the cystic acne along my jaw. Not to mention the immense amount of confidence having a face full of zits takes from you.

So began my journey. In June of this year I started my lock out; a thirty day period in which blood is drawn, a pregnancy test is taken and paperwork is sent home with you on the medication and it’s usage. Almost a full month ago I started my prescription knowing damn well that the most potent of side effects had the potential to not only kill me, but severely deform any conception of a child. Luckily for me, I wasn’t planning on one any time soon. Well, what can I say for this medication?

It’s a friggin miracle.

With what I assume to be a 100% success rate after reading almost every single article that the interwebs has to offer, I can’t say a damn thing bad about it. Who knows what’s going on inside of me internally (I have my blood work retested every 30 days), but I do know that my skin feels like the ever-angelic touch of a newborn babies bum. Side effects have included: dry lips, increased sensitivity to already known allergens, suppressed hunger and dandruff. Other than that, the only other effect I’m noticing is that my skin is already 95% better after just 1/6th of my treatment. See below:

image1

Going from feeling like I was a prime slot in the next freak show, to having real hope for a clear face happened almost overnight. It’s only been 23 pills and I know for a fact that Accutane, despite it’s risks, is the only thing that could have and now is easing  my suffering. Did I mention that this medication is paid for by my insurance fully? All $800 of it. I couldn’t believe it myself, but all of those prayers I’ve had for the past 20 years have been answered by a medication I was almost too scared to take.

I will post the next stage of my journey here in a month, but I bet my skin is going to be almost completely restored back to it’s normal youth, if not better than before. Isotretinoin is the only product out there that is THE CURE. Excuse me while I go sign into my ipledge account, tell them I won’t be having any babies this month, and get my next month’s prescription for success!

Dear Diary, I’ve Got Nothing to Hide

Dear Diary, I’ve Got Nothing to Hide

Transparency can be mysterious too. I know that there isn’t much to be wondered about everything sitting out on the table. But sometimes I look at objects right in front of my god damn face, and I still couldn’t tell you how they work or if they have a name. 

That’s how I hope you all see me. You know I exist. That I’m human. That I’m open and seemingly vulnerable. But how do I work? What’s my name? The mystery exists. 

What do you know about being who you are with a whole heart? I bet you think you know what love is. And for some, you’ll always be right because, well, it’s all you’ll ever know. But, I hold out because I know of a place between what I pretend I dream of and a far less greater reality that exists. It’s just banking on timing. It’s manifesting in my failure; growing through my pain. My tears water its roots and it’ll blossom when it’s ready. Would you sit and wait? Watch a flower grow? Then don’t wait for me, i’ll bloom in time. But you can cheer for my victories and console me when I fail. 

I hear I’m “ballsy” for every word I write here in a public form. Courage doesn’t make me write, you guys do. There’s nothing brave about exploring every corner of my existence and recounting it to an audience. The truth is…when you have nothing to hide, that’s when you have nothing to fear. 

Come Home

Come Home

A dear friend of mine, who remains to be unnamed, wrote a letter to his ex-girlfriend in hopes that the raw pen-to-paper confession would heal a few wounds. He asked for my opinion, and I asked if I could post, because as a fellow advocate of untamed hearts, I fell into a similar passion for his desires on the outskirts of his plea and I needed to share.  Not a lot of people know what it’s like to bare their soul. We sure do. 

It’s Monday night, June 13th, 2016 – 10:03 PM. A little while ago, I sent my goodnight text, saying I’ll see you Wednesday night for dinner. As I’m lying here in bed, I’m trying to figure out what we are going to talk about and why we’re even meeting. What’s the point, right? More or less, I guess I just wanted to see you again.

I can’t tell you how many nights I’d wake up, check my phone, and pray that I had a message from you saying, “Come home.” No apology needed. No explanation. I was cool with just the two words. I was waiting for you to save me. I messaged you drunk last week because I miss you, I think that’s a given. Drunken minds are sober thoughts, right? I was out with friends, having a blast and I still enjoy doing that. I hit the level of drunk where all I wanted to do was come home to you. It didn’t matter how much fun I was having on my own or how much personal growth I was achieving. I wanted to do those things with you, together. I called you years ago on St. Patrick’s Day to save me, remember? That’s where I was the other night. Well, I am writing this one sober.

I’m not the dull, careless, boring, and sensitive person you made me out to be. I’m tough at work. Fearless, selfless, compassionate, and strong. Admired, honored, recognized, and a true mentor. (I know you’re saying, “Really?! You grandiose prick!”) Yeah, me. There are plenty of accolades and accommodations to show for it. I’m damn proud of my career and I should be. I thrive when supported by those around me. In writing this, however, I realize I just jumped to conclusions about the way you expressed yourself. I didn’t listen to you when you repeatedly said that was just your personality. Those who knew you understood it. I should have just been that warrior for you, instead of work- but with passion and love. It’s so much easier to decipher after the fact, isn’t it?

Nine years ago, while studying theology and ancient cultures, I learned about the dualities in nature. I became spiritual. I lost it when I had to grow up and be an adult. That man disappeared entirely. The curiosity was gone and life was full speed ahead. Relationships came and went, some good and some bad. Many hopes of a future and many three-word sentences exchanged. Plenty of confusion. There wasn’t anyone like you, kiss your ass, I know. I’ve been in healthier relationships and I know you have too. It doesn’t make any sense to me either. There’s just something different about you. 

Years later, and like the true dick that nature is, when timing couldn’t be worse, this perfect girl comes along. She has tattoos. A full sleeve, a back piece, she’s spiritual… Or something, I don’t even know. She might not either. She was mysterious, cryptic. Her smile could light a room and you could feel her love just by looking in her eyes- I mean really looking in her eyes. She was confident and stood affirm in her beliefs about the world. Adoring, and perhaps the hardest word to use, innocent. It’s a hard word to say because there’s some heavy guilt behind that exploitation of trust. That part is never going to go away. That’s the flower in my sleeve, I’ve told you that before. I fell damn hard for you. I’m convinced you will never truly understand that and I wish I could just sink into myself and let it out. That was a long time ago and that person is still inside me. I am truly sorry for the past. You must be tired of hearing it by now.

As soon as I had fallen for you, and it was quick, I peered through the peephole, opened the door, and let The Other in…

Life is crazy-beautiful, isn’t it? We spend decades trying to find ourselves. We build and shape some incredible memories. The kind you can only dream up in your head after watching a sappy love movie. Onesies and s’mores by the fire. Raw love. Remove the ambivalence from a stupid boy’s mind. Remember the feeling? Raw love, to the core. Innocence. Bliss, even. The kind that makes you post hearts around your photos. The kind that he’s not afraid to post, too. The kind that makes him cry when he’s alone every now and then, because he misses it. The kind he held onto for a long time. That makes him text you drunk at two in the morning. That despite failed attempts, still makes him believe it exists, because it did once even if it was short. The kind of love he knew he needed, but had to let go. The kind that is right, but he’s so fucked up he thinks there has to be something wrong with it. Like the perfect balance found in nature, a duality must also exist in love. We must go through hardships and we must succumb, even be enslaved by The Other. We don’t know why we bind the chains, but hey, life is crazy-beautiful. 

The Other arrives late at night, pounding on the grand door of your own happiness. The Other will always manifest itself and you cannot hide. It could be anything: love, a big decision, a career move, a fear, whatever. 

You’re frightened by the thunderous knock and peer through the peephole. It’s just a shadow, but still, curiosity haunts us all. We always want more, don’t we? More adventure, more danger, we’re never simply satisfied. Blame Eve, I guess. That bitch fucked it up. We will say, “Don’t answer the door!,” “Go away!,” “Leave me alone!.” But The Other already knows… We are going to let it in. The Other will stand outside and wait, like a predator stalking its prey in the night. The Other is patient will always accommodate your agenda. The Other is going to light your soul on fire, but just for a moment. The Other is a reaper, and your time will surely toll. 

You continue living your life, ignoring the ghost outside. The Other is there but you’re searching for answers. An insatiable need for love maybe, like a true hopeless romantic. You’re digging a well. Your well is different from mine, and mine yours. I’ll never understand yours and you will never understand mine. That’s okay.

Sometimes in searching for the thirst of life’s water, you dig the well dry. You become a desolate product of your own search and you stop digging. Each day you visit your well, peering over the edge, waiting for it to fill. It never does. When it rains, you dance, you celebrate, and you truly feel alive. Those sparks of life that promise spring and new love, they feel damn good! And just as soon as the rain fills the well, the earth strips it away. We continue to peer down the well and wait for the water to return. Oh how we forget nature’s duality. The Other, the Reaper. It’s time. 

You’re swept off the ground with one blow of his scythe. Heel over head you tumble into the well, slamming hard on the floor below. You’ll wake up some time later, make no mistake, but you won’t remember how you got there. 

After you endure the pain of the fall, you sit there at the bottom of the well, knees to your chest. You’re left with nothing but to find a quiet place in your own head. Down in the well, looking up you see a ring of light. Dim, and clouded by it’s own surrounding brilliance above. Unattainable. All sounds muffled against the damp earth. Sitting at the bottom, submerged in that last puddle, after the big breakdown, you discover something. You take that one breath, time stops. You find solace, you become grounded. You feel the air pierce your nostrils and slide deep into your soul. That first breath…

In…

out…

In…

out…

Your breath is deafening and your heart roars like a quiet storm in the distance. You feel your pulse in your veins and you realize you’re alone, but you are okay. You are alone and you are safe. The Other is gone, for now.

For the first time you appreciate the mud between your toes, the moisture in the air, in your breath. You appreciate the warmth from the light above and even the loneliness feels good now. You are doing just fine, but you can’t help but wonder about life outside of your well. 

You hear a sound from above, you look up, and your vision blurred from falling debris. A rope falls over the edge of the well and you call out, but no one answers. You’ve got a way out, but you pause. You reserve a few moments for yourself before grasping the rope to climb out. You know part of you will miss the well and the lessons learned while alone. You shout out again, “Hello!?” 

You hear a faint voice, a whisper, “Come home.” You climb out of the well and you remember life before The Other. A fresh start in a familiar place, another adventure. Life is crazy-beautiful, isn’t it?

You met me tonight, maybe because you got tired of sitting down there too, I don’t know… but we met. The rope was thrown down the well and here we are. I don’t know what happens next, I really don’t. I won’t make a move, I’m sure you won’t either. Somehow though, I know you understand what I’ve written here and I hope it resonates with you. 

The Other was outside and we were inside. We took our turns looking through the peephole on opposite work shifts, never wondering if maybe we were going through the same things separately. We knew The Other was there and we were curious. We focused on the pinhole of light outside, completely missing the light of our home inside. We both opened that door, we both fell in the well, and we’re both wondering why the fuck the rope came down and let us back up. And we’re both wondering, whose voice is calling for us… 

“Come home.”

Send Help. Distract Me. 

Send Help. Distract Me. 

Patience is, without thought, a counter instinct. Which deems it’s very existence a thousand times more difficult to achieve if you’re not constantly practicing it. Let’s be realistic, who has time to practice patience? Ghandi. That’s it. Because, realistically, that dude didn’t have a job. 

Next time I go to the Department of Motor Vehicles you know my ass isn’t about to let anybody skip me in line. Our time is valuable, our time isn’t guaranteed. By nature, you and I will always want something now, and waiting for it is not instinctual because as luck would naturally have it, waiting could be counter intuitive to gaining what we as a species want if tomorrow never comes. 

                     Me. Hungry. Now
 

Breathing, now that stuff comes naturally. When someone dunks your ass in the pool and expects you not to breathe, that shits hard. Because naturally you want to; and at some point naturally you’re going to. I’m not saying having patience is identical to drowning, but like. It’s damn near close. 

So, I looked up virtues today, cause I wanted to find out what else I wasn’t born with. Get this: 

  • Humility against pride. Check.
  • Kindness against envy. Check please. 
  • Abstinence against gluttony. Check.
  • Chastity against lust. Ch…eck?
  • Liberality against greed. Check.
  • Diligence against sloth. Checkity check. *clicks heels*
  • Patience against anger. Dammit. 

These heavenly virtues are powerful against the seven deadly sins, and I manage to check most of them off quickly and efficiently daily. Until I reach patience. And I’m wondering why I’m even googling virtues, I don’t have time for this! The irony is that it’s the contrary virtue to anger. Which I’ve been carrying the weight of a lot lately. 

It’s such a gift to have the moral integrity to be able to hold out for something you want. Foregoing instant gratification, to me, is like shooting myself in the foot. It’s gonna hurt, but I’m not gonna die. I have never prayed for anything so hard in my life. For the ability to hold out. Even sometimes for a minute. To be able to hold back. Even sometimes just for a day. And the ability to counter balance anger with something, anything; patience. 

The idea of patience in itself makes me angry, go figure. My patience wears about as thin as an Olsen twin and I have nothing to combat my feelings of anger with. So I turned my gaze inward today and tried to find out what was causing my deep deflection of this very simple virtue. Simply put, its a fear of loss. It’s the inability to endure discomfort without complaint. 

I tried to find examples of people who might be role models of practicing god-like amounts of patience in my presence, and honestly, turns out, we’re all fucked
I don’t know who made this a virtue that stood in line with other things like “kindness”. But it’s damn near impossible in this generation to be patient. It’s pretty much cake to be nice. 

In my experience, anybody who says they were “super patient” for a period of time in their life, wasn’t. They just remember it working out and therefore project some admirable quality about being patient when they didn’t even really need to be. Someone who waits for a friend while they go to the bathroom isn’t the mayor of tolerance town. There’s no discomfort without complaint in just living a life that goes smoothly.

Patience is enduring a life of irony. It’s caring about someone when they can’t open up right now. Patience is fighting cancer as it eats away at your last little bit of existence. Patience is pregnancy. Patience is love. Patience is knowing what it’s like to be abandoned but having the faith to wait all over again…

Level up. 

Level up. 

Excuses are like assholes, every one I meet lately is one. That’s not the saying, but my heart is bitter and I don’t give a fuck. For what it’s worth, at least I get to start over. Not the kind of starting over that happens when some shitwad steps on your sand castle, but like…the kind where you know that everything happens for a reason and the person who couldn’t figure out their life is probably gonna be alone forever. While you’re lucky enough to be capable of finding the 2.0 version of what you thought was the one, but also unlucky enough to have to be doing this for the 57th time.

Ive been frantically trying to retrace my steps today, back to the purest form of my heart. Because lately I’ve been feeling like this might be the type of situation that breaks me. ME. BREAKS, Me. The woman who’s been writing for a year about not giving up on something I truly want. Today I actually found myself thinking…what if it’s just not for me? What if my purpose is to just write about the impossible feat of having someone love me in return? For the first time in my life I had feelings that felt so right that there was absolutely no way this couldn’t go in my favor. At least that’s how it played out in my head. I’ve been dealing with boring, narcissistic, incapable of holding a conversation idiots and then the universe was like here you go, this is what you need. Just kidding, go fuck yourself. 

My happy endings these days are just a series of being able to move on in a timely manner so that I can do it all again. Cutting my recovery time in thirds and being able to close up heartbreak hotel quick enough to look like it doesn’t almost kill me, every god damn time. The truth is life isn’t over until someone changes my Facebook page to that creepy obituary one that people who never spent a moment of their lives caring about me post about how funny I used to be. [I can’t untag myself when I’m dead, so be kind people.] With that said, I keep truckin. 

Truckin on into work where I can make money to be able to travel and forget about him. Truckin on into the gym so that I can keep a physique that compares to my personality. Truckin on over to tinder, cause I get lonely at night and something is better than nothing. Even if something is a 35 year old aspiring rap artist who talks in emojis and owns stock in low cost hair gel. Ugh.

It’s just getting old, you know, like me. Having to start over when you have exactly what you were looking for and that person just wasn’t on the page you needed them to be on. Maybe there’s someone out there right now wondering what it would be like to know someone like me. Or maybe while everyone else has a king to their queen, I’m just a forever pawn on this chess board of life. 

This morning I woke up and I felt like I didn’t want to feel like this anymore, so I’m trying to do just that. End the confusion, block out the pain. But I can’t help but wonder what the point of all of this was. The only logical explanation is that since nothing could be worse, it’s a stepping stone to something better.

It only takes one person to alter your thinking; color your perspectives, to force you to reevaluate what you think you know. And it only takes one moment for you to ask the toughest question: Do you know who you are, and are you capable of starting over?  

If nothing else comes of this, I have gained a new found appreciation for turning my gaze inward and an ever exhausting but truly capable mind set of continued and passionate stamina. If I fall twenty more times, I’ll get up twenty one and someday someone’s not going to be able to walk away from this kind of hopeless romance. 

Cheers to the people who try their hardest to be good enough for everyone, we are the ones who walk alone. We are the ones who will find eachother one day.