This could be someone you know

Has anyone ever told you
what it feels like 
to be two parts of one whole? 
To not be sure 
of which half you’ll wake up as
in the morning? 
to feel your heart
constantly wedged in your throat
for fear of saying
what’s on the mind 
of the sad half of you? 

There are some days
I never touch down to reality
some days I feel the clouds
of my ancestors
begging me to be brave
and stand strong
but it’s so hard 
when you’re weak 
from wanting 
to wear the paths 
of your prayers
like circles 
around your fingers
because then there’d be proof
that you’d been searching
for the map all along 
and people might stop thinking 
that maybe 
your just listening 
to the beating 
of your own 
misunderstandings. 

I’ve spent so much time 
becoming acquainted 
with the hole in my pillow 
my head leaves 
when I just want to be left alone.
I’m so afraid 
that if I share the riverbeds
beneath my eyes ,
reveal all the joy 
the darkness
has stolen from me 
that someone 
will start seeing false cracks
in my smile
the way the moon 
saw my tongue 
and tried to fill it with it 
with visions of the fields
so I could run
away with my depression
and build a home for us 
beneath the weeping willows. 

I find it’s better 
if I stay home 
beneath the covers
because then 
I don’t have to explain 
to broken faces
why I can’t find the beauty 
anymore. 

I can’t wake up 
another morning 
with lead in my bones. 

I guess this is my cry for help

 
 

This is not a pretty story

This is not a pretty story

 

This does not have a happy ending.

 

I know there are valleys

and there are mountains

this is the rhythm of life.

I know not every moment

will strike my heart

in wondrous awe

because in order to celebrate

there must be nighttime,

but what happens

when you are traveling

between both at the same time

when there is beauty above

and darkness below

 

..I cannot find myself

I do not know where I have gone

 

I cannot find myself

 

When I grow old

and I tell my children

tales of my youth

what shall I tell them

about my twenty fourth year?

Shall I tell them

that I spend three-fourths of it

working until my bones were dry

and the rest

lying in bed

wondering

if I will ever

be worth something.

 

Will I ever be worth something

or will I constantly fight

the inner clockworkings

of this battered heart?

 

I cannot find myself.

I do not know what shadow

all my happiness has fled behind

even when goodness

overwhelms my heart

like gold

I cannot find myself.

I do not know

where I have gone.

 

WeLove Movement

I have recently felt a desperate longing to come up with a page to help reach women and make them feel powerful, loved, beautiful again. To help combat the garbage that we encounter every day, and the lies that we are told like “you aren’t a good enough wife if you don’t do x” and “you’ll never be good enough.” They just keep building up. I’m sick of seeing broken women lining the streets. To see downtrodden, abused members of society because no one took the time to tell them they are worth someone. So, I assembled a group of powerful women to impact this world. 

 

Let’s make this a MOVEMENT. Not a dream. Stand with me today. Share this page with those who need it. And let’s get to changing the world. I’m ready. Are you? 

 

https://www.facebook.com/WeloveMovement?skip_nax_wizard=true

Finding peace in a world full of hate.

It always brings the demons back.  Sometimes I can hear the memories in the floorboard, slipping along the sunsets like a burnt out cigarette end. I can feel the pulse of the restless creaking, for it does not lull me to sleep any longer. It only signals the rising unrest felt between the sheets at night. Been this way for a while now—life has been all too frequently resembling something like poison-laced heroin. Oh god, it feels so good going in, rushing around the stem of my brain like the most beautiful sludge of ungodliness, until time settles in.  Until I remember that I don’t know what I’m aiming for, all I know is the vision of the future and I don’t know how to get there. And my toes curl at the joy I feel until I remember the choke of depression, tight on my vocal cords, shutting out the desire to speak. At all. To anyone. It has always been this way.  It’s like a rhythmic pulse of the underlying current in my life. For a while I can hold my head above the wreckage, until my bones become dry from not being plunged beneath the water. Sometimes I play around with my sanity, listen to it clanking boldly against the inner workings of my brain and realize deep down that, thankfully, at least I am not much like this world. I don’t need to breathe in the pollution to know what fresh air looks like, but maybe I’ve just been trying this whole time, too hard, to not feel senseless. So I fill myself up with all these memories of happiness, try to hallucinate on images of star filled skies and childhood laughter to make up for the deep sea of bad flashbacks I sometimes find myself consumed with.  I remember when my mom used to tell me that some suitcases were too heavy for me to carry as a child. Would shut me out when all I wanted was the truth, and she used to explain to me that sometimes children aren’t meant to know everything, we just have to wait until we are older to understand those burdens we carry around with us like boulders. Then a wildfire consumes my soul and I am reminded that she gave me the greatest burden of all to carry, and I wonder if she even saw the luggage she kept piling on my heart in the darkness. The irony life sometimes tosses our direction. It’s like an iron being pressed on your heart to smooth out all the wrinkles, but finding wretchedness in every corner, and you are left to wonder why it takes so much starch to make things right in your life. The realization that sometimes it takes a lot of heat and pain and suffering to make something beautiful again. To find the masterpiece that is found beyond the imperfections. Such a wilderness we find sometimes in the crevices of our brain when we delve into why we feel such wreckage at a sound. Curious things we find behind closed doors, or traps we thought we closed a long time ago. And then I remember that last week, God told me that he never meant for me to carry those burdens, but they were given to me, and He was sorry. And I wept, deep into my lungs I felt the heavings, the mending I have attempted a million times with friendships, late nights kissing necks in the dark, and desperate failed realizations that the bottom of a barrel of vodka isn’t a healing agent. The tears on my cheeks felt like rain in a desert, a well that needed escaping from the confines of life to burst forth and be free. I laid that baggage down at the cross, my last desperate attempt to be removed from captivity as a slave to the mind.

 

I can’t say that healing has been found completely. Or that I don’t look down at the insides of my heart and don’t see a little super glue still oozing from the stuck-together shards of my recently formed being. I still wake up a lot of mornings and try to pick up that familiar luggage again, hoping to breathe in the scent of pain again so I have an excuse to hold close when life is too hard for me to handle. So I can lean back on these past wars deep in my veins to explain to others why I sometimes struggle, as if struggling isn’t somehow innately human. I guess that somewhere along the search for healing I began the quest for everlasting perfection. I’m not the only one who has done so. The more people I meet along the way who have a checklist of pain sprawled in their sock drawer, the more I come face to face with the understanding that perfection is often looked at as a substitute that might suddenly be the beginning of an immaculate, beautiful existence. Suddenly. Why do we try to find such wholeness in attempting to complete ourselves with a mixture of insanity and impossible, unattainable goals? It’s just one more thing my mind haunts me with at night when I squeeze my eyes tight and try to rid my spinal cord of the weight of a million pressures I waged against this afternoon. Another scream flinging itself at my ear drums violently, hoping to make me aware of the hundreds of ways I fell short again. Today.. Somehow, our humanly feeble attempts at finding flawlessness in a world oriented in hate, only makes us more desperately cognitive of how far we fall short. I have to believe somewhere inside of me that God knew we would try to find healing in the way we run our lives. That we would try to find grace in the way we handled ourselves in public and that deep down we would hope it would fix those charred remains of our forests just before the fire. And He knew he had to make us imperfect, or we wouldn’t need help living our lives to the fullest of it’s capabilities. We would think that because we could win the war, we didn’t need people or relationships or to feel connected to anything else in the world that wasn’t neat and orderly and perfect puzzle pieces of sanity to tie in with the beautiful white floor in the kitchen. Maybe when we all stop trying to attain these unnatural expectations of beauty and health and imagination and just start being something other than insignificant, is when we actually begin to be memorable. And maybe at that exact moment when we allow ourselves to be set free from all of the unnatural expectations placed upon us from the moment we shot out of our mother’s womb, we are able to find ourselves amidst the rubble, we are able to expand our minds to accept the necessary connectedness each one of us is made for. There is music in your voice and the only way it can be heard is by unlocking the shackles around your feet and dancing amidst the tribes. Joining in the call of nature to love and to end the hate we see all around us like a virus.  And there is beauty in admitting our inadequacies, slamming our fists along the pavement, and finding life in the revolt. I dare you, to live walking against the current, even if that means coming close to being run over by traffic. Because at least, honey, you dared to live a little. 

My special gift

I feel sometimes like I have this special ability to see people’s pasts on them like unwanted clothes. I just like to observe, to watch them walk around trying to pretend they aren’t wearing it, that nothing bothers them. Sometimes I see people’s eyes like clocks, waiting to explode on cue because nothing in their life is right. Nothing has ever been right. 

I see them hang their head. A pile of unwanted memories and words and feelings so heavy they have no choice. 

I see their heartbeat, a little pulse in the shake of their fingers, because at least  that way they know they are alive. 

I see the pretty little lines of scars they’ve left on their arms, their wrists, hoping to warn others of their instability, the insatiable pain that keeps them up at night. 

I feel their aura, see the ghosts behind their eyes hoping that someone in the world would take notice. 

The other week I served a table of three little kids (two boys and a girl) and their assumed parents. I say assumed because I assumed they were their parents but I wasn’t sure. When I went to the table to take their order, the adults were arguing, and the children were practically begging for their attention and they were just ignored. Some deep part of me felt like it wasn’t the first time this had happened to them. Every time I walked over to the table the little girl said outrageous things to try to get my attention. The little boys did too. 

Something in me broke. I went to the kitchen and cried. Felt like they were sat in my section for a reason. I wished I could tell the girl how pretty she is, and not to let someone take her down in the future for who she is. I wanted to tell the boys that they could be powerful men. I did my best to make the children feel special. But it’s people like that I see. I feel them. Somehow I feel like God gave me the ability to sense things. To feel people’s pain. To understand that someone should be there for them, and no one is. I consider it a blessing. 

But to be honest, I wish I could wash the world of the hurt, of the numbing pain, of this loud world where people bump into each other daily but no one knows those around them because no one cares to. 

My heart breaks. Daily. 

The answer to proper healing is to make ourselves better, not bitter.

Bitterness is like gangrene, with a paperweight on the end. First it starts to eat up your insides, starting with your heart and then working its way outward until every part of your body is consumed with its raging fire. After you have been efficiently torn apart internally by this beast, it begins to work on the outside, transforming your smile into an ugly snarl, making the cheerful lines you once had around your mouth develop into nothing beautiful. Maybe you start to wonder why people do not call as often to hang around you, or attempt to make you laugh as often. You might slowly begin to resemble Gollum in both actions and appearance (I’m kind of kidding here).

Bitterness is a disease. One that ravishes and rapes the heart and mind until there is nothing left of you but a shell of a person. It knows what its doing. It knows it is destroying you. And once you let it in, it can be as difficult to remove as the blood stains from a murder scene. 

The enemy knows what he is doing. He knows that our mind is like a jail cell, and once something enters that cell, finding the key to let it out and destroy it at sentencing is a challenge within itself. 

Bitterness kind of reminds me of worry. It’s like a rocking chair, except you get nowhere in it, and all you have done is waste a lot of time trying to mentally take care of something our Father has already declared he will take care of. Why do we keep attempting to find the life raft when Dad already has hold of one? Maybe because with faith, we cannot see the results immediately, and so we attempt to quicken the process, to find a way to ensure the deed gets done, even if that means doing it ourselves. After all, we cannot be lazy if we expect Him to do things for us. This thinking is totally incorrect. But, before I get off track, let me say I’ll attempt to write a separate post about worry so that I don’t consume this one with my ramblings on another topic. 

In my life, I have struggled a lot with bitterness off and on. Given a lot of the things I have been through, some might even say I’m allowed to feel unjust anger towards the people who have hurt me, because what they did was awful. I used to agree with them, think that harboring my own little corner in my mind for this hurt and brokenness I felt was all right because it was MY own corner and really, what bad could come of someone discovering I had been dwelling on what I felt was a multitude of transgressions that had transpired against me? I discovered, a lot. 

See, once we allow ourselves that little space to dwell on the hurt someone exacted upon us, like a weed on fertilizer, it begins to grow until it is difficult to handle. It might have only began as bitterness towards the major transgressions in life but then suddenly you realize that you are now becoming angry at everything. A little side remark someone said that really should not have mattered has you seething in your bed three days later because your warped mind begins to think they purposely attempted to destroy you with those five little words. You think you have it under control and then BAM! you don’t know who you are anymore. After all, we are definitely what we think. And bitterness takes up a lot of our mental time and capacity. 

I will not lie, sometimes bitterness is a daily battle for me. I wake up one morning angry at my past circumstances, and then my Father reminds me to hand them over to Him, allow Him to carry my burdens for me so He can do a creative work on my soul. And let me tell you, when He is done completing his work, I find I am even more beautiful before than I was when I started. It’s all connected. You can’t keep part of yourself to yourself and hope to be a whole being. I’ll say it again–stop holding back. You don’t know better than your Maker. Let Him fight your battles for you, find the rope, and bring you home. 

When I began the journey to remove the bitterness, I wasn’t sure where to start. I confessed to a few people I knew, and even some strangers knowing someone had to have answers. And I was handed a book. One of the lines in the book said “be better, not bitter.” I related so well to that. I needed to stop being bitter and angry at past circumstances, but instead become a better person because of them. I needed to give them up. Let me tell you, when I allowed the Lord to work in my life in this area, I found refreshment brand new, because I realized, some of the things that happened to me because it was what the other person thought was best in that moment. We all perceive things differently, and while someone might not know they hurt me, I was devastated. But beginning to let God in my dark, secret places, allowed Him to move in me a peace that overwhelmed the hurt, the broken pieces, and the pain. We think that by holding on to all of that we will fix the problem, it will help with the coping. And I’m not saying for those going through a traumatic event, being angry is wrong, but after years or months of constantly dwelling on what happened, it might be time to allow yourself to heal. I’m not saying forget about it, I haven’t forgotten about what happened to me. Instead, I have allowed my pain to transform. I realized that some of the things that happened were not intended to destroy me, but I perceived them that way. And that’s not wrong or bad, but I needed to alter my thinking at the altar to realize that. If something horrible has happened to, please, see what happens when you give up and give God. 

I could go on, but I think that what I have said here is enough for today. I hope this post impacts someone in some way. If it has moved you, please leave a comment. If you have questions or would like me to expand on something, let me know, I am happy to help.