Coming down is the hardest thing…

I initially named this blog how I learned to fly. Tat title would imply that I am indeed flying.  But that’s not quite right.  I’m still learning and as different trials and stressors come my way, I see that.  

Rawness. I’m about to be raw and honest. I’m sure that no one reads this unless its a fluke, but still.  

I think my parents are getting divorced soon.  I can just feel it.  Something is not quite right and the tension between them is… thick.

Just writing that kills me but I can not deny it. my dad is sleeping in the guest bedroom right now. I don’t know why, but he is.  I’m not sure if my parents have really talked today.  I don’t know what to do. I know that I can’t do anything but I am already blaming myself.

Lord help us.

beautiful

I want to be that woman that people are intrigued by,

that they see and know that they want to know her, 

be her friend,

they know just by a smile or wink.  

I want to be that woman that girls want to be like,

I want to be kind and compassionate,

and I don’t want to try. 

I want to be that modest woman who has such an attractive spirit 

you just can’t help but go to her.  

I want to be a woman who can roll out of bed with confidence, 

and dress however she wants,

and not brush her hair, and other girls, 

girls like me, 

will want to dress and wear their hair the same way. 

Not because it looks good, 

its not a beautiful style, 

but it is the adornment of a beautiful soul. 

I want a beautiful soul.

I want a soul that radiates light,

beautiful souls just smell beautiful. 

They dance around in bedrooms

and read books

and are very wise.

Souls like that can go up to her friend and tell the truth

they can feel sad and be ok.

Those kinds of souls are hurt and have been broken and have scars, 

but those scars have just turned into beauty marks.

Souls like that are what make a beautiful woman.

Would you?

It was right after I went to the doctor. I had taken the initiative, I had gotten help.  

Of course he would pry. He would until I was gone. And he asked

Would you.

Would you?

Hurt yourself.

I don’t know.

How is one to answer that? I would, I could, I had. I don’t know

Then he got angry, his prying made him angry.

What kind of answer is that?

If someone asked me that question I would say HELL no. 

If you find me dead, go and report a murder.

 

My insides are screaming, i am dead, go report a murder. 

I am dead.

I am dead already

I AM DEAD.

 

 

But he couldn’t see.  His question was pointless. He was too late.

I was dead already.

September 2006

I hadn’t seen her in months

and one day she called and we got dinner.  

We went to her house and walked in the dark, the cold dark.

I made it a point to tell her. I needed so badly to tell someone. That I was dead already, that I was a body without life, that I was a body that wanted to not be a body anymore.  

She told me she saw this coming and she had always been worried, then why the fuck hadn’t she called or checked on me or acted like she cared 

What the hell

What the hell 

What the hell

I was screaming in my head but my dead body stayed calm.  I am going to the doctor. I am asking for help.

 

Ok. She would call me.

I drove back home, glued my smile back on.  

 

 

Hi dad,

oh we just went to dinner and to get ice cream.

It was good to

get to see her again.

March 2006

It was four months after he died, he killed himself.  It was the first time I got away from it all, away from town, away from church, away from my parents and my friends. I needed it. But I was broken. I had been dropped and at home I was forced to hold myself together. I was the glue for my friends, my family. I never intended to, but I hid it all. 

Haunted by death and suicide and desertion.  

I sat on the steps at the camp in the mountains and cried. I went to bed at night crying and woke up with swollen eyes. I cried at every meeting and while I worked. 

I was gone for only two days but the emotional exhaustion I suffered was enough to put me in bed for hours on end. I slept and cried and missed camp, and i hated camp.

Home was my bed and thats it. My parents had moved us into a new house while I was gone, a house that wasn’t mine. I just layed in my bed. 

That was the point I knew that I needed help. Something was not right. Something inside me was falling at a rate that no one could catch it and when it dropped I would be shattered. 

 

I was broken

 

I needed to be lifted up

I needed wings

to fly.

I’m betting on a life story.

This is my second blog and I want for it to be a sort of life story one.  This is going to be hard for me, but I am ready. I was inspired by the book A Million Little Pieces and I want to write about who I am, and who I was.  My hope is that even if you don’t know me, you can see who I am.

rule

The couch is comfortable but I am not.  

I sit, staring at her, she is crying. What did I do? What am I supposed to do?

She says to me that they just wanted to help, that she is sorry that she hasn’t been the best mom, that she doesn’t want me to leave yet. She gets mad.

Haven’t we been through this before, don’t I already know this? Dad said I’ve been gone too much. He gave me the list of rules for when I go. What was he thinking? Rules.  

She said they are just a guide, meant to keep me on track.  When have I been off track that they knew about? I’ll admit that the past two weeks have been different, I started to show the part of me that came undone. Hell, I took my uncle’s car from the driveway and got caught. That is more hilarious than it is revealing. 

I know that it is just my dad clinging. He is clinging on to me with all of his might. He is trying to make up for the time lost by showing that he is still in charge and still in control. 

The thing is that as I sit and stare at her, he is not there. He is at work. He is in another town. He is at church. He is in the next room talking to his brother. He is talking to Roger. He is riding his motorcycle. He is cleaning the house. He is telling me to go and clean my room. Go away. Hurry up and come back. 

I cry. It is what I do now and I hate it. I feel guilty because she hasn’t been a bad mom. I feel guilty for making her cry.  But this is natural right? This is what everyone goes through. 

I am leaving. I am a child. I am old. I am ready. I am anxious. I am lost.  I’m stuck.