Don't write, don't call I'll see you in the fall.

I've come to the conclusion that I am currently in a deep depression.

My life, holds nothing joyous, although I appear to try and find the good things.

Work, is sucking my life from me.

School is a big disappointment - not because of it particularly, but because of how I've handled the last two semesters. I'm disappointed in myself.

My life is bland. And really, I have no other creative way to say that.

My family keeps being battered with tragic and hard losses of wonderful family members. First my Uncle Jim who joined my grandmother in a loss against pancreatic cancer, and then my Aunt Carol who left this world in what I'm told was a spiritual way, the day after the 3rd Year anniversary of my own grandmothers passing.

I'm saddened by my distance and my inability to physically be there for family, but also for my inability to reach out. Instead of sharing my condolences to my family, I recoil back selfishly.

This song has been playing in my mind for the last few days since I heard of Aunt Carol's passing, so I'll leave you, my readers with this.

The Fall

Burned out Kitchens and burned out hearts..

I have several music related tattoos and none of the talent to show for it. My sister made fun of me once because the first tattoo I got was of a musical note. She explain that the idea of me having a music note tattooed on my back was like her getting a pen tattooed on her. Her point being that I had the writing instincts and she had more of the musical ability than I.

She’s right, I can’t sing, can’t play an instrument and my only real musical inclination is that I know how to push play. I also know how to sing loudly and off key in my car.

I’ve attempted writing songs, but never knew how to match a melody with my lyrics. I’ve attempted to write songs and have someone else match melody with my lyrics but never really had any luck with anyone wanting to put music behind my emotions. So, I stick to those who can sing/play an instrument/write a song to create the soundtracks to my life.

So because I can’t sing – I can’t have an obsession with music? It should be noted that in order to write, I have to have music playing. I’ve tried writing without, but am never able to get far. I have to have something going to get the mood right. All of my blogs are titled with a song. And also, most of my photographs are titled with a song as well. Hmm…


So tonight’s writing is response to my insane jealousy as I stumbled across some acoustic covers of popular songs. People with talent make me jealous. I wish I had any talent.

But then I realized I had to look at things from a different perspective. Because I have talents – I just tend to shed less light on them because I suffer from “Nothing is ever good enough.”

So I looked at a different perspective, if I couldn’t sing, if I couldn’t play an instrument (or rather lacked to obedience to practice and have patience) then perhaps I could photograph the people who could.

I wrote awhile that I fell out love with photography, or rather with my photography. I put the camera away and haven’t the drive to do much towards it. Just snap-shots here and there and the occasional request from The Star Wars kids mother for family portraits or a blog portrait for herself.

Then over Christmas my current employer asked me to bring my camera to a work-holiday party and take some photos. Pretty soon one of the photos I took was being used for a publication. At first I was angry for not getting credit, but then I looked at it as a stepping-stone. I know I have an eye for photography, and I know that I have taken some pretty awesome photos, but my photo taking skills are rusted.

This was sort of an awakening response for me. I want so badly to pick up my camera and get back into the photographing business, however my problem is I lack a certain assertiveness – those who have known me for a while might wonder when that happened because I never really lacked the ability to assert myself, but some how over the years I have fallen into the shadows of my own self.

I’ve allowed myself to be come intimidated by those around me and I continued to allow what others say sway my opinion of myself. I allow this EVERYDAY.

Admittedly, I’ve let several relationships I’ve had with people sway my opinion of myself. What they thought in angry moments I took to heart and what they thought in general, I became a sponge and adapted some of their perspectives. It’s this part of me that has caused me to withdrawal from the world. To gain an even negative view on myself.

I had a friend who brought such negativity in my life that even now I sit here and think wow, how did I let that in? I let it in because I craved attention and I got some of through him. That seems to be my very basic problem with my psyche. I’m weak in that I need the approval of others to thrive. I need constant reassurance, constant compliments to truly feel happy. I had several friends around me when I lived in Arizona who did this for me. But now, as I find my supply of friends dwindling and the reassurance lacking, my ability to thrust myself into the spot light is becoming hidden by my need to hide myself and limit my capabilities.

“The fault finder will find faults even in paradise. ” ~ Henry David Thoreau

It’s interesting that when I see people, I can’t help but tell them of all the changes I’ve had but the reality is, I still feel like a heart without a home, a musician without a talent, and a writer with no words.

A band that particularly speaks to me is Tucson native’s Ryanhood, these guys are full of so much energy and talent. I want so badly for them to be more than they are, to have more. To be recognized for what they can do and have done for people like me.

I remember one particular night, they played my birthday in the city –it was an exciting time for me because I remember constantly pleading for them to play a show on my birthday and as luck would have it they unknowingly did. And then I remember the week prior not wanting to go because I was, as I call it, in my dark place. I recall not wanting to go because it was something good, and I didn't feel like I deserved the happiness. But then, I remember being in the back snapping pictures and feeling the power behind the words. I remember having to stifle back tears because it was if they had reached inside of me and found my hearts pain. Specifically, I remember having to hold back tears that were willing themselves forwards when they played Second City. It punched me hard in the emotional state I was in. And this is what I talk about when I say I rely so much on music to write my soundtrack, to feel what I am unable to write or say.

I think what I need to do is let my metaphoric city burn down so that I can rebuild the inner me and finally finish something I’ve started, finally be a little more happy, a little less negative, a little less intimidated and a bit more determined.

“And though downtown is falling down on the ground, and all your hope has blown as ashes around. Brick by brick, beat by beat your heart will survive until the second city lights begin to rise.” – Second City (Ryanhood)

Side note: What is it about gospel music that has an ability to bring chills and goose bumps to my skin?

I need a doctor, doctor, to bring me back to life

My Grandmothers brother passed away from the same disease that killed her. When I got the news I was actually surprised at how hard it affected me. I was at work, and I burst into tears. I wasn’t even able to stop them as my boss looked on with this look that said, “oh shit, what do I do,” which is strange given the fact that I am indeed a crier.

Oh yes, I cry for a lot of things and quite often against my own will. I’m of the emotional variety that when faced with even the slightest pressure the tears will fall. When I feel I am in a confrontational situation, I cry. My emotions are overly sensitive and it truly is the one thing I hate the most about myself, because it shows my inability to hide my emotions.

Jim was one of the Uncles that was introduced later in my life where as my other uncles I often knew better because I saw them a few times a year, but Uncle Jim and Aunt Carol didn’t show up in my life until I was around 19-years-old when they purchased a home in Arizona and retired there. So when I burst into tears it took me back. But really, I was mourning the death of him, but also re-mourning the death of my grandmother.

I came back from Arizona somewhat different – I can’t truly say what exactly it was that made me different, but my views are slightly changed and I feel a little less hopeful. It’s sad to even say that, but I noticed it instantly at work, and then filtered into my daily life. Even more so than ever, I am beginning to loose the compassion I once had. I feel colder, harder and less forgiving of faults.

Is a house really a home when your loved ones are gone

A distant cousin who jokes that some of us are distant enough to be “kissin’ cousins” asked about the state of my writing since being in Arizona. I said I didn’t have anything, my head had just been in a fog. I lied.

This is the same cousin who writes so beautiful and expresses herself in any manner needed; may it be elegant, raunchy or raw. The same cousin that gave me inspiration to pick up the hypothetical pen again and flush the insides out. However, I’m not quite ready to be so raw, so un-cut. I’m not ready to dive so deep but rather, I skim the top of my ocean like I watched my grandfather do every evening he joined us for a swim at his house. And like my childhood self, I don’t have the nerve to swim to the deep end alone, but lack the ability to reach my hand out for help.

Saturday after I finally arrived I wrote “strange how this house continues to have that "Grandma's house" smell, but feels so empty and alone...” on my facebook status before drifting off to sleep. Of course the house lacked the smell of something delicious (Or garlicky/fishy) permeating the air and perhaps it did have a bit of staleness to it, I could still the presence of her, I could still feel it was her home.

The same home I trudged down the hill every afternoon from school after the bus ride home. The house that in my later teen years I hid in the closet when I decided I didn’t want to go to school and I could hear her walking back towards the washer. The same home I broke into time and time again because sleeping in my car seemed too scary and although unwelcome, a warm bed was a better option. The same home that I came to to find all the windows and doors locked and guarded. The same home that after many years I still feel guilt even walking in the front doors.

So as I drift to sleep, I instantly feel the guilt settle on me like a blanket. I feel guilt for leaving so quickly after she passed. For needing to get away from the memories that I so desperately want to wrap around myself on days where I find myself in my “dark and twisty” spot.

No, I’m not like Beth who so effortlessly lays it out so that you have no choice but to feel the emotion. And I can’t bring myself to completely let go of my dark and twisty spot for fear that once I do, I might have nothing left.

And even though at times I complain that I am a shell of a person but then change my mind begging to not feel at all, I can’t bare my soul for fear of the power that others might be able to see. I can’t write what I should write, because it seems like too much to feel. So instead, I pull the cold metal cord and turn the lights out and try and find myself at rest and at home.

"I’m coming home, I’m coming home, tell the World I’m coming home, let the rain wash away all the pain of yesterday.I know my kingdom awaits and they’ve forgiven my mistakes. I’m coming home, I’m coming home tell the World that I’m coming."