Don't just stand there, say nice things to me

Sometimes I feel like perhaps the world is fucking with me. Like seriously fucking with me. But then I remember that the world does not in fact revolve around me despite my thoughts on the contrary.

Here's a picture of a tree I took while at a rest stop somewhere in Michigan.

Also, This is the song that's captivated my heart for the moment.

Intro to Human Psychology

The thing about life is, I’m not choosing to live for the sake of me, because let’s face it, that ship has sailed.

Nothing I ever do is really about me or not often do I do things because I want to. I have this tendency to live for other people. Live to make other people feel better. Although sometimes I cause pain to people when I do suddenly take interest in myself and my own feelings. I get trampled on far more times than I’d like to count, but I never seem to learn. I just continue on the path and move forward and forgive, but never forget. And it’s in that “never forget” that I make tick marks on the wall inside of me.

How many times will I let a person cross me before I snap? I’m not sure I even have that answer now. I find that people may think I judge them because I am someone who judges things, the thing about that is, I tend to forgive my judgments completely. When I find myself at a cross point where someone is doing something I might not agree with, I think it comes off as me trying to tell them to change themselves or as me passing judgment on what they are doing. I think I make it seem like if they don’t modify their behavior, I have no use for them. I come off mean. But the reality of the situation is that I’m actually just saying “hey, this is not something I expected, it’s not something I want to be part of and I want to back out.”

What I guess I don’t know how to do is be supportive and be around when things make me uncomfortable or don’t exactly mesh with my ideals. I think I come off more as “unfriendly” or “A party pooper.” I also have a problem with lying about how I feel about a situation. I tend to be the friend who tells it like it is, or as I see it, because there are always multiple realities. People want to ask for opinions, but don’t always want to hear it. And sometimes I give an opinion when I shouldn’t. Sometimes I should just be quiet.

I think the problem is, I want others to have it better. I feel I’m a tortured soul and my ship has already sailed that I want to make sure people have it better than me. You can’t always protect people and sometimes in protecting them, you hurt them.I hurt people a lot I think in my attempts to protect. I can’t change what I’ve done all I can change is what I will try to do in the future.

I know that it’s not as simple as “letting it go.” Because emotions like mine are not something you can just switch off and on. Because the very words “let it go” to me, demand an instant reaction. As in, don't be mad. Just be happy. Whereas, it’s not always that simple I suppose.

It creates a black and white ideal and this stigma that there’s something completely wrong with me because I can’t just “let it go.” It’s not ever about being mad, mad I always can just switch of, it’s hurt that takes a bit more processing for me.

Something missing

Honestly? I’m so exhausted. I was about to pull up a word document to type something out to Daniel, because I’m feeling things right now. But then I remembered the promise to myself to do 30 days of writing. I wanted to tell him how badly I miss him. How much I just want to talk to him about daily things again. And I’ve attempted via text, but I can tell he’s not ready to forgive me for real. He’s appeased me for the time saying he does, but I know he’s not ready for the friendship.

I just desperately want one of my best friends back. It’s true, you don’t know what you have until it’s gone. I feel like to him, my absence is a blessing rather than misery. I think that hurts me to think that my absence is not missed. I strive so desperately to have someone to love me, no matter who it is. I want to be someone who is missed. It’s the certain amount of acceptance that I crave. I hate that it’s an emotional scare I have. But who doesn’t want to be wanted or missed? The problem is the amount of importance I place on it.

Years back when I was 19 and overly troubled I used to listen to this Evanescence song, “Missing.” I remember I used to lie lifelessly on the floor with headphones in listening to this song and feeling this gaping hole in my chest. When thoughts of suicide would run rampant through my mind, this song played.

“Please, please, forgive me, but I won't be home again. Maybe someday you'll look up and barely conscious, you'll say to no one "Isn't something missing?? You won't cry for my absence, I know, you forgot me long ago. Am I that unimportant? Am I so insignificant? Isn't something missing? Isn't someone missing me?”

It’s chilling to know I was at that point in my life. It’s chilling to know that at one point I’d made an honest attempt at escaping my own misery. I’m glad I wasn’t successful today and it renewed a sense of purpose I felt for life, but it was dark times for me. It’s not just with a romantic interest but in everyday life as well. I am a terribly broken person who has terribly high standards.

“Even though I'm the sacrifice you won't try for me, not now. Though I'd die to know you love me, I'm all alone. Isn't someone missing me? And if I bleed, I'll bleed knowing you don't care. And if I sleep just to dream of you, I'll wake without you there. Isn't something missing?”

Its dark times for me now, but I feel like I have enough light that I can't blow the flame out. And for that, I am grateful.

The Kids are Alright

I haven't written in a bit and I suppose this is a complete cop out for writing, but here it is anyway. I had to write a story for my creative writing class so I decided that this was going to my by entry. It's a bit long. Some of it is made up, some of it is stolen from real life events. Names, events, places and all that jazz are not necessarily the same. Any relation to real events is probably coincidental. Maybe. I also stole the title from a movie that was released recently. It needed to be done, not everything I do can be that creative.


One time when I was seven-years-old I explained to the doctor how to inject heroin into your arm while he was taking blood from my arm. I learned that from my mother. It was just a routine checkup while spending the summer with my grandmother.

Shortly after that, my brother explained to an audience of great aunts and uncles how to roll a joint, detailing the exact precision it takes to truly make a good one. How you have to roll it tight. He learned that from my dad.

I imagine most parents’ worry about whether their children will repeat the occasional “shit” or “damn it” that escaped their mouths in a bout of frustration. But that’s thing about children; you really have to watch what you do around them don’t you? And even more so if you’re the kind of child I was, who thought everyone was a friend.

For show-and-tell when I was eight, I told people about the Kleenex boxes and cake. It seemed normal for me, but I was pulled into the counseling office and my mother was called.

I didn’t understand the problem with the fact that when Daddy wasn’t medicated it made him do strange things. Strange things like wearing Kleenex boxes on his feet for shoes and bringing me a birthday cake six months shy of my real birthday. Or the fact that one time to prevent my mother from driving he removed one of his own molars and shoved it into the ignition of our Datsun, but it was okay, because “They told him she shouldn’t leave.” And who were the “voices” anyway?

Schizophrenia and weed will do that to you though, people never realize that’s the number one reason schizophrenics fall off their rockers. Weed. They never care either, because they think the only hazard they’ll be is to a cake.

I know it’s actually quite awful when you look at it, horrifying even. But it was my childhood and every now and then it makes for some good stories. I suppose beauty of my childhood was that I was blissfully unaware. I didn’t fully grasp the horror of each of these stories until was much older. It was like how I watched Dirty Dancing every day for a year when I was 5-years-old. It wasn’t until I was thirteen that it actually clicked what the movie was about. It was literally an “Ohhhhhhh” sort of moment for me.

And then there was the day that Scottie died.

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It was a normal Friday for us, my siblings and I. We were at home and my mom was rushing about organizing things for when her friends would arrive. I was excited because I loved when her friends came over. It meant I could steal sips of beer, eat all the candy I wanted and stay up late. When her friends came over, mom didn’t care what we did as long as we stayed out of her hair. But mostly, I was excited because Scottie was coming over.

Scottie was my favorite of her friends. He was tall with sandy blonde hair and a mustache that ticked my nose when we he would pick me up and kiss my forehead. He was cute and he paid special attention to me. I even changed the name of my Ken doll to Scottie.

While most of moms friends would say hello then ignore me for their poison of choice, he let me sit in his lap while he drank and passed a joint around laughing and telling jokes. I loved sitting with Scottie. It made me feel special, but he also made me feel safe.

Sometimes I would ham it up in front of my mom’s friends and tell silly jokes. And they lapped up the sarcasm I had even at a young age. Being around the adults, while my siblings preferred to find solitude in our bedrooms watching ET or other cartoons gave me the center of attention most times.

This Friday was no different. I would crack jokes and ping pong between the kitchen and people gathering a beer for a quarter tip. It made me feel important and also, the drunker they got, the higher the tips became. Sometimes I’d end a night having collected twenty or more dollars. Which is a lot to a 6-year-old. It wasn’t long before the sounds of AC/DC, Poison, KISS and other 80’s hair bands filled the air and they were all sunken into their grooves.

Then out came the mirrors, the spoons, and razors and rolled up bills. This is when I would get pushed upstairs and tucked into bed. Scottie would always volunteer to take me to bed. He’s warm and funny. He makes me laugh. He also smells like beer and cigarettes. He tells me a story about a princess in a tower and a knight in shiny armor. I imagine I’m the princess and he’s the knight. And then he calls me sweetie and then tucks me into bed. “Goodnight Princess.” He says as he turns out the lights.

I smile as he leaves but I’m angry that I’m too young to stay up even later because I just know theirs something exciting going on downstairs and I’m up in my room missing it all.

Most nights I listen late into the night to their hushed voices. Their stories about how the world is spinning and other euphoric feelings. I can’t wait until I’m older and can try the spoon trick too.

Tonight the music is so loud I can feel the beat in my mattress, it lulls me into a deep slumber. To this day, I can be at a Mega Death concert and fall asleep. Loud music and metal has a lullaby effect on me, which people always find strange.

When I wake the next morning the house is still and in my Rainbow Bright nightgown, I carefully descend the stairs. Scottie is on the couch and other bodies are scattered around the living room. I skillfully maneuver around each of them into the kitchen pretending they’re lava before I pour myself a bowl of cereal. On the way back, I weave through the bodies before I climb on the couch next to Scottie and sit behind his bent knees. I turn the TV on low and watch Saturday morning cartoons. This is how I have my breakfast.

Most weekend mornings are like this. We make ourselves breakfast, lunch and dinner while mom sleeps through the weekend because she doesn’t feel good. My siblings and I are used to it and so weekends usually consist of Mayo sandwich’s, which is literally just mayo and bread, Cereal and on occasion Mac and Cheese if my older brother feels up to it, he’s nine.

We watch a lot of TV and try not to get into too much trouble. I’m the one that usually cause the most mischief because it’s hard for me to sit still and I get bored easily, especially if they wont let me watch Dirty Dancing and we’re forced to watch The Goonies or ET. I hate both of those movies and I just want to dance.

Every so often, someone will shift and grumble before getting up. They’ll croak a hello; pat me on the head and quietly slip out the door. This continues for a few hours until its only Scottie and me in the living room. I desperately want him to wake up, because he’ll watch Woody Woodpecker with me, and I’ll laugh just like the bird to get Scottie to smile.

And then I realize that there is no movement coming from Scottie and I’m horrified. I scream and then run upstairs screaming, “MOM! MOM! SCOTTIE’S DEAD!”

When I get to her room, she’s jolted awake, her eyes are wild and she seems confused. I take a deep breath and say it again as tears start to form in my eyes.

“Scottie is dead. He’s not moving at all! I don’t think he can breathe either!” I rush to her and shake her. “C’mon lets go!”

I sprint to the door and flee to the bottom of the stairs with my mom following at my heels. I run to the bowl near the TV as she begins to violently shake Scottie on the couch begging him to wake up. Her words are frantic.

“Scottie! Wake Up! WAKE UP!” She gives him a hard shake and he gives a cough.

“What? I’m awake. What is the matter?” He croaks.

I turn with the bowl in my hands and look at them, she’s hugging him, crying and he looks bewildered as he strokes her hair and tries to calm her. I stare at them mad that they aren’t focused at the crisis at hand.

“Mom, Scotties dead! Look! He’s just floating at the top! What are we going to do?” I sob as her eyes finally turn back to me.

“Jesus Christ,” she shouts, “Don’t ever scare me like that again.” She seems relieved as I clutch the bowl with my now dead fish in it and begin to cry violently, causing the water to slosh from the bowl.

“But he’s dead” I manage to whimper.

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?