Falling into, falling into, you're falling into history

There was a time when I wouldn’t go anywhere without my camera. There was a time when all I wanted to do was take photos. I lived for it. I was intoxicated by the art of showing people what I saw or finding a unique look at something familiar.

I had always taken pictures on my Fuji Finepix camera and it produced relatively good photos for a point and shoot but I longed for the bulky-National-Geographic-like heft of a dSLR. One day after a rough week at work I decided I wasn’t waiting any longer and made the purchase.

After many months of studying and asking questions and comparing I settled on the Nikon D60 because it was a good basic camera by all accounts. It was great for learning and good enough to take into the first steps of being pro. I was in love with what it would mean for my photography and immediately started using it, except, the photos I took with it were less than amazing. I figured, well I just don’t know how to use it properly, once I took a film class and learn how to properly use an SLR camera my photos would be better.

I took the class. Two of them in fact and I tried changing settings and fixing shutter speeds and apertures, but nothing seemed to be working. The photos came out too blue and I couldn’t figure out how to fix them short of putting the camera on Auto and snapping the picture. This was what I always did with the Fuji, but I had more expectations for the dSLR. I wanted to be a real photographer that was able to create the image with little to no editing but the photos I was producing were less than quality.

So I set down the camera and I’ve seemingly walked away from it. I’ve walked away from photography. I argued that there wasn’t time, I was too busy, but that was hardly the case. I noticed when I did go out and take the camera I didn’t take many pictures. I always felt less than satisfied with the results. And this began to bother me. I wanted to know why I had fallen out of love with the camera and the photographs.

I figured it out when I was talking to a friend of mine. I realized I had taken two photo classes expecting to learn how to use my camera and how to be a better photographer, but instead these two classes have left me feeling like less of a photographer. I learned how to develop, but not enough to really love what I created. When I would get things wrong approach the professor of the class for help I was greeted with hostility and abrasiveness.
All in all, I loved the professor as a person, but as a teacher, he seemly had failed me. I feel like I missed out on a lot of really potentially good information.

What I realized is that had I learned more about how to use the camera and had more successful results than perhaps I wouldn’t have fallen out of touch with my love for the lens. I seem to have put down the camera and walked away from it on the account of not loving the outcome and feeling like I wasn't taking good enough photos. My photos bored me, they didn't inspire me.

When I used the Fuji with my lack of knowledge I could always come away with at least 5 pictures of the 200 that I shot that I adored. This was good enough for me. It seems now, I'm lucky if I get one, this discourages me.

I realize that I seemingly let go when things got bumpy and I want to pick the camera back up and fall back in love with photography because I feel rather empty without it.

Listen to each drop of rain whispering secrets in vain...

“She acts like summer and walks like rain, reminds me that there’s time for change”

My hiatus from writing was due partially to lack of inspiration but also a censorship on my part. For years I wrote blogs where I would continually bitch about my life and where it was. None of this was really all that productive. After writing these blogs I wouldn’t feel better and I wouldn’t feel like I achieved anything personally from it. In the past 6 months I have seen my writing change drastically. I’ve felt the pull from my heart and brain as I began writing with reason. And the pain that I had slowly has begun to stop aching.

Progress.

“Nothing last forever and we both know hearts can change.”

Recently a family member lost her mother. This loss called to heart my own mother who in recent events I’ve not spoken to. I have mommy issues. I hate the choices she made and I resent her for the life I lived. I feel like I am having to relearn things and grow up all over again to straighten out the kinks that have braided themselves into my personality.

But I miss the smell of her perfume, I miss laying with her and smelling her smokey sweet smell.

Mother’s day came and went and my heart was heavy with pain, I seemed to have lost both of my mothers, one because of my need to recoil and pull back from the lacerations caused to my heart, and the other two a vicious disease.

I attempted to call her multiple times but she never answered. And then finally the connection happened.

“Mom?” I said weakly.

“Hello?” she responded back truly lost as to who was calling her. My heart ached – did she not remember my voice? Had it changed that much in the past 1.5 years?

“It’s Jennie…” I offered my voice trailing.

And then all of the walls I had built fell apart.

We talked for an hour as I drove down to visit my boyfriend for the weekend. I told her about my life, I told her about my achievements I told her about my oh so hot boyfriend and how I’ve really fallen in love.

She was proud. She was always proud of me. My mom had always talked about “her smart and witty daughter.” She had always supported my writing and creativity. It felt good to hear her tell me that she was so happy that I was doing well. I felt the compassion in her voice and for once, I didn’t respond in bitter rage. I soaked in the glow of a mother daughter connection, melted into it.

As I hung up the phone allowing her permission into my life again, I felt the cold walls build up again. I had callers remorse. In a weak moment I felt like I had betrayed my own thoughts. I had not listened to my better half that said she was poison in my life. In an instant I had forgotten all the roller coasters her love had taken me on. I had forgotten the scars that are so apparent to those who meet me. I wanted so badly to feel this that I ignored the pain, just as I had in the past.
I wanted this to be different. I want to be the one in control of the relationship. I knew I had to proceed with caution. While I felt sorry for her with her health so deteriorated I also felt the snide thoughts pour in. They darkened the beautiful pure moment of joy I had felt only seconds before.

It was bittersweet moment for me and I find myself conflicted.

“Someone told me long ago, there’s a calm before the storm. I know, It’s been comin’ for sometime…”

Before the worst, before we met... Before too late

I would never say that making friends came easy to me. It was always something that I was insecure about. I have a pretty amazing talent for rejecting myself before others can reject me. The sting from the rejection hurts less to me if I don’t allow it to begin with. It’s also a big reason why I probably never had any real healthy relationships with people in my early teen years. I never allowed people to close to me for fear that one day they would abandon me. I have major abandonment issues and I know its all because I have “mommy issues.”

When I was roughly 16-years-old and itching to get my drivers licenses I remember making a phone call to get a hold of my mom to schedule a time when she could take me to get my permit. Instead of living with my mother, who was staying at peoples houses and couch hopping, I was living with my older brother and his wife. Things with my mom where never good so when I was 15-years-old I had decided that enough was enough. I begged my grandmother to let me live with her and living with her eventually lead to me moving in with my older brother.

It was rough for me to adapt to living under his rules and having to actually listen to my older brother but during this time I also found a friend in my sister-in-law. The thing about her was when she talked to me, she talked to me like I had some idea of what to do. She talked to me and allowed me to talk as if I were an adult. She treated me respectfully and It was something different for me. It was something I needed.

So it was finally time for me to get my permit and I was thrilled. When I called the people that my mother was staying with, They informed me that she had moved, she had gone to Las Vegas. None of my siblings or I were aware of this until this moment. My mother had up and left without telling any of her children, 2 of which where still technically under her care as legal guardian.

This was the first incident where my mother literally left us for a different state. Prior to this incident she was constantly leaving us at our house under someone’s half-assed care and going out. For the first couple years of my life my Brother Daniel was in charge and he was only seven. Looking back on this I can’t help but feel so incredibly sorry for my brother. He lost quite a bit of a childhood by having to raise or help raise his younger siblings. So I struggle with being left behind.

The problem with this is that because I don’t want to be left I also have a hard time with letting go with the people I bring in to my life. Namely friends. I allow a lot of things to happen before I sever ties with an individual. When I make a friend, its generally for life. I’m pretty good at keeping in contact with people when they’ve moved or I have, but I can only do so much.

Lately, I’ve found myself less inclined to deal with peoples shit, to put it bluntly. I’m finding that I’m less interested in what others want and more interested in what I want. In situations where I would normally become emotional and angry, I find myself calmer. The anger still hits me, but I don’t react as I used to.

Little by little I’m letting people go.

Everyone's got their chains to break

It’s April and among the flowers and springing to be had, there is a dark shadow that looms over my head. April was the birth month of both of my grandparents and so their presence and lack of presence falls heavy on my mind.

My cousin Beth says I’m a tortured soul. She’s absolutely right. Most of the torture is the self abuse I put myself through which is more or less why I have this blog, it’s a sort of “public dear diary” minus the “today I met a boy and he was so cute…” or maybe that’s still included (See Get Your Head outta the clouds kid) But its more about a revelation in myself and being able to share myself without completely committing to the patient psychologist system.

I’m still not quite sure about paying someone to listen to me talk, so instead, since I’m poor, I cast my feelings out into the world wide web. Maybe I’m hoping to make a connection, or maybe I know that some day someone will stumble across my words and read them. But mostly, I type and write these things because as the Foo Fighter’s say “I’ve got another confession to make…”
And I do, something that has been lingering over my head for the past few years…

The death of my grandmother brought about a lot of hurt feelings. It brought the onset of families dividing and segregating because she was no longer the band aid that fixed the wounds she created. I say she created because my Grandmother, god bless her, was one of those people who chose favorites and choose sides. It was obvious who my grandma adored and who she tolerated. I don’t say that in the same tone that I would have years ago as a teenager burned by the classic Cinderella story happening in her family. Instead I say that as a girl who has learned to forgive and learned to understand the reasons behind the behavior. Make no mistake, my grandma loved each of her kids and grandchildren, some she just loved more and it was painfully obvious.

~*~*~

Once when I was living with my grandmother and my sister and I shared a room I remember a huge fight breaking out between my sister and I because she wanted the room to herself with her friends, and I wanted to stay in. Of course I was being the younger sister dying to tag along. Despite what I think now, I always wanted to hang out with my sister. I adored her, I even, dare-I-say-it-and-she-gets-an-ego, thought she was cool.

With this particular incident she told me I had to get out of the room and I refused. A few words were spit back and forth and me, lets face it having more wit said something to her that made her friends chuckle. This enraged my sister to the point where she came at me dumping her DQ blizzard all over me and screaming at me to get out. Embarrassed and upset by the whole ordeal I remember walking into my grandmother’s room and saying “Look what Cassie did to me.” Her exact words still cut to this day, “You probably deserved it.”
In that moment ice cream seeping down my sweater I felt the coldness, the inability to rationalize with her and I felt the favoritism sting in my already tear-filled eyes. This was a huge turning point in my teenage years for me. It was something that built this wall of hate. I hated my grandmother, but I loved her. I desperately sought her attention. I desperately wanted her to love me the same way she loved my sister. I wanted anyone to love me the same way; to protect and side with me. I spent the next years of my life harboring a teenage hate, rage and disappointment towards my grandmother, but again, I constantly sought her approval, but nothing ever seemed to be enough.

~*~*~

My confession comes back to our family. Growing up we always saw our cousins “The Crawfords” as the chosen few. As a Welch, I wanted to be them because they got to have a mother and a father and they got to have grandparents. I got to have grandparents that acted as my mother and father. My grandparents were responsible for everything we had including the clothes on our back, the food that we ate and the times we spent in church. They wanted us to have a fighting chance with our drug-addicted mother and they wanted desperately for their daughter to come around. We all did.
The problem on the other side of the pasture was The Crawfords saw the Welch’s as the chosen ones. We were the ones who my grandmother couldn’t leave despite the many pleas for her to move back to IL. She couldn’t leave us. She wouldn’t let us fall despite the maltreatment we gave her – We (Welch kids) were broken children from a broken home and our grandparents where the only real parents we knew, so they got heavily lashed with our poor behavior. They were too old to be raising children again. My grandfather just wanted to be retired. He wanted to enjoy being a grandfather, not a parent again.

To the other side, we were the ones causing wrong. And this became clear in an fight between my uncle and my sister after the passing of my grandmother. In his anger and hurt he told my sister he hated her, took a step back, blinked and said I hate what your mother has done or something to that effect.

That night, lines were officially drawn in the sand.

It’s constantly been this struggle of “they’re taking too much” or “I wanted this” its been a battle as we dismantle our grandmothers home. I’ll be honest when I say my siblings and are feeling a bit of resentment and a whole lot of unfairness in the breaking down of my grandparents estate.

That being said, my confession is that I took something from the house in my last visit. It was a radio. A radio I had said I wanted, I knew that both my aunt and uncle each had this radio already. First asked for it and then I waited. And waited. I was told “well see.” And then finally it was coming down to “What hasn’t been taken is up for grabs.” So I grabbed it.

The guilt lays thick on me because I confessed to my sister the day my plane was to take off and bring me back to New Jersey that I had taken the radio. “That’s not fair!” she shouted, “I took it and was told I had to bring it right back.”

I could feel the sinking in my heart. Logically, I was told I could take what I wanted, but mentally I felt the sting of doing something wrong.

Shortly after my return to New Jersey my aunt called me, I was unable to answer her call and she left me a message. I did not return her call. She called me again a few days later, again I was unable to take her call. She left a message. And again, I did not return her call. I figured it was about the radio and my conscious wasn’t ready to confront what I had done. Part of me was angry for having to justify taking it but part of me was scared. My intentions were not to steal property at all. Really, it’s a radio, it has no sentimental value what so ever, I have other things for that – it was just something I wanted. I saw everyone else getting things they wanted, so I took a step up and I took what I wanted.

So how come I feel so guilty? I’d gladly give the radio back if it meant the lines could be redrawn and I could feel my family become a whole rather than pieces that lay scattered on the floor.

And Lastly, “I’ve got another confession to make…” If I could have had a mother who raised me instead of my grandmother, I would have. I don't think people understand how sorry I am that my grandmother made the decision to stick by our side. I am thankful for it don’t get me wrong, but I confess I wish “The Crawfords” knew that it was her decision and not ours.

We were only children.

It doesn't matter who's wrong or who's right....

Here’s the thing. Weddings are ridiculous. I’ve always thought this. They’re ridiculous things that drive girls mad. There is all this talk of becoming a bridezilla or the stress of trying to figure out who to have in the wedding and if you want people at all. You alienate people if you don’t ask them and hurt feelings of people who thought they were closer. What about the stress of becoming a Friend-zilla? I think I may have become a Friend-zilla.

My friend Katie got married in March, the wedding was beautiful, I may have teared up a bit. It was the perfect princess wedding. The one we women all dream about as little girls. And even thought Katie was sick, she was still the most beautiful bride I’ve seen and the perfect man received her, the sparkles in his eye when she walked down the isle and the way he looked at her. It was perfect. The whole wedding made me want one of my own despite my own protest of it being the last legal form of slavery.

But then there are the weddings that happen and maybe it’s just me, but I may be slightly hurt that I’m not even a part of it. I mean, listen, it’s not that I feel like the world is all about me or anything. It’s just that when people claim that you are their only “Girl” friends and that the only people they talk to are you, your other close friend and their fiancé you think you might be some part of their wedding.

Take my friend Aubrey for example. I’ve been friends with this girl since 4th grade. I’ve kept in contact with her through all of her moves from 6th grade thru her graduation from college. I always considered her a close friend. Then she gets this boyfriend and some how she’s changed. She’s not the same Aubrey, she’s changed and it hurts to see this change. She’s no longer interested in anything other than this boy. Things progress and now this boy and her are engaged. I got a “save the date” thing in the mail the other day. I’m let down because I thought I meant more to this girl. But her life now revolves around the boy. To me, its unhealthy to be that wrapped up in someone, but it could just me being hurt.

And then there’s the case of Ashley, my “Little sister” I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t completely upset when she made her boss the Maid of Honor. I thought for sure this was going to be the one wedding I would be Maid of Honor for – I’ve known her so long and I again, thought we were closer than we actually were. Maybe that’s my mistake? When I wasn’t MOH, I then shut myself down; I didn’t want to be in it at all then. So I told her this and she accepted it. She didn’t fight it. She just simply said “okay.” At the time I thought of how she was wronging me. She didn’t ask me to be in her wedding, I just assumed and shot her down before she could. And technically her sister is Maid of Honor, but her sister is 13….And maybe what I’m really angry about is the fact that I’ve lost that place of her best friend. I know I’ve done some of it myself; I pushed myself this way or pushed myself that way and upset her. And she’s done the same. So, I’m sorry to her for the strangeness I’ve been feeling about this whole wedding.

You know what, maybe I’m so bent on being in someone’s wedding right now. Wait, that isn’t entirely true because I don’t want to be in people’s weddings because I don’t want to be the blob in the wedding pictures, but then again, I do.
I’m finding myself getting too wrapped up in the idea of being in a wedding and wanting to be that help for the bride, that I forget that weddings are about what the bride wants. And that brings me back to full circle. It’s hard to be a bride. It’s hard to make decisions on whom to have, what to wear, and which toes you are stepping on.

But in my defense, it’s hard to be a friend who gets passed up.

I’m officially Friend-zilla.

I think too highly of myself and place more importance on myself. I am officially admitting I am ridiculous. I apologize.

Heart and Soul, So Completely...

My boyfriend told me he read my blog and I got embarrassed. I’m okay with thousand of unknown faces possibly reading what I write, Im even kind of okay with some family members reading what sometimes is the very dark depths of my heart. But when my boyfriend told me he read my blog and that I hadn’t posted anything new, my face got red and my mind started spinning.

Why?

Why would I not want to share myself entirely with this guy? I mean I fell for him. Am I even allowed to say that on such a short length of a relationship? Am I jinxing it by even saying that I have fallen for him? Why does the thought of him reading my words, my thoughts my desires or my fears embarrass me?

I can only speculate the answer, wonder.

I know that when I write all my “twisted thoughts free flow…” And perhaps I want him to see me in a different light. A less broken, more held together light. Perhaps I don’t want to appear to be so open, so known. The walls I build and protect myself with are non-existent in this “world.”
Perhaps my problem lies into the fact that he’s not much of a talker, he doesn’t like to open up and like most guys he doesn’t want to share his feelings. And this kind of irritates me a lot. I don’t want to nag but at the same time I don’t want to be the only one to share myself, to open myself up to heartbreak, to pain or to the knowledge and acceptance of all of me.

“We are afraid to care too much, for fear that the other person does not care at all.”– Eleanor Roosevelt

Just like a picture with a broken frame...

I had a hard time being at the reception for the Scholarship I received from school. I had a hard time because I was looking around and seeing people with family and support, and I allowed myself to sink.

Don't get me wrong, I know I have family behind me, I know that across the states I have people there excited about my achievements. I totally see that, and I am aware of thier presence. I allowed myself to fall into self-pity for what I didn’t have. What I couldn’t have. Events like this always seem to get me and I can never accept them as they are. I’m never able to just say:

“Listen Jennie, you will never have your mom be there to receive you after you achieve something. You will not have parents to give you away when/if you ever get married just like your parents didn’t put a dedication for you in the back of your high school yearbook. These are not the cards you were dealt, deal with it and move on.”

No I can never just suck it up and be happy in the moment. Instead I look at what I didn’t have there. I didn’t have a support system. I didn’t have anyone cheering as my name was called and I took the stage and posed with my scholarship donators. It’s not like I can blame anyone, I’m the one who choose to move to a state where I hardly knew anyone. I’m the one who decided I didn’t need to be close to family. So why am I so shocked when I look out in an audience and no one is there looking back on me?
I guess what really hits me is the fact that growing up, despite my mother being such a selfish ass hole, she did encourage me. She did tell me she was proud of me for being so smart. She would brag to her friends about me and they would constantly tell me how bright she thought I was. My mother said she never had to worry about me scholastically because I was just one of those students that “got it.” She never had to tell me to do my homework, because it was always done. And in my stupid longing for a mother and acceptance I wanted her to be in the audience witnessing my first Scholarship, not because I didn’t have the money to do something (though that was part of it.) I got a scholarship because I focused, and I managed to maintain an awesome GPA. I have something to be proud of and in this moment, I wanted my mother there.

And that in and of it self disgusts me.

I just finished the most wonderful story....

I get excited when I get a new book, not just for the pure pleasure of reading it, but also because when I’m finished it will take its place among the others with my ever growing collection of books. I know I’m not alone in this fascination with binding, and paper stuck together with carefully worded stories and information printed upon pages. No, I know it’s a club, a possible sickness.

I’m a slight hoarder of books.

I even keep the ones that have managed to get water damaged in the many moves I’ve made. Yes, water damaged. I said it, It has happened. Yes, I am the one to blame.

Awhile back the bookshelf I bought at Target collapsed as I was trying to set up a photo shoot in my would-be dining area. All of my books went tumbling to the floor and for about a month they sat curled in the pink armchair that I got from my grandmothers bedroom. I don’t even know why I still have them. One was broken in transport, but yet they sit there – nestled by the stairs waiting to be noticed and loved.

I started cleaning one day and decided to move the books to the coffee table in the same corner where the shelf once stood. I thought, if nothing, it’d look a little cleaner. But they just sat in piles, untouched, unnoticed, not neatly set up cozy together. Every time I looked at them I could feel a pull in my heart. These books needed a home; they needed a shelf, a way to display them to the world. My goal is after all, to have my own library and collection of books. I want an entire room dedicated to books. I also want a darkroom, so I imagine this fantasy house of mine is going to need a lot of rooms to fit my desires, and you know what, eventually I know I will get there.

But for now, I have a coffee table of books… That was until I bought a bookshelf and my roommate Emily put it together. I had her do it because the last one I put together and we see how well that worked out. Within the hour after some grunts, some curse words and a lot of noise, I had a bookshelf again. I was excited and eager to give my books a home again. I picked up each one, remembering what they meant to me as I read them, felt their papery pages between my fingers and carefully set them on the shelf. Smiled. I could feel the books becoming whole again. Becoming more than discarded. Remembered, cherished and loved.My books have a home, my heart has found a home and I, for the first time in my life feel like I belong. The books are me: they’ve fallen, they’ve been on the floor, they’ve sat unnoticed in a corner, they have been damaged, torn and carefully taped back together then moved and jostled onto a boring coffee table but now they can breathe easy because they have a home.

I can breathe easy because I am home.

The Show Must Go On....

So I lost my temper for the first time in front of the 4-year-old I watch. I mean that in a way that I finally just lost it and threw my own temper tantrum of sorts.

It started yesterday, the itch in the back of my throat, in retrospect I probably should have taken that as a hint and not have trapeze through the snow-covered Central Park with Emily, but it was part of the list, and I can’t resist checking off items on “The List.” Besides, I had the afternoon off and a roll of film I needed to shoot… Central park seemed like a good idea.

I came home frozen to the bone and sniffling. The scratch in my throat had progressed to a stuffy nose and a lot of sinus pressure by nighttime. I woke up this morning wanting to hide from the world, but knew I needed to get in gear. Today’s plans began with the kids and then photography in the evening it couldn’t be that hard.

I spent the first hour of work cleaning up some toys while the boy wonders were at a doctor’s appointment. It was peaceful, I had the Ipod thumping and the groove was in, but I was still sluggish. My nose would switch from stuffed to clear then back to stuffed again within a few minutes. This is when my patience with things began to wear thin and no one was even around. It was only the toys and I.

Luke came in already throwing questions at me left and right before I could fully grasp the concept that they were here.

“What do they have at a barber shop? Can we make one? Do they have a vacuum? Where are my razors, can I have a razor? What else do they have? Can we make a barber shop with those” He drilled me before he had even taken off his coat.

Graeme (Pronounced Graham) had a rash and was going to be taking some Benadryl and probably going down for a nap “E” informed me in between Luke’s spitfire of questions. Still hazed I nodded and began collecting Luke’s shoes and jacket, shuffling some more toys about in the process.

“E” slipped off into the safe confines of the office while Luke shadowed me and G was distracted by some toy. I began answering Luke’s questions and collecting things for use in the barbershop.Graeme distracted me by handing me his juice cup in effort for me to fill it and I realized I had to make the boys lunch and that the mom had mentioned it in passing again between the rounds of questions from Luke. I dragged myself into the kitchen, sipped some of my iced tea and began cutting up the already nuked hot dog for G.

“Do Barbers eat while they cut hair? Can I have this? Can you make me some Tea? Where do they eat their lunch? I want iced tea, Can you make me some iced tea? How come they don’t put a lot of chicken in this soup? Is this for kids? Do they have kids kind? How come it’s just for adults.”

Most days I love Luke’s onslaught of questions, he’s very inquisitive and it makes me smile. I hope he never loses that wonder, but I know he probably will. I dissect each question but not at a quick enough pace and Luke begins to lose patience with me.

Meanwhile, my nose is still a facet and I’m doing everything in my power to control my temper.

The next few hours are the same thing. Luke pounds me with questions and we build things. A Castle/Fort where he dubs me the Queen and Knights himself, I smile at this point because he thinks enough of me this time to make me Queen, last time I was his Page.

After G wakes from his nap I shuttle the boys upstairs to build yet another contraption, this time a covered landscaping Truck to be made out of these Knex-like plastic rods and balls. And as I’m working on this G gives me his “I’m-going-to-be-up-to-no good” and then trots off to his brothers room, the contraption has already broken 3 times while I’m in the process and I finally snap, throwing some of the sticks and balls across the floor I shout, “YOU DO IT!” and then stop off to figure out what G has gotten into.

Luke follows me whining and bidding that I help him by doing it and that I always help him. I realize after I’m out of the room that the show I just put on is hardly the example that needs to be set for this child who already has trouble with his emotions. I herd G back downstairs into the toy room and begin picking up the pieces explaining to Luke that he has to help and that we are going to build this together.

“Like a team?” he asks.

“Exactly.” I respond checking my clock, knowing that my patience is gone and that I need to regain control of myself.

I finish the day in a darkroom, my Ipod pumped full blast and a can opener in my hand. I am at peace as I work my way into the film containers and feed the film onto the reels to be developed. I think back on today and how I lost my temper and know, “the show must go on.”

Synovial joints are what?

On a serious note, I never learned how to study. Seriously. I don’t know how to do it. I’ve never had to. I’ve made it through my school years just naturally retaining information and that stuff that I didn’t retain, in my mind wasn’t meant to be retained.

I never got the idea of studying mentally, It just didn’t compute. I remember a friend and I were going to take the PSAT’s and she told me she couldn’t hang out because she had to study for the exam. She spent the entire weekend studying for this exam and in the end, scored lower than I did, and the most studying I did was reading a book.

I’m not trying to say “Oh I’m so smart” cause if I was, I would know how to study wouldn’t I? I’m saying that I’ve gotten by thus far not studying that I never developed how to do it exactly. I mean I get that you can sit there and pour over a chapter over and over again until you’ve memorized it, but that kind of scares me? Also, my attention deficit would never allow it. My focus would be off and I wouldn’t be able to recall a thing when it came down to it.

Maybe I could write everything I wrote down. They say writing things repetitively helps retention. Is that what I need to do? Is that even necessary? How do people study? I don’t get it?

I’m annoyed because I’m taking a remedial science course because the last science class I took was 10 years ago. I’m not annoyed that the class was 10 years ago, but rather that I’m struggling with basic concepts. I’m finding this remedial course to be extensively hard. Despite being able to just pick up on things, I can’t seem to get this going. I can’t pronounce half the words in the book and that frustrates me to no end. I think that’s what really gets me. The scientific words, how things can’t just be simply said.

I would like to go back to when your “Leg bone connected to the knee bone” instead of your Femur is connected to your patella, and your tibia and fibula. Which is connected to some ligaments….

Get your head outta the clouds kid!

I need to focus. The past three weeks have been a complete haze where I feel like I am walking around in this fog. I’m smiling and I am happy, but I seem to be slacking in my everyday responsibilities.

You know, the ones where I actually do my schoolwork and show up to class? Listen, my brain has been preoccupied with the idea of a crush. I have one. It’s slowly consuming my every thought pattern. Psychology of personality becomes “I wonder what he’s doing, I’m going to text him to see.” And Photography turns into me staring at a photo I took of us on my phone. I feel like a drug addict consumed in the thought of when I will get my next "fix." When will I hear his voice? See his smile. When will I be able to kiss him and hear him tell me how beautiful I am and how much he loves to see me smile. Cause really, this kind of drug can never get old. It is such an amazing feeling to me, a rush. I'm pretty sure in the past, I've never felt this sort of crazy rushing feeling. But its consuming.

I need to get back to the place where my mind isn’t wandering and I focus more. Concentrate on what is in front of me and allow myself to fall into a better routine where I organize, prioritize and make sure I am doing what I should be doing.
That being said, I find myself constantly in a bright and sunny mood. I love this me better than any me I have ever been, and it truly doesn’t have to do with the prospect of Daniel in my life; though he sure doesn’t hurt.

It has to do with figuring out who I am, what I want and just letting go of things that bother me. I’m allowing myself to live without the fear, without the voice in my head telling me I’ll never be good enough, because for the first time in a long time, I feel good enough, if not better. I can and will do anything.

On the Brooklyn Side...

I haven’t written anything as of late for fear that I would just babble on and on about this boy that I have and how he makes me light up, and he does. I haven’t written about it because I know when I read things like that it makes me gag. Sure someone is happy, sure it’s great to see that, but also, it makes me gag.

So instead, I’ll write about the Brooklyn Bridge.

The fact that I love bridges really does throw me off a bit, because I fear going over them. I fear that they will collapse and I will be on them. I have much of that same fear of walking over subway grates in the city. I fear that I will be walking on them and my weight will cause them collapse. Never mind the fact that nearly everyday several people walk over these grates and bridges and make it over just fine. In the back of my mind that little voice says, but what if today is the day. And so I avoid walking over grates in the city, taking the longest route possible to not have to step on one because the moment my foot touches one, my heart clenches and I get seized with a panic. So, I avoid them.

Bridges however, I cannot avoid. Living in Arizona most of the bridges I saw were over dirt and even then there weren’t that many. Living in New Jersey I can’t drive 10 miles without having passed over 3 or more bridges. Rivers are everywhere, and they’re actually riverbeds, not dried up. Even now I still get a kick out of going over a bridge and seeing water below. So you could say I’ve managed to overcome my fear of bridges. I no longer feel my heart seize in panic, but rather a weird calming euphoria feeling. So what is it about the Brooklyn Bridge that makes it my favorite bridge?
The first time I went to the Brooklyn Bridge was circa my 23rd Birthday. It was rainy and cold. But I stood there in aw starring at this massive structure that I had fallen in love with through only pictures. It was the most beautiful bridge I had ever seen with its massive arches lit and twinkling in the rain. And it would become a beacon for me a place to go when I felt restless.

While the Brooklyn Bridge is one of the oldest suspension bridges in the U.S and history does appeal to me, that isn’t what gets me. It’s not that it was one of the longest suspension bridges in the world and its not that its over 125-years-old, though that’s pretty impressive too. Come to think of it, I can’t really name what I love so much about this bridge, what I can say is that when I stand below it I feel at home.

Only by the Night...

Only by The Night by Kings of Leon. Let’s talk about this whole album and how it relates to my life, because quite frankly, it’s a current soundtrack to my life these days.
1. Closer – This song actually sways two ways for me. It has a lot to do with me following my heart on two agendas and one of them breaking apart on me. Falling in love with someone who doesn’t love you back really can leave you feeling “Stranded in this spooky town” and living in New Jersey, more than once I have felt stranded. But I also look at it in a brighter light in that the dreams that I had as a child were not “Get married, have kids” unless the person I was marrying was a backstreet boy (Listen, I still cling to the hope, even though he’s married.) I realize that marriage and kids were never something I HAD to have, but school was. I had to have a college degree. I remember being seven and thinking that I was going to go somewhere great. Stanford, Harvard or Princeton. At a young age I had my eyes set on something bigger, better. “And it’s coming closer”

2. Crawl – This song relates to a lot of my rage and anger that I’ve had lately. To me it’s a an anthem to learn to be humble when its needed. The idea that you need to crawl before you walk. Knowing this I can push it forward and learn to forgive before I can forget. And really I just love the guitar riffs in it.

3. Sex on Fire – “You, your sex is on fire.” Or as Luke, the 4-year-old I watch says, “I want to hear the ‘on fire’ song.’ This song speaks to me in a way that sex does for most. It’s desire, its passion; it’s a longing and need. As adults it’s a basic need. It’s a cause for pain; it’s a cause for distressed. Married people go to marriage counseling to discuss where their desire for sex has gone. Magazines write about how to get the passion back. For me it’s about my desire I’ve had for life as a young kid. As an adult I feel it’s my passion to be bigger (hopefully not in the pant size) and greater than I am. It’s a passion, a fire, and a need. “Consumed with what’s to transpire.”

4. Use Somebody – It’s their hit, I heard it once and loved it but never really thought much about it, I didn’t even know who sang it, just that I liked the song. On a personal note as a single fat girl, I’m constantly wondering if someone will ever notice “someone like me.” And the opening line is a dead ringer for how I have been most of my life “I’ve been roaming around always looking down at all I see, painted faces fill the places I can’t reach.” Lets dissect what “painted faces” means to me. For me it was my desire and need to be my friends, to be as beautiful and popular as Kristin, or fun and flirty like Elizabeth. I looked at my friends and wanted so badly to not be the fat kid and to be them. They were my painted faces filling the places I couldn’t reach. Back to this being their hit. Luke loves this band, he talks about them because it’s his dad’s favorite band (he says.) Then one day I’m sitting in the car and I hear the song and the DJ says that its Kings of Leon and it was a light bulb that hit. I am a fan.
5. Manhattan – Uh? Do I really even need to explain this? Honestly. I moved to New Jersey to be closer to it. It’s my candy store. “ We’re gonna fuel this fire, gonna stoke it up, we’re gonna sip this wine and pass the cup. Who needs avenues, who needs reservoirs, gonna show this town how to kiss these stars.” This town makes me feel like something bigger and better. But it also makes me feel small. It’s amazing that it has this ability to make me feel two opposing ideas. I love it for the magic it makes me feel and the fire that it lights for me.

6. Revelry – For me this is about the loss of my grandma. The lyrics speak of a romantic love but what I drive from it is the thought and emotions of feeling my grandmother’s presence so often in my life. It doesn’t seem to get better to me. Specifically there’s a line that says “just know it was you who had a hold of my heart, but the demon and me were the best of friends from the start.” Speaks volumes on the relationship I had with her. I loved her, I hated her, I wanted her to notice me and I acted out in all the wrong ways possible. I struggle so hard with this. I can talk about and I can confess my thoughts and emotions but I can’t seem to let it go, can’t seem to find my peace.

7. 17 – Okay, it’s me. Exactly me. I’m 17 stuck in a 25-year-olds body. My thoughts are often immature, but my intentions are mostly wise and older. “Oh she’s only 17, wind and wind and wound up over thing…” I get so caught up in my lack of childhood, the idea that I hurt more than I felt good.

8. Notion – “So don’t knock it, you’ve been here before” is a tribute to me knowing that I am not alone in my thoughts that someone has always felt the way I felt and I’m not alone. It’s also a tribute to going with my gut instinct on things and say how I feel. Cause “I’ve got a notion to say what doesn’t feel right.”

9. I Want You – This is, exactly as the lyrics have it. It’s about wanting something that is bad for me. Something that doesn’t do anything for me. I relate to that in my relationships with friends that are more poison than good. And I want them, like it used to be.

10. Be Somebody – I put this song on to inspire me when I feel like I’m getting nowhere. I put it on when I need to remember what I keep fighting for. What I want out of life. I want to do more than survive; I want to make an imprint.

11. Cold Desert – Well if this isn’t the anthem for the inner Emo me. This reminds me of the failure I had to a choice I was making. It holds me accountable for my actions and pushes me to see the error in my thinking. “I’ve always been known to cross the lines.” Speaks of my “spunk.” How I push the limits and need to be heard. My cousin commented about how even at a young age I had to push myself into the center of things. It’s true then and now. I need to be seen and I need to be noticed. So I’ve taken myself out of the cold of the desert to shine.

But it also heals your soul...

“When the morning came I was up before first light…”

I woke up unusually early for myself this morning. Like a good student the night before my first day of class I attempted to get to sleep earlier than I usually do and I was in bed and asleep before midnight. This is actually a pretty good feat for me as my night owl habits often have me up into the wee hours of the morning.

“My heartbeat started pounding a rhythm in my brain, a voice from deep inside said you’ve gotta be insane…”

I’ve found myself lately really clinging to the lyrics of a song. I learned as a musician it’s often the melody and the music behind a song that really make it a song. As a writer I look at that as more of a supporting actor type role, unless you’re going entirely instrumental, in which case it definitely has a starring role. For the most part, it’s the supporting actor; at least in my plays.

“A melody is like seeing someone for the first time. The physical attraction. Sex. But then, as you get to know the person, that's the lyrics. Their story. Who they are underneath. It's the combination of the two that makes it magic.” – Music and Lyrics quote.

So what is the point of all this rambling on and on about music and lyrics and sleeping or not. It has to do with the influence that music has had on me to be happy. To go to work each day and see it as a good thing rather than something I don’t want to do. I’ve found that the more positive I am about the day, the better day I have with the kids. I want to use this motto in everything that I do so that when I do find myself slipping down the backwards slope into a depression, I can look and see how it really is.

“I don’t want to turn me into something that I’m not, keep me close in mind and body you are all I’ve got.”

In my self-discovery I have found myself to be harboring a bit of rage and anger. And by a bit, I mean an unusual amount. In this anger I also find myself wanting to bite back, and bite back hard to those who have misused me in the past and those who are still doing so now. Instead of just letting these feelings roll into the “suppressed feelings” jar I keep in the back of my mind, I’m finding that these feelings want to spring forth, that perhaps the jar is now full and is now seeping out, it’s demon springing forth ready for revenge.

“And when it rains on this side of town it touches everything. Just say it again and mean it we don't miss a thing. You made yourself a bed at the bottom of the blackest hole and convinced yourself that it's not the reason you don't see the sun anymore…”

The way my brain works is there will be a trigger, something said, something realized, something heard. And from that it melts into something so warped and nothing as it was when it began. A domino effect where I can “convince myself I don’t see the sun anymore.” And I will find myself at the bottom of a blackest hole. I have found myself at the bottom of that hole more times than I would like to count and I have seen the effects it has had on the people around me, and I think that makes for some good news.

“Open me up and you will see, I'm a gallery of broken hearts, I'm beyond repair, let me be and give me back my broken parts… I just want to be okay..”

So maybe in my attempts to realize, rationalize and grow I need to learn to forgive? I know that it’s not easy to forget especially for someone like me, but perhaps I can work on forgiveness.

“Sometimes mature just means over my head and I don’t really know what I’m saying”

And that is where my writing and music are going to be more important in this healing process. I’m using my writing to flush myself of these negative thoughts and emotions. I’m using it to remind myself of the positive things in my life to see things in the “rose colored” glasses again. And the music to remind me how good “sex” can be, most importantly to know the story behind myself, to relate on that level. To dissect who I am underneath and find ways to explain myself.

“I wanna feel a car crash, cause I’m dying on the inside. I wanna let go and know that I’ll be all right, Alright. Push me till I have to fly, I shed my skin, my scars. Take me deep out past these lights, where nothing dims these stars…I’m wide awake and so alive…”

Touch me, touch me baby, but don't mess up my hair...

Early on I learned as a female that shopping could make you feel better, we call this retail therapy. I knew pair of shoes or a new shirt was an easy way to cure the blues.

When I first started talking to my ex boyfriend, I told him I judged the week and or day by what I got that day. He later began asking me if it was a one shirt or two shirts kind of day and I would respond accordingly, sometimes saying that it was a no shirt kid of day. Meaning that I had not bought anything. I imagine I inherited this shopping problem from my grandmother, she was kind of queen of QVC and I was queen of buying new shirts.

And then I discovered hair dye in a whole new way and that was something I could change instantly and feel better about myself without adding to my wardrobe of too many shirts. And this has been a trend for me since my mid teens. My hair color was ever changing in high school as I discovered who I was, what I wanted and how I was going to get it.

Whenever I feel like my life is out of my control my hair color is something I can control. The best part is, no matter what color I do, I can manage to pull it off. I have the kind of complexion that can be paired with blonde; brunette, red and even black and still look like it was meant for me. I love my hair/face for this reason. And so this past weekend I found myself browsing the color isles of Sally’s Beauty Supply looking for some control. I found it in L’Oreal Dark Brown.

I feel in control, and I love my new hair color. I feel fantastically beautiful and ready to take on the new school year.

Back then I didn't know why, Why you were misunderstood

I am very angry with my mother. The mere thought of her contacting me makes my skin boil and my eyes darken.
It wasn’t always that way. For a long time I always had a soft spot for my mother, she was after all the women who gave birth to me and she was so good at spinning words, ideas, and dreams in my head that it was hard for me to not believe her when she would tell me things were going to be better. No I didn’t always hold such anger and resentment towards her, in fact she was often the one I sought comfort in.

When I was 10 and seemed to have sat in something that caused my white pants to be stained in red. My sister asked me if I had started my period and she asked me in a way that made me think that a period was bad. Something forbidden like reading dirty magazines or thinking about sex. I remember holding back tears, running into my mother’s room leaving my friends who had spent the night behind and crawling into her arms to cry softly.

I was horrified and I remember sobbing and telling my mother I was sorry and that I didn’t mean to. She held me in her arms petting my hair and wiping my tears explaining to me that a period was not a bad thing and that it was something all women would experience. Her eyes filled with tears as she told me that her baby was growing up and becoming a woman. She told me when she got her first period she had laid on basement floor crying, convinced she was dying. I can still smell the Smokey smell of her skin and hair from her 2-pack a day habit. I remember her raspy laugh when I apologized and the way she was able to comfort my fears and ease my tears. I remember laying there in her arms and feeling safe, feeling okay.

For being such a smart kid I’m not sure why I never caught on to the fact that my mother was sick and truly needed help. I just knew I wanted to believe her and so I did. It wasn’t until I was in my twenties that the rose colored glasses finally came off and I finally saw my mother for what she was to me. Even in her sickness I still cannot find it in my heart to forgive her. I began to resent her for fighting to keep my siblings and I when we could have been placed in better homes. I resented her for using my grandparents instead of raising us. I resented the lies she fed us. More so now than then I resented the lack of structure and the constant state of moving. It has left me so completely lost in myself and insecure of stability.

I began to feel anger and hatred for her actions and started blaming her for the way I was and the person I was becoming. Maybe if she would have loved us more and wasn’t so selfish we wouldn’t be such a broken family. I would not be such a broken person. It is very hard for me to not dwell on these ideas as many of my friends are getting engaged and my own sister talks of marriage and with my grandmothers passing, I find myself now more than ever wanting a mother. Because I listen to my friends talk about mother daughter situations and I see how the kids I nanny for interact with their mother and I find my soul searching for that same bond.

So perhaps it's reasons like when I pass by that diamond shaped bottle filled with its amber liquid I instinctively pluck it from the counter and inhale it. It has the power to take me back to the times when my mother was a beautiful person and things would be good. The irony being that the smell of her perfume always meant she was going somewhere and would be gone for awhile one and two days at time. My brother Michael and I knew the cue as we sat in our living room fighting over what to watch that anytime the wavering scent of Tresor By Lancome came into the room we would both instinctively stop what we were doing and shout “Where are you going mom? Are you coming home tonight?” Because we knew that regardless she would be spending Sunday in bed sleeping after an extensive night of alcohol and drugs.

And yet still, even knowing what her weekends entailed, the aroma of Tresor still is innocent to me and I miss the mother who held me in her arms and calmed my fears.