A Day To Remember

*In honor of the victims, survivors, and families of the Stoneman Douglass Highschool shooting*

 

It was February 14, 2018.

Today was a day to feel it.

To feel it all. 

As we try to soak it in.

We read report after report after report trying to make sense of the puzzle pieces that just can’t be put in place. 

Today was a day to grieve. 

A day where innocent children died with the ring of gunfire in their ears. 

Where teachers dove into doorways acting as human shields. 

Their last breath coming all too soon. 

Today was a day where parents frantically sought their child’s face in a crowd of terror, pain, and endless tears. 

Where siblings were lost and death was gained. 

Today was a day where children just 14 years old passed  the bodies of their peers just to stay alive long enough to feel all that pain. 

Today was a day that made us all cry 

over the thought of those children and each of their lives. We cried over kids playing dead

Trying their best to blend in and  save their own lives. 

We cried over our own kids whose worst fears came to life.  

And We clutched them a little tighter as they got off the bus. 

Today was a day much like every other 

Except today was a day from our worst nightmares. 

Today was a day to remember. 

Remember it all 

And work really damn hard to make sure today never happens again. 

Addiction is a Dirty Word

**trigger warning* This post deals with sensitive content including addiction, self harm, and suicidal ideation. If you or a loved one needs help please contact your local emergency services or the national suicide hotline at 800-273-8255. **

Addiction is a dirty word.

It’s very definition holds enough weight

to sink even the strongest souls.

With synonyms like

Complete devotion

Infatuation &

Passion

An addict is lured in by smooth promises of the perfect remedy

A way to lighten the load

Shift the wind

just enough for that dark, gloomy cloud

to hover somewhere other than at the top of your head

The lies slither in like steaming hot chocolate running down

the walls of your ice cold throat

Suddenly, you feel warm and cozy

All snuggled up to your lover: Addiction itself.

Addiction is a dirty word with even dirtier habits.

A Story of Faith

I grew up in the church

My mother a pastor

My father one too

The pews became home to my tiny, toddler feet

My faith fostered by the congregation X2

My family and friends meshed together

all fellow Christians

Until I grew slightly older and saw a new world

Where being the pastors’ kid doesn’t hold such a weight

It didn’t define me or my faith.

In real life

No one assumes you are this way or that because of a profession your parents come from.

And suddenly my world became a little confusing

I found that each question I asked about

myself

and my life

And my sexuality

And my faith

could pull me apart from each prayer I would say

Until one day I came out to the pastors

of a faith that would ridicule me until my skeleton was all that remained

as gay.

I went into that conversation with a quivering voice

Fully prepared to say

good bye to all the support I had known

But

I was met with two smiles and three little words that could never lose their wight:

“We love you”

Suddenly it didn’t matter what they did for a living

or previously believed

I am their daughter so they made room for me.

They took a quick moment to readjust their lives for this reality of love I would find. They sit in prayer and stand up when it matters and their kids feel the love of our God all the same.

My faith was tested by a world of confusing narratives.

This is my story.

Mine.

And I’d say it’s

a story full of

Faith lost

And faith found

And pain

And triumph

And love

And acceptance

And people who feel all the same stuff.

My mother a pastor

My father one too

I live my life out in the open

Far from the shadows of shame.

My family is beautiful.

Engulfed by a faith

where we stand our ground as we say,

“God’s love is love

and so is ours

to all of mankind.

each beating heart is a precious creation of our Lord and Savior nothing can change that-

It’s the simplest of fact.”

 

Memory Lane

Have you ever paused

Just for a moment

To get a glimpse of something so pure that it is etched in your memory

Like a breath of fresh air in your lungs

Remember?

 It’s that memory that makes you too giddy

Like you swallowed the entire sun and its bright yellow rays can only burst through the gaps in your teeth

What is it that makes you remember

So vividly

That your fingertips get all tingly-working overtime to figure out where the hell reality went

Is it a Disney-World-memory?

Where the sweet smell of the Mickey Mouse cafes’ mix with the squealing of the hinges on that infamous dumbo ride and endless dad jokes fill the atmosphere with smiles so wide it makes your mouth sore to this day

Or is it the first time you looked at someone as beautiful as the galaxies themselves and fell head over heels in love

Without a shadow of a doubt

Or

It doesn’t have to be just one memory that makes your eyes gleam

It could be more

It could be all the times you’ve felt completely and utterly at home in this skin

The moments when you looked at the world and saw your place in it

The times you found

Peace

Or Purpose

Or Love

Or True joy

Isn’t it wild how a trip down memory lane can be so riveting

How something as simple as a moment here or there can ground you

Remind you of what makes you

…

You.  

 

Two-Hundred Eighty Pounds

At two-hundred eighty pounds I worry about my heart, my cholesterol. You know? the works.

At two-hundred fifty pounds people started to say “have you lost weight since last saw you?”

my response: `”Yes. but it’s only been two weeks…” They were always impressed.

At 200 pounds, I started to get worried. I mean, grateful,

but mostly worried. How am I doing this? I mean, who drops 80 pounds in less than six months? That’s when other people started to worry too, I guess because I got a lot of, “how have you been?” “are you sure you’re okay?”

my response: “I have no idea what is happening. I haven’t even been trying and it’s kind of crazy…” They said I am lucky and asked me to trade bodies.

At 180 pounds, I made a doctors appointment. looked her right in the eye and said, “figure out what is going on. This can’t be right…” but every test just came back

FINE.

“are you sure you’ve been eating alright?” she asked with THAT look on her face.
“YES!” I said “I swear I eat three meals plus two or three snacks everyday and I keep losing weight. Do more tests. Take more blood. Send me to every specialist out there. I will do anything, everything just tell me why I am tired and sickly all of the time! This seriously can’t be right!?”

“I’m sorry” she says, “come back in two weeks. We’ll see what has changed by then.”

Then, last week, at 160 pounds, I saw an oncologist-

I run the numbers and remember each test. I picture myself nine months ago, and thought “If only I’d known….”

The phone rings and I say a quiet “hello…”

I fear for my life running worst case scenarios all through my head. What will I do if I turn up dead in a few years

“Yes this is she..”

or months

“okay. yes. Just tell me now…”

or weeks

…..wait what did he say?

nothing came up. nothing to be found.

“Oh! That’s great news!”

how is this possible?! I am back to square one with more questions than answers and nowhere to turn.

I pause. Should I even ask? Yes.

I say, “So, what now?”

“well I want to follow up in three weeks and see if we need to do anymore scans or take anymore blood.”

“Oh. Okay. I guess I’ll see you in three weeks.”

Until then, I’ll be here trying not to worry or show my fear of the skin on my back, hands, chest, and stomach. I’m sure I’ll  be okay.

Survival Mode

In 3rd grade I would walk the perimeter of the playground. Never stopping. Never standing still long enough for anyone to notice. If I looked busy when my classmates started harassing me the teachers were more likely to pick up on it.

 

In 4th grade I was pulled into the school counselors office twice a week to play card games and whatnot with the other targeted kids during lunch. It was supposed to help us feel less alone, but it was more like putting a bullseye on our backs.

 

In 6th grade, the kids on the bus would write

“Die b*tch” or

“No one actually cares” or

“When will your stupid story finally end?”

On balls of notebook paper

Each one hurled to my assigned seat on the bus with enough sting to make it count.

Those kids took every opportunity to sink their words of stone into the depths of my soul.

 

In 7th and 8th grade I was poked with pencils, publicly teased, spit on, tripped into file cabinets, to say the least. With the first black eye the teachers knew. The administration spoke about “not letting it get to me”, and they told me they were trying to help when they asked for names. I found out the hard way that they were as powerless as I.

I became a ‘library assistant’ so that I wouldn’t have to go outside for recess.

By 9th grade, I stopped hoping for help. I avoided the cafeteria at all costs. I didn’t speak unless spoken to. I spent most of my time in the nurses office because

well….

school was sickening

When I was raped by a boy I thought was my friend, my battle with depression took over. On my 14th birthday I was marched into a hospital and stayed five days. When I got home, the principal and guidance councilor pulled my parents and I into a meeting to say they thought I should stay home for the remainder of the year. There wasn’t anything anyone could do to guarantee my safety. School wasn’t an option anymore. I wasn’t safe there and everybody knew it.

Finally.

In 10th grade, I moved to a small, private school. Things got a lot better. I made a couple friends and started opening up a little. But the issue certainly wasn’t fixed. Rumors of a scandal spread- it’s high school what else is new? No one bothered to ask for the truth of the events he boasted about.

I went on with each day just like every other and it was mostly okay. I learned to survive and even smile.

Then, on senior retreat, it happened. A few of the popular girls noticed me sitting alone in the restaurant when we stopped for lunch. I don’t know why this time was any different than the other three years, but they moved to sit with me. That lunch was good. Nobody even asked why I was alone. It took me by surprise. I thought, “maybe this is good. Maybe I will finally get to be part of a group,”

but they didn’t acknowledge me after lunch was over. I realized I was just their “mission project” for the day and I had to move on.

The rest is a blur. My depression kicked into full swing and I stopped feeling a whole lot of anything. I was completely numb except for when my anxiety to control.

And….

Here we are two years after I attempted suicide, lived, and graduated high school.

and I’ve finally started Trauma therapy.

let’s be friends, okay?

When I was just five

I met me best friend for life
long brown pigtails bounced a little and she smiled shyly with a welcoming look in her eye and

BAM!

I knew this was the friend I would choose

we giggled our way through the days

on the playground 

we would imagine our lives

all one big fantasy intermingled with unicorns, aliens, and fairies

it was THE LIFE

and sure kids laughed “at us” instead of “with us” like the teacher said they should but honestly

we didn’t give a shit.

it didn’t matter who has the coolest toy or the most sparkly shoes

because she saw me with the biggest personality and i saw her with the best imagination in the whole wide world and 

THAT WAS THAT

when we got a little older my parents decided i needed a new school with different rules because

“having ADHD is hard for a kid” 

so i left my friend all alone in the yard to go to a school where the kids gawked 

at my games

and my glasses

and even my weight 

having ADHD is hard, but so is being eight 

as the years went by I cried to be homeschooled

“mom please don’t make me go back to a place where i have to hide one the playground so i don’t become bait in this world full of meanness and hate” 

my pleas went unheard because of this, that, or whatever 

and at just a mere 10 i wanted to die… like really die

but “kids can’t feel that way” 

so more meds i would take to make me calm or quiet or happy

i never did figure out which 

middle school arrived with a bang and i tried to keep my head down and just get through the days without crying to much or feeling the pain of the things they all said

with each day came torment and shame 

god what would i give to just be a kid again

with a friend and a laugh still intact

when i walked into history the first day of seventh grade

i was met by a girl who smiled and waved with the sort of excitement you can only find from friends who’ve been separated way too long

and there she was 

a friend that i knew from a lifetime ago

we had every class (except one) to rekindle our friendship 

and when everything else in our lives was basically fucked 

we knew we had each other and that was enough

we moved through high school together 

and had our first kisses and one or two fights 

we made it through sickness and hospital stays 

and graduation and

oh! and i came out as gay

our lives taking flight

it is incredible to think that we owe it all to that day 

when i walked up to that girl in my class and said,

“let’s be friends, okay?”

right back at you

“Why did you keep letting it happen?”
The first time he assaulted me his brother was across the room. I remember his eyes when he saw.
He knew. I could tell by his eyes that he knew. Then, he turned around with his head set on and continued playing his video game.

“… but you were taller than him. Why didn’t you stand up for yourself?”

I guess that’s when I lost the drive to get away. Every time I thought about letting the stories of him slide out from between my lips, I could only imagine the back of his brother’s head. What was the point? It’s not like anything would have been done for me, right? One time, I sat at my computer and typed ‘Laws about sexual assault’. I was a minor, but he was too.  There was an age difference, but not enough for it to count. There was no proof and it would be my word against his…. I remember the feeling of my heart plummeting into my stomach and I remember slamming the computer screen shut.

I tried to tell a teacher after he raped me when I was fifteen. I don’t think I said all the right words through my quivering voice, because she said, “it sounds like this boy doesn’t respect you….” My heart quickened a little only to come to a halt when she continued with, ” You need to just wait for a guy who will see your inner beauty and know your worth.” I wanted to scream, “BUT WHAT DO I DO? HOW CAN I MAKE him STOP??”, but I went to my next class instead. 

 

So, when you ask me why I didn’t do anything, I COULD ask you the same thing.