Hello creative minds! I hope you enjoy the words I have for you. Leave me a gift if you want to see more!
I Am a Product Of...
"I am a product of divorce." I hate that phrase. It's just so limiting, so defeating. Don't get me wrong, divorce is a very serious topic that has everlasting effects on the people that it touches. I know this; I am from a broken family. My parents split up when I was four years old as a result of an affair my father was having with a family friend. The same woman he is still with today. The same woman who abused me. I have suffered long and hard for the mistakes of others, the mistakes of those who were meant to protect me. I had to learn to protect myself, and as so often happens with children who are forced to grow up too soon, I protected myself in the most destructive ways imaginable. As I have grown, and truly only recently discovered, I have learned that sometimes the only way to move forward is to let go. It took me years to realize this fact, and it is one that I wrestled with tirelessly for what seemed like an eternity. Believe me, I know how cliché this sounds, and the conclusion came at no small cost, but it is the truth. A ship cannot complete its voyage while its anchor is cast. Healing cannot begin if one is not ready and open to the idea of letting their past be just that - the past. Too often it happens that people spend a lifetime punishing themselves for the sins of those who hurt them. It is so important to reach an understanding within yourself that it is okay to move on. You are allowed to let go, you're allowed to heal, you're allowed to grow. You do not have to carry every single thing that has ever happened to you through your whole life, in fact, that is an extremely toxic way to live. What I'm trying to say is, you cannot let the bad things that happen to you as a child define who you are as an adult. And that is no easy task, believe me, I know. I have countless stories of personal punishment that I could delve into, intimate horrors I could lay out for everyone to see. I still find myself using food, or the lack thereof, as one such punishment when I feel I am not doing enough, when I feel I have messed up, when I feel like I am just no good. I do this because that is what I was taught. When you upset someone or do wrong, you don't get to eat, you have to earn it. And I know this is ridiculous, which is why I try so hard to remind myself every day that what happened to me doesn't have to follow me for the rest of my life. And it shouldn't. No one will ever be able to take away what I experienced, no one can take away the pain. But beauty can still grow from those ashes. I can, and I must choose every single day to let go and to grow, to break out of the box that I built around myself to keep from getting hurt again. The box was only hurting me more. I am so glad I can see that now, and I am so glad that I have allowed myself to have a voice and to speak about my journey into freedom- because that is what I am. I am not a product of divorce. I am a product of my own making, a product of letting go and being free.
Clearly, what we have is something most might deem... unconventional. We are apart more than we are together; we have been in a relationship for four years, though we have only been in the same country a total of four months. What we have is by no means easy. What we have takes work. Despite all of this, what we have is special. All the time spent apart makes the time together so perfect. Every tear we shed on departure from each other is replaced by thousands of butterflies each time we return to each other's arms. Every time I board yet another plane to come to you I am overcome with the familiar feeling of blissful uneasiness I experienced my first time ever laying eyes on you in person. It is a nervousness that calms me in the most unexpecting way. It is an anxiousness that whispers in my ear, "You're going home." What we have is something I have never known. We have been together for four years, and every day feels like the first. Everything we are gives me butterflies. Everything you do keeps me in awe. Things as simple as:
Strength in Fear
There are approximately 361,481 children born in the world every single day. We all start out the same—a blank canvas.We come into this world new, clean, untouched, and yet somehow the darkness finds us all. Think about it. Over 300,000 children born each day and at some point, they all fear the same thing—the monster underneath the bed. We've all been there, laying under our duvet, curled up, telling ourselves that if our limbs are brushed by the cool night air, even in the slightest, that the beast lurking beneath the bed frame will steal us away from our families and, ultimately, our childhoods. Now, eventually, these thoughts and fears drift away as we grow older and realize that the only monster that lives with us in our bedrooms is our imagination. Or is it?
I am in a long distance relationship. I know what you're thinking, long distance never works out and anyone who thinks it can is crazy. But hear me out. When I met my girlfriend, we didn't know anything about each other. We had no connections, we didn't have presumptions, we didn't have anything. When we met, it was meeting a blank slate and there was nothing to hide because we never thought we'd actually meet, we never thought it would turn into what it has — in our minds there was no reason that what we shared with each other would ever leave the conversations e had, and so we shared everything. Our hopes, our fears, our battles, our scars. I was real with her in a way I had never been with anyone else. I was 100 percent, completely unfiltered, me. And that was everything. We have been together four years now and I wouldn't trade what we have for the world. Yes, we have to go long periods without seeing each other physically, yes everyone tells us we're crazy, and yes we have our issues. But I feel like this kind of connection doesn't happen every day and who am I to pretend like something like this could ever fall into my lap again? She is mine, and I am hers, and we are happy. We push each other to do and be better, we hold each other up when needed, we love each other, unconditionally. She is my family. She is my home. My only hope is that everyone can experience this kind of connection with someone in their lifetime because it absolutely blows me away, every single day.
The Ultimate Choice
Before I get to my main piece for this article I just wanted to put a precursor on my words. I want to first of all state that I mean no harm in writing these words. I want to put out there that I am in NO WAY trying to trivialize the terror that is rape or try to assume the thoughts or roles of a woman who has to make this -to me- seemingly unbearable decision. I have never been in this situation, I do not know the emotions, the fear, the pain that is experienced in a time such as this. All I know is what I have been told by women who have gone through this experience, women who have been on both sides of the argument, women who have chosen life, and women who have chosen to exercise their right of choice. Every single woman in this world has a right to her own body and no girl should be made to feel bad for knowing this fact and choosing to exercise that right. I am completely in awe of the power and strength of the women of this world and we can only become stronger by lifting each other up and trying to understand and support each other the best we can. I feel that in today's society when it comes to the topic of abortion and a woman's choice, we are all so focused on just that- the choice. The end result. The ultimate decision. Few stop to consider the process that these women go through in their minds as well as in their hearts when actually making the decision. I have heard plenty of these women’s stories and there is one thing never changes: the pain in the choice. That is what this piece is about. The process. I hope it touches someone and maybe sheds some light on what sometimes seems like a very black and white topic in today’s world. Blessings and love,
*LIVE READING OF WORK ATTACHED AT THE BOTTOM* Just found the song you wrote me, read the lyrics out loud, this is breaking my heart. All the things you wrote down, all the things you said would bring us together are exactly what tore us apart. Did you mean it, was it true? Cause right now I just don't see. We were supposed to be sisters, best friends- but how can I be best friends with just me? We've missed out on so much, I've been through so much alone. My god, why won't you just answer the phone? I'm lost, I'm scared, I need you by my side, please come save me from this never ending ride. This ride of sadness, loneliness, bitterness, confusion; I feel like I'm trapped inside a house of illusion. One I built myself with bricks of love, but the foundation was built on lies and we both know it was never enough. Did you ever love me, or was I always just a chore? Forgive me for asking these hard questions, I'm just tired of being ignored. I'm trying not to give up, but lately, it's hard. I feel like I've been dealt a stacked deck of cards. Was this always your plan, to pick up and run away with my heart? If I'd have known that I wouldn't have pushed you, leaned on you, or asked you to catch me when I made a mistake. But now I'm alone at my own pity party eating stale cake, cause I've waited so long for you to come back. I should've realized sooner that you don't have a rear-view mirror. And the scary part is -the part that hurts the most- I'm not even mad at you.
This Very Moment
“The two most important days of your life are the day you were born and the day you find out why.” Mark Twain’s words burn in my mind as I wake to see streams of early morning light peering through the curtains suspended across the windows of the conversion van. Those ineffable words, chilling and haunting, strike me at my core. They irk me to the point of psychosis, for how am I supposed to be in touch with reality if the supposed “pivotal equation” for my life is unfinished? I know who I am. I’m Donna, Donna Leota Seaman Kirkpatrick to be specific, born into this disillusion on May 7, 1933. But how am I meant to go on when the reason as to why has been destroyed on more than one occasion? I suppose my good friend Mark didn’t consider that, and it makes my entire being ache with disdain.
There was only one way to keep her quiet. She needed to think it was her idea. She wasn’t like most twelve-year-old girls. She was dark, cynical to the point of self-destruction. Her outlandish sense of humor made it impossible for her to connect with anyone. This being what it was, she never viewed it as much of a problem. She was rather small for her age, the runt of the litter — a description that rang true on more levels than one. In fact, she always felt like an outcast in a society she never had a desire to be a part of to begin with. Her jet-black hair, the coffee-colored irises of her eyes, her swarthy complexion, and her overall disheveled appearance were all very true reflections of shadows lurking beneath the fleshly level — the secret looming, longing to be discovered, revealed. Her name was Simone Coletun and there was one way to keep her quiet; it was simply this: ask her to talk.