just your average writer writing about stuff.
It’s my fault. I let you take too much of time, too many emotions, too many tears, too much of me. I gave it all to you claiming it was heartache that I still needed to grieve. That the greatest love story wasn’t made and I clung to the hope that one day it would be. I gave you too much of my hope, too much of my future, too much of what I had. I made too much room to mourn you, too much energy looking for you, too much space in my head and in my heart. You took up too much of every part of me and every part around me. Everything reminded me of you, everything broke my heart. I gave you too much. And what did you give me? Silence. Dead silence. You never searched for me. Never came for me. Never fought for me. Never saved me. You left me with heartache and pain so deep it hurt with every step I took. I gave it all, gave all of me to you, for you to mock me. Your silence was nothing more than mockery knowing how much I’d give and how little you’d return. And although you never heard my weeping and screams, we both know you knew I would be. I told you how deeply in love I was. And you acted like a child holding a toy. You loved it for a moment and then left it outdoors. It got rained on, it got tossed and turned by the wind, it got covered in mud and strangled in weeds, waiting for you to remember it again. Yet, you stayed indoors where it was safe, where you clung to the toys that weren’t dirty or torn. And I cried for you, yelled over the wind to come and remember me. And in your silence I have heard everything. I gave you far too much of me. I’ll let you go like I should’ve a long time ago. Acceptance has finally come to give me grace. The love you owed me will die on this ground and I’ll rise from it, tall like sunflowers reaching the sky embracing the sun. The sun watched me carefully waiting for my realization, waiting for the day I’d turn to him again. His warmth always clothed me after every storm reminding me the behind the clouds he was there waiting. He watched me grow and is proud of me for the colors I wear can finally show. I’m more free now than before, waiting for for you was my nightmare but now I’m letting you go.
Writers Block: The Never Ending Struggle
I love to write. Since I was a little girl I have had a passion for writing. Being told as a child that there wasn't "much of a future for a writer", I kept writing as an outlet and a hobby. I've continued to write as an adult, but I write inconsistently meaning I have endless pieces of papers with a variety of random ideas and sentences that would probably make no sense to anyone who read it. I also have an overwhelming number of half written journals because for some reason or another I always stop and begin scribbling in a new notebook. I have the desires and ideas to write a variety of books. Books of all kinds; I have a children's book in mind inspired by my own two daughters and my dog. I have an idea for a self help book about parenting and discipline and another book idea regarding overcoming adversity. I've even attempted writing an autobiography where I share my childhood traumas and journey to finding spirituality. In fact, I have so many ideas that even my poor Vocal account has seen quite a few dozen articles drafted up too. They range from review like articles of music, movies, and food to advice and motivation for battling depression and anxiety and motherhood. The ideas flow infinitely across my head. My problem is I hardly come to finish any of the pieces I write. Call it crippling perfectionism or Imposter Syndrome, no matter how hard I try to write and finish, I stop myself before the end. Part of the reason being that I critique myself too harshly, but I mean, I know that it's not good enough so why even finish? I know I am too hard on myself and know that I have to put myself out there in order to improve. Yet, as I write I feel the passion fade away and tension and pressure build up inside me instead. As I reread what I wrote, I feel embarrassed for myself. It's too amateur, too sloppy; I sound pathetic. It's as if I have a standard for myself that I can't seem to meet mostly because I don't know what it is. So for years now I have claimed I have Writer's Block, the ongoing and never ending issue I seem to posses. I used to blame the lack of time to be the cause for my writer's block. I thought if I could dedicate enough time to sit and write in one moment then the problem would stop. However, frankly, I have the time now, yet I can barely finish a piece without feeling defeated and inadequate. I thought spending more time reading would also help me, but instead anxiety grows as I realize the talent many writers have that I seem to lack. I've created goals to help motivate me to write, but more often than not I avoid them to avoid the pressure of writing something I am unhappy with. The true irony of it all is that writing is suppose to be a form of expression. You see, I understand that there really isn't a "correct" way to write. Grammar, punctuation, and syntax are generally preferred, but technically it's not necessary. Just as art can range in beauty depending on who sees it, writing works the same way. There is suppose to be freedom in writing, but I as much as I seem to comprehend the concept, I very hypocritically struggle with breaking myself away from what I truly believe: that I am not a good enough writer. In the end of the day my writer's block is nothing more than the part of me that just wishes I didn't do this. The part of me that is afraid of failing and remaining inadequate. But today, that part of me did not win. Today regardless of fears I felt and the imperfections I saw, I pushed to do what my writer's block did not want me to do: write.
A Beautiful Little Fool
About 7 years ago, I read F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. I remembered reading alongside the rest of my junior class and being blown away as my English Literature teacher used it to educate us on a variety of literary devices. It was one of the first times I had ever read a book and realized that authors use fiction to inadvertently address societal issues. I haven’t touched the book since, yet I can’t forget the feeling of fascination I had as I read the book. I don’t remember many of the book’s details anymore, yet there is one quote that has stuck with me since I first picked up the book. Early in the book, Daisy shares her hopes of her daughter by stating,
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. They also say that your skin would simultaneously begin to freeze and boil as your lungs rupture. That it would start off as a tingling sensation and change to excruciating pain in the matter of seconds. But my parents have a way of exaggerating their fears to me. Like how my mother would tell me as a little girl that if I didn’t eat all the vegetables on my plate I would die. Many times, I wonder if they are telling me the truth, if I would really lose consciousness as quickly as they say. Or do they exaggerate the rapidness of its effect to instill fear and worry in me so that I am always extra cautious? Other times I think they just fight loneliness as hard as I do, so they recite their warnings out loud to remind me, but more so themselves, that death, as close as it is, is not worth exploring. Yet, when I look out the window, the sun shining down on the red sand calls to me. I can’t help but wonder if it might be worth stepping outside without my suit for a moment just so I could feel the dirt under my feet and the warmth of the sun on my skin before I ultimately meet my painful end.
The College Stowaway
As a college student, I knew adopting a dog was probably not the best idea. The day I took Mason back to my apartment, I had only a few dollars in my bank account and final exams a week away. Besides financially and mentally struggling, I was also a horrible emotional mess that had just been dumped earlier that month. I had no time, money, or energy, yet I couldn’t stand the idea of him being sent away to a pound. Mason, a 70-pound black mixed bully breed, was sure to meet misfortune if he went to the pound.
I opened my eyes and found myself sitting in darkness. Slightly dazed and confused, I tried to remember where I was and how I got there. I felt the soft, velvet fuzz of the couch on my fingers and realized I was home. I must have fallen asleep watching TV, I thought to myself as I tried to search for the remote control. Feeling my way around, I found it and anxiously pressed all the buttons on top hoping to turn on the TV. Nothing. “Maybe the power went out,” I whispered into the darkness as if expecting a response. Instead the echo of my voice made the room feel bigger and emptier than what it was. I felt a deep sense of loneliness and fear that I hadn’t had in years.
Why I Shop at Target and Why You Should Too
Let me begin by stating that I didn’t always shop at Target. In fact, at one point, I considered it bougie and expensive. As a kid, I thought Target was the place that rich, white folks went to because they could afford to pay more for no reason. And although now I know that’s not the case, I still get the occasional, “you shop at Target? That’s SO expensive!”
Today, I'm Sad Again...
My sadness feels heavier than it has been in a while. I feel the weight of my sadness directly on my chest, as if someone was pushing me down. I just want to sit. I just want to lay down. Either way, I just want to cry. Why must I always feel so sad? Why must I always end up here? Crying and not really understanding why...
- Top Story - November 2021
A Mother’s Cover LetterTop Story - November 2021
To whom it may concern, I know my resume seems unimpressive. You’re not wrong to think that. I know it’s unimpressive. In fact, it’s so unimpressive that every time I look at it… I cry. There’s a painfully obvious large gap missing from my work experience. What could I have possibly been doing for so many years instead of working? The truth is: I’ve been home. I’ve been taking care of two beautiful little girls who have taken up more time and energy than what I want to admit. They are wonderful tiny humans and I’m sure you’d be impressed if you met them, but for now you’ll just have to take my word for it. Nonetheless, I’d like to say that they are who they are because of me. Because of the decision I made to stop pursuing what I loved and aspired to be to instead stay home and care for people who needed me the most. My love and dedication to let my children learn and grow in a healthy and encouraging environment has molded them into someone better than who my husband and I could ever be.