Turning a New Leaf

April 25, 2012

Okay. I’ve read about 15 different articles on ways to improve your life. Lately, I’ve heard the expression take one day at time a lot. A lot more than I’d like to hear it, however I’ve come to realization that dealing with our life a day at a time is a pretty useful ideal. It’s pretty hard to accept this. But I’m ready. My life is going to be drastically changing soon and I’m going to need an outlet. So instead of turning to Facebook, or video games, or hell even the television, I’m going to start living for the day. No more watching the days pass me by with no purpose. I’m getting down to the work and I’m going to make my dreams a reality.

Freedom of Fear

February 7, 2012

My path was looking worn. It’s been beaten by the elements; puddles were filling my path and meddling with my journey. But yet, I’m standing out of the rain in the sunshine soaking up the warm, gently rays. My inner child wonders how long the sunshine is going to last; I have to remind her to be composed. In the distance I see another path that is bright and cheerful, yet had my eyes not focused I would have kept right on walking. My natural tendency of curiosity is seeping through my veins; have I atlas stumbled down the right path? I’m hesitant to jump, hesitant to allow myself to relish in the happiness. Glancing back before I step forward, I see the rain clouds; I feel compelled to run towards this new path. But that thought is brief; my fear starts to fill my body. In all rationality, those clouds are behind me. Words of a great are gently escaping my lips, “Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose.” In this moment I ultimately hope that on the other side of this path, opposite of this fear, is my freedom.

Inner Child

February 3, 2012

I realize that the little girl is back. The little girl that’s so innocent and naive with small, delicate freckles  sprinkled across her shoulders. The glass reflects her childlike beauty starting with those red Shirley Temple curls that wrap around her face, gently brushing across her shoulders. But she isn’t smiling this time. And my thoughts race through my mind before it settles on the realization that her angelic face would be more suited for a bright, white smile.

She’s not showing herself to gently whisper helpful advice on how to get away from the pain. No, on the contrary, she’s here to tell me that the pain is all I have left to hang onto. She knows, even in that childlike mentality, that the pain is draining me of my passion, my soul, my desire to continue breathing. This little girl knows pain, my personal pain, like no little girl should. This little girl is the voice of innocence inside my own head. This is little girl is me.

I still remember that last time she showed her face. I was still in love with him, as I am now. The warmth of the sun was soaking into my skin. I felt as if the ice around my heart had slowly dripped away for the first time in my life. I was content. My ice casket was no more. The sunlight was splashing against my windshield. I had no destination, no careless whisper to where I was headed. And yet I wanted so desperately to glance in my rear view mirror, yet I knew she’d be waiting for me there. That little girl with pleading eyes and those same simple freckles sprinkled across her shoulders.

I knew that she was there to whisper some bitter truth once I acknowledged her existence. Now I see that’s all she ever really wanted. To be acknowledged, tended to, comforted. I looked. For a moment my eyes focused. At first she wasn’t there. But then the moment came and went; she’s always there. Waiting. Patiently.

“Where are you going?” she gently nudged.

I answered within my thoughts, “Wish I knew.”

And with that she was in my head quicker than I could blink, “Rationalization. You won’t go far without it.”

A bitter, cocky smirk appeared on my face. Or it could have been her’s, although I greatly doubt that. Her innocence is always so simple. So beautiful.

“Don’t be so quick to remind me,” I replied with dry sarcasm out loud.

I regret treating her with such contempt the last time. Quite frankly, had I listened to her then I wouldn’t be in such pain now. She was there to tell me that my gut instincts about him were true. That if I could only just step back from my overwhelming desire to be loved and wanted for one moment, the rationalization of what a cruel, uncaring man he was, still is, would finally hit me. But my stubborn desires to be in love clouded my vision.

Three years have past since I last saw her face. Three years filled with terror, shame, and heartache. She was there. She felt all my anguish. But she was scared. Now that I’m alone again, she shows me her face. This little girl hid from him. She hid from his constant control issues, his jealous rages, and his verbal insults. She still hasn’t forgiven the first demon who terrorized her in the same way he recently terrorized me.

She knows me like no other. She know all my demons by their first names. She knows the dreams that terrorize me at night. She cries my tears. But neither of us know how to heal. Neither of us now how to pick up the pieces to our shattered dreams, goals, and life.  She can’t save me or show me how to run from this problem. I have to save her. And I’m terrified that I can’t.

Life’s rumor has it that all things come in threes; yet, as in all of life, there is a sour, bitter side and a joyful, abundant side to little rumor that runs through the wild world.

On the first card, we draw an utter tide of misfortune, pain, and problems. When this rumor swirls to the side of dismay, we find that we are constantly being put to the test by trying circumstances and problems not necessarily of our own making. I can accept a trip occurring in my life path, making a wrong turn, and straying for a brief moment. Unfortunately the curse of a bitter rumor is that it seems to choose the exact time I am struggling to stay on my path to strike. It’s an overwhelming emotion of frustration, hopelessness, and heartache when it occurs.

Yet, the next card offers a bold, beautiful comfort that provides us with shelter, comfort, and stability.  We are offered a chance at ultimate contentment and satisfaction in this state of rumor. It radiates fulfillment and bliss. I find that when this side of the rumor comes around to me, I want to run and leap through the potholes on my road. I feel as light as a deer prancing through the forest.

Both rumors came and gone here for me. I have found I am learning more about myself in these last few weeks. I am a person steadfast, practical, domestic, able to  give stability to myself and others. I have reached more maturity and sensibility, coupled with an innate appreciation for nature and the material world.

I find it ironic how time and change walk hand in hand down a one way street, a street that is never ending with no detour. The street of life prohibits any sense of deceleration, yet has  many twists and turns that obscures judgement. This street can be a beautiful ride, like a cruise on a warm Autumn day with the crisp, bold leaves gently dancing in the wind. But the road of life also has a dark, ominous stretch of bumps and loose gravel begging to have the control of the car; wanting so desperately to have the victory of catastrophe.
It’s not that I relish in misery; I just see both sides to the world. See, I’ve had a childhood that was significant to my thought process now. My parents, like so many others in my generation, had a devestating divorce. Those memories are long gone for me, but I still catch snapshots in my mind of the arguing, cursing, and pure hatred. My mother was the light guiding ships to shore; my father was the wicked waves gushing over the haul.
During the years after the divorce, I spent most of my time with my mother. I remember vaguely driving in her vibrant red Mustang with the top down. We were belting out the words to Jewel as she sang softly through the speakers. My mother looked so beautiful to me as I would steal glances through my wild, red hair that was whipping in the wind.
With my mother there was a slight sense of stability with rigid rules and regulations as to what I could and could not do. It was a sort of sheltered exsistance that I had living under her roof.I But it was stable. It was secure. It was safe.
Then the weekends would slowly creep up and in my childlike mentality I relalized that the sunshine could only last so long before the darkness would reign. Being with my father was like watching the calm before the storm. He was the devil that ran the nightlife circus. He was the devil that whispered to his followers to drink, snort, smoke, and steal. A child was no different to him and required no special attention. No, in fact, a child was only another pawn to use to get what he craved.
There are memories that haunt me of my father. Memories as vivid and strong as the oceans under current. An under current that when the dreams do appear, fill my lungs with water and cause me to gasp for breath. These memories have only escaped my mouth once when I had an overdose of Xanax, was in the hospital room with my mother, and I still dont know how much I truly spilled to her.
Despite the chaos of my childhood, years later I am now able to reconize that my version of my childhood is just like everyone’s version. It is diluted. I see my past through the diluted eyesight of innocense and navity, with a little pixie dust and wonder clouding my perspective.
Thus far it has been a challenge for me to accept that my father did the best he could do in his current situation. Hell, it’s a challenge for me to really believe that I had a stable childhood with my mother.  But fortunately a wise woman once told me, “Forgiving doesn’t mean forgetting; forgiving frees you to move forward and become the best you possibly can be.”

I’ve realized that my heart will never truly heal from my current relationship’s wounds. Now that tried and true assertion of, “We always know the right thing to do, the hard part is doing it,” is sinking in. The emotion that this brings on is extremely uncomfortable; as if you are under water and your lungs are slowly begging for air.

  I cannot really grasp the precise moment my world came crashing down, but I can tell you that when my fantasy world and the real world collided, it felt as if Armageddon had begun.  I felt as if all the air in the room had quickly dissipated and I was gasping for breath. The weight of fear, heartache, and misery was heavy on my  chest. The dull sense of my eyesight was blurring and becoming a dark void. Unfortunately for me, I have a streak of stubbornness that courses through my veins and although I had absolutely no defense against such a personal vendetta of my own creation, I allowed my personal war to continue for far too long.

In truth, I was terrified and still am. The realization of what a lie my life had become was devastating. It’s ironic how quickly we can pick out the flaws and insecurities of another individual,  yet when the veil falls and the truth comes out about our own vices and defaults, we can hardly tolerate listening as the pain is too quick to engulf us in its wrath.

My thoughts in these previous days are still hitting me like an aftershock. What life is one to live in fear of oneself? To be so overcome with desperation that despite the fear of the worst to come, I forget to be proactive in the present? Thankfully my words are here to revive me. I can become alive with my words and writing. At utmost an utter sense of being human washes over me and I can feel the blood pulsing through my veins as the words fill the page. The bitter truth is that I cannot live my life as though it were a book unfolding. My dark, rueful life long challenge thus far: separating myself from my storybook fantasy of the way I wish the world would spin from harsh, pungent reality of the way the world truly is.

This serendipitous epiphany, however has granted me with some insight on myself. I am an individual who believes in two worlds; my primary, everyday world which I know through my senses and feelings, and a separate secondary world, which I not only create in my imagination, but cannot stop myself from creating.

Thus the creation of my own secret garden of words. An oasis where I can not only connect with reality in both its beauty and bitterness, but also  express myself through my imagination and words. A garden in which you must be willing to stumble a bit down the rabbit hole in order to appreciate all its wonder.