And it can paralyze you in the biggest of ways.
Today, I blog for the first time in many months (which might be a surprise to some as I’m sure a lot have figured this blog for dead. Me, for dead. As a writer or otherwise.) and it’s not because something really beautiful and delicious has happened. Though many wonderful things have happened since my last post and now.
Instead, I blog for the opposite reasons.
Because, today, in the literal words of Reddit, I fucked up.
Words are not easy. Writing words is not easy, though many claim it to be so. Speaking words are even harder, I think. Because at least when it comes to writing, we can erase. We can hit the delete or backspace button as much as we can. Undo. Redo. Select all. Delete. Cut. Paste. Or maybe, even the old fashioned way. Scrubbing rubber on paper. Flakes brushed off with the sides of our fingers. Or if ink is your weapon, then slashing and scribbling is the means. All in all, when something is written, it can be taken back. If we want to, that is.
Speaking, however, cannot. Oh, we can try. We can try as hard as we can sometimes. To take back those stupid noises that tumbled out of your mouth, to retry an answer, sound less stupid, sound more confident, whatever the poison is, we can try to seep it back into our mouths and have it run back through the computer that is our brains. And sometimes, it kind of works.
Key word: kind off. Because when we think it works, when we think we’ve taken back all that we’ve said, those little words are still trapped in someone else’s minds and hearts and the damage they do is still….
….lying right there. Just covered with the bandage of whatever we’ve done to “make things right again.”
Most often, it doesn’t work though. And that, can be the deepest of pains.
Forgiveness isn’t easy. Of course, it never is.
But, sometimes, I wish it was.
Selfish as it is, I don’t like living with guilt. I don’t like my stomach twisting and turning in one ugly queasy ball. I especially don’t like losing things. Losing people. Losing people I care about.
When one doesn’t care, it’s easy to let go. So long. Goodbye. Vaya con dios.
But when one does care, we cling as hard as we can, dig our nails in deep, claw, scrape, beg for another chance.. we do what we can so that we don’t have to let go. Even when we don’t have any other choice but to let go.
Today, I might have to let go.
And it’s the scariest thing I’ve had to consider in my entire life so far.
Even letting go of past friends, boyfriend, memories, tv shows.. all of everything that’s been in my life so far, it hasn’t been like this.
And it’s not even something, most would deem as important. But it is– was to me. It is small. Very, small. So small, it would be insignificant to everyone, but myself.
Today, I might have to let go of a friendship that was built very slowly within a three month span (though I have friendships that have been cultivated for years, the shortness of its duration is perhaps what makes it so bitter in the mouth). Something, someone, that, in my mind, was steadily becoming a friend and memory that I could hold onto dearly in the back of my mind, to look back on in sweet, innocent happiness.
Today, I was prepared to let go of a place. Not the memories it gave me. And, certainly, not the people it gave me.
And the worst part of it all, was that in the ticking countdown moments of goodbye, a few words spilling from my mouth crashed down everything that had been slowly built over those three months. Had I kept my mouth shut, had I actually thought about what I was going to stay and analyzed it, I would have realized how those words would sound like coming out. What they would mean to another person and not how I meant them to mean.
I have a problem with word vomit. I spill out whatever comes to mind, the instant it comes to mind. I don’t scan for errors, no spelling check, no grammar check. Nothing. Often times, it’s funny. Witty, or silly, or stupid. Other times, my words come out in embarrassedly backward lines and sayings. I get made fun of for those. But I think that’s fine.
Finally, there are times where I get into trouble because of my word vomit. Those times are the most awful of times. Interpretation is a funny thing– there is never just one of them. There are always many interpretations. Safe words have safe interpretations. Others do not.
I don’t think. I have that problem. And addressing my problems is never an easy task for me because I like to think that I have no problems. I don’t want to have problems. I want to be perfect. I want to be me and be perfect. And pride can be a very ugly thing.
So I haven’t addressed my word vomit like I should have. Because so far, I’ve been able to peel and press brightly colored bandages on any wound or mistake or accident so far. Because so far, I’ve been fine with bandaging. I’ve always felt that I never needed to fix it.
I’ve been fine playing faux doctor.
I can’t do that today. And as ugly as it is, a part of me still sort of wants to. Even uglier, I might actually be able to.
I said a few lines, jokes as they were to me, and I crashed down a fortitude of trust, because they did not come out as jokes. I was stupid. And I am at fault. I do not excuse myself. I fucked up. Bad. Very, bad.
I want to take everything back. Rewind those last five minutes.. keep my mouth shut and been able to say goodbye to a place and maybe not the person it gave me. It’s impossible, but how I want to.
I feel guilty.
I feel mad because I feel guilty.
I feel sad because I feel mad.
And finally, I feel numb. Because I can hear the grief creeping in. Mourning potential loss already.
I hate losing things.
I hate grief. It brings so many things. But for me, it affects me in only one way. Paralyzing. I grieve, I grow numb. And boy does it take a lot to get the blood circulating on its own again.
I don’t know where this is going, I’m not sure how to stop this mess of writing. Writing with emotion is always a mess of writing, isn’t it?
I am sorry.
I am so very sorry.
I want to be forgiven.
Will my bandage be taken?
I don’t know. I doubt it.
I am sorry.
I think I’m due for a long walk. I need to clear my head.
Getting close to things is a very scary business. We never know when we might lose them. Sorry.
I am writing this letter in order to get some feelings off my chest. I hate you. There, I said it. Of course, I’m sure you’ve always known I hated you ever since that day and I’m sure that you might have noticed that prior to that day there had been a steadily increasing dislike in my feelings toward you. I didn’t really keep it a secret and I’m sure it was obvious from my face.
Perhaps, I might have liked you or at least tolerated you had things not gone the way they did, but I guess that’s pretty pointless now.
This letter is pointless as well (for you at least, since you’ll likely never read it), but for me it’s almost liberating. I’ve kept this pretty bottled up inside and it’s about time that I let it out. It’s supposed to be healthy right? Not keeping everything in, I mean.
So yeah. I hate you. I hate you so much that I’ve designated you as my pit person.
A girl in my class told me what that was a long time ago. And I can assure you that you are it, though if the situation ever does call for someone to be thrown into a pit, I really hope that for both our sakes, I do the right thing. I’m not a bad person, in fact, I’m pretty set on trying to be the best person I can be. I don’t like to see people hurt, but there’s just something about you that a part of me wishes I’d do something really mean and bad to you.
Like slash your tires for instance.
Or smashing your face into a brick wall.
Or crossing my fingers, wishing, whenever I think of your reckless driving. (By the way, that’s really dangerous you know. Of course, you never listened to me about it before so why bother changing that now?)
Or for instance, spreading all those ‘secrets’ you told me about.
Unfortunately, I can’t seem to do it.
Believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve tried VERY HARD to get my mouth talking, blabbing everything you ever said. I mean, after all, you have my share of secrets as much as I have yours and I’m pretty sure you haven’t wasted any time in spreading those. Fortunately, our senior class actually liked me so those haven’t come back to bite me in the ass at all.
But, like I said, I’ve really tried. And I almost have on numerous occasions under encouragement by several people but every time, I end up with a lame “I can’t. There’s a line, guys.” And you know what?
There really is a line. A small and thin line, but it’s there and while I can pretend to ignore it, I still know it’s there.
I don’t want to cross that line. Because if I do, then I’d be you. And I never ever want to be you.
And now thinking over that, I realize something really important.
More than hating you, I pity you.
To be so disliked by so many people (And trust me, there’s a lot of them, sadly.), that has to be depressing. More so with the knowledge that that’s never going to really change. Perhaps if you treated others better, you’d get treated better as well.
I get that you are the way you are because of all the shit that’s happened to you. Shit happens and I’m so sorry that it does, but trying to get other people to wallow in the same shit you have, that’s not right. At all.
I pity you a lot.
You know, before I invited you to hang out with me and my friend, I knew a lot about you. And of those things I knew, one thing should have prevented me from ever trying to be close to you. See, I knew about you and the person I had dated previously. Yeah I knew. But did I care? No, not really. I overlooked that and even to this day, I don’t hold any harsh feelings towards you over that. I think it was dumb, stupid, and a reflection of bad character, but I don’t hate you for that like most would.
See, I tried to be nice to you because I knew that people can be so cruel and sometimes people just need a chance to show that they can be good. However, you took that chance and stomped all over it.
I invited you in. I let my family invite you in. We cared, you know. When very little people gave a shit, we did.
But you had to screw it up. And I very much don’t give second chances when the screw up is that big.
Maybe, if it hadn’t involved family, then maybe I would forgive you. But it did. And for me, family aways comes first. Before anything.
Do you understand?
I’ve always felt like you didn’t since you never even attempted to apologize for what you did (not that I would’ve accepted it). I’m not that good at plainly explaining though, so you’ll have to pardon the way in which I do so. See, a long while before, my group was preparing a packet of our written works to send in to a competition. And at the time, I was still extremely overwhelmed by what had happened between us that almost instantly, I was inspired to tell our story. All three of us, I mean.
I stored that piece away, keeping it hidden from everyone save for a select few. Except now, I want to share it. Maybe one day, if you ever read this, you’ll finally get why I despise you so much and maybe you’ll realize the full extent of what you did. But, maybe you won’t. And that’s fine with me.
Of course, there’s no way I managed to fully implement our characters, motivations, and thoughts since I could only write from my point of view, but I think I did fairly well in trying to keep it as most un-biased as someone in my position could. Did it really win anything? Not really. I never expected it to. It was written in only a few hours and was far too emotionally driven that even a damn good polishing couldn’t have saved the piece from the disaster that it was. However, it accomplished what I set out to do.
More than anything, this story reflects the fear you caused within me. It is fiction, yes. The whole story is fiction, but it mimics our situation so well and displays clearly the fear you sprung into my heart.
That’s why I hate you. Because you have made this ending very possible.
I will stop you though. The difference between my story and I is that I can change the ending.
I still have time.
“I did everything I could. In the end, it may have just been a pointless struggle.”
– Dr. Toshio Ozaki
So having been fully confident that my flash drive was somewhere lost in the creative writing club room (aka English Room), I didn’t worry as much as I should have yesterday.
Well now, after having visited the classroom in the morning and finding no trace of my flash drive, I am very very very worried and very glum. I feel sad.
I don’t like feeling sad.
Worse, as said before, it was my writing flash drive so….all that is lost. On the bright side though, I have pretty much everything posted somewhere on the internet (I need to keep track of the sites I’m on) and the things that aren’t on the internet are fortunately not that important, so I’m good. I haven’t ‘lost’ my writing for good. But, on the dark side, all new updates are now officially being classified as MIA.
If by tomorrow I have not found the butt to my giraffe flash drive (because it could still be somewhere in this school and hopefully a good samaritan will bring it to the lost-and-found or it’s hiding somewhere in my friend’s car – we ate at Chik-fil-a on the way home from club), then I will draw a picture of it, take it to the garden we have, cover the picture with a napkin, and place a big rock on it. I will then, in chalk, scratch:
on it. I’ll even rip one of my mother’s flowers up, roots and all, and place it on top of it. Pictures will be taken of course and we will all mourn for the fallen Dimitri.
But back to the updates.
I now have to re-write all the new chapters that I had been neglecting to post because I wanted to post them on the 25th (I have a bet going on with someone), which, at the moment is so fucking retarded ironic since the 25th is tomorrow! Whee.
When I will decide to re-write them is now in the air, because I’m so disappointed right now. Think of a ballom full of helium. Now think of someone stabbing it with a pin.
A slow slow slow deflation.
That kind of sinking disappointed feeling.
My motivation is pretty low right now…
My Summary of Everything
Life goes *bitch slap* “LOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOL.”
I go “you dirty bastard!!!”
Dimitri screams “FIND ME!!!”
Everyone else rages, “WHEN DA F*CK ARE YOU UPDATING?!”
My dog pees on the floor again. “LMFAO.”
I say. “Done.”
Written for the DP Challenge: Writerly Reflections
When I was thirteen, I asked my mother if she wanted me.
See, in school that day, the topic brought up over tater tots and milk cartons was of bastard babies and whether we were ones. Naturally as soon as I got home, I popped the question to my mother. “Did you want me? Was I planned?”
My mother paused from cooking and wrapped me in her arms. “You have no idea how much I wanted you.”
I thought nothing of it until I went to bed. That’s when I remembered that before me, I had four other siblings.
I didn’t know what their names were, hesitated to even ask if my parents had gotten to name them before they were lost, but reflecting on that, it was clear that yeah, I had been wanted.
And though, I knew deep in my heart that I was/am precious to my mother, there was a period of my very young life where I felt deep resentment towards my parents. That’s where books opened my eyes to what I had.
From when we were babies, my brother and I, we were by our mother’s side everywhere she went, including work. My mother worked cleaning houses and to this day, I’m still amazed at how she bravely marched from home to home, carrying us with her. At first, she’d plant us in a corner with toys and blankets and somehow we understood her pleading to stay in one spot and to keep quiet. Then, as we got older, she’d bring piles and piles of picture books and leave them in front of us. I was three and my brother was two.
We didn’t know how to read. But we could entertain ourselves with the pictures. So we did. Day after day, we flipped through old picture books bought from yard sales or given by friends and since at night, our mother would read to us from the very same books, we could later piece together what we were looking at and when the stories would change when we ‘read’ them by ourselves.
When I finally entered k-4, I already could read the “See spot run” books pretty well. And all that was due to a mother who could hardly speak English herself.
Once I improved my reading abilities, my mother would bring me to the library on the weekends and I would take out stacks and stacks of books. Then, later when she’d take us to work, I would read to my little brother.
Those books were how we escaped.
A lot of people say that when you’re young, you feel no shame – looks wise and all.
That’s not true.
I knew what embarrassment was back then and I felt it, hardcore. Deep in the pit of my stomach and often I’d wish the ground would swallow me whole. I was four and I cringed under the gaze of the random people who lived in those houses. I dreaded the day where I’d end up seeing them at a grocery store or their kids at school. That, I think, was the worse.
Every time my mother would walk into someone else’s home, carrying her supplies, I would trail in after her with my brother and the first thing I did, was drag ourselves to a corner, away from hopefully everyone who lived there. I prayed no one would look at me or him. I curled in that corner and sometimes I’d cry at how embarrassed I felt.
Other kids had parents who were lawyers, firefighters, and doctors.
I had a mother who cleaned up after everyone else and a father who cut people’s lawns.
Back then, I felt like I had nothing to be proud of.
But, reading kept me going, kept me from focusing on the mean comments the kids of those houses whispered about my brother and I, and finally kept me from feeling the shame I shouldn’t have felt – even if only for a few hours. That is how I fell in love with books. Because escaping the real world was suddenly a possibility and all I had to do was open a book.
When I grew older, I started to experiment with writing my own things. I wanted to create something that some one else could escape in. How wonderful would that be, I’d think to myself. If my words, even just for a second, could shield someone from an ounce of pain. Now I know I had nothing to be ashamed of. Now I feel proud of my mother and love her all the more for what she did for us. Those houses were how my brother and I stayed in private school all throughout pre-school, elementary, and most of middle school. But I didn’t think that then. And I know a lot of kids don’t think that then.
So I started writing.
I wasn’t very good.
But, I did have very encouraging teachers who even bought my ‘chapters’ from me (there’s no love like a teacher’s love), just to keep me from giving up.
I think the very first story I wrote was about a superhero and all his adventures. My dad still keeps it on his computer and has several back ups of all the chapters I had written. Every now and again, I re-read them and make fun of myself for ever writing them. All harmless though and it brings back very good memories.
Someday, I hope to be published.
In the meantime, I steadily try to improve my writing, by writing when I can and as much as I can. I show my stuff to friends, teachers, and yes, online. Every comment, negative or positive, is truly helpful and my confidence grows.
One day, I’ll have something of mine be published. And then I’ll sit down next to her, and I’ll read my book to her. And she’ll know how much I’m glad she wanted me.
“Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand’ring bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.”
― William Shakespeare, Shakespeare’s Sonnets
For those following any of my stuff on Fictionpress.com and Fanfiction.net, here’s the following list of updates and upcoming updates. As well as some explanation as to why things might get a little slow in the upcoming weeks.
On the other hand, if ya aren’t following anything, don’t continue reading OR go START following ny stuff. It’d make me feel happy inside. Like how my dog gets when the dove’s let out of its cage.
He groans, it’s 5:30 am and yet he’s rolling out of bed, when he hears the incessant whine. It’s Rex, of course, and he needs to be taken out for his morning walk.
He shrugs on a sweater, a coat, and hat, pulling on a boots when he reaches the door. Rex is at his heels, tail wagging, and sits obediently as Jack snaps the leash on him. Then, bracing for the wind and chill, Jack opens the door and Rex is out, scampering for the nearest tree.
Cold. Cold. Cold. Resonates in his head as his teeth begin to chatter and he grips tighter onto his end of the leash. He eyes Rex sniffing the ground and desperately prays that his dog will hurry up and do his business soon. It’s freezing and he just wants to crawl back to bed. Finally, he sees Rex squat and he sighs in relief. He can go in now.
He closes the door softly and unleashes his puppy. Good, now back to sleep. He pats Rex’s head, slightly frowning when the pup shies away form his hand. “Oh well,” he whispers.
He then hurries back to his cocoon mattress.