Meta-Writing

           

I want to be a writer more than anything. I want to prove to myself and maybe everyone else that the voice in my head has something worthwhile to say. Some days I think it does, at least, until I look back and read the jumbled mess that I dumped so carelessly on the page. I don’t understand how the greats weave such beauty, such intricate life out of letters built into words strung into sentences. It starts out as such silent nothing, and some people have an amazing capacity to pull a voice out of the thoughts and experiences most people discard—a process akin to the building of Frankenstein’s monster from a grim assemblage of lifeless body parts. Where did Shelley get the electricity to bring Frankenstein to life? I want that life-giving creativity; it must bring you close to God, to create life where there was emptiness and void.

How do you know if your thoughts even matter? I mean, what makes one person’s inner world so much more interesting than anyone else’s? Maybe it’s in how you tell the story. You don’t have to be interesting to begin with, but you have to know how to keep attention. You need charisma. You need to seem interesting. I have never been a good storyteller. I used to write short stories as a kid in elementary school, but I would get bored with the plot long before anyone else got the chance to fall asleep to my words.

But damn it, I want to write. That emptiness and void engulfs me, and all I want is to fill it so tight with new life that it has no room to swallow me anymore. When I feel so alone that my heart is tired of beating, I want to be surrounded by these people I’ve created. And I will know that they see every part of me as I do them, and there is no love lost between us; there is no fear, because we know each other.

Like when I read a book or watch a movie or a series on television, I involve myself in the lives of the characters. Sometimes, I think it can be unhealthy, because I use it to escape figuring out my own life. Why would I if I can live through them? Other times, healthy or not, it gives me hope. Their stories, though often unrealistic and unbelievable, make me believe that when I do decide to exit this shell I’ve created for myself here in my head, when I am ready to face all the anxiety that living creates, then I might find someone who understands me. And maybe someone like me might not be too damaged and crazy to be loved.

For now, these characters, these stories, they save me, because I’m not ready to be real yet. And even though all my psychological training tells me it isn’t healthy to live in an imaginary world, I’m certain most people do it in one way or the other. What if I could create that world for someone, a safe place to prepare to be real? All anyone really wants is the ability to be real and be safe at the same time. I don’t know if that is possible, but the closest I’ve ever come to such an achievement is through the stories I read and watch and hear. Could I help someone get that close?

I want you, whoever you are, to be safe for now, and I know that one day you will be real, and I will be real. And even though being safe and real may not be possible to be at the same time, we both know where safety is—behind colorful cardboard binding, between dots of ink, at the end of someone’s diary disguised as a work of fiction. You know why this is safe? Because someone decided to be real with letters built into words strung into sentences. When someone else is real and let’s us in on it, it makes us feel real, even if we aren’t ready to prove it.

Thoughts

Nate loved Christmas. If he could experience joy, this was his day to feel it. Don't worry though; this isn't going to be one of those annoying, woe-is-me-my-brother-is-dead kind of posts. I just think that he was lucky to get out of here while he could.

Don't get me wrong. I love Christmas. I do love God and am thankful for His Son. I am thankful for all of the material things that I got today, things that I didn't ask for but that my loved ones clearly put thought into picking out for me. I am so blessed, so spoiled. I am glad to be with my parents today, that they are both alive and getting along today. I am thankful that my living brother is doing well and has a great girlfriend and a son that is "growing up way too fast"--a cliche I am contracted to use as an Aunt. I am thankful. I am, I am, I am.

What I mean when I say Nate was lucky is that he doesn't have to be so afraid. Even though it is my favorite time of year, Christmastime, I would give all of this up if I could just not be so afraid. I am on this precipice that will decide the rest of my life, seemingly, and I have no idea what to do. It seems to me that standing on a ledge gives you a plethora of choices. Well, really, it is one choice--falling--with a bunch of ways that it can be done. How will I fall exactly? Will I drown debt? Will I alienate everyone that I love? Will lupus take me down? Will I get crippled or better, die, in a car accident? Will I kill myself out of desperation?

I don't know the answer to that, but it's coming. And who will peel my splattered body off of the rock below? My greatest fear is that I will lie there for the buzzards to devour. You see, I have built these tight walls around me. I have parents. I have a church family. I have great friends. I have God. But I also have these walls. Now, I don't regret building them. When my life was most unsafe, they protected me from inner destruction. They had their purpose, of course. But now, I am irreparably cut-off from these resources around me. Who will pick me up? Who could I even ask?

I am thankful for the people who have picked me up many times in my life. My best friends. But I am supposed to be an adult. All these people around me are falling in love, getting married, having children, starting careers, and building their lives. I can't rely on them. I will not be a part of their lives, and I can't piggyback on them or burden them, just because I'm a sad girl.  I am supposed to learn how to pick myself up, alone. Well, actually, most people find someone to build a life with, someone to lean on. That is something I will not have. So, yes, I am supposed to know how to do this thing alone. And I don't.

That fear I was talking about? It comes from a scared, lonely little girl. One who never felt safe. One who was made to feel like a burden. One who never felt loved or cherished or wanted. And now that girl has people in her life who indicate to her that she should feel. Loved. Cherished. Wanted. But she doesn't know how to believe it. The walls don't let those things in anymore. She is safe. But she is alone. How can anyone really convince her otherwise, because those beautiful people don't see inside her walls. They don't see how dark it really became. How hopeless and numb and empty. They never see it all. No one could handle that. No one should have to.

You know what I have always wanted? To start my own family. To get a second chance at that. But people like me don't last long. Even if a man could just look past the ogre, all he would find is darkness. And a girl who can't have children. A girl with more scars than she can count, and my guess is that he wouldn't kiss them and make it better. He would be horrified. He would run.

I am not trying to complain or throw some pity party. I am just so scared, and I don't know how else to get that fear out. I just don't want to be alone, but the truth is, darkness and walls will always keep me isolated. You might ask, but don't you want to see light, to get better? Yea, I do. And I try. But until I can break out of this box, I will always live in darkness. And I don't have the strength or the equipment or the energy. I could ask for help, and I have. But no one here knows about the box or the darkness. No matter how many times I break a board, I will come back here and find myself inside these walls again, because I have built their vision of me on illusions and lies. They can never know, and I can never be free.

I like this song. I feel it. Don't worry. I won't off myself today. I will just swallow the fear again and move on. Thanks for listening.

"Adam's Song"

I never thought I'd die alone
I laughed the loudest who'd have known?
I traced the cord back to the wall
No wonder it was never plugged in at all
I took my time, I hurried up
The choice was mine I didn't think enough
I'm too depressed to go on
You'll be sorry when I'm gone

[Chorus:]
I never conquered, rarely came
16 just held such better days
Days when I still felt alive
We couldn't wait to get outside
The world was wide, too late to try
The tour was over we'd survived
I couldn't wait till I got home
To pass the time in my room alone

I never thought I'd die alone
Another six months I'll be unknown
Give all my things to all my friends
You'll never step foot in my room again
You'll close it off, board it up
Remember the time that I spilled the cup
Of apple juice in the hall
Please tell mom this is not her fault

[Chorus:]
I never conquered, rarely came
16 just held such better days
Days when I still felt alive
We couldn't wait to get outside
The world was wide, too late to try
The tour was over we'd survived
I couldn't wait till I got home
To pass the time in my room alone

I never conquered, rarely came
Tomorrow holds such better days
Days when I can still feel alive
When I can't wait to get outside
The world is wide, the time goes by
The tour is over, I've survived
I can't wait till I get home
To pass the time in my room alone

Beginning of the Story

            My eyes fought valiantly against the heaviness of sleep, but they were glued in place. I tried to persuade them to move, but my brain was in no place to give orders. It felt a bit foggy and slow like the aftermath of an all night drinking binge. I could smell a faint stench of vomit. Had I been out all night binge drinking? Retrieving memories was not working at the moment, but somehow, I managed to gather that something wasn’t right. This wasn’t supposed to happen. My heart began to race and my breaths became short and shallow. With a jolt, I woke up. I hadn’t planned on waking up. In fact, of all the things I thought might come after taking the pills, waking up was not even on the list. Needless to say, I was a bit irritated. No, terrified.

            “Shit.”

            I had been smelling vomit. It was all over me, the bed, the floor, the letters. That bitter acid taste crept onto my tongue, and I could feel the burn of the dissolved medicine on my throat. It felt like someone had poured some gasoline down my throat and lit it the whole way down to my stomach. I’m surprised I could even croak out a cuss word, so I tried again just to make sure I could still talk.

            “Fuck.”

            My favorite word felt good rolling off my ravaged tongue. Now, time to test motor functioning. I lifted one arm at a time, giving the wall the middle finger—just to make sure my hands were also working, of course. Then, I delicately moved my head from side to side, careful not to shake up the hurricane behind my eyes. After testing my legs and toes, I decided it was time to try and sit up. I ached all over and dreaded the pain I was about to experience. I placed my hands underneath my back and pushed slowly. By the time I reached a sitting position, my head was spinning. I willed myself not to pass out again. I had to get cleaned up before anyone saw me like this. Before anyone saw the pill bottle or the soiled letters addressed to friends and family.

            Sitting with all my weight on the hinges of my arm, I breathed slowly and deeply. The dizziness faded back into a dull ache, then, a stabbing sensation behind those heavy eyes. If I had felt good enough, I might have laughed at the irony of a migraine caused by too much Tylenol. But I didn’t feel good enough. I felt like shit. I felt betrayed and embarrassed. I felt afraid. I felt like a joke. Haha. Look at the girl who can’t do anything right, not even death.

I don't know

I think I am at some sort of crossroads, a brink that will decide a lot about my future. It isn't just that I am going to graduate college this year and have to figure out my life. It isn't just that I am reaching this point where I can't make decisions based on how they will be perceived by other people. It isn't just that I am on the edge of self-understanding. This brink I'm on is life or death. Really, it is.

That makes it sound like I am about to kill myself. Believe me, that is part of it, but I am not on the verge of suicide at this moment. The brink is more like climbing a mountain and being very near the first plateau. I can either keep climbing a bit longer and make it to my first sign of progress or I can let go of the side of the cliff and fall. I am under no delusions that I am about to reach the mountain's zenith, but I am near a certain recognition of how far I have come. Yet, there is still something within me that craves self-destruction, and it stops me from fully recognizing the steps I have made toward betterment. Something holds me back and convinces me that it isn't real progress unless I am near the zenith.

I had a counseling session on Monday. It was good, but it left me feeling pretty uneasy about myself. We are getting to a stagnant point where we can either talk about what is still really going on inside of me or we might as well stop meeting. It has almost been two years, after all. We have begun to talk about death and suicide--concepts that plague me terribly. I don't want to be that person so dark and selfish. I don't want to be that person who can't recognize her blessings, because I do. I know that I am so blessed. Still, there is this deep darkness that I can't shake. This darkness that makes me think so much about life and death and the meaning of it all instead of things like schoolwork and friends and careers. I don't know if I want a future, so how can I think about it yet?

It was weird to talk about it. I don't think that I expressed myself well. It is the first time that I didn't feel in control of the session, like I was floundering and grasping for a response, because truth be told, I don't know why I want to kill myself. I know that I still struggle quite profoundly with self-hatred, though I can't figure out why. I am much more confident and kind to myself. I feel much more affirmed by the people around me. I feel more intelligent and even, to a certain extent, more capable. So, when she wants me to explain why, I stutter, and my faces burns blood-red. I don't know. I don't know how to explain why when I trip in the hallway or sing a wrong note in choir or make any mistake big or small, I can't help thinking about killing myself.

It's like an addiction, a coping mechanism. It helps me survive by reminding me that I have an escape if I need it. It's sick. The problem is that I seriously consider it, despite all I know about how it affects the people left behind or how there is no feeling of relief or redemption--it just ends. In my religious tradition, I would even go to Hell. Yet, I consider it. I romanticize it. I make it a beautiful drama, when it is a messy punctuation mark. There is nothing romantic about choosing death when others don't get to choose.

We talked about it, but I explained it wrong. I felt like I had to explain in terms of tangible reasons. I mentioned that I fear losing everything and that kind of desperation would make anyone suicidal...but that wasn't really helpful in regard to myself. I do fear those things, and I do think it would lead me to the kind of desperation that ends in suicide. But my problem is that I don't need to be desperate to think about it. It plagues me though I am getting better and happier. Will the thought ever cease? It takes me down, down, down into the depths of nothingness. I don't want to go there, but I don't know how to combat it. And she could help me, I know, but I explain it wrong. I fumble. I lose my words. Because I am ashamed. Because it is exposing my darkness, my very core. Because I want to appear better. But she even recognized that I am still not in the "best" place. I don't want to disappoint her.

I am uneasy. I am not better yet. I don't think I ever will be. I am broken, but who isn't? I am broken, but is there a fix?

It amazes me how nearly every song that I listen to reminds me of an exact moment in my life.

Anything by the Click Five reminds me of the baseball games we went to with my Dad's former company. I used to take my CD player (yes, that long ago) and listen to that CD over and over. It makes me want to be a kid again. Life was so simple. I just followed my parents everywhere and listened to my silly pop music that only talked about girlfriends and boyfriends. I miss that simple world.

I have a couple songs from the TV show, Degrassi, on my computer. Any of those remind me of the year when I my brother died. I wrapped myself up in the drama of those teens like a cocoon. It helped me survive.The strange part is that I miss that show because of the companionship. I truly felt a part of that world. Is it weird to miss a place and people that don't exist?

A couple of years ago, before I transferred schools, my friend, Schuyler gave me a Kate Klim CD. It simultaneously reminds me of our relationship and near romance and the fall of my friendship with a group of girls from high school. The overarching feeling is loss. I remember walking for hours, usually midnight or after, through my town. Both hoping and fearing running into them or seeing their cars. But I guess I knew I wouldn't. That's why I went out late at night--no chance of it. I just wanted to fix things. I still do. I still dream about them regularly. I can't undo it, and it makes me want to die.

Adele. Oh, Adele. You remind me of doing my homework in Juniata's auditorium. It would echo off the walls as you crooned and I studied the Life Cycle and Spanish III. I miss that place so much. I miss all the relationships I never had, because I was too shy and too afraid. I miss what my life could have been if I would have just stuck to a major. Now, I am just a mess and totally unmarketable to the workforce. But then again, I wouldn't have changed so much or met the people I did had I never come to Greenville. I don't know what I want. I just want something I can't have, and it makes my heart revolt in my chest. I wish I knew what I wanted. That has always been a problem of mine.

When I hear The Cranberries, I think about middle school. My friend, Patrick introduced me to them in seventh grade social studies. They opened up my vision of the world, but it also reminds me of random things from that time of my life: my incredibly stupid obsession with Kaleb Crouse, my kindred friendship with Stacia-Fe, and for some reason, History Day--a school project we had to do. We made a display case out of wood. In the midst of painting it black, I wrote Kaleb's name in paint, and we had a great deal of trouble covering it up. Stupid. Embarrassing. What a strange time. I would do anything to have it back.

Then, Superchick comes on my playlist, and I am taken back to the first two years of college when I was more depressed than I have ever been, when Devan Glenny's brother, Colin, killed himself, and it put the thought indefinitely in my head. When I was struggling deeply with an eating disorder. When I was consequently much thinner than at this moment. It makes me regret those cookies I just ate. 
When Leroy died, and my whole idea of life flipped upside down, and I decided to escape to Greenville. Turns out you can move and still feel the pain from where you came from.

Vanessa Carlton, too, reminds me of the first two years of college. Her smooth voice reminds me of some good times. The group project for Brit Lit that was basically the Real World of the 1600s. Sex--all the time. It reminds me of Gary and the almost "something" we had. We watched Paranormal Activity together. I was ashamed to be alone with a boy, so nothing ever came of it. He's engaged now. It reminds me of the eight block walk to school every morning, and the garden I saw everyday that looked like, perhaps, fairies lived there. It was the last time I even thought of magic. It reminds me of my Death and Dying discussion group and Wyatt, who always let me wear his jacket when we met outside.

 Of course, Amazing Grace (My Chains Are Gone) comes on and takes me back to my brother's funeral. That whole week was unreal. He was fine, we fought, he got sick, he died. I never heard his voice again. I never apologized. I remember sitting in Calculus (which I ended up failing because of his death--at least that's what I claim, maybe I just suck at Calculus) knowing Nate was in the hospital dying. I wrote a poem to the tune of a Duncan Sheik song. Dani Roth sat beside me and said nothing. I never felt more alone than that moment. When no one knows you're about to lose someone you love except you. I knew, even then. I knew when I sat in the ICU waiting room in Altoona on Friday night. I knew that Saturday morning when I took the SATs. I even knew when I went to school on Monday. But it wasn't real until Wednesday, when I got the phone call from my Dad. I heard him tell me he was gone, took the phone up to my mother in bed, then collapsed into my best friend's lap. That's when all the control I had kept over my life and my emotions ceased to exist and I gave up. Everything has been out of control ever since.

Now playing---a Mandy Moore song from Princess Diaries. My mom bought me the second book in the series at a hospital book fair. When I was home sick from school, she would always bring me a present. And that one started a huge obsession. I love everything about Mia Thermopolis. I wish I could have been her.

"Turn it Off" by Paramore. The song I used to cut myself to in my bedroom. "Scraped my knees while I was praying and found a demon in my safest haven." This was fairly close to my first suicide attempt. Not much of an attempt if you don't research how many pills to take. But here I am. Still alive. Still trying to kick the slice and dice habit. Still trying to figure out God.

The Killers remind me of March 3rd. The day Scott Grugan died suddenly on vacation with his family. He worked with my mom and always gave me a pep talk when I visited the hospital. It introduced me to death, and I remember crying every night for a while. Then my mom ended up in the hospital. Good thing I had already confronted death or I wouldn't have been so strong in her health struggles 8th grade on.

Finally, Carly Rae Jepson reminds me of my first musical performance at Greenville. I was in a band with Matt Holland, the first almost "something" I had here. He turned out to be a prick. This performance was terrible. I wore a tie-dye shirt. I couldn't harmonize. When I think back, I think, "There's your sign." I should have known then that I wasn't a musician.

I don't know the point of all this. I just feel like I drown in memories, and I want to go back. I don't know where I would start over, but I want to. I want the chance to be a kid, to really enjoy the moments I just let go. To not be such a freak, such an idiot, such an emotionally constipated dumbass. I feel like my adulthood is about to start, and I want nothing to do with it. I can't imagine it getting better. I don't want it. I don't want it. I want to be young. I want to love life instead of being beaten down by it. It only gets worse from here. The body slowly degrades. We lose friends and gain cats. We gain weight and lose self-respect. Plus, there's the whole ISIS taking over the US thing to look forward to. Stop the world. I want to get off.

The Grieving Mother

My dreams have died. I have been silent in my grief over these losses. They fought until the end, struggling for many years. I knew they were terminal so long ago, but I still kept hope that they would be healed. Unfortunately, only one of them made it. I am a mother left with one child. I birthed these precious dreams and nurtured them, cradling their frail bodies in my arms, pouring into them with everything I had. And now that they are gone, I have little left. No dreams. No passion. No energy to find and pour into something new.

I named my dreams: Music, Love, Family, Success, Financial Stability, Beauty, and My Future. Once one was infected, they all succumb to the wretched sickness that led to their death. I don't know where it began, but the first to die was my beloved Music. I always loved Music best, though I wouldn't tell the others. He was my joy, the light in my eyes, the most accurate expression of myself. He was weak among his peers. He could never keep up, and it discouraged us both. Watching him struggle to fit in among his kind, to match their ability and strength, made me ache. I think his weak constitution and waning confidence quickening his passing.

It is difficult to realize the painful inferiority of a product of your own DNA. It was my fault. He came from me, and as I noticed through the deaths of all the others as well, my DNA must be tainted, riddled with failure, damaged, impure. I do not care to bring another being into the world condemned by its genes. I will not birth another dream, let alone a human being.

The next to die were Beauty, Love, and Family. They were triplets, conjoined at the side, one heart between the three. They were always a sickly bunch, with little potential for growth despite my prayers and hope. My dream for Beauty fell sick first. She had always been diseased, less attractive than her peers and twice their size. The biggest of the three dreams, I prayed for her most often and tried to cultivate her strength most fervently. Every wish upon a star, every eyelash, every dandelion, every 11:11 was dedicated to her health. I wished and prayed and fought for her, but she never stood a chance. The signs of her disease were much more obvious than the others, written all over her body, but the sickness in Love and Family were inward, silently festering. By the time I realized what had been happening, it was much too late to save any of them. The damaged Beauty had infected my dream of Love which then passed it on to my dream of Family. Because they were conjoined, not only did they share this disease, but they could not exist separate. The failure of one's heart was a failure for them all, and now, I have lost the three.

Success and Financial Stability watched the deaths of their siblings. I saw the tears well in their desperate eyes, and I didn't have to tell them that they would also contract the illness. They knew. Of all the deaths, theirs were most resigned. They knew they could not exist in a world without their brothers and sisters, and I did not know how to convince them to fight, that their fate could be different, that they could still become great despite the tragedy. They simply laid down silently. I held their hands as they gave in to the poisonous virus and watched salty tears streak their faces. They wanted to survive, but they hadn't the strength to find their own way, a new way.

At this point, I am terribly afraid for My Future, the sole survivor of this plague and the youngest and most influenced by his siblings. Without them to guide and direct him, what will he become? He grows empty and lost, and I am not sure that I can shape him into what I want him to be. He moves recklessly onward without a concrete identity. Without much direction, he is more and more confused, and I am afraid he will find himself in a dangerous situation that will also threaten his life. I am more afraid that his grief will cause him to end it himself.

Streams of Consciousness

I sit on the fence between complete introversion and obnoxious extroversion. I want to enjoy life, to laugh, to experience. The problem is that the more that I branch out the more fear that I carry. Fear that I am doing more harm than good with my life. And that would be normal if the fear stopped where most people's fear stops--mine, however extends to even the smallest of things. I become more afraid the more moments I choose to speak, the more I exist and breathe and take up space. You see, I have a dangerously tender heart. I don't mean this to be boastful but rather, to explain that it is my deepest desire to leave this earth and its people unaffected by my poison. It destroys me when I realize that I create negative ripples. Even the thought that people spend any amount of time annoyed by me or hating me is terrible, because I don't want any negativity to be brought on by my existence. Although, I am aware that part of this is egotism, because clearly, many people will not even take the time to think of me, negatively or otherwise.

The funniest thing about this is that I am also an increasingly negative person. How does an inherently "glass half empty" person avoid doing harm? That's the overarching question of my life. My best answer has been in becoming as invisible as possible. But then, how do you, in turn, do any good? I don't know that it's possible to be both hidden and helpful. And my goal in life isn't just to do no harm but to then, do good. I have yet to figure out how to accomplish both of those goals without tearing my soul apart, and the result is that I am becoming increasingly paranoid and sensitive. It certainly doesn't help that I'm also very perceptive. I know when people don't like me or when they find me insufferably weird or when they wish I would leave. It doesn't hurt me in the sense that I don't feel any worse about myself--I have a very developed sense of self-loathing. No, it makes me feel like a failure. I have two goals in total, and I so often fail to meet them.

I think, another facet of this is my obsessive perfectionism. It worsens as I age. Whether it's skipping a class to spotlessly clean the apartment or mapping out every second of every day and allowing zero flexibility, the extremes are widening. To me, perfect is equal to worthy. Imperfection is the same as worthlessness. Maybe it's the Virgo in me or the INFJ or whatever personality profile you'd like to choose, but whatever it is it is eating away my spirit. I am doing harm by existing. I am terribly imperfect, and so mistakes cut deeper each time.

But there is something that I am realizing in all of this--the real problem is my pride. Now, I've never thought of myself as prideful, mostly because I've always been incredibly self-deprecating. Tearing yourself down means humility, right? Wrong! Ask C.S. Lewis, and he'll tell you that humility is really just admitting and walking in the fact that nothing we do is through our own power but rather, through the power of God working through us. The opposing ideas to humility are arrogance and self-deprecation. Yes, perfectionism is prideful. Why? Because condemning oneself for imperfection is implying that you feel superior in the first place. Why do I expect to be above the human condition? I am human. This doesn't mean I settle where I am, but it does mean that I am not going to be perfect. The fact that I think I should be perfect is all pride, and that same pride is then hurt when I don't live up to my own expectations.

I realize this, but what can I possible do but submit to God? Well, here's the thing: God and I aren't exactly on speaking terms. I don't know how to feel about him or about Christianity. I am becoming more and more aware of the contrived, scripted nature of Christendom. Nothing seems real. Nothing seems sincere. I don't want to sing the songs if I don't believe it. I don't want to watch people lead me if I don't think they believe the words either. It's all so wrong. I certainly believe in God, but I just don't buy into the traditional ways of Christianity anymore. Where is the humanity in it all? They're just as perfectionist as I am, and it feels pretentious. How do I find healing for my perfectionism if they require it. Maybe someday I'll understand how I'm supposed to feel. For now, I just feel like a heathen, because I don't know what I believe. The only thing I know for sure is that I believe in God's love. I haven't yet reached the point that I experience a loving God as my own, but I will always practice God's love. It is the only thing worth doing. Loving people is my favorite part of what it means to follow God. The other things may come with time. We shall see.

Until I figure it out, I suppose I will continue to be paranoid, to be overly-sensitive, to be increasingly invisibly. But I will make my best attempts to remain loving, because there is so much brokenness on the planet, and it burdens my heart.

Fault of Mine

I need meaning.
It's a fault of mine.
I don't know how you do it.
Just to say you did.
Just to say you could.
Just to say you can.

And I need more.
It's a fault of mine. 
There's better a better use of space.
A better use of flesh.
A better use of bone.
A better use of breath.

But I need sleep
It's a fault of mine.
I don't know how you stand.
On legs so stiff.
On legs so broken.
On legs so bent.

'Cause my soul is sore.
It's a fault of mine.
There's an ache that builds.
That freely breeds.
That freely wrecks
That freely weeps.

It's a fault of mine.
It's a fault line.
It's a faulty life.

I Should Go to Bed

I feel like I am missing something.
I have this aching nostalgia that is eating away at my core.
Growing up was painful, but at least, I felt grounded.
I have no desire to go forward, only to go back and relive.
I want a redo.
I want to live. 
I want to have those experiences unique to the teenage years.
But I was too busy being depressed.
Striving for perfection.
Good grades.
An impressive resume.
Church.
Church.
Church.
I just don't see it getting better from here.
No more fun.
No more carefree days.
No more campfires or lake days or late night adventures.
No more school trips or sleepovers or dreaming about the                                    future.
The future is here, and it's bleak.
College has tainted my senses.
I grieve for all that I've lost since high school.
Friendships, innocence, love, hope, confidence, belief.
I grieve for the world that I live in.
I often think I should have been a teenager in the 90s.
The best decade in my opinion; a reflection of my attitude and                            apathy.
The music it brought sinks into my joints and moves me, head to toe.
The lyrics speak of a youth I wish I could recall, but I feel so old and wretched.
My memories leak out of my eyes, and I drown in them.
My regrets hold me
        under.
I was never one for jealousy, but I covet the young and dead.
I long for their closure.
One more guilt-stained day in this declining cess pool                               might kill me.
Because all I carry is should haves and too lates.
Walking into an abyss of restraint and decay.
Of rules and boundaries and bills and debt.
My spirit groans under the load, in anticipation of more and more.
The age of parental comfort and warmth is long gone; it's time to grow up.
No one can prove it will be ok anymore.
I am unsettled and nauseated. 
Time to figure it out alone.
Time to fail with no back-up.
Time to let go of consistency and promises.
Time to step into the quicksand and sink,
                                                              sink,
                                                                  s
                                                                   i
                                                                    n
                                                                     k.
You see the end, but you do it anyway.
If it's so quick, why does it take so long?
Sink, sink, sink.
E
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      S
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        Y
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