Misery Loves Company

I slam the bedroom door and sink onto the floor. That familiar feeling settles in: eyes glaze over, lips start to quiver, and the remaining molecules of air bobbing in my lungs escapes me. My torso trembles like baby raccoon that's been dipped into a scorching tub of water, then tossed into the wilderness in the middle of winter. The stale taste of vomit bubbles in the back of my throat, and makes its way to my tongue.

I push myself up onto the edge of the bed, ears perked, and eyes bolted to the white, discolored door of this room that was once my own. My parents argue outside the door, and bits and pieces of my mother's muffled screams find their way into my ears. I only pay attention for a moment. The house goes silent, minus the echoes of my father's T.V. blasting some late night show six clicks too loud. The steady creek of the front, screen door tells me that the two of them are out on the porch for their thirteenth evening smoke break.

The clear and pink totes stacked half way to the ceiling have been hugging every corner of the room for over three weeks now, only adding to the distance between this room and I. My younger brother's antlers, license plates, and posters mounted across the walls do not ease the sense of foreignness. This room longer feels like home, but really did it ever? Despite the two fans' puttering in two corners of the room, the tension pulsing in my muscles lingers.

I'm only a days away from a whole new life, nestled in the cornfields of Madison, IN, alongside a tenacious fiance, a beautiful Husky puppy, and an easy-going mother figure. Yet, I knew the storm was coming, it was only a matter of time.

Days of half-hearted visits or empty conversations, and nights filled with the scent of Vladimir vodka mixed with puppy piss. 

Minutes soaked with arguments made for nights of throbbing headaches, shaky limbs, and a churning stomach as I tossed and turned for hours, a decade away from sleep. 

Words caked with cruel intentions, concealed by a film of cheap concern flopped across the living room like mud pies in the yard.

Guilt trips as long as the Mississippi and as deep as the Pacific, served with diced regrets and seasoned tempers, and a tall glass of vomit.

How am I to enjoy my family's company: it's dipped in constant chaos. How am I to be excited: my thoughts are plagued by anxiousness. How am I to stand on my own: my mother's already demanding my return. How am I to fly: my wings were clipped at birth. How am I to laugh: I'm scolded when I smile. How am I to breathe: this town is smothering me with fluffy pillows. How am I to live: my heart's has been forbidden to ever beat.

On Faith and Hypocrites

He finds himself at church on every Sunday, spectacles perched upon his nose as he  peruses the instructional pamphlet he was given at the door. He's in his navy, button up, a pair of black denim jeans, his silver hair slicked back without a ball cap.

Listen: his voice, sings the word of God professed in faithful hymns. Watch: his eyes, settled on a the Pastor preaching from the pulpit, eyes gently tearing as he absentmindedly nods his head.

He can say all that he wants to us: that he honors the will of God, that he is saved and has reserved his one way ticket that'll send him up to heaven.

Those words are dandelion seeds floating off into the wind: they end up lost between the blades of grass that sway amidst the open, overgrown field.

Your thoughts are dipped in Coors Light: the first sip's quite refreshing, until you've reached the 13th can, and then its simply senseless rambling.

Those dreams are cloaked with guilt and fear: you've lived your life a sinner, and now that your ticker's ticking's getting louder, your in a rush to be forgiven.

Your faith is flavored by other's opinions: are your beliefs really your own, or are they your mothers, your fathers, your spouses, your neighbors?

They tussle back and forth, pummeling one another with blank excuses, clique sayings, quotes from scripture, and drunken mumbling.

Is a whole lot of ground being covered? Definitely.
Are tempers flaring? You bet your bottom dollar.
Do they really mean all that they are saying? The booze sure thinks so.
Are truthful points coming up in conversation? Sure.
Is process being made? Of course not.

"I'm So Heavy. Heavy In Your Arms"

My mind is in pieces, like scraps of fabric, fluff, and string strayed across the living room floor, left over from a ripped-to-shreds chew toy.

"My beloved was weighed down. My arms around his neck, my fingers laced to crown."

My eyes are scorched. Flames of smoldering heat consume my lashes, and burn them one by one, staining my lids ashy black and replacing my vision with a thick, cloud of smoke.

"I was a heavy heart to carry, my feet dragged across ground. And he took me to the river, where he slowly let me drown."

My heart is flooding, like a violent river pounded with a constant, steady rain. It's tears drift up and out, across tired, muddy banks caked with lifeless sticks and cold, stones, dragging them into its depths, never to see the light of day again.

"My love has concrete feet, my love's an iron ball, wrapped around your ankles over the waterfall."

My hope has vanished. A snowflake lands amidst a boiling, sea of grass, the liquid streaming down a single blade, evaporating instantly once kissing the bubbling, Midwest dirt.

"Who is the betrayer? Who's the killer in the crowd? The one who creeps in corridors, and doesn't make a sound."

My faith is tested. I reach my arms into the damp, April sky and scream up to the clouds. "Lord, take me! Take me into your arms!" I fall onto a patch of cold, moist graveyard, consumed by the buzz of hungry mosquitoes and a chorus of twilight crickets. I gaze into a nearby tombstone, Mary Thatcher, and pray to God you will not join her. I'm not ready to live without you.

"I'm so heavy, heavy in your arms. Whispering like it's a secret, only to condemn the one who hears it."

"Is There No Truth In Beauty?"

There came a time when words failed me, and the world looked a little darker than I had once remembered. At twelve years old, horizon lines were painted navy laced with grey, rather than plum purples and deep peaches that one becomes accustom too.  I woke up miserable every morning, and most nights I felt like a feather tossed into the eye of a hurricane.

I shed my own blood on a weekly basis. Once a week reached
every day, and soon enough I was cutting myself up to four or five times each day until I was a sophomore in high school. Without fail,  the moment I drew a blade across my skin, tension would ease, and my body relax despite the searing, aching pain. Yet, the emptiness I felt inside remained; nothing and no one could fill the void that I so desperately wished I could simply toss into the wind. I thought, maybe, if I filled it up with blood, it would drown the trauma, and set me straight.

*

I somehow managed to get a hold of a camera my eighth grade year. After school, while my mother was at work, my father was asleep, and my younger brothers were off somewhere with my grandfather, I would take pictures. The viewfinder found and captured anything and everything in my path.

When I discovered MySpace, I got the courage one afternoon to take a picture of myself and post it up on the page. A simple shot, straight on, and that was all it took. Soon enough, I began playing with camera angles. I learned that my "good side" was to the left, my face looked thinner at an elevated angle, and my forehead was entirely too big to be shot head on.

After a few weeks, I tinkered with some computer programs and eventually found photo editing software loaded onto the system. Crop, re-size, color saturation, hue, brightness, and contrast were the only options available, but boy, did I make them work. Before I knew it, I was editing dozens of pictures on a daily basis, hundreds monthly.

At fifteen, I started researching free photo editing programs on the Internet that could help me expand my editing capabilities. I found one that worked wonders: Picasa. Although not as in depth as Photoshop, it got the job done and I still use it today.

I lost nearly all of my earliest photographs due to a memory malfunction in an old camera, and I haven't had much time to take photos recently. I plan to pick up photography upon settling myself in Indiana. Taking and editing pictures was one of the most relaxing hobbies I have ever attempted, and I cannot wait to start up again. It gave me an outlet of emotion, creativity, and ultimately a voice at a time in which I felt I had little to live for. I hope to save up for a more professional camera some day in the future, take a few photography classes, and make this a lifelong hobby. Maybe I will even attempt some senior pictures, and a wedding or two. :)

Here is a sample of a few pictures I have taken over the years.

Taken and edited at 14

Taken and edited at 14 years old

Taken and edited at 15

Two different takes on a single picture taken of my eye last year

Taken in Clifty Falls Park last summer

Taken in Clifty Falls Park last summer

Taken in front of Knox Learning Center last year

Taken and edited a month ago

Taken and edited today

"Remembrance, the Lasting Perfume."

I know death like the lines the reach across my palm: seldom looked upon, though always with me.

How can one remember every single loved one that has passed on since his birth? Death is an inevitable and inescapable fate for all. Who is to say that one's death is less significant than another? That's why I am honoring them all.

*

I'm not one that favors an abundance of tattoos, and I never really understood  the beauty of them until last year. Most of the tattoos I had seen beforehand were somewhat silly. My father has his name on his shoulder, and many of my classmates have stars or flowers tattoos in rather provocative locations. 

*

Joshua saved up for a tattoo in remembrance of his grandfather for several months. Clyde died when Josh was six years old, and was one of the most impactful forces in his life. The moment that I first saw it, I knew that it was a work of art. Joshua even claims to this day that he feels the occasional sensation where the tattoo is located: a touch of heat, a slight tingle, a rush of chills. 

*

During my senior year of high school, I knew that I wanted a memorial tattoo. However, I did not know who had been "most important" in my life to dedicate a patch of ink on my body.

Death has been a great part of my life, and I have lost a lot of dear ones in my childhood. I had no idea were to start. At one point, I researched memorial tattoos for hours on end, trying to come up with a fresh idea. I eventually gave up and settled for a rather clique dove tattoo.

Months passed, then in the summer of 2010 until the winter of 2011, my family was struck with seven deaths, four of which resulted in two double funerals. None of the deaths occurred simultaneously; most were the result of natural causes. The horrific car accident that stole my cousin's life was the final and most alarming wake up call my family received.

*

Talking on the phone with Joshua one night, the idea finally came to me. I wanted a dove tattoo, alright, but it wasn't going to have the classic "white dove, olive branch in the beak" design. I began brainstorming symbolic components the tattoo could possess in order to set it apart from others and truly make it my own.

In the end, I decided that the dove's feathers will have a light blue tinge; the body would be in mid-flight. The dove will hold rosemary in its beak, signifying remembrance.

In the dove's talons will be a bundle of forget-me-nots and poppies, symbolizing the many memories that are lost to the wind, carried up and out alongside death itself. 

Finally, the quote, "Remembrance, the lasting perfume" will be written in script beneath the dove. The flowers may rest a garbage bag, piles of dirt and dust being poured over top. Yet, the scent, light and fresh, still lingers in the air and takes one back in time, offering a sort of peace.

*

I'll wear the pains of my past, preservers of the present, and my hopes for the future inside my right shoe beneath a layer of soft, white cotton. I'll carry them with me in every step I take, for the rest of my days.

From a House to a Home

One of many muck ponds located behind my parent's house

“You know, behind H.C. Tire”

I grew up some 300 yards behind a tire company near the Laurel Highlands of Pennsylvania, a patch of land that’s settled on the borough side of the city/township line. 

On the northern side rests the township’s stretch of woods that extends up and out into a vast bony pile of cascading hillsides intermixed with coal, long, overgrown grasslands, and sporadic tree growth consisting of pine, oak, crabapple, walnut or poplar. The scent of dust, sap, and burnt wood always lingers in the air, for winds blow swiftly, rustling the leaves and smacking the branches of many treetops. 

The black and elderberry bushes that grow along an unnamed creek attract a few black bears and their cubs, a mass of white tail deer, and plenty of pesky raccoons that can be found coming and going from town. 

All of which, surrounds a few muck ponds, stretching a mile or so in length, one of which is visible a few hundred yards out from my family’s property, past a dusty alley that lies directly on the township line. 

Southward is the borough of my town, a population of less than 1,400 people, nestled between two larger cities ten times its size. On First Avenue, a few dozen elderly folk live peacefully in their homes from the 1970’s. The couples occasionally wander out to their front porches in the early evenings, disrupted by the calls of laughter pouring in through their front door screens. They watch over the few neighborhood children as they dribble their basketballs, play hopscotch in the streets, and ride their bikes passed, bells ringing, and baseball cards puttering against dirty tires. 

The house to the left of the tire company doubles as a daycare center, where students ages three to twelve spend their afternoons playing in a makeshift school house or roughhousing in the yard enclosed by a rainbow-colored fence. Though, only until their parents return from work, which results in the anticipated rush of traffic along my street between the hours of 4-6 pm. One can hear a constant crunch of gravel over a television at low volume, as dozens of tires travel gingerly passed the house.

The tire company is situated just a few feet before the strip of highway that runs through the borough. The constant roar of bustling traffic becomes second nature to a local. One intersection, just 100 yards from my double-wide trailer, was an infamous spot of numerous wrecks, which led to the permanent east to west way block off a few summers back.

Down the street rests an old Ma/Pa Deli, the only place in town where you can buy a block of brick cheese, a pound of cooked ham chipped, a six-pack of beer, and order a pizza. It is one of very few kid’s hangout s available, where boys rides their bikes through the unmarked parking lot, popping wheelies, and jumping off the four-inch curb of sidewalk. Girls simply walk over in pairs, buy themselves a crème soda, a Hershey’s bar, maybe a strip of beef jerky, teriyaki flavored. 

Of course, they all know to be home before the sun settles on the horizon and the aging streetlights project their faint, amber light onto the street corners. And as the children age, the blare of a steady, fire whistle, sounding promptly at the strike of ten, reminds all minors that they must now be safe and soundly in their houses (unless in the company of an adult.)

"If You Only Knew" 

Sounds great, doesn't it? A house situated between a patch of woods, and a block of town, almost the best of both worlds to a growing kid, right?  As charming as my small town neighborhood appears to be, let's be perfectly clear. From the time I was about eight years old, I had come to understand one simple fact that would disconnect me emotionally from my family forever: nothing is always as it appears to be. My parent's house was never a home. 

There was no "Family Game Night," Mommy/Daughter Day," or "Sleepover Weekend." There were unwritten laws that floated in the air of that double wide trailer, and as one grew older, it only became clearer that those laws were never to be broken. Simply put, the Golden Rule I lived by: "What happens in this house, STAYS in this house." We were not to invite outsiders in, nor venture out. 

"Your With Us Now."

I walked around the single level, red bricked palace, exploring foreign territory. I gingerly tip-toed across the woolen, tan carpeting, (without shoes of course) and marveled at the beauty of Joshua's house.

Peeking into the bedrooms located in the far right wing, I stopped in my tracks just before the door frames. The spaces looked so put together: cleanly painted walls, flawless bedspreads, vibrant sheer curtains, and matching furniture sets. 
 

"Whatcha doing, silly girl," Joshua's mom called as she stocked up the linen closet with freshly washed towels. The unfamiliar scent of Gain floated up into my nostrils and comforted me. 

I glued my eyes to the carpet, observing the many intricate shades of tan that made up the overall color. "Just looking around, I'm sorry," I stuttered. I plowed through the hall, heading back to the openness of the living room. 

Darla looked at me quizzically. "You don't have to park it in the living room, it's okay to look around. It's not like we're gonna spank you for being nosy," she chuckled, flipping the closet door closed.

A surge of queasiness flooded my stomach, and I'm sure it was present in my face, for Darla inched closer to me and looked me square in the eye.

"Make yourself at home, you're with us now." She wandered off into the laundry room, and threw in another load of clothes. I stood in the hallway, tears gathering upon my lash line.

But...How do I do that?

"Live Each Day Like It's Your Last"

I've gathered, dissected, and analyzed my past. I have also laid out a sketch of what I want my future to hold: happiness. 

Creating and maintaining a sense of happiness has been a life long battle. It came much easier in my earliest youth, and has ever since been a most challenging journey to venture.

I've possessed more faith than a devout Christian, and I have also questioning why I have been put on this Earth in the first place. 

Then the dark, chilly waters start creeping up my neck. I feel its icy mist penetrate my nostrils. Yet, I can see the metal stopper, just barely in my reach. I know somehow, I will gain my footing once again, yank my spirits free, and let my troubles drain into the oceans of doubt. 

Most days, I shove my worries, my fears, my secrets into my pants' pocket. When laundry day rolls around, those worries explode in the washer like a pen releasing ink. That dark, thick ink sinks into the deepest crevices of the cotton, saturating every remaining thread, until the stains can never really be erased.

What I want more than anything in this world, is a huge bottle of bleach to dump onto those old, hardened stains, and let the chemicals lift them all away until those stains are no more.

I need a gust of clean, pure, soothing wind to toss away the layers of dirt, leaves, sticks, and weeds that surround my self-esteem, so I might wake up in the morning and realize that I am free of all the chains that once bound me to great heartache.