Category Archives: Seriousness

Loved

Once

Once, I was loved like that.

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This Love Bullshit

I haven’t been making good choices where my heart is concerned. Sure, love and sex make for great poetry. The more complicated the relationship, the feelings, the better it sounds in rhyme. And when the pain hits, as it always will, there is nothing sweeter than writing it out. Oh, how we love to read that, amirite? But maybe I should stick with old memories of hurts, instead of making new ones.

Of course I can’t go into details about anything, because … well, I just can’t. But suffice to say I’m sick of the back and forth. I’m not blaming anyone but myself for the emotions I’m feeling. I know I am far too sensitive. I call myself weak constantly. Because of my anxiety issues, chiefly, but also when it comes to love. I love love. I love loving someone, giving to them what I have, what I can. And so I invest myself too quickly and too deeply, even when my head is screaming at me to stop. How often are any of us capable of listening to our heads when our hearts have already made up their mind?

This is one of the reasons I withdrew myself years ago. I couldn’t take the pain I inflicted upon myself with loving others. I don’t want to do that again, withdraw. But I have to be smarter. Cuz I am killing myself with this bullshit.


Challenges

I’ve found myself challenged a lot lately. In regards to my writing, finding that I may in fact be something of a poet. I stumble with that description. Like I said, it’s nothing I’d ever have seriously considered were it not for my fun with rhymes on Twitter. But I am so loving it. Letting loose these little pants of steam, making words dance to my tune — sometimes a tune only I can hear, but still. The feedback I’ve gotten has been tremendous. I’ll admit to doing a little basking from time to time when I find that a piece I wrote has been retweeted several times over. That makes me glow.

Not sure if I have it in me to tackle the longer poetry. Seems like every time I try I just want to tear my fingers off for failing me. But, I shall persevere. Something to look forward to, perhaps.

Regarding my other venture, the steamy, smutty short I posted – oh that one has caused me no end of anxiety, I’ll be honest. While I’ve gotten great feedback from it I don’t want to be known as that kind of writer. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. In fact, it’s something I’d be delighted to find in a novel. A nice surprise. And I’ll also admit to perusing the writers at Literotica.com. ūüėČ

But sex isn’t my story. Though it may play a supporting role at times, it’s not the story I want to tell. It’s not how I want to touch people. I’ve been told my writing can be emotionally moving. That’s what I want to hear. That I’ve made someone feel something (not just in their nether regions), that I’ve left them with something they didn’t have before, a new insight, or… Well, in time, maybe you’ll see.

As far as my life goes, every day is a challenge. Not many people know the extent to which I deal with anxiety. It has limited so many aspects of my life in frustrating and painful ways. And has made me feel so ashamed and so worthless. It is a very tender subject – even writing about it here, right now, makes me want to lean on the ol’ Backspace key and never mention it again. But that wouldn’t be very honest of me, now would it? So, even when it hurts, I’ll keep trying, keep pushing. C’est la vie, pain.

Another challenge I deal with on a daily basis is worrying about my mother’s health. I won’t go into details, but this last year has really worn her down. She has been ill off and on, and with such increasing frequency and ferocity that I’ve come to dread every sniffle sneeze and cough. Every pain, every ache. I know it’s just going to get worse, it’s inevitable. And though we have family, I can’t count on them for support. I can’t even look to my brother. I’ve long accepted that it’s my job, my purpose in life, to be there for my mother. It’s why fate hasn’t granted me a husband and family of my own. At this point I’ve gone too far down this road to even think of turning away. I wish things were different, and I’m scared as hell that I won’t be good enough, strong enough. But I try.

With respect to others, I know my life isn’t all that bad. I have a home, plenty of food, a few new friends whose company I enjoy. I have people who love me and care for me and even a couple who support me. I have so many things to be grateful for, and I am. When life’s challenges bring me to a grinding halt, I do my best to deal with them head-on. Or at least find a way to circumnavigate them.

Anyway. That’s a glimpse into my sometimes sad little head. I haven’t even touched on my alcohol dependance or the men in my life. Quite challenging aspects indeed. Maybe next time.

Thanks for reading.


My Life, My Mess

It’s another cold and dreary day here in the Midwest.¬† And again, I’m sitting here wondering what the hell I’m doing with my life.

I once described my life as a thousand balls of yarn.  Unraveled, tangled, matted together.  Twenty years worth of personal issues that I feel compelled to tug at and unwind.  In frustration to throw on the floor and angrily stomp away from.  Always drawn back though, to sit and contemplate, pulling a string here here or there.

If I’m lucky, occasionally I’ll free a strand, and lay it out lovingly to admire.¬† Proud of my small accomplishment, I will smile and stroke it and give it a place of honor.¬† And then I’ll look back at the rest of the mess, and my heart can’t help but fall.¬† In loosing that one strand, I’ve tangled the knot tighter — and worse — I’ve left a mass of other strands exposed, taunting me.¬† Tempting me to pick and pull.

I’m screwed up.¬† My issues have issues.¬† You’ve heard it before from a million mouths, spilling through ten million fingers online.¬† Why is my mess so special?¬† Cuz it’s mine.¬† It’s mine to poke and prod.¬† To kick and hold.¬† To ignore, to abuse, to love.


To Making Better Choices

I keep telling myself that this year I will make better choices for myself.  In regards to my health, physical and mental, as well as emotional.  I will eat better and exercise more.  I will make smarter decisions when it comes to my love life.  I will be open and honest, and try not to be so afraid Рor at least, to not let my fears constantly rule me.  And damnit, I will write.  Because as shitty as I think I am at it, it feels right.

So, in that vein of health-mindedness, I’m gonna do something stupid.¬† I’m gonna promise, here and now and publicly, to cut down on my drinking.¬† Quitting outright just seems too drastic.¬† =P

Over this last year – probably the hardest since I lost my dad – I have relied on this particular crutch far too much and too often.¬† It’s easy to drown myself in a 6 pack of Ice tallboys.¬† I don’t know why really, it’s not like it makes me feel better in the long run.¬† But I have been a drinker since I was 15.¬† Drinking is an old friend, one of the only ones that’s stuck by me all these years.¬† And it’s to that friend that I ran to for comfort, more and more as the year progressed.

But I realize it’s not getting me anywhere.¬† I’d love to be able to indulge on occasion, dig out my PS2 and do some drunk-driving on Midnight Club 3 (I love that game).¬† But to the extent that I’ve been going at it?¬† Yeah, that’s gotta stop.

It’s not healthy for me, physically.¬† I know this.¬† It’s not healthy for me mentally – bad hangover days really mess with my head and cause anxiety.¬† And it sure as hell hasn’t helped my love life.¬† I would get into some of the biggest fights with my ex when I was drunk.¬† Granted, he was a selfish asshole, but still.

Worse than anything though, to me, is how it affects my writing.¬† I am not one of those brilliant drunken writers.¬† I wish I was!¬† I’d personally tear out my liver and roll it in broken glass if that would let me write the next Great American Novel.¬† But fact is, as trite and sorry as my writing can be while sober, it is just pure crap when I’ve been tying on one.

Man, I am so good at tying one on.¬† I am a champion drinker on a good night.¬† I bet I could drink any of ya’ll under the table!¬† Let’s find out someday.¬† =)

But for now, for the sake of liver, brain, heart and whatever combination of organs make my fingers keep tapping these keys – I promise to cut back.¬† One sixer a week?¬† Can we all agree on that?¬† You have no idea how hard that’s gonna be.¬† Well, OK, someone out there will know.

And hey, if I can manage to survive on one sixer a week, perhaps I can do better.  Part of the process.  We shall see.

Here’s to making better choices!¬† *raises a glass of water*¬† =)


First Love, Best Love, Pt1

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about my first boyfriend. ¬†With apologies to those that followed – he was the best.

I was twelve when I first met him. ¬†I’d lost my father a mere four months previous, so you might not think that anything could distract me from that grief. ¬†But life has a tendency to go on.

The first time I saw him was that first day of seventh grade, Jr. High. ¬†It was typing class, and I’d just found a friend, a boy who’d been in my 6th grade class back in elementary. ¬†His name was Dylan, and he’d factor into my life for years to come. ¬†But it wasn’t his presence that stunned me, that gave my heart an electric thrill.

It was Josh. ¬†Joshua Bryan. ¬†I couldn’t tell you what attracted me to him, what started a longing in my heart that twenty years hasn’t quite been able to quench. ¬†He wasn’t tall, he wasn’t movie-star handsome. ¬†Maybe it was that slightly tousled look and air he had about him. ¬†A mischievous glint in his eye? ¬†I don’t know what it was, honestly. ¬†But from that day, that first day of seventh grade in my first typing class, my world was altered.

To my surprise, he became a part of my little band of friends in Jr. High. ¬†Not part of the core – Dylan, Amanda, Lizzie, Jon Baugh and I – but something of a satellite. ¬†We were all in band together, and were all pretty friendly with everyone, so maybe it shouldn’t be all that surprising that Josh and I got to know each other.

Seventh and eighth grades were a wonder to me. ¬†I look back at them as an innocent time. ¬†While at home I was dealing with a lot, learning to live in a family who’d lost so much, when I was with my friends I could be free of that and just have fun. ¬†And I had so much fun. ¬†I made my own little family and I loved them fiercely.

And I loved Josh, fiercely.

I asked him out twice. ¬†Once in seventh grade, once in eighth. ¬†Both times he said no, but he never rejected me in such a way that I was brutally hurt. ¬†We always maintained that easy, at-a-distance friendship. ¬†Even after he found a fantasy I’d written about him. ¬†(I just remembered this.) ¬†I’d written out what our life together would be like, complete with “Victoria K. Bryan” written in the margins. ¬†He laughed, but not in a mocking way, and though I was of course embarrassed, again I was not badly hurt.

Time would change that.

My little group of misfits entered High School together, the Big Leagues. ¬†Alone of our group, I was selected to join the Varsity Marching Band. ¬†Something of a high honor. ¬†Off I went to band camp. ¬†I made some friends there, mostly in my section (flute, no jokes). ¬†One, a certain dark-pixie named Sarah Nieves, would have a big impact on my life. ¬†But that’s another story.

I did meet and befriend another girl, a tuba player by the name of Katrina Jacobberger.  She was tall and loud, broad and boisterous.  She had one of those smiles that bloomed like a rose across her face, and her eyes would dance when she laughed.  It was hard not to like her.

It was impossible for Josh not to fall for her.


WOL – Why It Matters To Me

You may have heard me mention the “WOL,” or Web of Loneliness. ¬†It’s a site I belong to. ¬†A site I found several months ago that has given me the push to take my writing farther than I thought I could. ¬†Lemme share a bit about what brought me there.

In a nutshell РI lost my dad when I was young, 12.  At the same time I lost my mom to grief as well as my older brother.  I grew up in a situation where no one really cared what I did, so I did a lot.  And though I was dealing with the beginnings of depression and anxiety, I had a fuck of a lot of fun.

For years I had fun with my friends.  Drinking, doing drugs, sleeping around a bit.  But I rarely shared the inner pain I was experiencing.  My depression grew, and my anxiety grew.  And though I had occasionally reached out to therapists and counselors, I always felt disconnected and gave up.

Which is what I eventually did with my group of friends. ¬†No one understood why I couldn’t always be happy. ¬†The more they tried to make me, the less I wanted to be with them. ¬†And so I just gave up on them.

Several years went by, populated by a few romantic entanglements that didn’t pan out. ¬†I’d tried to find a connection, that one person who would understand me and bring solace and meaning to my life. ¬†I think it was always a matter of too much pressure. ¬†Counting on one person to¬†alleviate my loneliness.

And then there was the relationship that finally broke this camel’s back. ¬†I wound up with someone who I let treat me badly, because I thought that’s how I should be treated. ¬†But somewhere along the way, I realized that a man I loved should love me. ¬†And this man didn’t. ¬†So I got out.

Afterward, I went through a low. ¬†So low. ¬†I was realizing that though that man hadn’t loved me, he had been the only person in my life even slightly willing to know me, hear me. ¬†And I found myself desperately lonely. ¬†Not for the first time – but for the first time I was aware of what I was doing. ¬†I wanted someone to know me, really know me and listen to me.

So one night, feeling that aching gap in my heart, I searched the web. ¬†My keywords were something along the lines of “Fucking Lonely Chat.” ¬†And I found the WOL. ¬†And it damned near saved my life. ¬†I honestly don’t know what I would have done if I’d continued to feel so alone and disconnected. ¬†The thought scares me, frankly. ¬†And I am so grateful, so very very grateful, to have found the community I did.

For the first time in my life, I could say exactly what I felt and feel truly validated.  I could share my weaknesses, my fears, my personal trials Рand feel not only supported, but encouraged!  It was an amazing and overwhelming feeling.  To be surrounded by people who had felt the same, who had been where I was, felt what I felt Рit was a revolutionary idea!

I started blogging there Рyou can read those old posts below, though I can assure you they are wild ramblings Рand began to get positive feedback about my writing.  People enjoyed what I had to say Рthey connected with it somehow.  And that floored me.  That my words might mean something to someone else.  That I could express something that mattered.

That’s why I’m here today, writing in this blog. ¬†I really can’t stress enough the impact the WOL has had on me. ¬†I still feel lonely, at times so painfully so. ¬†And I have yet to come to terms with some of the hurts that I have experienced. ¬†But it’s due to those amazing, welcoming and supportive people that I write anything here. ¬†I owe them so much. ¬†And I will say so, over and over and over again.

If I ever make anything of myself in writing from this point on, in is in large, great, entire part to the WOL.  For giving one lonely person a place to feel she belongs.  I cannot express my gratitude and love Рthere really are no words.


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