Things I wish I could Tell My 20 Year Old Self

You kill your sadness in many different ways.

You go through phases of depression, when all that makes you feel the blood rushing in your veins is alcohol,  nicotine, actual blood gushing through self-inflicted wounds, or heart aches you bring upon yourself. You do it all just to make sure you're still alive, still kicking, still THERE.

You ask for the little highs, you jump off cliffs, chase the rivers, ride the waves, stand on the ledge of ten-story buildings, just to feel your heart pumping in your chest. You shatter yourself again and again, for all the wrong reasons, just to see a sliver of light in the darkness that has engulfed your world.

It's been so long since there was color, you think; so long since you saw the blue sky instead of the gray clouds. It's been so long since you've felt anything but cold, and despair, and the raging need to just get on with your life.

You struggle, of course, we all do, you fight valiantly through the haze and the debilitating fog. You try to get through with all your strength, because it's what we do, love. It's how we're made. You get up in the morning and it's a constant battle against the odds and the voices in your empty head. You walk through valleys of sneers and catcalls, and judging eyes, all telling you "it's all in your head", "get over it already", "stop being so weak", "move on". You nod your head and try to not let it add to the weight you've already been carrying your whole life.

See, they don't know, they've never been here before. They still see the world in color, in a spectrum you've already forgotten, they don't get that you can't just "get over it already". It's not an airport stop-over, it's the plane itself. It's how it is, and how you feel, and that's completely fine. Your feelings are valid, and your brokenness is beautiful.

Take a day, a month, a year, a decade, struggle and fight through it all, just don't stop. Keep going, there's a tomorrow out there somewhere, where you'll be able to see things through rose-colored glasses, and not through the mist anymore. You'll be alright, love, you'll be grand, you'll be ALIVE. 

An Open Letter

You should be made illegal.
You should not have met me, I should not have laid eyes on you.
You should be against the law, and away from me.
You should not be allowed to be so nice, and giving.
You should not be so gentle and funny, and smart.
You should never have befriended me.

You should not look at me like that,
with your eyes half open and groggy from alcohol,
a loopy grin playing on your lips,
and mischief just waiting in the air.
You should not worry about me,
and make me feel important,
like if I disappeared you'd care.

You should not make me laugh,
and make me feel like there's life in my veins,
like I'm eighteen again with no scars on my heart.
You should not make me feel safe,
even when I've just given you the key
to get past my defenses.

You should not be able to brush my embarrassment under the rug,
like it never happened, like it doesn't matter.
You should not be allowed to make me feel at peace,
even when you're driving half-drunk down a deserted road.
You should not make me feel like you won't break my heart.

You should be made illegal.
You should not ask how I am,
if I've gotten home safe.
You should not text me back,
you should not ANSWER.
You should not take me to places
that take my breath away,
because you felt the same way when you first went.

I should not so easily have fallen for your gentle charm,
and the way you speak so softly.
I should not have let you in,
and felt your warm presence.
I should not have felt that pang of jealousy
when she put her arm around yours 
and you smiled at her the same way you do with me.

Rain Clouds

“I bet you’ve got a million stories in that brain of yours,” a deep voice says from beside me, its source looking out into the rain like I was.

It was one of those days where it rained waterfalls but somewhere in the distance you could see the sun stubbornly fighting its way free of the clouds. 

I stare blankly into the curtain of raindrops; the fourth floor’s glass windows giving me the complete view of the city rooftops, all up to the boulevard.

“They’re all sad, at the moment,” I answer, my voice low and measured, “But what does it matter?”I see him give a small smile from the corner of my eyes, he crosses his arms over the black long-sleeved shirt he has on; I fidget with the gray sleeves of my sweater, the sequined blue front of it catching the fluorescent lights. 

He looks at me now, and I wonder what he sees.Does he see the mane of unruly wavy hair that puffs up around my head like an insufferable halo of black, red and brown? Does he see the awkward young woman, the sweater she bought two years ago struggling to hug her shoulders? Does he know I bought the wrong size? Can he see that? Does he see the perfectly lined eyes and painted lips? Does he see the shell that I show the world; all perfect and unbroken in a sweater, skinny jeans and red sneakers? Or does he see more? God, I hope he doesn’t see any more.

“What’s your name?” he asks, and I can tell he’s fighting back a smile by the tone of his voice.

“Does it matter?” I ask back, I’m being bitchy today, and I wonder at myself. It’s not like he’s doing anything wrong, and what’s in a name, anyway? What’s in my name?

He shrugs, “It doesn’t, really,” then he raises a hand and runs it through unruly brown curls, making it even more of a mess, “but it’s better than ‘girl staring pensively out the window’.”

I have to smile at that. Pensively. Who says that? “I kind of like ‘girl staring pensively out the window’,” I tease, a small smile now forming on my lips, “it has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? It’s… unique.”

“I guess,” I still haven’t looked at him directly, I’m afraid he’ll see my eyes are blank and light-less, “so what’s your story, morning glory?”

“Oasis, 1995,” I answer, and this time I look at him, “Do I know you?” I try to place his features, and realize that I do. Same lean frame, same black top on black jeans with black sneakers combo, same dark brown dancing eyes, same smile, shorter haircut.

“I don’t know, do you?” he quirks a brow; same “I will answer your question with another question” attitude.

“Do you know me?” I ask, and I feel a little bit of life creep back into my veins. He must see it in my eyes, because his smile widens.

“I thought I did, once,” he stuffs his hands in his pockets, “I’m not sure now.”

I laugh, or at least I try to, it just comes out like a sad, sarcastic chuckle, “I thought I did, too.”

“Story?” he requests, his pretty head tilting to the side expectantly.

“I have none you’d be happy to hear,” I tell him as I turn back to the window, the sunshine’s gone now. I guess sometimes you just have to give in to the sadness.

He follows my line of sight, and sighs, “You know it’s not going to keep raining, right?”

“Is it?” I look at him, and his brows furrow in concern. I know he sees the blankness, the absolute void I have allowed myself to be thrown into.

“You used to know that,” he frowns.

“I thought I knew many things,” I shake my head, “Turns out half of them were lies and the others were make believe.”

“You don’t believe that,” he grins knowingly, “You want to, because it’s easier and it will hurt less, but you don’t believe that.”

I scoff, “You know me better than I know myself, then?”

“No, I just know you,” he shoves my shoulder lightly, “Come on, a story.”

“They’re all sad, at the moment, I told you,” I sighed in exasperation.

“So?” he insists, “At least you have a story.”

“There are no stories for you here,” I look at my shoes, ashamed. There are no stories for me here, either.

“Tell me your sad stories,” he says softly. I look up and see he has moved a few steps closer, “We’ll make them happy again.”

“We can’t,” I tell him, tears stinging my eyes, because he’s right. I don’t believe in the darkness and the void. It would have been so easy, to throw it all away, to succumb to it all. But I love too much, feel too much to be able to give up, and it’s the fighting against the sadness that hurts.

“You don’t believe that,” he whispers.He’s right again. So I look into his eyes and see the recognition there. I don’t know how he can tell that the light is seeping back into me amidst the cold weather, but he’s found me again.

“Fine,” I give in, allowing a small sincere smile, “Let’s get some coffee then.”

He laughs at his little victory and loops his arm in mine.

So I start with the stories, and bit by bit, the sunshine starts to filter through the clouds, and the dark winds start to die down… and I slowly stop existing and start living again.

Check List

Give me someone with fire and courage, 

someone with heart and passion, 
and love.

Give me someone who sees the stars in people's eyes 

but loves the constellations in mine the most. 

Give me someone who likes to make people laugh, 

but realizes mine is their favorite. 

Give me someone everyone can depend on 

but allows me to lean on them when my defenses are weak. 

Give me someone who respects everyone and everything accordingly, 

someone alive, not existing. 

Give me someone who makes everyone feel at ease 

but makes sure I always feel safe. 

Give me someone who likes coffee and good food, 

who will take me on adventures physically, mentally, emotionally; 

someone who can find the beauty in the forests that have overrun my mind. 

Give me someone who will look at the broken pieces of my glass heart 

and make them into a mosaic. 

Give me someone who understands my love for books 

and my need to express my opinions. 

Give me someone who cares enough to listen, 

and loves me enough to argue sarcastically about the most mundane things. 

Give me someone who will laugh at my troubles 

but hold me close when my demons come knocking. 

Give me someone 

with passion, 

with heart, 

with courage, 

and love.