Bidding Goodbye to 2011

There are people who get caught up in the sentimentality or perceived deeper meaning of New Year's, that when the clock strikes midnight, the world changes and the slate gets wiped clean. 

I'm not one of those people. 

What I am, though, is perhaps a mixture of believing and not. 

There are those who are always eager to sweep the current year behind them, convinced that this year has been the worst of their lives, and cannot wait to usher in the new in all its promise. 

I'm not one of those people either. 

Each year of our lives has its own trials and conflict and sadness and loss and disappointment.  We suffer hardship every year but there are also good things that happen as well. 

My best friend told me the other day that amidst all of the bad, there is also the good.  But the good is in moments which seem fleeting, like laughing your face off at someone acting ridiculous or singing your heart out to a song that moves you or seeing the look of wonder on a child's face.  The bad, however, is so much easier to recall, to string together in a larger tapestry.  It's easier to focus on those things as we move forward to restarting the calendar for the next year to begin. 

Lately it's been easier for me to see the negatives instead of the positives, focus on the sadness instead of on the blessings I've received this year.  I'm no stranger to struggling with depression, it's been a presence in my life almost as long as I can remember and lately, it's been a bitch to bring myself to get out of bed a lot of the time. 

As I've read the wishes of people on Facebook today, offering up their words to the world, wishing them a Happy New Year, it gave me pause about all the things that have happened during 2011.  And many of them were truly wonderful things.  Those are the events I must concentrate on. 

A friend sent me an email this week about deciding on my "word" for 2012.  A word to be my theme, my talisman for the year.  A word to cling to when I do find myself struggling.  A word to carry me through the days that are harder.  I scoffed at the idea, most of those self-help things just make me feel stupid.  What word could I possibly choose for the course of a year, for a period of time that I have no way to anticipate what its days will bring? 

I chose one today. 

Hope.

I chose it for many reasons.  I chose it because of the wonderful things I've read from To Write Love on Her Arms, an organization that inspires me, which speaks to me on my own struggle with depression.  Because hope is real.  I chose it because of people who surround me; people whose strength is also an inspiration.  People who, despite the odds, recover and get up and fight the good fight no matter what is thrown at them.  People who are stronger than I could hope to be.  People who hold me up when all I want to do is fall down. 

I've learned so much this past year and I don't want to go into a new year forgetting those lessons. 

My sister has taught me about perseverance.  About always doing your best for your family. 

My husband has taught me about stability, of quiet reserve.  Of being my roots.

My son has taught me about wonder and innocence. 

Chrissy has taught me about kindness.  That friends are found in the unlikeliest of places sometimes. 

Jeff has taught me about determination.

Shayne has taught me that sometimes we all need to ask for help, even when it's the last thing we want to do.

Julie has taught me about believing in your dreams.  That if you work hard enough for it, you can achieve what you want most.

Lisa has taught me about endurance. 

Ken has taught me about strength of will and defying the odds in his amazing recovery from an injury to which we thought we'd lose him. 

Jackie has taught me about friends, about accepting and loving someone without judgment.  About loyalty and love in standing by Ken and not accepting any outcome other than the ideal - and getting that outcome.  About opening your home and your heart to people you haven't known all that long. 

Pri has taught me that you can influence people - in a good way - without intending to.

Amber has taught me that my words and thoughts can inspire people.  That the things I say get through.  That I can reach someone more than half my age.  She and the other students in Creative Writing Club have taught me that being young doesn't mean you don't have something important to say and that the rest of us should listen.

Mary has taught me about the endurance of friendship.  That 15 years can go by without seeing one another but when you do, it's like picking up your favorite book and the story is the same as it was the last time you read it and it's just as wonderful as it was all those years ago.  That old friends are some of the best friends, that they will be there when you need them most. 

Emilie has taught me about determination.  And that it's okay to not know precisely what you want at any given moment.  That it's better to weigh your decisions before acting rashly and making the wrong one. 

Jes has taught me about resilience, of the importance of family and protecting yourself and those you love.  About absolute bravery.  About being an outstanding mother.  About true grace under fire.

Patrick has taught me about courage born of fear.  He has taught me that you keep fighting, even when you're down.  He's taught me to never give up.  He's taught me that no matter how broken inside I may feel, that person is still capable of good things.  He's taught me about being a mirror.  He's taught me that the smallest gesture can be enormous to someone else, from the lyrics to a song to stretching out your hand to help.  He's taught me about acceptance, about being gentle on myself.  About believing in someone, about holding people accountable without judgment.  About faith. Together, we've learned that so long as you've got someone on your side, shoulder to shoulder, you can conquer anything. 

With all of these lessons fresh in my head, I will bid goodbye to 2011 on good terms, with acceptance, and will look to 2012 with eyes of hope and a heart ready to accept what will come in the days ahead.  I will hold my head high.  I will accept the challenge of a new year.  I look to the new year with an unwavering resolve.  Tonight, we are all alive to welcome in a new year and that is a blessing and something to be thankful for in and of itself.  That is not lost on me. 

So in those moments when I feel I have little else, I will have hope. 

Thanksgiving Indeed

Today is Thanksgiving and while we're all eating our turkey and counting our blessings, I wanted to take a few minutes while the turkey is roasting, the family is making their way over and the boy is attempting to nap to acknowledge my own blessings.

This year, much like many others, has had its ups and downs.  Every year has its own ebb and flow of the good and the bad.  I think often I cannot wait by this time to be rid of each year to start fresh.  Instead of concentrating on the negative, I'd like to look at the positives as I try to be more positive.

This year marked the opportunity I was given to talk to the students at two high schools about my book.  It has truly been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life.  I love my writing but I love helping more.  I've talked about this before, but teenagers are scary (Thank you, My Chemical Romance, for putting that notion into song) and somehow I managed to reach a few.  This morning I received a text from one student (Mini Me!) wishing me a happy Thanksgiving and this afternoon I received an email from another student who thanked me for the advice I've given her, without knowing it, through my blogs.  I burst into tears when I read that.  Thank all of you - students and faculty - for allowing me into your days, your lives, your hearts. 

My uncle posted today on Facebook that he was thankful for his nieces and nephews - that without us, he wouldn't be here.  I can't conceive of a world without him in it and I'm thankful every day that he's part of our lives. 

I'm thankful for my family.  I'm thankful for their support, their love, their humor and the sense of "home" that they offer me.  Without them as my foundation, I'd wash away. 

I'm thankful for my son, for all he teaches me every day.  Kindness and patience and wonder and amazement.  I'm thankful for each day I'm granted to spend with him, to raise him. 

This year I almost lost a very dear friend.  There have been many dark days for him but as they've gone by, he and I have both realized that brighter ones are ahead.  I've learned that when someone is at their worst, they need you at your best.  I've tried very hard to be that.  I've learned never to give up on someone, to have hope that they can do better, be better.  He hasn't disappointed me in that. 

I've learned and am thankful to know that there will never be a day when there are no more things to learn, even about myself. 

I'm thankful to have my second career in writing, to have been given the gift to share my words with others, no matter how frightening that is.  I'm thankful for the unending support of people I never would have imagined would offer it. 

I'm thankful for the new friends I've made this year and the way they've changed me. 

When you stop to think of all the positives, change your perspective a little, things stop seeming so dreary.  It shouldn't take a holiday from work to make me see these things, but perhaps now that I have, I can continue the idea of Thanksgiving into every day. 

The Other Side of the Door

And this is the companion piece for yesterday's post...

The other side of the door….

Days of loneliness.  I suppose the days aren't nearly as bad as the nights are.  The days I've always spent immersed in work.  There are never enough minutes or seconds or hours to complete everything, to ponder and review the things I need to look at for the future, to plan, to scheme.  The nights are worse. 

It's the time I used to spend with him. 

Nights spent talking about our lives, our plans together.  Spent laughing at television.  Spent cuddling at the couch.  Furtive, coy glances at one another over dinner.  Retelling stories of our twenty year history, years spent together and apart. 

It's the nights I dread the most.  There's this hole in my life that I can't seem to fill.  Now, instead of preparing dinner with him in my kitchen, each doing our own task and with the occasional slap of the dish towel on my rear end, I microwave leftovers or eat cheese and crackers.  I can't remember the last time I actually tasted the food I ate. 

I've spent days trying to make sense of the worst betrayal I've ever felt.  I feel as though I've been torn inside and I can't heal. 

Every moment spent idle has been filled with thoughts and memories of him.  The mussed look of his hair in the morning.  The stubble on his cheeks when he hasn't shaved in a day.  The way he spends what seems like days brushing his teeth.  They way he looks when his glasses slip too far down the bridge of his nose. 

For every good thought or memory, there is its opposite.  There is the sound of his voice coming clean about relapsing.  Coming clean about the sanctuary he sought in the arms of another.  The arms of another when so much time had been spent telling me of how my arms were all he'd ever need, ever want. 

What was real and what was a lie?  How do you come back from that? 

I spent so many years longing for the right time, longing for the day when we could be together.  So many years dreaming of what it would be like, to finally be his woman and he my man.  We'd spent an almost idyllic year and a half since we'd reconnected.  The fairy tale we'd both imagined had seemingly come true.  Not without cost, not without baggage.  But happy nonetheless.

Or so I'd thought.

I wasn't so naïve that I was unaware of his demons, his past…even his present.  I knew the things that haunted his eyes, the fear I could see in those eyes when he thought it was hooded and hidden from me.  I was never ignorant.  I entreated him to open up to me, to confide in me.

To trust me. 

I fought to be where I had been.  In one day, in one conversation, it was all ripped from me. 

How do you look at yourself in the mirror when you have been your most honest, your most giving, your most loving…when you've done everything in your power to make someone feel loved, feel worthy and they spat all your words, your pure emotions back in your face?  How do you heal from a wound that reopens every time you breathe?

He wants to talk to me.  He wants to explain.  How can I find it in myself to listen? 

Everything in life is a risk.  He was a risk.  I knew there were no guarantees.  I signed on for the ride.  I signed the disclaimer, giving my heart to a junkie.  A damaged junkie, at that. 

But this…this was so much worse. 

How do you live with yourself knowing your love, your care wasn't enough?  How do you live knowing you weren't enough for the one you loved with a passion, an intensity, a purity that you'd never experienced before in your life?

How do I go on from this?  How do I recreate my life around this hole? 

There's a knock at my door.  It's beyond late.  No idea who would be coming by at this hour.  I'm in face cream and pajama bottoms and my fluffiest socks.  Anything to try for some comfort and solace.  I mute the television and head to the front door. 

I glance out the peephole, thinking maybe someone has the wrong door. 

They don't.

It's him. 

Why?

I'm frozen in place.  I can't speak, can't move.  I stand there, stupidly.  I've gone "tharn" like the rabbits in Watership Down. 

"I know you're there," I hear him say.  His voice sounds so raw, so desperate, so earnest.  I look again out the peephole.  His face is wan, gray.  The bags underneath his eyes are pronounced.  My heart breaks just a little more as I stare, transfixed.  He looks terrible.  He looks as destroyed as my insides feel. 

The words pour out of him, a slow trickle at first and then he gains his momentum.  He is trying so hard.  So, so hard. 

Part of me…part of me is torn.  Part of me wants to hear his explanation, his reasoning.  His sorrow.  His request for forgiveness.  Here, in short bursts, are the truths I've been looking for.  Here are the words that are the root of the situation.  The hurt, the fear, the all encompassing sorrow he has carried in his heart every day of his life.  He is breaking my heart.  Again. 

My hand flies to my mouth to stifle a sob.  I feel the tears, hot and angry and so sad as they run down my cheeks.  I see him in my head as the little boy he once was, the little boy who lost his innocence too early.  The little boy who no one protected.  The little boy who tried so hard to keep the appearance of normalcy.  The little boy who wanted to be good, to be loved.  To have someone hold him and tell him all was right with the world and he was perfect.  To sing him to sleep.  Inside he is still that little boy. 

He is the definition of failure to thrive.  He's existed.  And existence is not living.  It's a sorry excuse.  It's the wax figure of a real person. 

My chest hitches.  I want to cry.  I want to yell.  I want to hit him.  Repeatedly. 

His words…there is so much in them, so much behind them and not said.  But how can I forgive this?  How do I trust again? 

All of life is a risk, I remind myself. 

All he's ever wanted was someone to believe in him, I argue with myself.

I believed in him and he betrayed me, my head says.

I don't think I can turn my back, my heart says. 

He has a problem.  I know that.  Can I walk away knowing that?  I may never allow him back into my heart the same way, but can I walk away knowing what could happen if I shut him out?  If I become another in the tally line of those who gave up on him?  Who contributed to those feelings of inadequacy, of failure that he carries? 

I can't.  I can't walk away.  I know he loves me.  I know he's flawed.  I know he needs help. 

I can offer the first gesture.  I can try again. 

It is no guarantee of the rest of our lives, no storybook.  But it is a start.  It is faith.  It is knowing the soul I've seen inside his eyes, his heart, beyond the grave errors he has made.  I refuse to give up on that man.  Not yet.

I hear him turning to leave. 

Drawing in one last breath and holding it within my chest, I throw caution to the wind and put my heart on the line and open the door. 

Sometimes, we just have to follow our hearts and pray they don't lead us astray.  I've invested too much to give up yet. 

I stand aside to allow him entry - into my home and back into my heart.

One Side of the Door...

Here is part one of a short story I recently wrote which was inspired in part by a song - "Stay" by Mayday Parade and also by two people very close to me.  I will post part two as a separate blog in the days to come.  Comments totally welcome and appreciated.

One Side of the Door...

These last days have been agony.  Every waking moment, second, minute, hour.  All of them full of pain, of loss.  Of knowing what I had before I so carelessly threw it away. 

And for what?  For an hour or two of escape?  It's not even an escape.  It's a brief period of silence.  A small respite from all the thoughts I've been trying to outrun all my life. 

The other…the other I can't even bring myself to think about but know I have to force myself.  Answers will be needed and I'm just not ready to give them. 

How do you explain to the person you love best that you made so many mistakes that they spiraled out of control?  How do you say you've shared your bed with someone else, not out of love but out of a sick need for approval, for attention, for validation?  How do you find the words to say you're sorry for that? 

I don't believe the right words exist for that. 

I trudge down the sidewalk, feet brushing aside crumpled newspapers, the scattered detritus of all the other beings that shuffle the same street but living completely different lives.  I shrug farther into my sweatshirt, pulling my face as far back into the hood as I can, not only to shield it from the bitter wind and stinging rain, but to hide it and my shame from the rest of the world. 

Not that there is anyone else walking down her street at this time of night.  Quiet neighborhoods are just that - quiet.  And when you're approaching midnight, they're like a giant tomb. 

My fingers curl in frustration within my pockets, wrapping themselves around the small bags that lay within them, stroking them almost reverently.  They want out of their prison.  I'm fighting the urge with every part of myself to remove them from my pocket, fighting the urge to duck down a back alley for five minutes of privacy that will lead to temporary oblivion.

That's really what's brought me to this place, isn't it?  Those goddamn bags that I can't get out of my head.  It makes my skin itch, the anticipation of feeling their contents within my bloodstream. 

That constant siren song of silence, of quieting all the discord in my brain.  The voices of all those others in my life who said I was nothing, unworthy, stupid, unlovable, broken and damaged.

All those voices…but never hers. 

How could I betray that?  The one pure soul that ever saw past the faults, tried to see past my mask.  That mask of normalcy I try to put on each morning to function like all the other animals in this world. 

I'm getting worse at it.  The façade I've spent so many years constructing to make me accepted, to look like everyone else I see is cracking.  Maybe I want it to crack.  Maybe I'm just tired of all of this. 

I don't know another way to live. 

My clothes are getting too big.  Well, that's not entirely accurate, is it?  So much for that honesty I've been aiming for.  My clothes are staying the same size.  I'm getting smaller.  That's what happens when all you want to do is shoot dope and drink.  Eating is pretty low on the priority list.

Her door.  I'm at her door.  How did I get here so quickly?  What the hell am I going to say?  How do I fix this?

How do I put into words that I'm sorry?  That I love her?  That it was never anything she did, it was the deficiencies in me?  That I don't  know how to be loved.  That I have to destroy everything good in my life, partly because I feel I don't deserve it and partly because I'm afraid it would feel so much worse if it were taken away from me rather than setting it all aflame myself. 

I can't do this.

I have to. 

She hasn't spoken to me in weeks.  I've written her countless letters, emails, text messages, trying so hard to explain the how's and why's.  She wrote me one in return, on a scrap of paper, probably ripped from a notebook, which merely said, "Please understand if you see me again, please don't even say hello."

I was gone for two days straight after that note. 

I raise my hand to knock at the door, my fist shaking as it grows closer, inch by painful inch. 

My stomach is roiling and I don't know if it's because I'm terrified or if it's because it's been two days since I used.  My body is not happy with me on so many levels. 

Just do this.  Just make it through this.  If she throws you away, you have us, those little bags in my pockets keep whispering to me. 

I shake my head, scattering those spidery voices away for a moment. 

I knock.  Once.  Twice. 

Silence.

The overhead light above her door stays unlit.  I stand in the cold and the dark, waiting. 

I know she's home.  Buttery light glows from the picture window in the living room.  Her car hulks silently in the driveway. 

I remember riding in that sleek machine as we glided toward the ocean for a quiet weekend.  I remember talking about our plans for the future, our work schedules.  I remember fighting over the stereo.  I remember her holding my hand as she drove, wrapping her slim fingers around my larger ones.  They were always so cool, those fingers, as they touched me. 

Their absence on my skin has been noticed.  Missed. 

I knock again.

There is movement inside.  I can hear her feet, wrapped in the comfortable socks she wears at night, padding down the front hallway to the door.  I hear the silence as she's stopped in front of the door. 

Is she looking at me through the peephole right now?

Does she know that I haven't slept in days? 

Of course she does. 

"I know you're there," I say, my voice trembling but at least loud enough for her to hear me.  "I know you're angry.  I know you probably hate me."

More silence.

"Are you looking at me right now?"

Silence.

"I'm sure you can tell I haven't slept very well since the last time that we spoke," I offer, a weak attempt at humor, not fooling either of us. 

Nothing.  Not even the sound of her feet retreating.

That's a start, I suppose.  That she hasn't walked away yet.  Guess I'd better get on with it before she decides to.

"I tried.  I tried so hard to be good.  I tried to be who I thought you needed me to be.  I tried to be me without all the fucked up parts.  I tried to be me without the damage.  Without the Mommy and Daddy issues.  Without the drugs and the drama.  I tried to give you a version of me that you deserved, that was worthy of you.  I misjudged.  There is no part of me that is worthy of you."

Was that a sound?  It sounded like a sob.

"I know I broke your heart.  I know I betrayed you.  I can say all the things I'm supposed to, like it was nothing, nothing compared to what we have and while all of those things are true, I don't think they'll make you feel any better.  I think they're just the things people say because they're standard."

Can silence be stony when you can't see the other person?

"I wish I knew how to make this right.  I wish I knew how to pretty it up so I didn't sound like a complete addict loser.  I wish I could be the man you need.  I can't.  I don't know how.  There is something missing in me, something good that I just don't have.  You're all good.  You're kindness and light and love and beauty and forgiveness and I am none of those things.  I am dark and damaged and broken and sad and weak."

More padding feet noises.  Except they're coming closer. 

"I cheated.  I've been using.  It's been worse since you left.  It's been two days since I last used and it's been hard.  I hate it.   But I know I have to stop.  It's not just because I want you back.  That's part of it but not all.  I have to stop if I want to ever get to a place where every moment of my life isn't spent hating myself.  And I hate myself all the more for what I've done to you and put you through.  It's a start though, isn't it?  Everything has to start somewhere."

Silence.  But I know she's still there. 

I'm starting to find a rhythm to this, I guess.  My voice is getting a little stronger, a little louder.  I'm almost shouting.  It's a good thing her neighbors don't appear to be home. 

"I'm sorry! I don't know how else to be other than how I've been my whole life.  You're the first person who has ever accepted me the way I am - or at least as much of that as you've seen.  I'll admit that I was wrong about everything.  I was wrong.  I fucked up.  I did unforgivable things.  I broke your heart and your trust.  Despite all of those things, those awful things you didn't deserve, I love you.  You've shown me a life I never thought possible.  You asked for nothing in return other than for me to love you.  In my life, everyone wants something, everyone has their hand out.  They all want to take a little piece of you with them when they walk away.  Not money, not your time, not help moving a couch.  They want to take a piece of your soul.  And mine has been chipped away for so long that I don't know how much is left.  I don't know what I have left to give.  But please know whatever I do have left belongs to you."

Still there.  There might be crying.  I hope there's crying - yet at the same time I hope there isn't.  I've done enough.  More crying is no good. 

"I wasn't strong enough.  I wasn't strong enough to carry this without it destroying us.  I love you.  I love you more than anything. I love you because you loved me, you loved me selflessly.  If I made you stop loving me, I will never forgive myself.  I don't want to do this to myself anymore.  I don't want to hurt you anymore."

My fingers stroke the bags, feeling the smooth plastic as it warms to the same temperature as my fingertips, which feel far hotter than they should.

"I'm not even sure why I'm here.  I know you never wanted to see me again but I couldn't leave this unfinished.  I couldn't say nothing.  Even if these words mean nothing to you, I had to say them.  Just say you love me and I'll say I'm sorry.  And I'll walk away still.  Just say it through the door.  Just say something, please."

More silence. 

Shoulders slump in defeat.  I can feel me drawing into myself as the loss sinks in.  My hand curls around the bags.  I take a few steps back toward the street to walk home again. 

Warm light spills over my back as she opens the door for me.  I can see her shadow on the porch floor.

What that open door will mean in the future, I don't know and can't say with certainty.  But right now, that door means salvation.

I throw the little bags into the gutter, turn, and walk into the light.

Slacker...Thy name is Jennifer

So, I've been rather lax in keeping up with the whole website/blog dealie.  The last month and a half have been busier than I would have liked, but what can you do?  I've been dealing with a huge transition in my job duties at the office, the complexities of trying to keep a toddler in bed at night without involving duct tape or the authorities, the anniversary of a death and the actual death of a friend, trying to write one book and finish the final touches on another...the list goes on. 

And it's now drive-in movie theater season, something I've missed out on since 2007.  So there's that. 

I'm realizing that there just aren't enough hours in the day, not if I want to sleep for some of them, anyway.  Michael refuses to stay in bed at night - there are at least five occurrences nightly of me or Aaron yelling down the hallway for him to get back in bed or we hear little-boy giggles in the hallway as he sits on the floor and sticks his fingers in the ferret cage or feels the need to hide behind the fishtank stand.  I never knew that watching TV at night or trying (futilely) to write was interesting to a three year old. 

I've reached the level of frustration where I burst into tears last Friday night because he refuses to sleep and I just didn't know what to do with myself.  We've tried a number of methods to get him to stay in bed.  They work for one night and then the next...epic fail.  And apparently now this is translating to weekend naps.  Aces.  This past Sunday I spent two hours trying to get him to nap.  Aaron had gone out to lunch with Shayne and I had a few blessed hours to try to work on a book.  Well, it went right to hell.  There was no napping.  None.  Not even for a minute.  Aside from blinking, that wretched little kid didn't even close his eyes. 

At one point, which almost pushed me over the proverbial edge, he came trotting out into the living room to show me the lovely paint job/faux tattoo sleeves he'd given himself with the little kid (thankfully washable) markers that Aunt Karen had given him for his first birthday.  One arm was green, the other brown and red.  I can only reason that this was Aunt Karen's way of saying hello to us.  He still isn't ready for those markers, lady, but I'm glad you've kept your sense of humor.  Rather than tear my hair out of my head (first instinct), I just laughed and busted out the bucket o' baby wipes and thank goodness it came right off. 

This alone is enough to keep my nerves taught as a mofo and then adding in the commuting, the working, it's just ridiculous.  I'd like to go back to working out in the morning but lately I can't bring myself to even get up on time, let alone early to exercise.  Forget reading a book - and I have about six on my bookshelf that I've bought and have yet to crack the spine of a single one.

So bear with me a little.  I'm working hard to try to finish up the final touches on Letters to My Child so that can get out there.  That book being as near and dear to me as it is isn't getting out of my hot little hands until I'm good and ready to send it off into the world.  It has to be right; it has to be perfect.  And it's not perfect yet. 

I'm trying, peeps, just like everyone else in the universe.  So I'm not in hiding or on the lam or anything like that, just a total slacker in the whole blogging department.  Not that I think anyone was overly concerned that my drivel was absent over the last month and a half.  I'm pretty sure you can all sleep at night.

Here's hoping I can, too.

All these things...

These thoughts kept banging around in my head the other day and I needed to get them out, get them down.  I think they came out in a way that translates not only to me - but could translates to others.  So here's a little view into my head - remember - no refunds. 

I am not the death of my brother.

I am not the divorce of my parents.

I am not someone else’s addiction, or the cause of it.

I am not the violence I felt at someone’s hands.

I am not the knife to my throat.

I am not the rape I endured.

I am not my depression.

I am not my scars.

I am not their lack of coping skills.

I am not his infidelity.

I am not his inability to have “enough”. 

I am not a victim.

I am not the size of my jeans.

I am not the stores where I shop.

I am not my divorce.

I am not his ego.

I am not my own ego. 

I am not here to inflate anyone’s ego.

I am not my penchant for tattoos, piercings and hair color.

I am not his selfishness.

I am not a statistic.

I am not a “have”.

I am not a “have not”.

I am not the car that I drive.

I am not in competition with anyone.

I am not a paycheck – no matter the amount.

I am not their narcissism.

I am not the status quo.

I am not someone else’s lack of self worth.

I am not her unmanageable pain.

I am not her bad decisions.

I am me.

I am the sum of all these things and more – decimals and numbers and zeroes and life and death and emotion and hate and love and loss and loyalty and betrayal.  I am the ability to find strength in the pain.  I am compassion.  I am empathy.  I am accountability.  I am kindness.  I am survival.  I am honesty.  I am love.

I am my heart.  Which I can choose or not choose to wear upon my sleeve.

I am endurance.  I am endurance in all things. I am comprised of rising from the dirt and brushing myself off and never relying on the actions of others to save me.

I can save myself. 

I don’t need the love of another to complete me.  I don’t need the approval of another to complete or validate me.  I should be beautiful in my own eyes; it shouldn’t take the reflection in another’s to validate that belief.  My failures are not your successes.

I should be whole in my own eyes.

I am the phoenix, time and again.  I’ve risen from the ashes of my life over and over, every time I’ve been knocked or beaten down. 

No matter what, I will continue to rise.  I will not stay down, not ever.  I am more than that, stronger than that, better than that, better than the notion that I need saving.

MCHS Bleeds Black and Orange

Today, similar to what I did last month at Highland High School, I spoke to two groups of students.  The difference this time was that I spoke at the high school I graduated from, Marlboro Central.  It was strange to me to be back in those halls I hadn't set foot in in years.  So much has changed yet they still felt like the same old hallways they had always been.  So much had been renovated and changed - and all of it for the better.  The names of my friends were still up on the board in the entryway for their rank when we graduated back in 1994, which was comforting to see.  I revisited a lot of old memories when I walked through those doors this morning, some of them good...some not so good. 

There are still teachers remaining from when I attended there, also good to see.  I got to spend time with Mrs. Casey, or Anne as she now insists I call her though it is certainly strange to call her by her first name, who was my English teacher during my senior year.  While I don't think she was much of a fan of my writing when she was my teacher and I her pupil, she appears to have been converted now.  It was great to be able to have a conversation that wasn't teacher/student and it was even better to discuss writing and reading and various other topics before the students came in as well as after.  I have to say special thanks to her as well as Jenn Atkins for bringing me in and letting me speak to the students.  They're both wonderful and admirable women and it was my pleasure to spend my day with them today.  It was also fantastic to meet some of the administration as well, which was an honor to me that they took time out of their busy day to listen to me prattle on.

On to the students...

The first group of students I believe had entered a lottery of sorts to be able to sit in and listen to my "talk", for lack of a better description.  This time around I was better prepared - instead of flying by the seat of my pants for the whole thing I had the foresight to prepare a Power Point presentation (for which I solicited much feedback from my inner circle - including my new pal Pri from Highland High School who enduring me "winging it" last time) to keep me better on track and not floundering so much to think of what I wanted to say. 

The second group of students I spoke to were part of a creative writing group that apparently meets after school one day a week or so.  I think by the second round of kids I was a little less nervous (read: terrified) than I'd been for the first round.  The first group was great and listened to my nonsense unfailingly and was respectful and asked good questions.  The second group....wow.  Just wow. 

Round Two asked me more questions than I can even remember.  They were ravenous with questions.  Most of them stayed in the library for a second period there were so many questions!  I showed them my playlists that I use for my writing, both the playlist for Second Chances as well as the playlist I'm using to work on the novel I'm working on now and managed to feel like I'm not an irrelevant, supercilious old poop, which I have to admit, felt marvelous. 

To all those students who may happen upon this blog - thank you.  Thank you for listening, thank you for being interested, thank you for allowing me to intrude upon your day to talk to you about my passions, about my work and all the other nonsense I blathered on about.  But what I said to all of you is true - believe in yourself and you can achieve your dreams.  The stories you hold in your hearts and your heads that you are working to tell - keep at them.  They are stories that should - and need to be - told.  Be brave.  Be diligent and tenacious.  Never let the words of strangers keep you from continuing to work toward fulfilling your goals.  Let nothing deter you.  Don't apologize for the person you are.  It was a true honor for me to speak to each and every one of you today.  It moved me beyond description.

Speaking to these kids is like a drug to me.  I felt almost high after it was over, such a rush of adrenaline and terror running through my veins that I was ready to crash and burn from exhaustion by 2 PM.  Seeing their faces as they listened and paid attention, hearing and answering their questions, knowing that at least a few of them weren't bored to tears by what I had to say was like nothing I've experienced before.  This experience coupled with the one I had at Highland made me think - if I could make a living at this, at speaking to high school students, I would do it in a heartbeat.  I remember how hard it was to be at that age, where you're trying to figure out who you are, who you want to be, what is important to you, who your friends are and aren't - it's the most psychotic time in your life.  It's hard.  You're still a child but on the cusp of adulthood.  You're supposed to still act like a kid yet not.  I'm not sure how any of us make it out alive, yet most of us do.  A little worse for wear, but alive nonetheless.  I don't want to preach to any of them or be one of those ridiculous out of touch grownups who try to be relevant.  I want to be able to speak to them on their own level.  It's not guaranteed to reach them but I do try - I try to be a grownup outside of speaking to students but occasionally, that's an epic fail.  More than occasionally.  Despite the terror I felt, it was an exhilerating experience and one I'd be happy to do again and again. 

A few students asked for my email address for any other questions they may have - so here it is: jlplace76@gmail.com. 

A few also asked for my playlists to be posted on here - so here they are:

The playlist for my as yet untitled vampire project:

Lost - Avenged Sevenfold

Hurricane - Thirty Seconds to Mars

A Cross and a Girl Named Blessed - Evans Blue

Kings and Queens - Thirty Seconds to Mars

Thunder - Boys Like Girls

Far From Home - Five Finger Death Punch

The Kill - Thirty Seconds to Mars

Untouchable Face - Ani DiFranco

Dance with the Devil - Breaking Benjamin

If It Means a Lot to You - A Day to Remember

Say You'll Haunt Me - Stone Sour

Happens All the Time - Cold

Your Love Kills Me - The Veer Union

Attack - Thirty Seconds to Mars

From Yesterday - Thirty Seconds to Mars

Drowning - Saving Abel

Inside Our Skin - Emery

Savin' Me - Nickelback (don't judge me)

This is War - Thirty Seconds to Mars

Night of the Hunter - Thirty Seconds to Mars

Savior - Rise Against

Brompton Cocktail - Avenged Sevenfold

Firework - Katy Perry

Vox Populi - Thirty Seconds to Mars

The Story - Thirty Seconds to Mars

Jumper - Bedlight for Blue Eyes

Jar of Hearts - Christina Perri

Raise Your Glass - Pink

Seconds Chances Playlist:

Breathe (2 AM) - Anna Nalick

A Place Called Home - Kim Richey

Anthem of the Angels - Breaking Benjamin

Gone Away - The Offspring

Pictures of You - The Cure

So Long, Goodbye - 10 Years

Show Me What I'm Looking For - Carolina Liar

Your Ghost - Kristen Hirsch & Michael Stipe

Second Chance - Shinedown

Just Like Heaven - The Cure

Congratulations - Blue October

Push - Sarah McLachlan

Fly From Heaven - Toad the Wet Sprocket

Rain King - Counting Crows

The Wood Song - The Indigo Girls

Never Be the Same - Red

The Ponytail Parades - Emery

What Lies Beneath - Breaking Benjamin

Who Knew - Pink

Call Me - Shinedown

Devils and Angels - Toby Lightman

Stop and Say You Love Me - Evans Blue

Chameleon Boy - Blue October

Hard Headed Woman - Cat Stevens

Do What You Have to Do - Sarah McLachlan

It's Been a While - Staind

Breath - Breaking Benjamin

Come On Get Higher - Matt Nathanson

Cold - Crossfade

Never Again - Kelly Clarkson

Near to You - A Fine Frenzy

Am I Wrong - Love Spit Love

Ask - The Smiths

The Way I Am - Ingrid Michaelson

Heart in Hand - Vertical Horizon

Beg - Evans Blue

Pieces - Red

They Weren't There - Missy Higgins

Lost in You - Three Days Grace

Again - from the bottom of my heart - thank you all who made today possible so very much.

Miscellany

I have a lot rolling around in my head today, some good and some bad.  My brain is kind of all over the place and I’m doing my best right now to make some sense out of it. 

I’ve come to realize that, while I attempt to live a drama-free lifestyle, despite my best efforts drama does manage to work itself into my life on a daily basis – as is really the case for everyone.  Everyone has their own drama every day of life.  I suppose the key is not to feed into it, which sounds good on paper but in practice isn’t always so simple. 

The first thing today was seeing a piece on the morning news about a mother who drove herself and her four children into the Hudson River last night.  One of them was able to escape, her ten year old son.  Her other children, ages five, two and 11 months were not so lucky.  I can’t comprehend this, I just can’t.  And while stories like this affected me before I had a child of my own, they doubly affect me now.  My heart breaks for those little children, it cracks into little pieces at the thought of those tiny lives snuffed out far too soon.  How any mother could do something like that to her children…I just don’t know.  There aren’t words.  Our children trust us, trust us to do right by them, to help them make decisions, to fight for them, to keep their best interests above all else.  And when parents betray that trust, well, they never should have been granted the gift of children to begin with.  I have to trust there is a special room in Hell for those parents who would visit hurt or betrayal upon those precious lives they were given the privilege to raise. 

My inbox at work had become unmanageable at a little over 10,000 messages that went back I don’t know how far.  In attempting to do some housekeeping, I came across the exchanges I’d had with my family last year around this time when my aunt became ill and was moved to hospice.  The one year anniversary of her passing is coming up on the 28^th.  I can’t believe it’s been almost a year already.  I still haven’t reconciled myself completely to the knowledge that she’s gone.  Thinking of those events a year ago unleashed a flurry of unexpected tears today – the hurt, the fear, the pain, the heartache and the loss.  I keep focusing on a mental image of her in hospice giving her son the finger when he wised off to her.  Her personality stayed true to the very end.  And I know she knew we were there with her at the end, that we didn’t abandon her or leave her alone.  And while we weren’t there with her when she went, she was in all of our hearts.  She’s still in my heart.  I carry her with me every day and somehow that knowledge will have to be enough.  I miss her. 

While I found these sad emails, I also found a few that made me happy – those being the messages sent around on April 23^rd of last year when I was offered my publishing contract for Second Chances.  So within the sad, there’s the balance of happy.  That contract was the fulfillment of dreams I’d held close to my heart since I was little, when someone had given me a manual typewriter for Christmas to write my stories on, when I wrote silly stories with Tennille that we stuffed inside a pillowcase to hide from Mom and Heather.  That contract was written proof that I’d accomplished something, whether I sold more than a single copy or not.  I’d moved from the ranks of “writer” to “author” by receiving a two page document stating that someone had found my words, my story worthy of printing.  No matter fame, fortune or notoriety, I had accomplished that one dream that had outshined all the other dreams I’d held dear.  I haven’t found the words to express how I feel about it yet, even after a year.  Not pride.  Not arrogance.  Not boastful.  I can’t define it.  It’s prompted me to put effort forth in an attempt to talk to others about how they can make their own dreams come true, hence my visits to two area high schools to speak with the students about writing, the message not being so much the ins and outs of writing and being published but more believing in your dreams and believing in yourself, something I’m more than occasionally terrible at. 

So call this little collection of thoughts what you will.  I think of it mainly as trying to bleed out a little bit, to release some of these thoughts so I can concentrate on other things.  Nothing overly profound or helpful to anyone but me, but I suppose that’s okay.