Writing

Originally, I never wanted to be a writer. I detested reading, and I wasn’t the least bit interested in learning enough in English class to learn how to write a proper paragraph.

To be honest, I never chose to start writing, I was more forced into it than anything. I had an acquaintance when I was twelve, one I considered my best friend at the time.

Having dealt with much bullying in my life, it wasn’t unusual for others to laugh at me, make fun of me, or make me do something I didn’t want to do. That would be everything that this individual did. She pushed me into reading, even though I hated it. She Manase me write stories, even though I had no interest in the activity.

I thought all of this was normal.

As the years went by and the abuse from this person continued, I set my sights on being an author. A published author. I spent twelve years writing and re-writing a book that I was never satisfied with. Then, one day, this person disappeared. It only came to my attention years later that my mom intervened and forbid her to speak to me or come anywhere near our house.

Thank goodness for wonderful, intuitive mothers.

Years after that, I continued to write, but it was only within the last two months that I discovered the true reason I was writing: to prove that I had worth. To show I was worth something. Then, the second realization came to me. It wasn’t that individual that I was trying to prove this to, I was trying to prove it to myself.

It’s interesting how our minds wrap us in lies and false desires to protect ourselves from the nature of abuse and being bullied.

Now, I love writing. It is a passion of mine. So, I often ask myself: if I had never ran into that person and suffered so many years, would I have never found an actual passion for writing?

I don’t know. All I know is that the past is in the past and that success is the best revenge.

And that’s good enough for me.

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Lifeline

Sometimes you need a lifeline, and too many of us can’t find one. In our darkest hours and deepest sorrow and despair, we need a life jacket. We need something that will help us stay afloat in the turbulent waters.

If I had not found my lifeline when I did, I would not be alive today. Those who have survived attempts are the strongest people I know. And with that, I’d like to think I’m strong, too.

I hope that I can thank him extensively in person soon. And I know I will.

This is more of a serious post, but I find that writing while in raw emotion is the best way to create breathtaking beauty.

Don’t give up. Find a lifeline. It’s worth it. You will thank yourself later.

I Am Not Perfect

I am not perfect. None of us are, and yet we pretend to be perfect. On our Tinder profiles, our Facebooks and Instagrams. The highlight reels of others’ lives have haunted me for years.

When I was a child, I swore I would never tell the truth of how I felt. I swore to myself that I would tell no one of how fat my thighs felt and how miserable I felt and how I used to scream in my head for help from the darkness of my sorrow for some mind-reading stranger to hear and come help. But I broke that oath with myself, and let me tell you: it’s the best thing I’ve ever done.

Now I can be me. I’m still learning, still smoothing rough edges. But I am still me. The me that stands in front of a Michael Jackson music video, sobbing because I miss him. The me that is in love with kittens, can’t understand cruelty, and doesn’t know how to change a tire (or drive).

This is who I am, whether I want to be or not.

I used to hide who I was, who I am. But now I don’t. I have recently realized that the greatest disservice I can do myself is to pretend to be someone else.

The same goes for all of us. Why do we pretend to be perfect when perfection itself is ugly, and flaws – a tooth gap, a nasally voice, or any other perceived flaws – are what is truly beautiful.

Be beautiful. Be you.

Beauty

I have always thought that sadness and sorrow is a type of beauty. I’ve always found beauty in tears. Why? Because it’s human. It is us being who we are. When we allow tears to slip out, we allow our true selves to show.

For the longest time, I didn’t know why I found beauty in the things I did, but I knew that these things were just naturally beautiful to me. Strange things like crying, tears and pain. The beauty I see is not the beauty that society has taught us to perceive, but a different type of beauty, something that doesn’t exist within this day-to-day spectrum.

I have always struggled to be who I am, but now I know that I am capable of being who I am.

And so are you.

Acceptance

Accepting things can be difficult, if not impossible. Especially when these things you need to accept are some of your greatest fears.

I have always had a slew of fears regarding my physical health, because I was born with three major organs being chronically ill. I’ve been very sick my entire life, but now at 23 years old, the reality sets in. It’s not just my organs that are in danger, but other parts of my body as well that are considered disposable.

I discovered a long time ago that when the body is fighting to provide for a failing organ – let alone three failing organs – that it will give up on what is considered ‘superficial’, such as teeth and finger and toe nails. But there are other things the body will also give up – the senses of sight and hearing.

As I am already aware that my sight has been on a steep decline, it has always been a paralyzing fear of mine to be blind. How would I write? Sketch? See my loved ones? Now it’s a reality that I need to come to terms with – something I had always thought I could avoid. The same can and probably will happen for my hearing. To be deaf is scary enough, but to be deaf and blind at the same time is terrifying. I’m only 23 years old, and I have my entire life ahead of me. Still though, I don’t consider it over.

I don’t see acceptance as weakness; I see it as noble. To accept your deepest fears, allow them to happen and then to keep moving forward is something I am fortunately pretty good at.

It’s not easy to accept these things, and there is certainly no shortage of tears. But if I do end up losing these portions of myself, I know I will gain others in the long run.

And who knows? Maybe they will end up healing. Or…maybe even with these challenges I can be the one in a million that makes it work. A blind painter. A deaf singer. A dancer who has always struggled to move. It has happened before, so who is to say it won’t happen again?

Healing

I never understood why you acted that way. You led me astray. Miles and miles away from where I lay, I want to again find my way. In these turbulent seas and the seasons to come and change, I find myself haunted by the reflection that calls my name. I don’t know what I need or what I could claim, but in these days it seems that I seek something the same.

I wanted to understand the meaning behind it; the reason. But it’s not as if there ever really was one, just the simple fact that someone doesn’t know how to control anger and I happened to be caught within the crossfire. I found myself battered and bruised, and now the reflection – my eyes – haunt me to the core. The sadness I see when I look in that glass, at the me that is standing right there. Sometimes I wonder if I am ever going to reach what I’ve worked so hard for.

And yet I believe that God has given everything and that He is putting everything together for my benefit, I still find myself crying with no intent. It’s not something I can simply vent, it’s something that will take years of acknowledgement and understanding; the ability to allow myself to cry and allow myself to grieve. Because these feelings will never truly leave.

For some reason I find beauty within the pain. I find tragedy to have an elegant quality. Perhaps it is my own coping for dealing with the tragedies of everyday life in this world; or perhaps I’m just crazy. but it seems to me that in these days I’m filled with more than just sorrow. I’ve allowed that door to be opened, and now the floodgates open. Sadness, sorrow, grief, guilt. Everything that I feel, and the flowers within my heart begin to wilt. But in their place stands something new, something serene. I take it to be another me. Perhaps this version is stronger than the last, I would hope so because she was broken fast.

In this new reality as I gain years and experience, I will allow myself to feel these things with diligence. I have learned that bottling up pain is a bad thing to do; something that should never be achieved. And now I understand these things that have hurt me.

Because I know these things to be true, and I know Him to be by my side, I will never again see myself with these things that hurt me huddled in a jar in my heart. Instead, I will look at the rising sun, and pray upon the golden hue.

Real World

Sometimes I don’t know why, but I find myself desperate to cry. To let things out, to allow myself to feel. To see if these things are indeed real. Because it seems to me that I’ve taught myself not to cry, but for now I’ll try.

As past laughter echoes in my mind, and things like being made fun of aren’t struggles that are solely mine, I want to find that line, the one that allows a person to cry without facing judgment. Without facing torment.

I feel the scars from when I was younger, just a teenager, crying from my open wounds. And for now this pain of mine will be held within me. I remember the times that I tried not to cry and failed, but now I’m seeing things I’ve never seen before. I’m seeing these things that the real world has taught me; not the world of teenagers who are in the ‘popular group’ with the ringleader who pretends to be your friend and then stabs you behind your back.

No, this is the real world. In the real world, people cry. In the real world, people die. In the real world we don’t laugh at each other for the tears that leave our eyes and even though I might not be educated much on a formal level, I have an education of life experience that those my age rarely are allowed to see. And even though these things within me that bring this real world experience hurt, I will never let go of them because they are part of me, now and forever.

The physical heart that I was born with, facing life and death every day. The lungs that were underdeveloped when I was born are frayed. The kidneys that don’t work as well as they could, and the liver that works less than it should. The body that is pulled together by the strings of God and faith alike, I will never be able to thank Him enough for my life.

Because of these things that doctors have told me I should not be alive. These things that diagnose me to die. These are the things that the real world brings me, the things that help me to know what it’s like to have depth and reality to your character, not just your Instagram profile or your pretenders who you act with alike.

I never understood the boom of social media, but perhaps that’s because I live in a world where things take more precedence than an online persona. Still, I can find myself caught up within its grasp, but sometimes it’s all to easy to crawl out of its depths. All I need to do is not care what it thinks – or what others think – and it has no hold on me. The person that I want to be can simply be. The person that is simply me.

So as this laughter that rings in my head from so many years ago as tears fell, I won’t allow them to tell me how to live my life. Because, even though we may be different, I don’t look down on them as they looked down on me. It is simple character that everyone can see. And in the real world these things don’t matter much.

For me these little miracles, my heart they will always touch.

Fall From Grace

As I fall from grace, when you see my face will you still love me? As I fall from grace, the cherry blossoms fall to the pavement beneath me, showing their alliance.

Shooting stars as they fall from their own place, am I not alone in this frightening facet of loneliness? Am I not solitary in my fight for openness?

The author of my own life, it should be my right to place things where I want them. But often those things have a different plan, something that I’m beginning to understand.

To recollect that future happiness, or what I thought would come from it – I would have to find my own beautiful nest. I’d build it high in the sky so that I may see the planets soar by on their paths through eternity. I would allow the pads of my bare feet leave the earth, daring to fly up to where I’d never be found.

I desire that night, as stars align and I can study the cities’ light. I desire that very eternal peace that comes to me as I watch the Milky Way turn, so fast it could it could burn us if it chose to. But it chose not to. It has given us life, so why not more? Why not explore what it has to offer, because as my feet lift off the ground I do not have wings – I am defying gravity. I am denying it its reign.

Because it will never hold me back again.