One of Life's Saddest Beauties

I have held too many lives in my hands. The weight of each makes me quiver deep into my soul. Being the person whom someone trusts most, trusts implicitly, trusts more than they have anyone else, it is a beautiful, terrible, terrifying gift - a double-edged sword sharper than razors. How can one person be entrusted with another's legacy of emotions, insanity, memories, and their decisions toward life or death? As I sit in nature feeling the cold wind wrap my body tightly and throw my hair about, icy tears hesitantly glide down my cheeks...and I, once more, try to convince someone I love and cherish to allow their heart to continue beating; to lean on me so I can give them refuge. I plead openly, without pretense, for my beloved friend to trust my words - even as impossible and harrowingly hopeless it feels - and hold on. Hold on to me. Don't leave me.... I wish I could say, "please...please don't leave me...not after I've let you into my damaged heart. Don't leave me here alone, without your light, without getting to learn and experience all the gorgeous chaos that you are. Please... Don't leave me to face my depression alone." But I can't. The words I speak are still truth, but not selfish; being entrusted with someone's life is not the time to be selfish....and I feel guilt, for sharing those same inclinations, that same hopelessness, the same insanity that feels impossible to overcome. More than once, I have been cutting at my own flesh with a sharp edge while telling a friend that life is worth it; that it will be alright someday...that healing is possible. I'm not there yet...but I know, I KNOW, it is true. I hate life just as much as anyone else who is seriously suicidal, but.... Life can be a beautiful tragedy...without escaping it through death. Ultimately, my intense feelings, no matter how long-lasting and insane they feel, cannot end my life on their own - only I, or an outside source, can do that. So... I hope...one day... I can look into the faces of each life I hold...and feel warm tears of gratitude upon my cheeks, instead of the heavy weight of cold, terrified tears... I'm so afraid...that one person's hands - no matter how capable - are not enough to hold a life together.

An Easily Digestible Poem

You said, once, As we walked together, That you would never, Never give up, That you would, No matter what, Win my heart, And be my man. I laughed, And thought, You were so silly, So young, That you couldn't, Understand, That my heart, Was undone. Now I stand, Alone, Having crumbled, My walls, My heart beats, Loudly, Wildly, I want you. Now I run, After your shadow, Telling you, I will never, Never give up, That I will, No matter what, Take back, Your heart, And have you, Be my man. I hope, You don't laugh, And think, You are no longer, Young, That I am silly, That your heart, Is undone. I want to walk, Beside you again, And know, Together, We will never, Never give up, Because, We have, Each other's hearts, And we laugh, Together, In the sunshine, And smile, At how silly we are, And how young, We feel, Together, And know, Our hearts, Are one.

My Most Candid Confession

And here I sit, love, in the quivering silence, the tense stillness buzzing with the electricity that only you can engender in my soul. Your handprint on my heart - so hot, it burns - my chest can barely rise with shallow breath from the pressure. Unable to escape into my typical distractions, I feel your presence in an alien environment, wondering if you'll appear - knowing you won't - and paralyzed from movement regardless. I read once of the evils of hope; that it creates an aching emptiness, a shattering sadness, from the need for that which is hoped for. I feel that hope in these moments, darling, and its bittersweetness fills every spark of electricity in my cells. That sweetness, cloying, dense, causes me to long for the painful times with you - because even those incidents of sadness were spent together - wishing I could meet you again in the soft falling of our mutual souls. I ache without you, my sweet, a deeply bruised pain in all the places you traced your name, and the ache seeps outward, trembling through my body. Just the sight of you makes my heart stop - then rush forward like a great, crashing torrent - just the sight of you causes my body to quiver and shake from the intensity of my soul calling to yours - and the near impossible difficulty of holding myself back from rushing into your arms and stealing you into myself forever. My dearest, it matters not to me what happened, what is happening, what will happen; it matters not to me that if we were together once more you would make me cry; I couldn't give a damn that perhaps we would go our separate ways again...all that I can see, all that matters, is that my heart wants you, my soul loves you, my mind brightens with you, my body craves you; and I cannot see reason in not living in accordance with my feelings for fear of what may come, nor to avoid the possible sadnesses the future may bring. I could die tomorrow, in a month, in a year, in a decade or a few, and my last moments would be spent longing for you, and wishing I had been able to retain a few more moments by your side, locked in your embrace, crying tears of laughter, joy, and heartbreak. Love, I am sorry how it broke your heart when you would see me cry, but I cannot regret those moments, because I feel closer to you because of them. I treasure the deep, tender rending of our hearts together. I realize now, that without heartbreak, there can't be a complete joining of our souls - without breaking each other open, we cannot come together as a healed whole. I love you... those words are meaningless. Those words cannot possibly describe the level of devotion and appreciation I hold for you. Those words...so paltry... they cheapen my feelings with pathetic connotations and frivolity. My soul wants to mingle with yours again, to dance in your sunlight, to soothe your soul in my moonlight, to speak the language only we can speak together. And so here I sit, my love, quivering in the silence....the same as every day since the moment I met you and there was a whisper from Fate which pulled me in....the same as it will, every day moving forward, until the time our souls have become satisfied, and fly their separate ways. But, my dearest, even with all my desperate heartbreak, I hope that day never comes; I would rather love you alone forever - but more - I would rather love you joined together, than to live without the meeting of our souls, sewn together through it all.

No, I Don't Hate Loving You

I don't hate loving you, my dear, my love. Even when my mind screams otherwise, the lament, " I hate you!" filling every breath, settling in my spine. But I don't hate loving you, no, love, I don't. I hate the soft silence in my bed upon waking, my first thought of you, as I breathe in the memory of your scent, wrapping my arms around the imaginary curve of your back. What I hate in this is the breathtaking loneliness that overcomes me, the heart-wrenching feeling of missing how perfectly your form met against mine...and now it is gone. I hate the despair I feel when you ignore me, because I fear I never mattered, I fear that meaninglessness will engulf my life in a sea of grey, and every time I see you the desperate beating of my heart will never be matched by yours. I hate my hunger for your laughter, and my discouraging fears that no one else's merriment will play with my heart quite as beautifully as yours does. I fear that no other sun shines as brightly as yours, and I hate that I had to tell you to leave. Why did I make you leave? I know I had to, but the guilt of that act sears me like acid, eating away the edges of my composure. I hate that you don't try, that you don't express the same longings that I do with open abandon. I hate that our roles reversed, and now yours is the closed-off stony facade, and my face is the one bearing tears. It hurts me that you have time for everyone else, that you respond and spend time with others, but not me. Am I meaningless to you? How can the thought of you settle upon my mind so oft throughout each day, yet I feel the same isn't true for you. Enough of pretense, for there are darker feelings, too. I want you to want me. Only me. With every breath you take, I want the pause upon inhaling to tighten your chest from the thought of me. I want each exhalation to come with the silent whisper of my name. I want you to feel my presence beside you at night, and curse the gods because I'm not truly there. I want to steal your laughter in a bottle and keep it all to myself. I want your arms to hold me when I am unwell, and your sympathetic voice to encourage me into health. I want my arms around you, breathing you into my soul, knowing you are doing the same. I want a second chance at loving you; an opportunity to dive in, to not hold back this time, to resist my fears and stop believing that our love was meant to be broken. I want your kisses which feel so natural that I could swear they were made only for me. I want your love, fiery, dynamic, yet sure, unquestioning. I want to know that when I return home from battle, you will be there to gently kiss my ring finger, to kiss my lips, to ever-so-tenderly kiss my forehead; the way you kiss me, seemingly with reverence, breaks open the chambers of my heart, strengthening each beat that follows. And yet... I want nothing from you. I want you to simply be you. I want you to have peace. I want to let you go, to move on, to find someone "better" - that someone who kept me from loving you completely because I feared I could feel their heartbeat in the distance, calling for my own. I'm confused, my darling, and I feel so befuddled and lost. I want you, I don't want you, I want someone whom I've never met yet, and I want no one ever again. I'm afraid to love you, I'm afraid to let you go, I'm afraid to want you, I'm...terrified to never long for you again. How great a tragedy it would be, to feel a love so magnitudinous only to let it blow away like sand and scatter into nothingness. Please don't make me let you go. Please tell me to let go. I'm not torn, but I feel my back breaking beneath these columns of hope and fear. I want to let my fears go...and just love...and let be. ...but... ...but.. Mine. Gimme.

"Depression" Isn't the Correct Term

I feel so jagged and shaken. Frightened, I can't catch my breath. I don't know which way to direct my gaze or which path to take. When I am depressed I can't move. My friends say, "Just break free and MOVE!" and... I'm so paralyzed. When I feel so trapped and stuck I just want to rip myself apart, but even then, I can't move. I hate so much in my life, but I swallow it - I don't want to hate. So I burn inside, instead. ...can't... I can't breathe... my vision fades in and out... my fingers are stiff and icy. I almost can't move even just to type. For long moments I stare blindly above the screen, incapable of existing - I forget to breathe, my heart nearly stops, then it pounds, and I feel more trapped.

The Price of Being an Artist

I hear people all the time say, "I wish I was an artist like you." but they really don't understand what it means to be an artist. They see the result, the art, and think having that skill is ONLY a bonus - an upgrade to "normal" life - a blessing from the Gods which magically wafted down to grace the bodies of the Chosen Ones. Here are some things that people who are not artists do not understand about life as an artist: 1. You will be asked for art ALL the time. This one is often a big "pet peeve" to artists, but not necessarily for reasons you think, and it's a bit different for every artist. As an artist, expect to be asked for art (constantly) by friends, family, everyone you date, teachers, fellow students, random children, random mothers of children, any stranger who sees you drawing, just about anyone who finds out you are an artist ever. The problem with this is that it feels very exploitative. It often feels as if the artist themselves are not valuable to others - except for the art they are willing to provide. There is an expectation to provide art to other people, MERELY because they want it. The more you are supposed to love someone, the more art you are EXPECTED to create FOR them - and usually without anything in return. This is NO different than any other ultimatum-type "requirement" that says, "If you love me, then you will..." - and it feels just as controlling as any other form of expectation put on love and friendship. I have even been called selfish, a bad friend, mean, lazy, self-centered, and accused of not loving or caring about others enough because I did not provide the artwork expected of me(without my consent). (Oh, does that mean non-artists aren't capable of as much love as artists because they don't provide art? Of course not.) To put this art-requesting into perspective, let me explain some of the artistic process: With a few rare exceptions, the better you are at art, the more time you have dedicated to it - and the more time you put into specific art pieces, the better and more intricate they become. To create a piece of art there can be a lot of emotions, imagination, thinking, intuition, and other subtle processes involved. There is a certain cost to supplies. And then there is the big cost of time. Non-artists are amazed at how quickly they see an artist produce a creation, stating nonsense like, "Wow, even if I worked on it for three months it wouldn't be half that good!" (I say this is nonsense, because they wouldn't even attempt that in the first place). But art DOES take a lot of time. When someone has an expectation of an artist to create an art piece for them, they are not only expecting that person to produce something meaningful and beautiful (which is a hefty expectation in and of itself - OUCH), but they are also expecting a lot of time to be dedicated to "prove" that they are loved by the artist - often without even realizing it. Should I say to you, "Hey, you love me, right? So that means you're going to do something to prove it to me that will take 5-20+ hours of your time and give it to me in the next week or so. Right?" Because that's what non-artists are saying to artists when they request art. AND they feel they have a RIGHT to do so and that the artist is obligated to provide it. And this is expected on a fairly regular basis - otherwise they must not love the non-artist enough. Now, what if the artist does agree to provide art? Then the artist is hounded CONSTANTLY for results. It becomes the only reason the non-artist checks in on you, the first question they ask (even before "how are you?"), the last thing they "jokingly" berate you on not accomplishing before they leave.... and heaven forbid you do ANY other art than their request before their request is finished and delivered. *shudder* The non-artist becomes offended, icy, angry, hurt, feels betrayed, feels like they are not loved enough, and feels a lot of negativity toward the artist (who is still expected to finish the piece). All of this weight is put on the artist as if the artist has done some terrible misdeed. Rude statements like, "Oh, I see how it is - you had time to do YOUR art, but didn't have time to work on mine!" may be said in a joking tone, but it always comes with a heavy undertone of blame and resentment. The guilt I feel as an artist for not meeting the expectations of those around me, and the fear of receiving these demands for expected free art that comes in a package of nagging and blame, plague me so strongly that I will go months without completing a single piece of my own artwork - because if I do, I feel like a bad person. If I do, I feel like I will be resented and harassed by people who I am supposed to love. 2. The crazy idea that art is too expensive. This is a big one. People see a piece of original artwork they admire on an 8x10" piece of paper, then they see a pricetag of $30 and think it is too expensive - when really, the artist is ripping themselves off on charging $30 for it. Why? Because a nice piece of artwork on an 8x10" probably took them anywhere from 4-12 hours. Let's do some math here, if they get $30 for the piece, and spent 4 hours to create it, the artist is being paid a mere $7.50 per hour for their trade (a trade that requires spending YEARS studying and developing their skill with a minority of the population even being born with that talent). At $30, if they spent 12 hours on that piece, they earned a wonderful $2.50 per hour. Great. So what is that piece of art really worth? Well, let's say that they only charge $10 per hour for it - right there, that is $40-120. Let's just stop with the math calculations, we all know that unless the artist is famous (and often even then) they aren't going to get that much for an 8-10" piece of art. Hooray for having a skill that won't even pay minimum wage. 3. Speaking of money, the next misconception non-artists have about artists is the expectation that the artist will become rich. My whole life I have been told that I will be rich because of my art. From early childhood I was brainwashed with this notion that being an artist equates to having your art sell at a high price. Not only is this typically not true (see above), but it isn't exactly good for a person's self-esteem when they are a broke 25 year old who hasn't lived up to everyone's expectations of glory and riches. Not only that, but this completely ignores a very important aspect of selling art - and that is, who is going to sell it? You see, artists' minds behave differently than non-artists, and while this is generally accepted when it comes to positive attributes, when the perceived attributes are considered negative, the artist is blamed and often thought of as being lazy, anti-social, and lacking a "do whatever it takes" mentality. Non-artists simply do not accept that artists brains often do not (and cannot) conceive how to run a business, advertise, sell, network, and promote their art - in the EXACT same way that non-artists do not (and cannot) conceive how an artist "just sees the art," "draws and it magically turns into something," gives their imaginings a physical form, and creates masterpieces. Yes, an artist CAN learn to do many of the technical business thingies (I am an artist afterall, so "thingies" is a technical term for me) that non-artists expect of them, but it is usually PAINFUL and unnatural. How about this for a change? If it’s so easy, YOU DO IT. The non-artist wants to benefit from the artist anyway, so why don’t they become a dedicated business partner and actually make a profit together? The artist will take care of the supply, the non-artist can take care of the demand. Seems simple right? WRONG. Because every time I’ve suggested it the non-artist doesn’t follow through. Meaning their criticisms are empty and running a business and promoting art is difficult for non-artists, too. Believe me, as an artist, I would loooooooooooove to be able to just do my art and have someone else take care of the managing and promoting aspects. Are you kidding me? I’d do it full-time. We’d both be rich (have you seen my art? It’s amazing). But, alas, non-artists are just as flaky as artists. So stop stereotyping us artists as being unreliable and flaky! 4. Depression. Have I ever met an artist who doesn’t have some form of depression or lack of self-esteem? Not yet. Oh, I’m sure they’re out there, but most likely that’s because they’ve worked through the depths of depression and have come out the other side. There’s something with the way our minds work, combined with our perceived failures and inadequacies, that creates a sense of disappointment and causes us to feel depressed. Praise from non-artists are only half-believed by the artist because the artist knows exactly in the art piece where they were unable to accomplish what they wanted; also, the artist knows that the art piece is monetarily worthless, especially compared to the hourly compensation they could expect from selling it. (You see, artists aren’t necessarily possessive of their art, they just think it’s stupid to receive inadequate pay for what they put into the piece) This monetary worthlessness translates into a feeling of, “my greatest talent and passion is worthless” which is a pretty depressing feeling. Not only that, but often non-artists respond to art in very negative ways even when they have very positive feelings about it, mostly because of their own feelings of jealousy. It’s difficult to have an admired skill that comes paired with statements like, “I hate you so much,” especially when you just gave that person an art-piece as a gift. It is confusing and depressing. I feel like I am a bad person because I create reactions of jealousy, insecurity, and low self-esteem in others. And the only thing I did wrong was to create amazing art. Why was Van Gogh my favorite artist as a kid? Because he was the only famous artist I knew of who I could identify with the level of depressed inner turmoil and feelings of insanity. Fun stuff. 5. You’ve already read me saying that artists spend years to develop their talent into a proficient skill, but let me lay it out for you a bit. I began drawing when I was about 1 year old – now that’s not impressive yet, but does an engineer begin developing their trade at that age? Usually not. Growing up, I spent more time drawing than I did doing any other activity – including studying and sleep (though the sleep part may be because I was plagued by terrible insomnia). As a child and early teen I would spend a minimum of 4-6 hours of drawing a day, often surpassing 8-12 hours. That means, out of each year of my life, I spent a minimum of 1,460 hours training for my profession. Over the course of 15 years (because let’s say I maybe drew less than 4 hours a day for about 10 years’ worth of my life), I dedicated more than 21,900 hours toward developing my artistic skills. That’s about 912 full days, or two and a half SOLID years out of that 15, spent improving and developing my abilities. What mad skills could you have if you spent 2.5 out of 15 years entirely on training? This is exactly why I respond to that annoying question, “I wish I could do art like you!” with the response, “You could if you dedicated as much time as I have to it.” Art isn’t a magical gift from the Gods. As artists, we are blessed with a spark, with the possibility of creation – but so are many non-artists as well. What makes an artist is not that spark of talent, but rather the overtaking power that art has over our minds – our entire existence. Art is in everything we see, it is the medium through which we express ourselves to the world, and how we experience every facet of our lives. Art is the silent scream of terror or cry of exultation. Art is our voice, our tears, our madness spilling beyond the bounds of our body – because our body isn’t big enough to house it. Art is a gift, and a curse, and it is everything, and nothing. It is our most precious treasure, and it is completely useless. Art both connects us to others and isolates us from them. Art is the expressions of our insanity that keep us sane – whilst simultaneously pulling us deeper into the depths. Art brings us adoration and resentment, awe and jealousy. Art liberates and ensnares us. Art is the anthem to which each beat of our heart plays until we march into our graves.

Bottled-Up Emotions and Icky Fungus

Sometimes memories are trapped in jars with the lids on tight. Without any air being able to get in to release the emotions those memories hold, they remain just as vivid. Some jars really hurt to open them. Some lids are very difficult to remove. Sometimes we try to empty the jars but find the contents are viscous, black, heavy, stuck within the small openings - nearly impossible to pry out. Some of the lids have come a bit unscrewed through the years, a small stream of oxygen has gotten in, but instead of clearing out the mess what has happened instead is that a fungus has grown. That fungus rots the original memory, overtakes it, and the fungus spreads - and even escapes the confines of the jar - infesting and affecting all the other memories it touches. It seeks out new breeding grounds, memories like the original one, where it can grow and spread further. It turns the many, unconnected, random memories and creates a story around those events - making them seems like they are all the same, because they are all covered by the same mold that came from the first memory jar. This is a very tenacious fungus, it spreads without us even realizing it. It is nearly impossible to completely eradicate. The spores hang in the aetherial air that is our emotional consciousness, catching onto any surface that can nourish it into maturity. Bottling up these spores does nothing to stop them - they cannot die from suffocation - though parts of us, can. Nothing can remain bottled forever - and once the lid is opened, or the glass breaks from strain, those fungus spores are freed again to wreak havoc across the delicate ecosystem that is our emotional biome. What, then, can be done to treat this moldy affliction? In the physical realm, one of the biggest fungus-eradicators is sunlight, and this is true on an emotional level as well. Beyond sunlight, also letting other forms of light in to our emotional sphere is vital to healing our emotions. Bathing those memories in clarity, acceptance, allowance, and love opens them up to being cleared by the "light" and oxygenating effects. Self-criticisms and judgments close us off, pull us in on ourselves, narrow our emotional pathways, and create the sort of environment that is a breeding ground for these negative emotional fungi. When we learn to treat our emotional afflictions with the same sort of attitude we treat our physical ones, we can discover many correlations between those two realms and how they affect and interact with each other. Everything in the physical realm can be used as a metaphor for the emotional realm - and vice versa - which is a beautiful thing. Perhaps it is time to do a bit of "spring-cleaning" and air out our attics, let some sunlight in, and clear out those dusty corners we like to pretend aren't there.

Sexual Disconnect - My Personal Response to a Difficult Subject

I was reading a dear friend's post on Facebook about sexuality and how it affects women when men use terms like "hot" to describe them without showing appreciation for the woman she is inside. What really stood out to me was the idea of the man masturbating inside the woman - which happens all the time (there are women who do it to men, too). But I think it is one of the big reasons why I have a disconnect or occasionally an emotional meltdown during or right after intimacy with a partner. At some point I realize that the sex wasn't about us two joining, sharing and enjoying together, and it was about him stroking his ego, enjoying how "sexy" I am, and getting off - and that hurts! When a man isn't being open to receiving advice on how to please me and(/or) says things like, "I know what I'm doing!" or "This worked before." it is really invalidating to the current experience - which causes me to disconnect from it entirely. When a man says, "Are you done yet?" or assumes I am and just moves on to "his turn getting off" it is hurtful and feels like my experience doesn't have any value or importance to him. When, after he has gotten off, he doesn't want to do any more for my enjoyment - or even criticizes my hunger for more - it's devastating and I feel entirely invalidated. At these times, that sinking realization that he was just using me to get himself off, paired with the feeling of him being selfish and invalidating, is incredibly hurtful. What makes it worse is that he doesn't even realize he is doing this, so when I attempt to communicate these things with a partner who is also a Nice / Good Guy, he feels guilt, hurt, frustration - and generally believes I'm just a bit too emotional and much too hard to get off. It ends up creating a dynamic between us where it is assumed I will not get off, but the sex will still be great for him, and I will graciously appreciate as enjoyable as it is - followed by my inevitable stomachache, nausea, and occasional uncontrollable crying. ("Oh, no, I'm fine, I just have intense abdominal pain after sex if I didn't orgasm.") It really creates an unhealthy pattern in my relationships where I feel that my sexual satisfaction is unnecessary and even inconvenient - and prevents me from having a deeply trusting, emotionally committed experience with a partner who I grow closer to. Inevitably, I drift further and further away as I am continually invalidated, he finds himself resenting me but doesn't know why, in his frustration he begins yelling at me or criticizing me constantly - and I end up getting sick of feeling like I'm the "bad guy" and eventually break up with my partner. It is a terrible, painful, vicious cycle I have been in for years - and unfortunately - it doesn't seem to matter how communicative and maturely open I am about sexual satisfaction for both parties if my partner isn't there yet, too. Which is very unfortunate, because with a caring, communicative, listening partner - sex for intuitive and empathetic ladies like myself would be even MORE incredible - if I could only trust as well. What I always think, though, is that each person has to create their own experience. There is definitely some sort of emotional block (and subsequent issues) I have that makes it more difficult for me to be a sexually open (not just communicative, but truly OPEN) woman who orgasms freely and thoroughly enjoys shared sexual experiences.

Androphobia

Fear rising up. Hot, sticky, heavy. Murkiness crawling in the corners. Lock the doors. OCD settles in. Germophobia strikes. The smell is everywhere. Good thing there is disinfectant spray. Where is the rubbing alcohol? Scrub off anywhere he touched. Shed the clothes and shove them into the bottom of the hamper. More disinfectant spray. Cover self with clothes, sweaters, blankets, turn on the AC. Try not to cut. Swallow the vomit. Uncontrollable shudders wrack my spine. My throat is closed off, swollen, angry. Hate settles in. I feel it creeping painfully just under my skin. My ears itch, paranoia grips me. I feel unclean. My senses intensify. More disinfectant spray. More rubbing alcohol. I can't get clean enough. He used my bathroom - I'll pee in the kitchen garbage can instead - there isn't enough disinfectant spray. I can't hide. He didn't do anything - I just have these feelings gripping me. I hate it. I feel so disgusted. I can't escape. I have a tension headache. His essence is still in the air. There is no such thing as clean enough. I continue wringing and shaking my hands. I want to take pills, I want to cut, I want to drink, I want to disappear, I want to choke and die. I can't stop feeling defiled, dirtied, like an alien energy sunk its claws into my bones and like parasites it rapidly spreads through my body, eating at my soul. I can't trust. I feel disgusted. I just want to be safe. I can't do this. Why do I have to spit after I kiss? I still feel the weight of his arm over my shoulder. It's not his fault. He didn't hurt me. He didn't trample across my boundaries. But others have. And now I carry those memories. They eat my mind and rationality. I can't breathe. I want to escape.

A Lesson Learned in Vulnerability

For eight years, there is one problem, one issue, one question that has plagued me above all else. This question haunts me nearly every day. This question shapes much of how I view life and my interactions with others. It is not a question of spirituality, religion, society, or morality. The question is, "Why the fuck am I still in love with my first fiance, and why can't I find love like that again?" I have had many theories on it over the years. Perhaps we are soulmates. Maybe it's because he was my first "real" love. Maybe we were addicted to each other. Maybe we are just so complementary that we FIT, nearly perfectly. My latest theory, just this past week, was perhaps it was due to how our physical brains had only developed to a certain point as seventeen year olds, and so, due to the age and intensity from having that teenaged perspective, we felt like that love was one-of-a-kind. But then, his morning, I got it. As I laid awake all night with a fever, I thought about my most recent relationship. It lasted for five months, and it was the only person in eight years I have loved even close to the level that I loved my first fiance. However, my eighteen year old boyfriend and his anger issues caused me to become fed up and I broke up with him. Or at least, that's what I told myself. Then it hit me: He was committed for life the entire time, yet I thought I was "mature" enough to "know" our relationship would end with less than a year's worth of mileage. For the span of our relationship, from day one until the end, I believed that it would end. With this realization I reviewed it all: the happy times, dimmed by my belief it wouldn't be good enough to last. The sad and angry times validating my belief that he "wasn't the one" for me. Any mistake he made, any insecurities I felt, any time I did not feel validated, loved and accepted, I used that as proof that our relationship was drawing to an end. And truly, the problem with you is YOU. Yes, our relationship had many real, actual problems. YES, he has some big issues he needs to work through to be in a loving, long-term relationship. NO, this realization does not mean I am jumping right back into his arms. But... This realization is a beautiful gift. Because as I thought of all these things, I realized: Because of my belief that the relationship would end, I was never, ever, willing to really go there. I did not open my truest, deepest heart to my partner. I did not TRUST my partner. I was not even open to the slightest possibility of being genuinely vulnerable, fearlessly authentic, powerfully honest. Which now brings me to the truth of why I could never love anyone like my first fiance, and why I am still hooked up on him eight fucking years later: That fiance that I was so compatible with? I went there. I was open. Raw. Honest. Vulnerable. I was authentic, even with all my faults. I poured out my crazy into this accepting, loving vessel. I drenched our relationship with my fears and insecurities, and he loved me through every moment. I gave him the chance to love ALL of me - and he did. And, "somehow" he is able to understand my inner workings like no one else can. Somehow? No. I let him in, deeply, intrinsically, and gave ALL of my deepest trust to him. And I haven't done that before or since. My poor, good-intentioned boyfriends have only ever dipped a toe into the surface of my depths, despite wishing to dive in and love all of me. And I, frightened and distrustful mermaid that I am, would freeze over and refuse to let them in. I think it is time to take that frost away. It is time to be vulnerable, truly and deeply. And it is time to allow myself to trust that I can pour out my crazy. And. Still. Be. Loved.

Rambling Meaninglessly.... Or Am I?

This note is meaningless. There is no reason for it. There is no point behind it. There are no poems. There are no inspirational words of wisdom. This note just is. Despite the inspirational quotes and links I constantly post (or perhaps, it is why I post them) I am one of those persons who struggles daily with depression - real, raw, life-sucking, grey and black, sinking into a hopeless mire-style depression. Despite how incredibly inspirational I, myself, know I can be, I find myself just mere hours later trapped in the maw of a gigantic, evil creature that rips me apart and tears at the seams of rational thought. My confidence burns out. My self-esteem withers away. My sense of control over myself and my life is yanked out of my hands. During these times I find myself trapped in the silence of my battle. A raging storm without thunder. A scream put on mute. I rarely can transfer these feelings into tears, which causes me to feel even more trapped. I try desperately to cry. I tell myself to let go, to just experience, to allow, to be judgment-free and accepting of what I'm going through... and the ice that paralyzes me refuses to budge. I look into the mirror with a face of pure terror, and what I see reflected back is a stoic, calm expression. "Why?" I silently beseech myself, "Why does this face not express how I feel?" At times, when I spiral out of control, I become fearful and overwhelmed. I just want it to stop. I want to be numb again. I want to hide from these feelings again. I want to turn them off. But I can't. Nor can I cry them out to expunge them. My outward stillness belies my inner torturous turmoil. And that's when I just want to die. It's not like I'm ungrateful for my life, nor do I ignore the good things in those moments. It's just that, the terrible, painful, hurtful feelings and unjust memories overtake me, and I have no outlet for them. In my desperation for an outlet, I wish I could just disappear in a wash of red. I'm not the "pill taking" or "silent suicide" type, nor the "go out with a bang" or "leave a message" type. I am the "out of control, slash myself into oblivion" type. The problem (and simultaneously my savior) is, though, that I can't lose control. It is one of the most torturous curses (and blessings) in my life. I. Can't. Lose. Control. No matter how upset I become, no matter how appropriate of a time it is to "lose it" I merely, simply cannot. I'm not capable of it. However, there are times when I lose enough of my humanity that the only way I can regain any control and subsequent calm is to use methods that aren't "acceptable" by any means. And I do mean "the only way" - because believe me, at that point, I've already done everything else I am capable of at the time. I hate it when people say "Why didn't you just call me?" because what may be impossible to understand is: In those moments, I can't. It is completely impossible. If I can reach out at ALL when I am in that state, it is only by sheer force of will, and takes the last of my sanity to do so. It is rare, also, that I accomplish that. So, there are times, when feeling at the edge of completely losing control that I turn to self-harm. It's not a quality I like in myself. I hate seeing my scars, and I hate even more knowing that I will add more to my collection. After years of self-help, self-improvement, therapy, and life work I STILL struggle with this issue. It is an addiction as powerful as opiate-drugs because it has the same effect on the brain (without the same, terrible side-effects, but with its own ones) - the brain releases the same chemicals, feels the same relief, release and rush. Sometimes, instead of crying the tears I am incapable of, I cry blood instead. And in that way I find relief. Now, don't get me wrong, it is a TERRIBLE thing to do to myself, so I don't condone it in any way. It's only Wednesday and I've cut myself twice this week, which is the first time in about three months. Before then it was about two months. I've even been able to go a couple years before. Unfortunately, I've been self-harming since I was about five years old, and it is a difficult pattern to break. I desperately wish to. I don't know how many times I have committed to myself to "never cut again" only to find myself, a few months later, watching blood drip down in streams. As I breathe that familiar sigh of relief and feel the onset of numbness creep over me, in those last moments before nothingness closes in, I can feel the distinct hints of guilt and a sense of failure. A feeling of worthlessness. A self-loathing at my weakness, at my inability to keep my promises. A profound fear, knowing how negatively anyone who cares about me will react if they find out. And then the numbness fully closes over me, and I'm okay. Finally, the voices are silenced. The fears are abated. My control is restored. In that moment, I don't need anything other than to see that blood dripping down. Earlier in the week I painted a picture with it - which is big for me, and felt very healing. I often write on my skin with the blood, messages that I cannot voice outloud, nor can I cry them out. Messages like, "Why can't I be ok?" and "I just want to be loved." or "I don't want to be hurt anymore." Primitive messages from a little girl who is trapped inside of a nightmare she doesn't feel she can escape from. There are times I feel a great deal of sympathy and compassion for this little girl. This isn't the same as feeling sorry for myself. Rather, it is a separated adult side of myself looking at the trapped, hurting child as a separate person. The poor thing doesn't know how to break the cycle. No matter what she does, what tools she uses, how much she learns, how much she progresses, she never seems to escape the trap and heal. She improves. Sometimes the damage she does is small, done with a needle pricking the finger or a pen repeatedly stabbing the same spot, rather than slicing deep gashes. But regardless of her progress, she still dissolves into the same result: The only way she could regain control was through self-harm. My adult self often believes the wonderful things that caring people tell her: that she is beautiful, inspirational, wise, talented, sexy, incredible, majestic, noble, loyal, an amazing friend, an incredible listener, compassionate, kind - unbelievably kind, forgiving, remarkable, passionate, fiery, optimistic, open, approachable, generous, heart-warming, hilarious, silly, fun, and the list goes on, and on, and on. I am amazed, constantly, at how highly the people in my life hold me in regard. I sat in awe when as an exercise once I wrote down every person I could think of who has expressed liking me or loving me, even once - the list was staggering, well over 300 people, and that was just who I could think of off the top of my head. Yet, I still blush in shock when I receive a compliment. I still feel unworthily surprised when I receive praise - the overbearing questions, "Why should I deserve this?" "What could I possibly have done to warrant them having these feelings?" and "How can someone so amazing even notice me, let alone think so well of me?" always plague me and push me down into the dirt of my own negative beliefs and paradigms. So how can someone with all of these positive qualities (and who knows them) and who seems to always have the answers when someone else is depressed struggle so very, very much with depression, these negative beliefs, and self-harm? Who. Fucking. Knows. Genuinely, it is one of the most frustrating things in my life - I seem to progress so much, and then I find myself "back at square one" staring at angry red wounds after the chemicals wear away. The realizations of "Crap, that one is definitely going to scar." "I'm going to have to change the types of clothes I'm wearing for a bit to hide this." and "Damn, So-and-So is going to murder me when they see these....* Oh, and they do. So-and-So is SOOOO mad and critical when they see (and no, I'm not referring to one person, I am referring to anyone who has ever cared for me ever and has seen my cuts or scars). Well, perhaps "anyone" is a bit of a stretch - some people just give me a knowing, stern look and mention that they know what it is. I respond by shrugging and that ends the conversation. So-and-So is very concerned for my well-being. It wounds So-and-So's heart to see the results of my self-hatred getting out of control. So-and-So doesn't know how to stop me. And so ensue the criticisms, the claims that I am crazy, that I don't care about them, that they can't see why I'd be so stupid. Then follows threats of all sorts of different kinds in hopes that it will prevent me from doing this more. I understand where they are coming from, and I feel guilt and compassion about it, but honestly... I have never once had someone see my cuts and say, "Oh, I am so, so sorry that you felt that way. I am sorry your pain made you lose control." or pull me in for a hug. It is almost ironic to me, that when I am in such overwhelming emotional pain that I self-harm to escape it, that then is when I offend those who love me so much that I lose their compassion, their understanding, and their physical comfort. I'm not saying I need those things, or that I am seeking them - when I self-harm I feel more distant and aloof than ever - but it fascinates me that I don't have those things offered to me, but rather, I receive a very critical response. I know it is just from their fear and concern for me, but it certainly doesn't help. I wonder, if I were to receive compassion and a warm hug without criticism when someone saw my cuts, if I would then be able to cry like I wish I could when I resort to cutting in the first place. Or maybe then I would find some healing solace. However, I know very well that the source of healing does not come from looking outward and seeking it from others. Yet, somehow, we need others. I'm not sure where the line is of "This is mine to heal alone" and "This is an injury to heal with assistance." Looking at the red gaping cuts just above my knee right now, I'm so angry - yet anger is a secondary emotion, so what do I really feel? Sadness? But about what? Fear - another secondary emotion - about how those who love me will react if they see it. But what is behind that fear? Rejection? Self-disgust? How do I know? How do I implement the answers I find? How do I trust myself and sink into living without hating myself? Living without feeling unworthy? How do I embrace my good qualities, and embrace my shadow, my tears, my pains, and open up - without actually opening my skin? How do I prevent myself from self-harm in the future? I don't know when I will find the answers. I know I am progressing, though at times it is difficult to remember that. I don't know when I will be able to embrace myself as an amazing, magnificent, incredible, inspirational gift to the world. Internally I cringe calling myself that - a gift - and yet I know it is the truth. I KNOW that I am amazing. I KNOW I help and lift and encourage people, friends, family, acquaintances, even strangers, constantly. How is it possible that I know so much good about myself and yet struggle so much to bear living with myself? I'm fucking incredible. I have fun, and enjoy my personality. I do things I love, and encourage people. And somehow, I fight with myself every day just to live. The longest I have ever gone without being suicidal, since I began having those feelings in early childhood, was six months. It was six months of forcefully, purposefully, desperately MAKING myself not feel that way. And it was damn impressive, considering I had felt suicidal every day prior to that for over a decade. That is over 3650 days straight of wanting to die each and every one of them. I would, ironically and hypocritically, talk a friend out of suicide and then later that very same night as I lay awake in pain and misery pray to God that he would kill me. I have saved lives while wanting to throw away my own. I have fought long and hard to bring others to a place of self-love and appreciation for life without succeeding in that battle for myself. Some days I do succeed. Some months I succeed. And then I find myself, once more, sitting on the floor and staring into the mirror with a face of sadness and terror - and all that stares back is a blank, stoic expression. And all I can do to express myself is to bleed. In those moments, I feel like my insane spiral could only result in killing myself otherwise - especially when I reach the eye of the storm, and sit in calm resolution - and the only thing that saves me is that last effort to use pain to pull me out of it. This isn't saying that all of the positive, encouraging, life-loving things I say are lies... I do feel them. But I have a duality to me that is extreme. Perhaps it will remain so until I am able to learn how to fully express myself - even when I am afraid, hurt, sad, and angry. I don't know what the answers are. Often my writing is with the purpose of bringing myself to answers and inspiration while I write, but not this day. This time, I am writing out the pain, the dark secrets, the guilt, and leaving them. Out in the open. There to see. I am shining a light on my shame. I am looking at the gashes on my leg and saying, "You are not worthy to be a part of me any longer. You do not control me." I am, with fear and guilt, expressing something that I receive a lot of criticism about. I am expressing something that the admittance of has cause people to lose faith in me before. I am admitting a weakness that has brought on the disappointment and disgust of nearly every person who has ever found out. I am opening up myself to the trouble of disappointing those who love me. And I am terrified. And I don't care. I refuse to let the need to keep this a secret take away my control. I no longer want my fear of criticism and rejection, and my desire to appear a certain way, prevent me from being open. I don't want the consequences you wish to impose on me - isn't my own pain consequence enough? But I will stand and take it. I don't want to hurt you when I hurt myself - there is already enough pain. But I will bear the responsibility of it. I don't want you to even be reading this - just the thought drains the blood from my face and makes my hands shake. But I have rejected support and silenced my painful voice for long enough. And so, this is me, I am powerful. I am weak. I love myself deeply. I loathe and detest myself. I am strong enough to lift others. I am too weak to stand on my own. I am solid and reliable. I am delicate and ever-crumbling. I can't always cry - but I can always bleed. I can smile - but I can't yell. I am in love with being solitary and living alone. I am desperately lonely and hate having no one to focus on other than myself. I am talented and have incredible potential. I reject my abilities to be successful and happy. I love the worst people for me. I love the best people for me. I forgive when I shouldn't. I hold a grudge when I shouldn't. I don't always walk away when I should. Nor do I usually reach out when I should. I say the worst thing at the worst moment. I say the perfect thing at the pivotal moment. I say the inspirational thing just when I should. I say the flippant thing just when I shouldn't. I'm selfless when I should be selfish. I spend money frivolously only when I am desperately short on it. I manage my money incredibly well when I have an abundance of it. I am clean and organized when I live alone. I am messy and disorderly when I live with others. I have the best intentions at the worst times. I have the worst intentions at the best times. I am incredibly controlling. I am understanding and accepting. I love everyone. I hate everyone. I am a hypocrite, a contradiction, an enigma. I am eccentric, yet boring. I am intelligent, yet frighteningly naive. I am strong, yet one of the most delicate and easily hurt persons I know. The more I feel, the quieter I am. The more I progress, the more I see that is wrong with me. I know I am loved, and yet I am blind to it. I know I am cherished, and yet it always surprises me. I am shallow and deep. I am clean-cut and raw. I am rational and insane. I love desperately, yet I am cold and aloof. I want friends, and find myself unable to approach anyone. I wouldn't dream of rejecting others, yet do so anyway - and feel a sharp belief that I will be rejected. I can't trust myself, others, or the Universe - and yet I am instantly too trusting and open my life and my home automatically, compulsively, even when I shouldn't. I'm selfish, yet I give generously - even when the cost to myself is great - and without thought of receiving in return. I manipulate - but usually for the better of the people around me. I have great sympathy for the plight of men, and yet use them for my amusement. I'm really quite a terrible person - and - I am really quite a remarkably wonderful person. And I still hate myself. And I still love myself. And I still make myself bleed. And I still want to succeed and have a breathtaking, wonderful, adventurous, passionate life. And I still want to die. And, I'm still going to live, and improve, and try my best regardless of it all. Because life is fucking beautiful. And terrible. And ugly. And awesome.

Somehow You Never Knew

We spoke again today, I initiated. It was the same as always, Inconsequential. I have pain inside, too, Regardless, It doesn't matter much to you, Blinded. I couldn't cry then, can't you see? Can't you see? You said if I understood you, I would behave differently. If you understood, you'd know I can't be anything other than me. Why does this circle around, messily, ceaselessly? Loving you is a war, I won't give in peacefully. I hate this rotten, sinking feeling - the reward is empty. Pieces and connections, I'm tied to so many, And yet none of it matters when I'm tied so needlessly. You yell and accuse, you don't see it as abuse, And the little girl inside me hides while she is bruised. I put on the smile well-known by those who are used, And pretend to be okay again, hoping kindness is what you'll choose. The things I treasure about you I never wanted to lose, But how could I go on, when reasoning with you is no use? I wish I could fix this all, honestly I'm at a loss for clues, My only answer is to hide behind a mask of steel and make it fuse. I'm in a frightening mood, Recently, I feel rather unglued, Actually. I want to be at ease, Serene, But this voice won't cease, Magnetizing. Is it really not okay, when I'm afraid, to quietly hide? Yet, somehow, it was also not acceptable when I cried. Jumping through the hoops of your expectations, I've tried, But somehow when I come through the other side, you say I lied. How could you not even see the good things? I'm shocked inside. How could you think I didn't care about you? I feel so vilified. You see, even when relations burn, it's not so simplified. Ignoring the white and grey, seeing only black, like my actions were dyed. When you rip apart my character so carelessly, Frayed. How could I not become like Annie? Crystallized. Wrapped up in my shell, Again. I can avoid that kind of hell, Indefinitely.

What Would Safety/Structure Look/Feel Like to Jojo?

This was a question posed to me last week, and here is my paraphrased and edited response: What would safety/structure look/feel like to Jojo? I've thought about this question a lot this week. I've written notes. I've looked at myself in third person. I've put myself into others' shoes. This is still a very difficult question to answer. (As I reach over and grab my third piece of chocolate and answer outloud "All the candy.") As I sat with a friend and watched myself give them a hug, say reassuring words, and offer solutions, I distantly wondered how I could support myself in that way. As I looked at myself this week sacrificing in order to help others, I held equally my feelings: of caring, satisfaction in helping another person, and looking forward to the fun and positive feelings that are shared; and my feelings of loss, sadness, stress, and depression as I shut things away into dark corners and hidden drawers. Maybe my sadness was more poignant as a metaphor for the ways I shut away my talents, desires, hopes, dreams and happiness to make room for someone else to grow in the light of day. Maybe I feel guilty that I am so talented, so intelligent, and other people can only wish they had what was handed to me - they think without effort - and it goes unappreciated the hours of dedication I give to those attributes. But I digress, as I don't feel like either a martyr or a hero, even in giving up something so that someone can have a better situation. When I went out of my way to support someone I care for, I found I was only confused and disappointed, as they spent the next while complaining, griping, and downplaying the effort I had put into supporting them. I'm not telling you all these things to complain, but rather, to express that during all of these things, I have felt inside of me a sad, unheard child who is locked away in the darkness. When I am sacrificing myself to serve others, I can feel that side of me in the far background, trying to whisper and being unable to make a noise. I chronically shove down those feelings, telling myself rotely that I am doing the right thing, that "they" need my help, that I must do whatever I can. It is almost as if I feel greatly indebted to the universe and am trying to break even, but the debt is so great I never can. That is what my behavior tells me. But perhaps, my feelings spawn not from a debt I owe the universe, but rather, a debt I owe to myself - and the reason the debt never clears is because it deepens the more I give away to others, not of my overflow, but of every last drop I can wring out of my existence. Byron Katie says that every piece of advice we have ever given was only for ourselves. I've often found this to be true, and this week it has perhaps been truer than ever. As a friend felt guilt for putting another person into an inconvenient situation in order to take care of their own well-being, and as they wanted to help that person but knew they could not do so without costing something of themselves, I gave them advice that I reviewed later with irony, knowing that I do not follow that advice for myself. Later, in response to a friend who was feeling torn between two options, I responded, "It's okay to draw a line of what you're not willing to give up and do whatever is necessary to keep it. Do what is best for YOU." After saying that, I again sat in irony, sadly reflecting on how I often do not choose to not draw a line - and in so doing give up something I do not want to lose - resulting in me giving up a piece of myself. And that is where the question "What would safety/structure look/feel like to Jojo?" has a simple answer: It looks like setting the boundaries necessary to never give up, cut out, or deplete parts of myself for any reason. It looks like treating myself with the respect, love and consideration it takes to nurture myself and create an overflow which can then be used to serve, love and nurture the RIGHT people in appropriate ways. It looks like hearing my own voice, reaching out and speaking up for what I want. It looks like living authentically in my feelings and giving them the space they deserve without excusing, reasoning, or disapproving of them. It looks like honoring my passions, gifts and talents by giving them my time and dedication without feeling the slightest wisp of guilt or selfishness - and by not giving the fruits of those talents away for anything less than they are worth. It looks like not living in the fear that I am not doing enough, that I am being selfish - even just to nap - nor living in the fear of ridicule - like for buying the groceries *I* want because my friends think I eat weird foods, or for planting a potato and being proud that two weeks later it is three feet tall. It looks like honoring my quirkiness, my natural kindness and cheer, my inherent sadness and fears, and not feeling like I need to "fix" or "work on" everything all the time. It looks like implementing the schedule I have wanted for myself for years and (somehow) not allowing other people who live with me and who I care for to divert my goals or step on/ridicule how I live my life and prevent me (by me feeling ashamed and giving in) from being the Jojo I want to be. It looks like accepting each passion I hold as being equal, and not feeling as if some (like a love of shoes, bees or mushrooms) are "unnecessary" because they do not actively benefit those around me. It looks like standing up for myself and protecting my feelings with the fierceness, determination, and sassiness that I would exhibit for any other human being. It looks like not feeling guilt for not giving in. It looks like not allowing anyone - including myself - to say that my goals, feelings, desires, actions, or anything else about me is unimportant, unnecessary, less-than, foolish, stupid, or bad. My simple answer may be a long one - but that is very like me as well - and I will add: It looks like not judging as inferior the way I communicate, my mannerisms in doing so, or the lengthiness I feel I require to portray exactly what I wish the other party to understand and to express myself. Honoring others does not require giving up a piece of myself. Perhaps honor cannot coexist with dishonor, and therefore, there is no such thing as honoring others if I am dishonoring myself. I want to embrace living in honor of my authenticity without guilt, shame or inferiority. I want to stop feeling my inner child as a sad, silent spectre shoved away in the shadows and shut behind a door - and to stop scolding that inner child for the feelings and whispers. Maybe if I am being most honest - if honesty comes in layers - then despite a top layer of honestly being pleased to help others, to give and to serve, and feeling I am doing the right thing - the deeper layer of honesty says that I want to dedicate myself to my passions, that I want to live authentically and healthily, that I want to be my quirky, friendly, weird-food-eating self without having to sacrifice anything to anyone - but rather to just give the overflow. And for now... this is my tentative, unsure, delicate goal... and I will continue to nurture it, to make mistakes, and hope it grows into something beautiful.

Accidentally Discovering Utopia?

I often find that I come to my greatest personal breakthroughs entirely by accident - usually while I am writing to someone. The words spill out and I find that THERE is my answer. As always, the answers to all of our questions are inside of us, but finding them may be somewhat tricky. While I was writing an email to my therapist (yes, I have a therapist, and this is her preferred way of getting me to "open up" because in writing I have much more emotion than in speaking) I finished with a paragraph that was my breakthrough. I am not going to quote it directly, I am taking out and adding a bit more in, but I do want to put the message of it into the universe, and on my blog. Here it is: In my perfect world, maybe I would have a faux-hawk. I would work out at the gym every day, regardless of whether or not I lose my curves (guys ALWAYS protest strongly whenever I say I'm going to go to the gym), I would work out because I LOVE how it makes me FEEL. I wouldn't eat meat because my body doesn't like trying to digest it, nor would have have meat in my house because I'm not bothering to eat it. I would live alone and have friends over several times a week, and would go out to spend time with them, we'd laugh and have fun, but at the end of the day I would be alone in my sanctuary of peace and comfort and positive energy. I wouldn't date, I don't even enjoy it, and sex doesn't ever provide for me what I can provide myself so I really have not found that situation where it proves to me that dating is worth it. I don't even WANT children someday, and I cannot picture myself partnered to someone forever. I would have a car, and could go wherever I wanted, whenever I wanted, and could just drive around at night. I would do my art, and tattooing, and my house would look the way I want, without anyone else's input. I would learn what I want, when I want it, and I would teach, too. I would do energy work and healing, my home would be a safe, sanctuary where friends and acquaintances felt safe and happy and at peace. My home would always be clean and I would have a place for everything and everything in its place - if it doesn't have a place, I would get rid of it, and not care about anyone else's opinion. Someday I will build my own home, and I will have a library in it with a section just for antique bibles - and I won't care about people's judgments just because the bible is a religious text - antique bibles are a passion of mine, and I don't know why, but I want to honor that side of myself. In fact, I want to honor all of my passions, no matter how nonsensical or strange or out of place they may be. I think what REALLY changed things for me this week was a quote in an article I read at school that was talking about Martin Luther King Jr.'s "I Have A Dream" speech and why it was so impactful. Two of the things I jotted down from that article were: "Completely align your actions with firm commitment," and "self-belief from a beyond-personal source." According to the article, these were two traits King possessed. And they are two traits I have been grasping at for myself, yet still missing, and I finally could see, by those words, that if I were to possess those two traits unwaveringly, I would have the life I want, and could live in authenticity. And now that is my goal. That is MY dream. And I WILL have it. With lots of well-wishes, Jojo

Falling Out of Pieces... and Right Into Love

So much has changed.... so very, very much... I honestly didn't have any idea my life would take the twist that it has. I'm a bit unsure...my feet feel unsteady and my knees shake. It took two weeks of searching to find the source of my current overwhelm, a feeling of being hopelessly trapped, like my endeavors are being halted by necessity and yet I want to push forward. And yet, I still feel a happiness I have not felt in years. A happiness that drives me to action, and to gain some hope in my future. A happiness that feels like a fearful rush, like the moment at the top of a roller coaster before you zip down, losing your breath. Long ago, I lived in a very dark mentality, driven by injustice, pain and a profound feeling of aloneness, I found solace and healing of many parts of myself when I fell in love with a person who I felt was my soulmate. We healed each other, really, and gave each other hope. But it was not enough. We were young, emotionally stunted, tortured by our own inner "realities" and perceptions. Despite the love, deep understanding, and soul-connection we felt, our relationship ended and - although we never really moved on from each other - we lived our lives as if we had. Eight years later I have had yet to meet another human being who I felt that deep, intense, perfect connection to. A connection that speaks to the energy of every cell in my body, each corner of my soul, and says "I love you. I am yours. You are mine. We belong together." A connection of healing, growth, personal advancement; of growing together and lifting each other - a feeling of nourishment and joy. Until now. When I first met him, several months ago, his face was painted green, he wore all black, and it was while taking a break from scaring people - I was exhausted, and as is my tendency, I would have ignored him completely. But, luckily for me, this friendly man sat close to me and started talking. I thought it was probably good for me to socialize, but I really wasn't sure how, and kind of felt it was pointless. I was rather aloof, though tried to be cordial. Break ended and we went our separate ways. I had a back injury at the time so I didn't get to spend many nights scaring people, but whenever I did, I would see him at the end of the night and he would speak to me. I was so intensely exhausted and in pain that, unfortunately, I honestly cannot recall any of our conversations - but I remember one night looking at his smile and thinking it was one of the best, merriest smiles I had ever seen. When I went to a huge cast party after the season in a large building I was utterly overwhelmed. Frankly I had only braved that many people in the hopes of spending time with one person, and that person was no where to be found. I was depressed, drifting entirely alone in a sea of boisterous people who didn't know or care of my existence, and I had no knowledge of how to reach out and join them. I was drowning, literally unable to breathe at times. When that person I had been wanting to see arrived, I was ecstatic, and even better, they dropped what they were doing and came over to give me a huge hug. That meant SO much. But of course, I couldn't monopolize them, especially because they are popular, and so pretty soon I was once more left to swirl in the sea of people. And then, HE walked in the room. Seeing him without makeup for the first time, I still instantly recognized him and was drawn to him. He was a friendly, safe rock in the scary environment I was so lost in. I immediately went straight to him and he greeted me warmly. He is well-liked, so many other people talked to him that evening, but he checked in with me often, talked to me, and invited me to the party he was going to afterward. Honestly, I usually would have turned him down, but some part of me was urging me to agree and go - so I did. The party was a very interesting experience in my life, I had a ridiculous amount of fun, which was amazing. I rarely have fun with groups of people or at parties, so I was very happy to have had fun. I had an internal tug-of-war though, because the person I had gone to the first party to see was at this one as well, and I didn't know who I wanted to spend more time with! I was, perhaps, unconsciously cruel to them both as I switched from one, then the other, and tried to pull those two worlds together so I could spend time with both simultaneously. Eventually though, fate intervened, and I found myself standing alone outside with HIM - and that's when the scale tipped with a bit more weight - and I thought "Maybe... I actually like this guy." Soon after he walked ALL the way to my house in the middle of the night, and although it was a rough evening with some....unhappy moments... he walked me to work the next morning and strongly expressed that he wanted a chance, that he would wait and still be there, that he didn't want me to drift away. I didn't know what to think - frankly, in my mental state at the time, I was completely unable to comprehend his feelings for me. Upon my arrival at work, we said our goodbyes, and I proceeded to spend the day fretting (as I so often do) over the issue. Soon it was time for his birthday party, and I attended, of course. At this point I had a hunger, a need to know what it was he saw in me and why I was drawn to him. The party was kind of crazy... and another girl took claim over him and I backed off, feeling irritated, sad and rejected. I felt like his feelings were that of attraction but nothing else, that he likely interacted with several other girls like he did with me, and that perhaps he was ingenuine. I was very confused that night (not to mention drunk) and so I emotionally distanced myself from him and decided "to hell with it, she can have him" and began focusing on other people. While that was fun.... I really wasn't happy. I would glance at him across the room and be disappointed and angry with myself. Later that night when only a few people were left and we had changed locations, I was miserable. The new location was loud, full of negativity, stifling, so I went outside. I was hardened in my shell, wanting nothing to do with the man I liked who was sitting next to and holding hands with the girl who had claimed him. I refused his company, preferring to stand in the frigid night air alone, and felt my usual hopeless hatred toward my fate creep in with the cold. I welcomed it, welcomed the icy air, feeling one with it and unaffected by it. Despite wearing a short skirt, a thin hoodie, and it being 16 degree weather, I was entirely numb. For two hours I stood there, tortured by my existence, hating the unfairness of it all. I could not go back in, I couldn't face the energies in that place, couldn't handle the negativity and noise, I had reached my hard limit and had nothing I could do but stand outside. HE was incredibly worried for me. He wouldn't allow me to walk far and insisted I returned to the house to check in every few minutes and be where he could see me. I was angry, feeling chained and caged, yet I didn't want my weakness to cause him to have to stand out in the cold, which affects him strongly, so I conceded. After a while I agreed to talk to him - I could see how frustrated he was that I was shutting him out, and I didn't want him to feel like it was his fault - I explained some of my social anxiety, told him I was enjoying the outside; we talked a bit.... he requested an answer. I, being the suspicious type, insisted he explain the question before I provided one. He asked me to be his, for him to be mine, for us to spend our free time together, for a relationship. I informed him I don't do relationships...but his response was that he would wait as long as it took for a "yes" or "no" answer from me. I had no idea why he felt that strongly toward me, particularly in that moment while I was swallowed up in self-hatred and cold, but I was cautiously flattered. From then on, he spent what time he could with me, and at first I tentatively obliged, then expected, then looked forward to the time we spent together. Just as surely as my self-hatred and anger had crept into me with the cold that night, feelings of belonging and confused happiness were seeping into me every time we spent together. Really, I couldn't help myself, and despite part of me dragging my feet and trying to escape into denial and coldness, before I realized it, I was trapped. Once, sitting upon my couch with my legs over his lap, he hugged my knees and rested his chin upon them with his eyes closed and what was to me an unfamiliar look of contentment; looking at him in that moment I had the crushing realization that I might, possibly, be helplessly, utterly in love with him. Warmth, caring and endearment flooded me in that instant, and yet, my stubborn nature protested in the back of my mind, "I don't like it!" "this isn't the plan!" "I hate this!" generalized resistance that really meant nothing and was an illusion of protection. Through the following days I tortured myself with resistance to my feelings and had a stranglehold on denial to keep me "safe." My friends would just smile knowingly and laugh as I complained about him "not being part of the plan" and would remind me gently that life doesn't follow my plan. We went to the Power of Choice seminar together, and I feel like that is when I began accepting those feelings and opening up to the possibility that those feelings were my reality. He was so warm and friendly to others, so incredibly kind and considerate to me, and I received such positive feedback from so many people about him. We had a closeness with each other that was palpable, and not only was it openly assumed we were in a relationship, but some people even assumed we were married! At the end of that weekend, I knew I had found someone special, someone who maybe, MAYBE, would actually treat me well and who would love me with tenderness, kindness, and commitment. Speaking with some of my dearest, most trusted friends at the seminar, they expressed their approval of him, that he really was special, and agreed that he was the kindest person I had dated up to that point. I was still in resistance... but my walls were slowly coming down and my barriers were melting as he patiently, kindly cared. Soon after, I fearfully but bravely, said "YES" and agreed to be his girlfriend. Honestly, I instantly wanted to run away and change my mind. But that impulse weakened, and I was happy. That's what I realized - when I was with this man, I was happy. Actually happy. The next few days were perfect. Then fate stepped in. Perhaps, out of kindness, the Universe knew that I had doubts and insecurities that needed to be irradicated in order for me to truly trust - both in him and in my own feelings - and so unleashed a chain of events which utterly crushed me. Or so it seemed. After spending the initial few days of our relationship together, he left and then a day or so later I was invited by a friend of his to a party he was attending. It was a small party, and it was nice to spend the time with him, but I wasn't feeling well. By the next morning it became clear to both of us that I was very sick, and he insisted that I stay and recover. I knew I wouldn't recover so easily and that I needed to be home where I had supplies and a good bed in order to feel better, so I insisted on leaving. I wanted him to go with me - I felt alone, frightened, and was genuinely concerned that I might not make it home by myself. It was cold and he wanted to spend time with his mother and chose not to go home with me. I felt hurt, betrayed, unimportant, abandoned; even while insisting I was fine, that I didn't need anyone, that he should do what he wants, on the inside I felt myself slip into a pattern I know all too well, and I hated myself for it yet blamed him at the same time. It wasn't truly that I was blaming him, but rather, that I was blaming the universe and hating myself for being unable to speak the feelings I held inside. I went home and spent the next week being very, very ill. I didn't see him that week. For the first time in my life I wanted someone there when I was sick (typically I refuse company) and the person I wanted there was entirely unavailable. I felt cheated, like the universe was playing a sick joke on me (as I so often feel) and like I didn't matter. Halfway through the second week of not seeing him I began to accept my "reality" that I had convinced myself of the "foolish lie" that he cared and had, once again, gotten myself into an unfulfilling and pointless relationship. Clearly, I thought, I didn't matter and all those nice things had been a lie. In fact, I reasoned, my feelings for him were not genuine at all, but rather, I had been subconsciously using him as a temporary salve to my feelings of inadequacy and my belief that I am unlovable. Or so, these were the things I told myself at the time. A lot happened during those two weeks, and he was there for none of it, yet... in my stubborn resistance and emotional confusion I resisted any opportunity *I* had to go see him, feeling like it didn't matter if I was the one making it happen, refusing to fall into my same patterns of co-dependency and neglect. I still don't know where my cautious feelings were good and helping me and where they were hurting me, but I was doing the best my feverish, frazzled mind could at the time to protect myself. After days of not hearing a word from him, when I finally received a message on FB I responded by breaking up with him. I felt hurt, cheated, betrayed trust, and most of all, I was angry with myself for putting my feelings on the line and allowing myself to be hurt. The next week was even worse, full of tortured sadness and loneliness. "This is it." I thought, "I refuse to build feelings anymore." and I shut myself away, feeling as if the universe had abandoned me to a sea of my own patterns. During my time with him I had come to the realization that I, maybe, genuinely loved him, with the same intensity and pureness and trueness that I had loved my first soulmate eight years before. I felt so utterly betrayed by the universe that it would, again, give me a glimpse of what that feels like and then yank it away from me so soon. And yet, despite my grief and hardened viewpoint, in the background, hiding behind my denial, I felt the slight hint of hope, that if I had felt that kind of love twice, then I could feel it again. But I wasn't ready for that yet. When he called me a week later, my breath caught in my throat - I hadn't expected to hear from him again. He said we needed to talk, and his voice sounded so sad...so hurt. I agreed, and we planned to meet that day to discuss things. Later on, he sent me a message saying we couldn't meet that day due to his spending time with a friend, and I found myself triggered again - "I'll never be good enough," "I will never be first choice," "I can't matter enough regardless of how hard I try," "I'm not worth it," and many other such thoughts and beliefs swirled in my head. I was so angry with my reality that I couldn't see straight. I was encapsulated and entirely ensnared by my feelings of inadequacy stemming back to childhood. But, we agreed to meet up the next morning to talk. At first, neither of us knew what to do or how to interact. We explained what had transpired, our feelings, our motivations. We came to an understanding of each others' feelings of hurt, betrayal, abandonment, inadequacy, and met each other in our pain. We set boundaries, reestablished a fragile faith, and agreed to try again. It was frightening - frankly, I was terrified down to my core that I was making a horrific mistake, and I was angry with myself for allowing myself to risk like that. But... Since then our trust has grown and matured, despite both of us still feeling like we stand on shaky ground at times. The love we feel for each other... it is unexplainable. All those "stupid" things people say when they are completely, utterly in love, things that I had no comprehension of because I was jaded and bitter, I find myself saying those things now. We both insist that we must love the other more, and while I can't speak for him, I know that I feel so frustrated knowing that mere words could never even begin to portray the meaningfulness of my feelings. I'm happy. Truly happy. More than that, the time I spend with him I spend feeling JOY. Actual joy. We laugh like lunatics, we make jokes no one else would understand, we meet on an energetic level that feels whole and nurturing and exciting. I feel that deep, intense, perfect connection with him - a connection that speaks to the energy of every cell in my body, each corner of my soul, and says "I love you. I am yours. You are mine. We belong together." A connection of healing, growth, personal advancement; of growing together and lifting each other. Sometimes my insecurities creep up. Sometimes my deep issues, fears and negative beliefs are triggered. I am a person who was deeply wounded by my past, and who, despite being dedicated to self-healing, still has a long way to go. He meets me where I am, even when I am ensnared and being strangled by whatever terrible memory or circumstance has triggered me, and he loves me through it kindly, patiently, tenderly. He insists I not apologize, despite my personal frustration and the guilt I feel for the issues my emotional wounds cause. I feel awful when some inconsequential thing he does causes me to suddenly break down and I find myself trapped in a swirling alternate reality of pain, self-hatred and doubt. He brings me back, calms me down, loves me through it. I appreciate each time I am triggered, I truly do, because it gives me the opportunity to work through my issues from that angle. I am grateful for the three weeks of torturous, madly triggered pain and aloneness, because now that I am on the other side, I can see a few truths crystal-clear. Truths I had feared before were mere illusions. I know, now, that I truly love him - and that my love does not stem from subconscious inadequacies or a need to heal old wounds. I can now trust him to support me and come back to me, without fearing abandonment or betrayal. I trust the universe more fully to care for my needs and give me the situations which assist me in healing and growth, even if they are disguised at the time as being curses. Even though I fear the future and worry a bit, I have an unshaking, unquestioning knowledge that his feelings for me are genuine, and like me, his feelings do not come from inadequacies or a need to salve wounds, but rather stem from enjoying me as the soul I am. I don't know where life is taking us. I have a lot of things in my life I want to change and improve. But I know that when I am with him, I feel joy, I feel like I am home, I feel the gently loving hand of the universe telling me that I am right where I belong and guiding me to even better things. I'm beginning to trust in a loving universe, to understand that painful circumstances are multifaceted and lead me to the freedom I am seeking. What is this note really about? Partially it is a confession, a journal entry describing the path I have been walking lately. Partially it is a way of reaffirming to myself that the pain had a purpose. Partially it is an explanation to those that care about me and worry for me. And mostly, it is a dedication to and declaration of the three relationships I value, cherish and love the most: My relationship to myself. My relationship to the Universe. And my relationship to the man I love more than I thought I was capable of, and who loves me just as much.... and maybe just a little bit more. But that's our secret. ;)

Happy First Nerdiversary - A Poem

A close friend of mine asked for some assistance in her first anniversary gift to her boyfriend. I volunteered myself and she explained she wanted a poem written with specific nerd references. I happily obliged, and now present to you a Happy First Nerdiversary poem: I want you to know you spin me through gold rings, You turn my monsters into cute, fluffy woodland things. You've pierced my heart like an arrow to the knee, We're a brilliant romance, just like Joker and Harley. I'll be your Patronus, protecting you in a pinch, And catch the smile on your face like a Golden Snitch. You're the Creeper outside my window peering in the dark, I'll light up your heart, you'll be my Tony Stark. When playing Sexbox you're the best Player 2, I'm glad the Force was with me so I could meet you. The sight of you makes me hold my breath in, Like my enrichment center is filled with a deadly neurotoxin. If I were a zombie your brains would be great, But I'd love even more the way your heart tastes. We make a great time like Ash and Pikachu, Even if when we fight it's like Red vs. Blue. As our lives blast through timey-wimey wibbly-wobbly stuff, Know that, to me, you'll always be enough. On our Anniversary into Mordor we won't fall, Because this year with you has been the One to rule them all.