2013 Reflections

It's the last day of the year 2,013, and I can't say I'm not glad to see it. This year has been a wintry one, and there was little warmth to be found in the embrace of its shaking arms. But, I've made it to the end with all my limbs intact--earning only a few minor cuts and bruises--and that is something to be thankful for.

2012 was so much different. It felt like summer all year long. It was the year I took back my life, my health, my dreams and my passions. Falling in love with everything was a magical, magical experience, but it didn't last long. Despite having a stable job, a new car, money that enabled me to live for pleasure, I was empty and itching for more. Always itching for more.

So, I hatched a plan to save up money and run off to Europe for six months. I even sat my parents down, poured out my soul like it was a damn therapy session (yes, tears were shed from all parties), and for the first time in my life, I gave my parents a slice of my heart that I had been keeping to myself for as long as I could remember. They were scared shitless, but on board. I have awesome parents.

Somehow, along the way, I lost that dream and decided college was the answer. My escape. I applied to a few schools and once I got the acceptance letter from Boston, my travel plans (which were so much more than that), were forgotten. Discarded. Thrown out. And in the end, Boston didn't work out either.

Square one.

Blank slate.

As hard as it is to be right back at the beginning, I do marvelously with blank slates.

2014 is my fucking year. I'm saying it now. I said something similar before the start of 2013, but now I'm a seasoned pro. I'm battle-scarred. And this is my year--the one I've been waiting for my whole life.

I'm not much of a numbers girl, but 2+0+1+4= 7. And seven is the perfect number. Seven is lucky. Seven is blessed. I'm ready to be blessed.

I think the biggest lesson I learned this year was obedience. Which is probably the hardest lesson to learn when you're a 22-year-old hedonist. But that's what I wanted from my relationship with God (why, oh why, did I ask for that?), and that is what He gave me.

When I wanted to quit my job because it was sickening my soul and making me depressed, the Lord told me "No." When I wanted to go to Boston despite the outrageous cost, the Lord told me "No." When I wanted to be with someone whom I was desperately in love with, the Lord told me "No." And I had to say "Okay, Lord." There may have been a lot of complaining--okay, kicking and screaming--but eventually I managed to do what He asked.

I guess to some people reading my blog, that sounds like too much sacrifice and too many missed opportunities, but just wait. You'll see the fruit these sacrifices will bear.

I accomplished very little of what I wanted to do in 2013, but I learned a few invaluable lessons!

1. Rid yourself of anything and everything that harms you. Whether it's people, jobs, habits, goals or beliefs that just don't feel right... get rid of them. I did. Even ones that were ingrained in me. Carved into my very bones. I ripped them out and I'm living for myself now. I'm happy.

2. You're perfect the way you are. I tried for so long to make myself into someone I wasn't. Someone who dressed like everyone else. Someone who was sociable and outgoing. Someone to be desired. Honestly, fuck that. All of that. I like dressing like a boy most days, and being social exhausts me, and I'm not outgoing unless I love you first, and I certainly wasn't put on this earth to be everyone's friend or object of desire. I'm perfect this way, and if you're not about it, then you don't deserve me. Friend or otherwise.

3. Everything you're doing is fine, don't push yourself too hard. I had all these ridiculous goals at the beginning of the year: become a speed reader, read the classics, run 25 miles a week, learn Spanish and French, play the piano, write a book--and absolutely none of that worked out. S'okay, though. I read like 100,000 words per day and maybe some of it is T.S. Eliot and maybe some of it is Johnlock_123 or whatever, but it doesn't matter because I read more than the average person and I'm wicked smart because of it. And maybe I don't run 25 miles a week (more like 10-20), and I don't play the piano (and I never will because god no), and maybe I didn't write a book, but I will eventually, and I wrote a lot of amazing prose and poetry this year (more than any other year), and I'm a great writer!

Although 2013 was the roughest year of my life, it's only going to get better from here. I'm done being sad. I still have my faith, my God, my lovely (if few) friends, my books, my poetry, my talent, my fire, and my still-beating heart. There's so much to be grateful for! There's so much to look forward to!

2014, I'm ready for you.

I wish you all a year of adventure, wild freedom, exponential growth, outrageous fortune, and love love love.

V

That moment when you think you're okay, and then your dad brings him up--after a conversation about your happiness. He asks, "You two still talk?"

You do your best to seem elusive, casual, and answer, "Uh, no. Haven't heard from him in awhile." And that's fine. Nothing more is said. You did well, girl.

But later that day, your mom brings him up, too. "You don't talk to him anymore?"

Nope, you think. No. Don't. Haven't. In awhile. Did dad tell you? Why would he tell you? Can you tell I hate it?

You shake your head no, and shrug your shoulders; disinterested.

"Why?" she wonders.

"Not sure. Just haven't heard from him."

"Did he get back with his lady?"

Never left her, dad.

"Don't know."

You stare into your dinner, evading their searching eyes. You hope they don't notice.

Please don't notice.

They notice.
They know.

When I need to smile genuinely for the camera, I think about you kissing me with Cheetos breath. I think about how I whined for you not to because the taste was off-putting, but you still shoved a handful in your mouth and did it again. Grinning with defiance. I laughed and whined some more, doing my best to evade your kiss. You got several out of me anyway.

After a Night of Drinking...

Micah and I went out last night. A pretty uneventful evening, but this morning Micah decided that her and I should do a writing exercise. So, given five minutes, this is what we wrote. Also, I love my friends.

Micah:

Eyeliner running into my lipstick
I almost died today
The collision of my brain and body was too much to handle,
As is the collision of my heart
and logic
I try to play it by the book
But whose book is it?
I've never questioned this
It's a man's book
Man's prose that says it's wrong to share your crazy lady
emotions
Compose yourself woman
Don't be tormented by mixed signals
Play the game
Get ahead
Flirt with his friends
Maintain your facade
Your ink's running out
The game's over and I'm crazy

Me:

I swallow your name two drinks into the night.
Three drinks in, and your face becomes a blur.
I can finally breathe from not thinking about the way your sugar-burnt eyes sear into mine.. between the soft of my thighs.
Four drinks in and I've drowned out your voice with too-loud music and the scraping of bar stools and girls laughing themselves sick with want for men who are no good.
You're no good.
Five drinks in and I'm rock n' roll. Hair tucked behind red-tipped ears and a smile like it's fucking Christmas.
I'm dancing--arms raised, half-lidded, ridiculous.
And if I could feel anything, think anything, I'd think about how marvelous it is to be numb.
Blissfully fucking numb.

Just let me have this.

I'd really like to finish the rest of my online schooling elsewhere. I don't necessarily need to be in San Diego right now. Not until it's time to start my teaching credentials, and I have until next September for that.

I'd love to go somewhere new, preferably not in the states. Stay with someone and work a menial job where I help/serve people, or I don't know, do something meaningful. I'm tired of these jobs in offices and jobs in sales and jobs where I hardly work with my hands, brain, or heart. It doesn't make sense to me how people do that their WHOLE lives when there's a great, big, giant world out there full of mystery. Teeming with opportunity and adventure.

Not much of anything makes sense to me these days, though.

Europe would be nice. Europe feels like home. Ideally England but I'd be perfectly content in France, Ireland, the Netherlands... Anything. Does it sound like I'm trying to run away to find happiness, or that it's absolutely necessary to my existence? Because I feel like it's the latter. I love home, but my soul aches for more. I don't think I'm trying to run away to find happiness. I think the act of running away is my happiness. Does that make sense?

I've never considered myself a regular traveler. One who goes away for a bit and then comes home just fine. To be honest, I'd love to make travel my life. Would love to be in a constant state of visiting new places, seeing new things, meeting new people, etc. I'm less of an "Eat, Pray, Love" traveler and more of an Alexander Supertramp--"There is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon."

Writing and traveling share the number one spot for what makes me most passionate, and I believe my destiny involves both. How to make that work is what's stumping me right now.

I need to write. I feel so stuck, which is strange because I'm depressed. Aren't writers who are unhappy write the most? Maybe my depression is just too severe that I can't even do what I enjoy anymore. At least I still read... A lot. But I have two typewriters I don't use, notebooks not yet filled, and stories and poems that need to come out of me.

I gotta pull myself together. I don't know what I'm waiting for... I guess a green light or an open window? A huge, bright sign pointing me in the right direction? God showing up at my front door with clear and written directions? Bleh. Waiting sucks, and I don't want to be the person who realizes too late that I shouldn't have waited. But it seems like that's all I can do right now... It's the only thing I have the strength to do.

It feels unbearable... Feels like a battle inside me and I know that it's all in my head, that I can make myself feel better if I just change my outlook, fix my perspective. Focus on the positive. Give it to God. But it hurts so so so much, like a massive lump I'm trying to keep down in my throat. I want to cry. I want to scream. I want to tear my hair out and my room out and my heart out.  I give up, it's more than I can stand. I feel like my sanity hangs on such a thin thread. I'm just barely hanging on--surviving on so little. I want to get better but this isn't going away. It feels like a lie when I try to tell myself that I'll be okay, that it's okay, that I can do this. I don't want to feel this anymore. I want to be fucking happy, please. I don't want to feel anything if this is what I feel constantly. As I write this down I feel on the verge of breakdown. I'm surrounded by the people I love and they have no fucking clue. I'd like to just let it out but they'll ask questions I'm not ready to answer. I'm such an idiot. I thought I was getting better but I was just fooling myself... Repression is a funny thing. My sutures have been opened again and I feel myself spinning out of control. Reeling into darkness all over again. Trying to keep my head above water. Trying to hold it together but I feel so broken, so empty, so fucking distraught. I want to feel good again but my mind and my heart won't let me. I'm wondering if I should seek professional help but I'm still uncomfortable with the idea, and I'm not sure I want my parents in on that. I could really use a vacation, too. I need to get out of here... Go somewhere where I can write and wander and, I don't know, fix myself. I wish I had a relative or friend or someone who could take me in and let me cry as much as I wanted. Someone who could fight this with me. I love my sister, I really do. And I see how hard she tries to keep me afloat but she's young and hasn't lived much, and I'm not sure she can truly grasp how devastating this is for me. I can't do this. I can't. I wish I could write. This fucking blog has turned into a diary. I guess it helps, a little. I can't do anything until I pull myself together and make myself right. Health comes first, and if I can't write, I can't write. It'll come back. I'm just so tired of hurting all the time.

Three 6-line poems

The spiders have made their home on my balcony.
I hate them.
Dusty, sticky webs in every corner; abandoned.
They make children to make us children.
This is my space, you vermin!
I come here to write.

--------

The universe is doing that thing again--
making itself unknown.
And now that it is small and quiet,
I can hear two things:
1. The pounding of my heart
2. Your call

--------

Under the sun I am immune to winter.
Thawing out in frozen socks.
A few birds chirp nearby; a few cars thrum.
My head is the loudest, yelling,
"Fucking come here already!"
I'll stare out the window and await your return.

December 11th, 2013

There are nail marks on the inside of my hands. Little skin crescents.

I wake up with headaches each morning from all the teeth-grinding and cheek-biting and chasing-of-you.

My limbs ache restlessly and my heart breaks incessantly and I long to--please let me--catch you. To see you and touch you.

I am impossibly frustrated with how very badly I need you.

The impossibility of this, of course, is agonizing. I hate that you have all the best parts of me. Without you, I'm not the person I want to be.

My stomach churns, and in my throat there is a lump--a choked down mass. a sound. a syllable. your name. I fight to keep it down all day.

What have you done to me?

There are miles between us but you haven't moved a mile from my brain. Haven't drained a mile from my veins.

I am sick with you.

I want to believe there is a remedy--something more permanent than the salve of old memories and the purposeful pill-popping to forget.

I want to want to be done with it, yet...

To Hell

I loved you, grease-slicked hair and navy button-up, cigarette between teeth, sweating off your love for me over someone else's balcony.

I had too much wine and couldn't keep my eyes off you that night. Fuck it all to hell.

I loved you, middle and ring finger sliding into me, my legs stretched wide in the passenger seat.

I slipped in two fingers and moved them along with you. You lost it right then. Fuck it all to hell.

I loved you, in front of a display of erotic birds by the bay. The blue one with a monstrous beak stared daggers into my soul, gave us the creeps.

We forgot our names, held hands, laughed and threw fries at waddling pigeons. Fuck it all to hell.

I loved you, high out of my mind, you by my side, watching a documentary about planets that fuck and collide.

He was in the room with us, too, forgotten. We forget everyone. Fuck it all to hell.

I loved you, two games into an Indiana Jones pinball match, two chrome balls stuck that wouldn't catch.

We tipped the machine backward, you won a couple more rounds. We cheated. Fuck it all to hell.

I loved you, under the moon, an infinite finite night, lips stuck to each other like glue.

We made promises and plans, touched scars, made maps. We had to get back. Fuck it all to hell.

I loved you first.

I loved you then.

I love you now, alone and broken, aware of time, you always on my mind.

It's gonna stay like this, but fuck it all to hell.

I know I'm getting better. I can see the sun setting on my depression. This whole thing is almost over. I feel less sad; less incapacitated. My appetite for life is returning in a big way. I have wild dreams again! Ones that incorporate the things I hold most dear--writing, traveling, and helping people. Most importantly, I no longer want to die. No longer want to waste away. I want to LIVE, and although I still spend the majority of my days in bed--sometimes with the curtains closed, sometimes with them open--I'm actively fighting my demons. Crying less. Hoping more.

I'm right fucking there. Breakthrough is coming, I know it. I FEEL it.

I've been everywhere from mild to severely depressed in the last year. For a lot of different reasons--feeling stuck and uninspired, having to cancel my attendance to Boston University, and mostly, watching a really great love disintegrate. Moving on from something like that has been an essential life lesson. It's so hard some days--especially today. Most of the time I think, 'I'm too young for this shit,' but I'm starting to realize my purpose in life is a bit more demanding than others. Which, unfortunately, translates into me experiencing more shit than others.

I'm old and weary inside.

I've always felt like I was meant to be something great. It's not a narcissistic, arrogant, or inflated opinion of myself. There's just always been an inner-knowing that I'm meant for something greater. Frankly, it scares the shit out of me. It's not something I walk around telling people. It's a secret that has plagued me my entire life. I'm special--a child born from a prophetic dream. My existence/calling/destiny is more intense than others. I guess someone thought I could handle it?

I'm the black sheep of my family--the kid who always caused drama. I went to a performing arts school instead of a regular high school like the rest of my family. I dated a crazy girl for four years. Got kicked out of my house at 18. MARRIED at 18. Divorced by 21. The list goes on... I have different views and desires than my parents. It's so weird. Why am I so weird?

Ever since I was young, I've been stuck with this unquenchable desire to GET THE FUCK OUT. Like, you guys don't even know. I've always wanted to escape. It's an itch that, for the life of me, I can't scratch. The Cycle makes me sick. Depressed. I'm not meant for this life. Have you ever felt like that? Like the life of school and marriage and babies and career and death is just not for you?

The only difference between Then Vanessa and Now Vanessa is that I've come to accept I can never be anything I'm not. I can't waste my time or energy trying to fit myself in a box. I gotta do what I gotta do, no matter the cost.It's the only way I'll find peace.

It is my duty as a child of God to make myself readily and wholly available to Him, and give this life a real shot. He made me this way, so there's gotta be a reason. What's His purpose? Do I need to expand my horizon or change my environment to become what I'm meant to become? HELP.

The reason I'm still fighting depression right now is because I have no idea what I'm supposed to do. I don't know what the next step is... I know what I want from life, but I don't know how to get it. What does God want? Days pass by like a blur of rise-and-shine and 3-meals-a-day and asleep-by-midnight; repeat. Remember how I said I hate The Cycle? I meant it.

I don't know what I'm supposed to do--wait or pursue? And if it's the latter, what the heck am I supposed to pursue? I could really use a clue! HELP.

Everything you can possibly imagine is against me right now, but... something is about to happen. Something big. Something scary. Something YES. What is it, 'cause I don't think I can do this anymore. I'm running on empty. Come on, God. I've sowed in tears and now I'm ready for the harvest. I'm ready for that breakthrough. Show me the way, Lord. Show me what you got. Blow me away!