Tag Archives: love

For the Love and Hatred of the Bottle

Because life is so much more difficult than they teach you in high school, and some of us can only manage that reality with that burning elixir that offers a refuge from our racing thoughts and competitions with ourself. We crave the break that a bottle can bring. Not to be considered a position of peace, by any means. More so: a tool of management for those who have learned the delicate balance. Just like we set an alarm, schedule our plans for the day, and make our own half-assed attempt at an acceptable appearance, we’ll eventually fill our glasses. Ironically, it is the very aspect of life that I always feared the most…

A child in need of control can be a force to be reckoned with, and I fought like hell every day to do anything but disappoint. Perhaps, this is the very thing that I still struggle with now. That lack of control is bad in itself, but the helplessness that lies beneath is intolerable. As an adult, I won’t allow it to take hold. As a kid, I was powerless. With an emotionally absent mother and dealing with being placed in a care-giver role to the drunk that I proudly called my dad….My future was set in stone from the day that I was born.

I knew that I was different. I saw; I heard; I felt—not the black and white, not what I should have, and not what I was being programmed to see. This heart was too strong to be programmed. It saw all the sloppy grays that the world painted over. I saw my mom leave for work, and I saw my dad and me watching down the road far too late at night for her arrival. I saw my sister go to bed with a smile, oblivious to anything but the fairytale life she believed in her naivety. I saw my dad disappear to his own world, his only form of coping. And, I always went to find him…

There was a time when I couldn’t have been any more than 5 years old, and I was so excited that Dad was spending time with me. Real time, coherent time. He took me outside to draw pictures at the picnic table of our (literal) white picket fenced backyard. Mom was gone again. It never really mattered because, when she was there…It was never for me. I remember every game we tried to play ended with her lecturing me on the rules and paying attention, like the game of Memory was the SATs instead of the cartoon pictures that laid in front of us. Or, every time that she took a picture and I had to present myself just right. Hell, she couldn’t even take a picture to save her life. But, all that mattered was that I looked just like the little doll that she dreamed that I could be. I was dressed like my sister and expected to act the part as well. All that I was doing was seeing the grays, and the shades multiplied with every time that woman treated me like the family defect. The thing was, I was never the defect. They just hated that my eyes lifted the veil of their own dirty little secrets.

Dad had to leave again. It turned out that the drawing had an ulterior motive, and so did that pretty little fence that contained me. I tried to hide my disappointment, with my head down low like I was really working hard on my very best drawing to show him when he returned. But, he didn’t come back. I walked to the gate. I knew how to open it; it wasn’t that hard. I roamed around the house to find him, but I knew that I wouldn’t really. The beer was in the garage, and I didn’t want to catch him.

It seemed like an eternity to me, but I was so little. And, he was so mad. He was already drunk when I met him back in the fenced-in yard, and he was fighting his own tongue to scream at me for leaving. I didn’t, Dad. I waited for so long. I liked the funny man that you drew when we sat at the table. Can’t we just draw? I didn’t do anything; I just tried to find you. Please don’t punish me for that. I always try to find you.

We’re done, and he’s putting away the paper. I got a glimpse of being a kid that day, and I ruined it. It was my stupid fault for stepping outside of the white picket fence. So many times since then, I struggled with the confines of the expectations of that family that were entrapping my soul. But that was the moment that I truly realized what a lie that fence held in its presence.

If we went back to drawing that day, it could have changed my life. But, the bottle held precedence over the one person I felt close to: My dad. You’ll never see a white picket fence at my own home today. I’ve learned firsthand that no amount of paint can hide pain. And, that is the harsh truth that carried on the cycle for him, his family, and all that I am now.



Love Me a Little Louder

I can’t hear you in the morning,

When routine cuts our embrace.

The silence is overwhelming,

As I’m left here in this place.

Your texts take time to check on me,

But the day’s tasks drown them out.

And, as the hours tick away

Your absence welcomes doubt.

So, love me a little louder

Than the ring of our alarm.

Wrap your arms around me tighter,

Till I know I’m safe from harm.

Kiss me a little longer

Before you shut the door.

You’ll remind me I’m important too,

And what we’re working for.

Text me a lot more often;

Fill the void with sweeter words.

And, as the day unfolds itself…

Be the only thing I heard.

He did not love her…

He did not love her. At least, that’s what he told himself before he left. She was out to get him, clearly. A vicious being, disguised in that armor of beauty he fell so hard for years ago. A long time ago, and he was just a kid then anyway. He saw her tears, as she begged him to give her answers, to make her understand. It was a trick. Anyone can make themselves cry. She just wanted to use him. Because, as much as he covered the thought, it seeped out to remind him that he had used her. But he wasn’t doing that again. No, she deserved everything she was getting this time.

He just wanted someone to talk to; she should have kept it a secret. I mean, look at her perfect life. She deserved to take the blame before he should face what he did. I mean, he had a family at stake and couldn’t afford to throw them away for her questions. He didn’t owe her a damn thing. She probably planned this all along to ruin him. There’s no way that she meant those words. The hell with the look in her eyes. Blue eyes are overdone anyway.

What did he ever see in her? She was just a tag-along–someone to keep him company. It was stupid to reach back out. Just a weak moment, but there was no feeling behind it. He just wanted someone to hear him, and he knew what a pathetic soul she had become. Nothing he would want to tie himself into again.

She was too good for him anyway. All she talked about was him going to college and being responsible. What a waste of life. He was right where he belonged.

Let her keep her pictures of stiff memories. None of theirs had meaning anyway. He was just going along for the ride. He realized he hadn’t gotten to taking that one picture out from his truck, but he would definitely burn it soon. He just didn’t have time to throw it away is all. Besides, he looked good in that picture. Let the picture collect dust, as he leaves her in it right here. His mind fought the drop that slid from his eye as he walked away—He did not love her.

The Love Story

          THE LOVE STORY: Something that is filling our ears from the moment we are old enough to hear it and is following us throughout each stage of our lives, with a perception and expectation that is hopeless to fulfill. Life begins and ends with the love story, as our heart is the very organ that keeps the blood shooting through our veins–allowing us to feel all those giddy butterflies we reach for.  We are taught that there is perfection out there for each of us, where troubles do not exist and hearts will never be broken.

            Then, one day it hits us.  We were raised with hope for our hearts.  In a dark world, we were read fairy tales of royalty and castles, triumphant relationships, and happy endings.  These stories built walls around our core, holding our passions for as long as those barriers could.  The trouble is, those stories also make us wonder.  Our imagination gets the best of us, and we ache to see our fairytale over the walls.  And so our walls crack…and eventually shatter to bits.  There is no rebuilding, once we make that bold decision to step into the pain-filled world we were protected from.

            Naivety leads us to believe that our other half will be a cookie cutter package, reaching for us with equal force and intention.  Alas, our hearts all beat to a separate rhythm.  Some of our walls were thicker, and some shattered early.  Once entering into the world where fairy tales are fiction, we are slowly afflicted with tarnished hearts…one way or another.  Bitterness, resentment, pain, and sorrow lead us toward throwing away our expectations and setting fire to the butterflies we once cherished—ours, as well as others.

            The Love Story: This is how it really reads…We’ll fall in love, puppy love at first.  But, there will be that one person that’ll leave an impression on our hearts.  There are a few out there who will be lucky enough to fuse those heartbeats together, through cold and darkness, and still build their best version of a fairytale in the end.  But, most of us will face the soul-crushing truth that was hidden from us through years of fiction and wall-building: You are going to get hurt, like you could never imagine.  Your heart will literally crush inside your chest, and no one will be able to bring it back as full as it once was.  Your greatest efforts can’t force forever, and there is far more darkness in this world than one tiny heart can overcome.  The scars from that connection may last for years, if you are lucky.  For most, they’ll never leave.  Your life will change as your body ages, but a piece of you will always be in that other time.  Why?  Because you were raised to find your fairytale.  The problem is, everyone’s fairytales were different.

For the Love of Personality


      I am 5 feet tall.  I have long, curly hair and blue eyes.  These are the features that are easy to distinguish.  They create the form that people see in front of them when they look at me.        How many more people on this earth have my height, my hair type, or my eye color?  It’s safe to say that there are probably countless others that fit any of these descriptions, but even my closest look-alike will never hold a candle to me.  The key to that, of course, is personality.  It’s the stuff inside of us that creates who we really are, not our body features. 

            Most of us can relate on the dislike of physical aspects that we carry, but it’s difficult to turn away from our personality.  Why is this?  The answer is simple: We create who we are.  Life can hand us shitty situations, sadness, and terror.  It can change how we feel about things and make us react in ways that we never would have.  But, our personality will always shine through. 

            It is easy to be the person that we want ourselves to be without a second thought.  But, when truly examined…It is much more difficult to pinpoint the traits that form our character in the ways that we have subconsciously chosen.  Following are 3 of my favorite personality traits:

  • I do not follow the crowd.  I like the things that most overlook or have not given special thought to.  Most of the time, I choose these things on purpose because I thrive off of being unique.
  • I am opinionated.  I love to speak my piece, and I can make one hell of an argument to back up my point.  I have strong beliefs and do not allow myself to be bullied into believing what others do. 
  • I am sensitive.  I feel love, hurt, sadness, etc. to their extreme.  Emotions hit me hard, which helps me to understand them even more. 


**I have not had much feedback on this blog lately, though I see that I am acquiring a number of followers.  I encourage you all to examine your own personalities, as I have found this to be a wonderful tool to gain understanding of myself.  Feel free to share what you have found; I am interested to know who my readers really are…