I opened the door for you. I’m holding it ajar with my body, and ushering you inside with my right hand; it’s an invitation for you to be yourself. You don’t have to pretend to be someone else, because who you are is beautiful. I won’t ask you to change for me. I like you the way you are. That’s why you are my friend. And I appreciate how similar we are and also how vastly different. We come from disparate universes, but I still love you, because you are you. I can see the light shining inside your eyes. They are small pebbles but they sparkle in the dark night. I want to look into them again and smile when I do it. I’m here to tell you that you matter. I’m standing in front of you telling you the honest truth, that you are incredible and you can. You can do that thing you’re afraid of doing, but you want to do so badly. I believe in you as much as I believe in me. I see myself in you, and I also see how we make each other’s lives better. There are so many things I want to tell you and I can’t talk fast enough or long enough to let them out. You inspire me in a way that I haven’t felt in so long, and that means everything to me. I can hardly speak through these tears because I’m grateful for the ability to feel again. For a while I lost that muse, that voice, that me, but you reminded me what I am, who I am and for that I can only say thank you. Come inside and sit down beside this fire with me, and tell me about your dreams. Let’s make them come true.
I don’t feel creative and yet here I am writing this. It’s because I want so much to feel creative. I want to feel that spark, the adrenaline, the drive, the want to create and feel something and yet I feel like a broken pencil tip, a dull razor blade, because I don’t feel anything at all.
I’m banging on the door to my heart and it isn’t answering. Maybe no one’s home right now, it’s all I can figure. My emotions went on vacation and they didn’t leave anyone to house sit inside the confines of my body. So I’m a blank slate, a walking outline of a person who once felt deeply. I will feel again when I’m not floating above these feelings. Although, it feels nice to fly away from them sometimes. Other times they are surrounding me and I don’t know what to do with them.
Not today, today I don’t feel. Today I’m an empty cup and other boring metaphors. Still I write because my fingers remind me to, and my passion, which is buried under all this gray ambiguous nothing, is peaking out through the curtains wanting to be seen.
I have too many questions and no answers; that’s what life is about. I remember sitting in elementary school in the fifth grade, quietly raising my hand hoping that I would get called on, because I knew I had the right answer. It was devasting when Mrs. Gumbs called on someone else, because I knew my answer was correct. Time passed by, but my passion to speak the right answer never disappeared. I sat in 8th grade English class with my hand held high waiting to express my favorite beat poet’s name:Lawrence Ferlinghetti. I can feel the stiffness in my arm from waiting, and I’m not longer 13, I’m 37.
My worth isn’t predicated on whether I know the right answer, but I believed it was at the time.
When my hand stopped flying up in high school, it was hard. When my confidence dropped, it was difficult. I wasn’t mastering pre-calculus and I couldn’t raise my hand anymore with confidence. I had more questions than answers and my feet were what I was looking at more than the teacher’s gaze.
In college my heart pounded when I raised my hand, even if I was certain my answer was correct. I was nervous and sought the validation of the other students around me, but more importantly I wanted to impress the professor at the head of the lecture hall.
Now that I’m 37, the opportunities to raise my hand are few and far between. I want to give my feedback, to be correct, to know something, but there isn’t anyone’s gaze to meet, or professional to impress.
In order to answer those questions, I have to find people out in the world to help me. But there are so many people out there. How do I know who to trust? The answer is inside myself like it’s always been. That’s why I’ve been raising my hand all these years.
Sometimes they crawl into the crevices of my heart, those words, feelings, truths and I want to hide from the rush of adrenaline.
If I can’t see you, you can’t see me.
Logic is something that we use when it’s convenient. Emotions have capes that allow them to fly wherever they please.
One day I’ll stand before you and open that door so you can see inside me. That door opens so infrequently. It’s usually under construction.
People knock but I pretend like I’m not home. For you I’ll open the door.
Free floating, heart racing
Trying to make it through this one minute
Knowing there will be many more minutes, seconds, hours, days and years
or something along those lines and I’m hungry but for the wrong emotions
I can’t be right today or is it today?
I’m not sure if it’s today or tomorrow or Friday or Tuesday.
It’s Monday, and I know it. I’m just fucking with you…whoever you are.
I wrote a lot of words and I’m not sure if they are good because
I’m waiting for unanswered emails
and I have a profound fear of rejection that I
keep pushing through knowing that
not everyone likes me and
in fact the few people that do, I can count on one hand on a given day
because I annoy the shit out of myself so
how can anyone actually like me?
But they do…like me.
Anxiety causes my thoughts to race, my chest to expand, my heart to question what I know to be true and
I’m glad that you’re reading this, because
it means that these emotions are being validated by
I don’t like to weigh myself because numbers are depressing. When I was in high school I ranged from weighing 110 lbs to 120 lbs. I was super skinny. People used to ask me if I ate. And I did eat, I was just anxious all the time and eating was a challenge. I never had an eating disorder but I did vomit bile in the mornings during my senior year at F.H. LaGuardia High School before I went off to school. Well, actually that’s not how the routine went exactly. I’d wake up, feel like my heart was going to explode out of my chest, and I was scared to open my eyes. But I made myself do it. I was immediately nauseated by the influx of (what I didn’t know then was) cortisol and stress hormones. I threw up bile until my stomach settled. Then I ate oatmeal, which my mom made me and I did mindfulness meditation guided by Jon Kabat-Zinn where he told me how to be a mountain. With Jon’s guidance I was able to face the day. In college I gained 15 lbs, except not in Freshman year, it was in Sophmore year, when my Katrina’s mother would send us brownies frosted with chocolate frosting.
This was supposed to be about pants.
Anyway, after college I eventually had children, and the weight never went away. I’ve become attached to elastic pants. I have these fancy yoga/dress pants and I wear them every day, because they are more comfortable on my belly. I’ve never had a belly in my entire life. And now, I can’t get rid of it. I want my pants to be smaller. I have started doing Tae Kwon Do and I walk five miles a day. I hope that I can buy pants that don’t showcase my belly. But I blame anxiety and depression for fucking up my metabolism.
I talk to you in my dreams. You’re here with me. We sit down in two armchairs across from each other. I can hear you. But you have to go. So I’ll write you a note on top of these sausages in this takeout box. But ink doesn’t work on the sausages. You’ve already left and I’ll find you again in another scene. It’s so hard to hear because the trumpets are blaring outside in that large open field. I forgot to feed the cats. I better get home. I’m going to run through this forest until I get there. Only, it’s not a forest, it’s actually a sewer system. I’m underground and there are rats everywhere. My feet are filthy. I see a ladder, if I hold onto it, it’ll turn into a hot air ballon. I’m flying now, and I’ll get home in 20 minutes if this balloon goes where I think it’s going. I’m going to let go of the balloon now, so I can fall to the floor of my bedroom. I’ll close my eyes tight so I don’t feel the drop. My neighbor sits with me on the bed and taps my forehead, doing acupressure on it. He says he just got married and there will be a party soon. His wife is from Ireland, and I’ve never met her before. I’m so tired and I know the kids and I will be going to the beach soon. Just five more minutes of sleep. There are 20 people in my apartment and the bride doesn’t want to talk about getting married. I want to sleep, but they won’t let me and the bride isn’t wearing any pants. I run out of my house and I’m stuck in a map of Queens. I can’t get out of it. I know the beach is close though. If I follow the trail I’ll get there.