Half Finished Sentences

Life is a series of stories that never finish.
Half ended sentences
Conversations that…
Like that.
People who come into your life only to leave when it doesn’t serve them or you anymore.
That’s what life is.
It’s messy.
It’s funny.
It’s painful.
It doesn’t make sense for the most part and when it does the shoe is dangling in the air getting ready to drop.
I’ve watched the same show over and over again.
I’ve made the same mistake multiple times.
You’d think I would have learned by now.
maybe you aren’t thinking about me at all.
You’re thinking of you and that’s fine, because we have to look out for ourselves.
It’s 3am and all I want to do is sleep but I just wrote this since it was in my head.



There’s Nothing Like Not Writing

There’s nothing like not writing. I feel the pressure of wanting to say something profound, but all the thoughts in my head are angry or depressing. I want to be hilarious.

Hey, what she wrote there, that was hilarious!

Humor is subjective, we know this, but I want to be funny damn it. All the things I could write about I’ve already covered a million times and I’m tired of exaggerating. It’s all getting old. I’m writing this word vomit because I don’t know what else to do. There hasn’t been anything on here in a while. Why are you still reading this? Go watch Netflix or eat a donut. Oh, you’re still reading this because I’m still writing words.

I’m fixated on the way things are supposed to be and there’s so supposed to be. It just is.

I just sneezed. I thought you should know that.

I Had a Dream I Wrote You a Letter

I had a dream I wrote you a letter. I kept trying to write your name. It wasn’t working. Then I tried to write you how I felt. But the ink turned to glittery gelatinous glue and melted into the page. I read somewhere once that you can’t read words in dreams. I knew what I wanted to say to you but I couldn’t write the words. In the dream I missed your call. I called you back at seven in the morning.

“Hey, I’m sorry I missed your call.” I said, my voice scratchy from just waking up.

“I called you three days ago. I’m getting ready for work now.” You said, annoyed.

It was too late. I was too late. We were too late for each other. I couldn’t find a sink to wash my hands in.

I’m not dreaming anymore and it’s the same story. I still can’t find the words and my eyes hurt from crying and reading and missing parts of myself and you.

I’ll write that letter one day. I’ll mail it or burn it. I’m not sure which one. I’ll let you know or maybe I won’t, because I don’t have the words.


The Heart Wants

There are some things in life that can’t be “figured out” or rationalized. Feelings are like that. The heart wants what it wants and despite your attempts to merge your mind and your heart to have the same road trip, the heart takes over and drives the car off road onto an unchartered nature trail. I can’t tell you how to feel, but your heart can.

My heart is powerful and overwhelms my ability to reason. I love without thinking first and then realize later that my hands are covered in my own blood. It isn’t easy to love this way but it was the way I was born and the way I am. I feel things deeply, and when I say that I love you it’s because I love you. I mean those words, which pour out of my mouth but originate from my chest.

What’s the difference in saying these words if the way that I love can’t be understood? It’s fierce and bold and unashamed. And yet it scares people with its truth and passion.

I won’t let being misunderstood stop me from loving wholely.

It’s who I am to love vehemently.

I can’t tell you how to love and you can’t tell me how to either.

Let there be blood on my hands, so long as it’s mine.


Guest Post: Surviving All or Nothing Friendship – Shawna Ayoub Ainslie

Surviving All or Nothing Friendship

By Shawna Ayoub Ainslie

Hi. I’m Shawna, and I’m a survivor. I have all or nothing tendencies, and that doesn’t often make me the best friend, except when I’m the BEST friend. Like I said, all or nothing.

As you can imagine, it has taken me most of my adult life to learn how to set proper boundaries (raise your hand if you’re a survivor too, amiright?) and maintain them. I do the best I can. Living means learning. And one life skill I’m learning is when to take a step back.

For six years, I was a BEST friend to a truly exceptional woman. We did all the things together, even set a weekly “playdate” for just the two of us. We talked about parenting, shared sorrows and joys and laid plans for personal triumph. It was an amazing exchange of compassion and love.

We hit road bumps. They would skew our course a little bit, but with some practice and a commitment to communication and conflict resolution, we smoothed the road every time. Until my son’s differences got in the way of us supporting each other’s ability to reach our personal bests.

We had no plans to be perfect moms. Bad Moms has us pegged. We had no desire to be problem-free individuals. I had my own struggles and she had hers. We accepted each other as we were at any given moment.

Part of that included our kids playing together and us helping them practice compassionate conflict resolution. But my kiddo, it doesn’t click for him yet. He’s brilliant, loving and athletic, but some social skills remain beyond his reach. And the social interactions he was having with my friend’s kids were destructive to their sibling relationship. It had to stop.

My friend very apologetically set a boundary. No more of my kiddo at her house. It made perfect sense. It was the right choice for all the kids. It was the right choice for her. But it broke me.

First it was one crack in my heart. It spread throughout my whole body. I have three kids, but most of my time and energy goes to my first child. Tending different needs in a neurotypical world is a full time job. When you’re a survivor and your kid’s needs double as your triggers, it’s maybe 100 full time jobs. And my bestie was my main support sometimes even before my spouse. With her, I never had to shoulder the burden alone. So while it was the right choice for her, her kids and mine, that boundary was incredibly destructive to me.

It wasn’t my friend’s fault. The need of the many outweighed the need of the one.

I couldn’t get over it.

I’m still not over it.

All or nothing.

All my compassionate communication skills failed me. I couldn’t tell her I was sad or angry or that I understood because my feelings were so big they were lit matches angling toward the threads of our relationship. I wanted to burn it all down. And I almost did. I wrote it out and shared my heart on the page with her. She was far more hurt than I expected.

I still don’t understand. I don’t even know if I want to. Our relationship has changed. We aren’t mom friends anymore. She made the request. And because I’m still healing from being shattered by the need for distance from my child, and because he is still most of where my energy goes every day and therefore a huge portion of my identity, the friendship we have feels lean. My brain knows the boundary was not meant as a rejection, but my heart can’t accept that as truth.

Sometimes it still hurts enough for me to cry. I want to open up and share. Being a mom is hard even without neurodivergence. Having mom friends to talk about parenting struggles with to is critical to success. Support is everything. At that point, she was the only person I trusted fully with my story. Then it no longer felt safe to share that story, so I locked it away from all friends. I locked my heart away from her.

All or nothing.

I’m learning to give in pieces. I’m learning not to overcommit myself or my friends. That’s a big part of this. I brought a lot of assumptions into our relationship that I now recognize as either unfounded or unfair. Now, I’m learning to have friendships based on fun rather than depth. I’m slowly learning how to re-allow depth.

My bestie? We still have a great time together, especially when it comes to books or movies. We both just had to take a big step back to get to a place where we can enjoy each other. I’m working hard at inching toward her again. What we built was no small foundation. It was massive and beautiful. I’ve never experienced a friendship as powerful and long-lasting as ours except with my spouse. She brought me out of a cocoon and watched me butterfly. I’d like to think I offered her the same. Six years of unconditional love (now seven) is no small potatoes. Especially between women who have repeatedly been hurt by women.

There are still mountains to climb and the path feels jagged, but I’m moving through the obstacles the best I can. Right now, what we have is nothing compared to what we had, but it is friendship. It’s not everything, but it’s also not nothing, and that is plenty for me.


Shawna Ayoub Ainslie is a writer and coach who teaches expressive writing for release and recovery. This post is part of her Survive Your Story Guest Exchange. Her work has appeared in Huffington Post, Mogul, Stigma Fighters, Role Reboot, [wherever] and The Manifest-Station among other places. When she’s not editing Open Thought Vortex Magazine, you can find on TwitterFacebook or hosting #LinkYourLife.


I didn’t know where I was going when I dove into that lake. The water wasn’t clear either, which didn’t help. Nevertheless I curved my back and arms and threw my body head first into the murky water. It seemed like the thing to do. I needed to leave where I was, because there wasn’t anything left for me there. When my body hit the water I felt the coolness wash over me. It was refreshing and scary to be one with this massive body of ambiguity. Still I pushed myself through it and then I saw you. You were struggling, arms flailing to stay afloat. Your face was beautiful. Your eyes met mine, and I knew what I had to do. I swam toward you. My hand reached toward you and you grabbed it. We floated together for a moment. I knew you weren’t a strong swimmer. Part of me was strong, I knew how to swim but only because I’d taught myself that staying still was dangerous. But you stood there frozen, holding my hand like it was a foreign object.

“Come with me.” I begged you.

You silently shook your head and pointed toward the shore, which was far. I squeezed your hand so you’d remember what it felt like, but ultimately I couldn’t stop you. You released my hand, and my body and then it was I who struggled to stay above the water of indecision.

“Goodbye.” I said in my mind as I watched you swim toward the other shore. I knew what was waiting for you there, but there was not point in telling you because you were already underwater.


The Internet is Like High School

I just came back from BlogHer 16, which was a fantastic experience. I won Voices of The Year, and was able to read my blog post about being disabled in front of a largely supportive group of my peers. That was a fantastic experience. However, I won’t pretend that my interactions with everyone at the conference were full of rainbows and happiness. I am a mostly friendly person, who is overly anxious and enthusiastic about life. I talk to everyone and have no filter. I’m aware that my personality doesn’t go with everyone’s, but I make a concerted effort to be understanding and nice to the people around me hoping against hope that they like me.

That being said, when I compliment someone on their outfit and they have no visible emotion on their face when they say “thank you” and they cannot make eye contact with me, it feels like they are dissing me. When I try to talk to you, and you give me monosyllabic answers and look at your shoes, I’m going to go ahead and assume that you hate my guts, which reminds me so much of my high school experience. I’m not cool, I’ll never be cool and that’s what makes me, me. I hide in bathrooms when I’ve been around people for too long, which is a change from the pile of coats I used to bury myself under as a child. I don’t ever want to be afraid to sit at someone’s lunch table. Maybe I’m socially inept, but I would like to believe that we could at least try to be kind to each other. It doesn’t take a lot to say “thank you” to another human and perhaps engage them in conversation about something else. You never know what you might learn about your fellow human if you gave her a chance.

The funny thing is, the more that person ignores me, the harder I try to get them to like me and recognize my awesomeness. It’s counterintuitive, because obviously this individual doesn’t give a shit about me or my overly anxious nature. He/she doesn’t care that I want them to like me. I care too much, and it’s hurting my brain.

These interactions that I’m speaking to are in person. When people slight each other online it takes an entirely different form. I post a Facebook comment on your status and you intentionally ignore me, but respond to other people. Ouch, that hurts. I’m certainly guilty of not being meticulous about getting back to every single person on social media, but it’s relatively obvious when someone is intentionally ignoring you.

Similar to high school, the Internet has cliques and I try hard to just be a person and talk to everyone. The funny thing is that people want to pretend that there are no inner circles, but let’s cut the shit. There are those things and I want to break them down and make trapezoids out of them.

I couldn’t care less about who’s who in Internet land, just like I didn’t care about popularity in high school. I like people that I can have deep conversations with. I enjoy lack of small talk and an influx of real talk. So let’s stop being dicks and be nice to each other. We are all breathing the same oxygen and releasing the same carbon dioxide. Most of us wear shoes when we go outside, and a lot of us eat broccoli. I know we can find some things to talk about if we try hard.

I’m not better than you, and you’re not better than me. We are humans; humans that exist in the computer and also we walk around in the world. Before you write a sarcastic response to someone on the Internet, remember that they are a person with feelings. They have the capacity to feel anger and hurt. Be careful with your words before you make word salad.

I’m not sure how to end this thing, because I am extremely jet lagged. Keep being yourself and if someone is mean to you, give them a hug. If you’re scared to give them a hug, then smile at them. Wait until they look at you before you smile at them. You want the person that you are smiling at to remember that you smiled at them.



The Story Isn’t Over

The story isn’t over. There’s an intermission and I’m hungry but there isn’t a concession stand. I have to listen to the grumbling in my stomach for this indeterminable amount of time. I’m tired, starving and probably dehydrated. How long is the intermission? It doesn’t say on the program. Nobody seems to know. They are all busy talking to each other and laughing about how it might end or should end. I don’t want it to end. I thought it was going to go on forever. It feels great to watch it unfold and see the nuances. The creases in his smile, the way he sounds when he laughs subtlety, just enough to let me know that he got the joke, I want to see those parts.

It’s over temporarily and I don’t know when Act II begins.

Nobody wants to talk to me about Act I anymore. They said they’ve seen it and it’s great, but they’re ready for the second part. They are patiently waiting. I’m impatiently waiting. I’m fucking hungry damn it. I didn’t know this intermission was going to take so long. I remember the part of the play when they stood together on stage and the lights dimmed. He looked at her like there was no one else in the room. He held her face and she let herself be held by him in every way. The audience was silent as they watched these two characters frozen in time, drinking each other in. He told her softly in her ear:

I have to go. I’ll come back for you. I don’t know how or when, but I will.

Her face changed. It was full of fear and disappointment. A tear fell down her face as he turned his back and walked into the darkness. She collapsed to the floor in the fetal position. 57 birds flew over her head circling her; letting her know that her sadness was palpable and if she wanted to she could fly away from this place.  That’s how Act I ended and I can’t breathe, I can’t see, I can’t anything until I know that that isn’t how it ends. I refuse to let it end this way. She is broken and destroyed and that is not the end of this play. It can’t be.

Where is the playwright? Is he here? Someone needs to take responsibility for this tragedy. I didn’t realize that’s what I was watching when I bought my ticket.

I’m writing a letter to him.

He needs to explain what he was thinking.

I’m going to sit here in this lobby, hungry and sad while I wait for Act II, writing a letter to this incompetent quack who ruined a perfectly beautiful love story.


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