Category: life

Party of One.

Several years ago.

Loneliness comes from not knowing your own heartbeat.

You should sit with yourself and your own thoughts.

How can you be lonely when there are so many adventures to be had in your mind?

Some of the greatest moments that I had this year were by myself. Eating out by myself for the first time. Going to the movies by myself and not caring who was wondering when my date or friends might show up or if I really had the balls to come alone.

Working out by myself.

I fell back in love with myself this year – and it’s the greatest relationship that I’ve ever had. Finding comfort in my own skin.

When’s the last time it was just you and you had the best conversation you’ve had in a long time?

–S.

When my brother turned 9.

2013.

I think even when you turn 36, or 82, or 117, I would still call you baby.

You were born the day before I started eighth grade.

I was worried about which of my best-friends were going to what high school, my whole life ruined and in shambles. How was I ever going to pick where to go?

Mom already told me that she wouldn’t fill out the transfer papers. Do you think I could have forged them?

And then there was you. Little, but big at the same time.

With a head full of brown hair. You peed on the nurse. That’s when I knew you were going to be trouble. You were so…so baby. And I was scared to hold you. What if I hurt you? Or if I didn’t hold you correctly? Or you started crying?

In time, you became my little, but big at the same time best friend.

I think the most important thing that I have learned from your nine years on this earth is just to breath. Life isn’t about marking up a calendar to next year and back of things that need to be done. Life isn’t about constantly making lists. Life is just about living.

Sometimes you take fifteen minutes to say something that could have been said in one sentence, and you remind me of our mother.

Sometimes you get frustrated really easily and shut down, and you remind me of our father.

Sometimes you nod your head to a song you don’t know the lyrics to and you close your eyes, and you remind me of myself.

I know that there will be a day when mom and dad won’t be on earth with us and it’ll just be the two of us. Life won’t always be fort building, ramen making at midnight with melted slices of cheese, waking up to Nerf guns, cannon balls in the pool, ice cold cokes on a summer day, Halo 4 campaigns before going to sleep, Teen Titans at 3 am, or scavenging the refrigerator for two items that are possibly edible together.

People move away. They have their own families. They stop talking. They start again. They love. They get hurt. They love again. They never stop loving. These are also parts of living.

These are things we don’t write on our list or our five-year plan.

I remember when we had to put Whoopie to sleep, I think that was your first real loss.

You lost your best friend. The dog that you’d known since birth. You were eight. For a long time we were worried because you were really sad, and you stopped telling jokes and laughing as often as you used to. Your spirit wasn’t as bright as it had always been.

And then we brought Ringo home a couple months ago, and you didn’t want to tell mom and dad, but you whispered in my ear that it made you sad although you really liked Ringo – he just wasn’t Whoopie.

My heart broke baby.

I want you to know that if I could somehow ensure that a part of you stays innocent forever, I would. That a part of you still cries when Sarah McLaughlin comes on and they show the commercial with the animals. If I could somehow make sure that your heart is always big and always full of love and that you never get tarnished, I would do that for you. Even if it meant sacrificing any amount of happiness of my own. I want you to never be afraid to be yourself. Even if kids laugh. I want you to wear clothes that don’t match, if you want to. I want you to do the robot to a song that the robot ‘shouldn’t’ be done to. I want you to mouth lyrics you don’t even know. I want you to still hug mom and dad and tell them that they are your best friends. I want you to keep laughing. Keep dancing. Keep dreaming. Keep loving. Keep smiling. Keep hoping. Keep wishing. Keep being goofy. Keep telling stories. Keep telling corny jokes. Keep living. It has been an honor to help raise you, to love you, and to take care of you.

I hope you always remember a time when we laughed and played together, and the world seemed a little simpler.

–S.

Life begins again.

The winter in Texas seems slow to come like molasses and then somehow, all at once.

Winter has always been my favorite season.

The sounds are clearer and the smells crisper.

It’s more than pumpkin frappuccinos and Christmas lights.

It’s a way of life. Comfort.

Winter is the smell of something crunchy and gooey in the oven,

an extra throw blanket or two on the bed,

the dog at your feet,

leaves crunching under your boots,

body heat warming you,

your breath in the air,

never waking up early enough to scrape the frost off of the windshield,

shorter days,

naked trees,

intimate gatherings,

layers,

laughter,

love,

and light.

It’s been said that life seems to begin again in the Summer, but the opposite must be true.

Life begins again in the winter.

–S.

50 Shades of Me.

I’m not wearing pants. I have lacy panties on sporting holes on both sides because I’m anything but careful. Always getting dressed in a rush or running late.

My hair is greasy and lays in a fallen bun on the side of my head, not even the top, and my face needs to be washed.

I’m wearing a crop top yellow Wu-Tang shirt that is flecked with oil from the pesto pasta I ate earlier and no bra.

I am anything but flawless.

Which is why I have been avoiding writing a list of things I love about myself all week. I just figured that I wouldn’t have much to say, but I’m doing it as a practice of self-love.

I assume I’ll have ten nice things to say. I can manage ten.

I imagine myself opening the Word document and staring at the flashing cursor as I struggle to think of likeable qualities, I can’t even touch any loveable ones. I imagine feeling embarrassed as ten and twenty and thirty minutes pass and I’ll blank by five likeable qualities.

But I surprise myself. The loveable qualities pour out of me, until I’m up to fifty. I keep thinking, okay, that’s probably it. But then there’s another, and another, and I don’t even touch the likeable ones.

Because I’m focused on the loveable.

Focused on the love.

Focused on the self.

Focused on me.

–S.

Just one ticket? Yes, just one.

So, I’m taking the time to date myself.

To court myself.

To become my own best friend.

Again.

To re-learn the song of my own heartbeat.

The hooks, the verses, the chorus, and even the background vocals.

Somewhere along the way – I forgot. I forgot that this was a forever job.

That the song of my heartbeat was and always had been the soundtrack of my summer.

Every season after that.

And of my life.

I’m humming it now and I don’t have to share my popcorn with anyone.

–S.

Nice 2 Meet You Again.

You’ve been getting drunk and going out with friends to sing karaoke and dance at night clubs. In those moments – you really feel infinite. You can’t feel the heartbreak. It’s almost like nothing even happened. Almost like he’s still yours.

You’re coming home to him, only to find out that your bed is empty. I know what you’re thinking: One, what are you going to do with all of the things you know about him? All of the things in your head. Can you erase it? Can we file it away? Can we fax it to his new girlfriend? Two, it’s exhausting to keep reintroducing yourself to someone in hopes that they will fall for you.

What is he doing with all of the information that he has collected about you? You want to bet me money that he doesn’t even care about half of it.

See, the truth is that you are worth knowing. You are worth loving.

He probably never knew that your favorite color was purple, that it makes you really sad that you are allergic to lavender, that you still cry every time you watch the Notebook, and that you get jealous when your sister gets close to someone.

You were ready to commit to him. He was going to be your one, forever.

But how could he be your one if he didn’t appreciate these things about you? Your one will appreciate your quirks. They will adore all of the things that make you uniquely you. You have a story. No one on this planet could ever be you.

We are all a kaleidoscope of a million different things. Things we have picked up from school, books, music, television, movies, magazines, life, death, love, heartbreak, loss. All of those little pieces gorilla-glued together to make a collage – a you.

So stop thinking that you’re not worth it. Don’t let him ruin it for the real one. Don’t shut yourself off in the dark, and collect a string of one night stands. It’s not worth it.

You’re a lover. A romantic. Hold onto that. Don’t kill that.

More importantly, don’t allow someone who cared so little kill something that you care so much about. You have always believed in love.

Believe in love – again.

Always, again –  always, one more time.

–S.

Gifts.

Eight Years Ago.

My brother was born the day before my father’s birthday.

For the last ten years, he’s been his greatest gift.

Every year, we make a party celebrating the both of them.

As I watched my parents this weekend – putting everything together, my mind drifted over the twenty-three different ways my birthday was celebrated over the years.

I always wanted more from my parents. The most expensive gift. More gifts. A better birthday cake. No homemade food, give me pizza. Give me a thousand different colored balloons. Get me a new birthday outfit. Every year should be better than the last.

I watched them clean the entire house. I watched them decorate it. I watched them prepare all of the food. I watched my mom make the cake. I watched them prepare the porch for the guests that were coming. I realized in all of these moments that I spent so much of my younger years wishing for more that I overlooked all of the present moments.

I never realized how hard they tried. I never appreciated the things that they did give.

I didn’t count the roof over my head as a gift. I didn’t care about their full-time jobs. I didn’t count the shoes on my feet and the clothes on my back.

I didn’t need a car on my sixteenth birthday or gold earrings from ‘Santa Claus.’

I needed to learn the art of appreciation.

If I could talk to a younger version of my self, I would help her to start appreciating mom and dad earlier. I would tell her to not allow it to take twenty some odd years to make certain realizations.

Start now.

They are amazingly complicated people in their own right, but breath deep and be patient.

Let them surprise you.

Time with them is the ultimate gift.

I’d tell her.

-S.

If.

If you were here, I’d come pick you up at 1:30 am.

We would stop at McDonald’s and pick up all the food and drinks that are the worst.

I’d put on a playlist that I made that night. It would be filled with all of our favorite songs at the moment. Sometimes I would sing lead and you would sing back-up and then we would trade places.

I would look over at you and see that you are hanging halfway out of the window taking in the summer breeze that only happens at night. You’d be sipping your soda and a bug would hit your face while we are speeding down the highway to the airport. You’d erupt in a big cloud mixed with spitting and cuss words.

We are coming up to our destination. My secret place. One of the main reasons my car runs out of gas quickly.

The airport.

The lights. The breeze. The air. The sounds.

We take it all in.

The music is still playing, but we are no longer singing.

Here, conversation doesn’t have to take place. We are both sifting through our own demons. And this place calms us.

People are leaving. People are coming back. And although physically we are not on any of those planes – I see our souls rise up into the night sky and make things right.

We will always have these memories. And even when their warmth is no longer able to sustain our friendship – we know that those two young women are still alive somewhere in this universe.

A touch. A whisper. A scream. A cry. A moment. A feeling.

Fleeting.

In this moment, I am still aware that we are going to separate soon.

That you will move away and things won’t be the same. That someone else will get to hug you and see the way your face lights up for Pepsi and hot Cheetos – even though you know they make you break out. That someone else will learn all of your faces, different laughs, and words you’ve made up.

Someone else will be your friend. They will learn to love you. They will learn your ways.

-S.

Safe Places.

The room is clean, a candle is burning – the scent is eroko wood and moss. It is raining outside, and a ‘Relaxing Hang Drum Music for Meditation and Yoga’ video is playing from YouTube on my other tab.

I am on my period, bra-less, with tied up wet hair, wearing a face mask.

The scene is perfect for the pouring out of hearts. A safe place.

I find that although I have people that I would deem safe places for sharing – I still find myself censoring and toning down what is really in my heart and on my spirit.

So, to me, writing is the ultimate safe place.

My ultimate safe place.

–S.

Have you ever?

Have you ever wanted to stuff everything you could into a backpack and get on the next bus running?

Look out of of the window until everything blurs into one?

Not even have to think?

See if the wind feels differently against your skin somewhere else. See if the sun rises using different colors. See if the smile that people give you actually reaches their eyes. Find out if the night sounds play a different melody.

Does the moon still watch you?

I am here,

but I am also on the bus.

I am still running.

–S.