Tag: raw

Mad is easier.

I’m mad that you’re right.

I’m mad that I’m wrong.

I’m mad that I’m sad.

I’m mad that you ruined my favorite song.

I’m mad that it’s all taking so long.

I’m mad that I zigged when I should’ve zagged.

I’m mad that I bobbed when I should’ve weaved.

I’m mad that I still believe.

I’m mad at her,

and at him,

and the moles all over my skin.

I’m mad at mother nature,

and father time.

I’m mad that none of it is mine.

–S.

capturing the human condition

I quit Instagram a couple of weeks ago for hopefully the last time.

By quit, I mean that I deleted all of my posts, unfollowed everyone, and closed my account.

I know you’re probably thinking why is she saying quit when she means delete – I’m saying quit because social media feels like a sport to me that I was forced to participate in regardless of any real talent or passion for it. It felt like something to do and continue doing to belong.

Quitting sounds more final to me, and I guess I’m hoping that it is.

I didn’t tell anyone, I just disappeared again on a random weeknight at two in the morning.

Once it was done, I felt like I’d done it all outside of my own body, but it couldn’t be undone.

I’ve come back several times over the last few years under different usernames, but it just never felt like the very beginning.

The reason I fell in love with Instagram was because it was so focused on pictures versus words.

Words had been why I’d quit Facebook to begin with.

Being able to read what was on everybody’s mind every second of the day became too much for me.

After algorithms, influencers, and the ability to pay for followers, likes, and comments – I just fell out of love with Instagram.

I felt like a needle thrown into an ocean.

I don’t know why the lack of engagement in my photographs and videos mattered so much to me, but it did.

It does.

It made me feel as invisible on the internet as I did in my own life.

This was the last piece of social media to go for me.

Since quitting, there’s been feelings of guilt for missing the posts of family and friends. There has been moments where I have the urge to scroll through hours of short video clips and nowhere to do it.

It’s been weird trying to navigate and find what to fill the free time that I have now with.

The worst time for the “craving” is right before I go to bed.

I guess I never realized how much time I spent scrolling, but I did realize how shitty it was making me feel about myself and my life.

Eventually I know I’ll get over the feeling, but I feel like a creep for not having social media at 32.

Did I just commit social suicide?

What will other people think about me and why do I even care?

I kept coming back because I wanted a space for my videos and photos.

I wanted to share my point of view of the human condition.

But I couldn’t get away from the constant nagging in my head over the lack of likes and followers.

So, here I am, with hundreds of videos and thousands of photographs.

What am I going to do with all of these moments of time that I’ve captured?

I’m going to put them here. In my neck of the internet woods.

There might be about ten of you, but at least I know you’re here for the words and not to ask me if I’m looking for a sugar daddy, to sell me a waist trainer, or to spam me.

If you’re interested in seeing all of the moments in time that I’ve captured over the years, go to the top of my website where the menu is located, select ‘capturing the human condition’, and you will see three different sections:

  • camcorder: this section will be for videos and their captions
  • photo gallery: this section will be for all of my original photography all captured over the years with whatever android cellphone I’m using at the time with captions
  • polaroid wall: this section will be a collection of all of the polaroids that have been used for my posts, I’ve edited these polaroids using all of my original photography all captured over the years with whatever android cellphone I’m using at the time with captions

I’m grateful you’re here.

Honest.

–S.

Laughing on an old brown leather couch.

From August 2014.

One of my dad’s favorite comedians has always been Robin Williams. For as long as I can remember – I have been obsessed with my dad’s laughter.

I think it soothes me. It lets me know that in that moment everything is good. We are all safe. Whenever I have the chance to snag my dad away so we can watch a comedy or a stand-up special – I do just that. When he laughs really hard he makes a lot of movements and eventually it just all becomes one big wheezy sound. Sometimes he laughs so hard that he cries. And we spend the next few days repeating our favorite lines to each other and laughing all over again.

That smile. That laugh. Two of my favorite images in my short lifetime.

Today, we watched a Robin Williams stand-up, followed by an interview. My mother and I on one couch, my dad on the other, and my younger brother passed out on their bed. I watched beyond the images moving on the screen. I looked for small remarks made by Robin, that today, mean a hell of a lot more than they did years ago. Words showing the darkness that lived within him as much as he worked at making others happy and full of laughter.

I realize that he has left us with all of these gems to assist in our laughter for years to come. He is still here. The man that he let us know. All of the different masks that we were privy to.

I also look to the man to my right, my father, and feel the warmth of comfort deep in my belly.

Things are okay.

They could be better.

They could be worse.

But we are here together. Alive. Breathing. Laughing. Smiling. Eating. Drinking.

I make a promise to myself today to pay more attention. To the underlying message in the words spoken by those I love the most in this bittersweet moment. I will not just listen, but hear. I will not just watch, but see. I will not just say, but do. I make a promise to look beyond what they think their eyes are telling them. To see the pain. The dark. The hurt.

I also know that it has never been more clear that when my mother and father no longer inhabit this earth physically with one another but with me – that their words, their laughter, their faces, and their movements will live in

my heart,

my soul,

my mind,

my bones,

my cells.

I will always remember all of the times we laughed so hard that we cried on the scratched up, with years, brown leather couches in the living room.

–S.

Taking Up Space.

Not your usual before and after, but this journey for me is about embracing all of the things about myself that I don’t like and turning them into loves.

I wear a size 12W.

As if the 12 is not enough, my feet are also wide, probably because I live in Texas and flip-flops are life.

Everything about me just always seemed so big. If I could have somehow made myself invisible, I would have.

I never knew how to take up the space that I do. That seems like a really wierd statement when I read it back to myself, but I don’t know how else to explain it.

I just felt tall, and awkward, and big, and there. I wanted to not be as noticeable, fade into the background like a nice clock on the wall, but there I was, in all of my glory.

These ‘big’ things about myself just made me feel…not feminine. In my head, to qualify as feminine, I felt I had to be petite, and everything about me had to be small.

But there are so many of us in so many different shapes and sizes, that means that statement is just simply not true.

So, shoes were never something I fell in love with like most women. They were even worse to shop for than clothes. This made special occasions or even bowling something to dread.

I decided to revamp my shoe space – from a pile of clown shoes to an organized section of my bedroom – and I also added some fun shoes to my collection like platform sneakers, cheetah, gold, and even sequins.

I’m going to take up space in style.

Today, I’m wearing some cheetah print flats to work and the compliments have been rolling in.

My feet might be long and wide, and I won’t be able to change that – but I can still take up space with them fashionably.

They’ve taken me wherever I’ve needed to go during my 31 years on this earth.

So, they are pretty damn special and beautiful when I think about it.

I’ve also been stealing glances at my new shoe area in my room and smiling.

It feels like I’m finally starting to grow into the space that I take up and own it.

–S.

A Bowl of Pasta is just a Bowl of Pasta again.

I have such an emotional connection to pasta.

You’re probably like WTF is she even talking about, but hear me out here.

It’s the vessel that held some of my deepest secrets, darkest seasons, and periods of extreme loss and longing.

Most of us have a go-to comfort meal. For some it’s a #5 at your favorite drive-thru, or a family size bag of chips and dip, something sweet, or carby cheesy fried goodness – something that you consume in need of comforting as your own personal demons consume you.

Spaghetti. Linguine. Lasagna. Bow-Tie. Elbow.

Toss it. Top it. Layer it. Fill it. Twirl it. Swirl it.

It’s a form of immediate, but short-term relief like any other thing – spending money, alcohol, drugs, gambling, whatever vice you can think of, but once the high or the haze of it all wears off, you’re there – ashamed, with pain that is angry and raw and ready to be addressed.

And you beat it away for the moment – to be addressed at some later time, as it grows and grows and grows – sometimes into a monster that can be all-consuming.

I was miserable about how I looked because I was fat, but I was fat because I spent money, drank soda, and ate extremely unhealthy foods because I didn’t love myself.

When can I get off this roller-coaster that I’ve been on for two decades now?

And then I did.

Not slowly, not gradually, but all at once.

I ripped that safety harness off and tumbled down into the pit of my despair.

What’s the color that comes after the deepest darkest black?

That was the color of my pain, my shame, my guilt, my self-loathing, my lack of self-unforgiveness, my fury, my rage, my anger.

That is where I ran into myself – the person I had been running from all along – and I had to face myself.

If these points, steps, ounces, pounds, were going to mean anything, if they were going to stick this time – I had to face every demon I had along the way.

I journal my way through it. I action my way through it. I self reflect my way through it. I learn my way through it. I teach my way through it. I fail my way through it. I surprise my way through it.

When I took my own hand several years ago, I knew I was finally ready to do all of the work necessary.

I had arrived.

I knew the weight wouldn’t come off and stay off if I didn’t take my heart, soul, spirit, emotions, and mentality on this wellness journey with me.

There are many pounds to go, but I’m light on my feet.

I wake up with joy in my heart.

I look ahead now and get to be curious about what’s coming on the horizon for me.

Something I paralyzed myself from doing before.

I say all this to say, that a bowl of pasta is just a bowl of pasta again.

I can taste the marriage of the sauce with the veggies and the seasonings. That complex, yet somehow subtle build-up and layering of flavors.

It’s no longer sprinkled and tossed with my sadness and my pain.

Bon Appetit. ❤

–S.

Close – October 2014.

He is 9.

I am 22.

Tonight, we laid intertwined in our parents’ bed. His legs over mine. My left arm under his head. The fan blowing cool air over our rumpled clothes clad bodies. ‘I Heard the Party’ by Gem Club was playing through the computer speakers.

Tears run down the sides of his face. He told me that he remembered this song. I’d played it weeks ago in my room and when he heard it for the first time, he cried.

It makes him sad. When I ask him why he is crying he tells me that he doesn’t want any one of us to die. That he wants us to always stay together.

I promise him that we won’t die.

I don’t want to crush his innocence tonight. I just want him to be able to feel whatever his heart feels while he listens to the song. I know that society will soon try to shut down this emotional side of him. But he has a very big heart. I hope that it always comes out on top.

The second time we play it, tears run down the sides of my face. Although we are not necessarily crying about the same things, we are one. We are feelers. We get deeply connected to things. Our happiest moments seem to be lined with a little bit of sadness.

And we don’t have to talk about it.

We just let the melody and the lyrics of the song do that for us.

Even though we’ve barely exchanged four sentences the entire day – in this moment, we are closer than we have ever been.

Both mourning something that has yet to come and that we cannot explain.

–S.

A Perfect Day – Eleven Years Ago.

I took my little brother out for hot dogs, ice cream, and some hardcore dance sessions during the car ride to retail therapy outlet mall.

Every time I think I know everything there is to know about that nine year-old boy, he surprises me.

He no longer eats his hot dogs plain. They are topped with ketchup and mayonnaise now.

His favorite song range from Lana Del Rey to Daft Punk (which he calls Drift Punk, and he tells me that EVEN our dad knows that’s their band name).

As I shift through the three radio stations I generally listen to, he directs me to stop at the ones that play the first song that catches his attention.

I lower the music to point out the airplane in the air, or the dog on the sidewalk with its owner, and he nods and smiles quickly, and turns the music back up.

He still misses our cats and dogs that have passed, and doesn’t quite understand where they go.

He closes his eyes and gets lost in the music.

He moves his head to the beats and pretends to know the lyrics as he lip sings.

Sometimes he actually knows the lyrics, and I look over in surprise, and he gets shy, lowers his eyelids, and stares away with a secret smile.

He gets the cone with vanilla ice cream, dipped in chocolate, with some crushed nuts.

He has an ice cream mustache the entire time, and while I am driving – I am frantically looking for something to wipe his mustache away. I forget in moments like this that he is nine. He can wipe his own mustache – if he really wants it gone. He is almost growing out of all these things.

He will eventually stop asking me to open his coke, or rip open the ketchup packet, or help him pass a level on a game. He will start doing these things independently.

Along with this – our dance sessions while riding in the car will become rarer.

It’ll start becoming embarrassing for him to do so and he will become old enough to stay home by himself and pick playing Halo 4 over going to Target.

I like to write about these emotions, these memories, because one day they will fade as well. I won’t remember them quite as vividly. I won’t remember that I was wearing my aqua button-up shirt with skulls and roses – that is way too big for me now because I’ve been losing weight. I won’t remember that E smelled like my dad’s aftershave because he says it holds for 72 hours. I won’t remember that we actually saw a woman who was crossing the street get hit by a car with our own eyes. I won’t remember that he didn’t get ice in his drink because he says his Dr. Pepper will start tasting like water. I won’t remember that he had a small red pimple on the front of his nose. I won’t remember that he wore his Champion sweatpants backwards for the second day in a row.

One day it won’t be hot dogs, ice cream, and dance. For E, it might be girlfriends, skateboards, and staying up late. For me, it’ll be a career, paying off student loans, and going to sleep early. I hope we always at least vaguely remember a time when life was simpler. Moments where we were infinite with David Guetta blasting in the backyard, ice cream mustaches, and soda highs.

–S.

23 didn’t know that 24 and 25 were going to rock her world.

The twenty-third year of my life was about swimming in an ocean of mistakes and coming back onto land to take chances. Both unfamiliar territories for me, for the record.

There is really something to be said about making mistakes that send you rolling into a gutter. You’re flat on your back. Everything hurts. Something might be broken. Your feet can’t carry you any longer. Some people in the gutter look up and see a pitch black sky. But if you look into the eyes of the others, you see what looks like a million shining white dots.

Stars.

And it’s in these eyes that warriors are born. I’d like to think that after everything that has happened up to this moment, that I’ve fought harder than ever to maintain my view of the stars. To still believe in the good. To not turn off their light. Even when the night almost consumed me. That I stripped away the layers of myself that died in the comfort zones I surrounded myself with and gave birth to a warrior.

A warrior ready to attack life because it’s going to attack right back. I’ve laid in quite a few gutters in the last year and I anticipate that I’ll lay in many more in the years to come. But the stars always light the way for me.

–S.