even the spambot body shames me and I hate my body all over again wanting to eviscerate that pudge that’s been there since after my first son hiding the flappy wings of my upper arms wondering why God gave me my stupid curves I’m constantly trying to hide and every excess of skin I see in the mirror That makes me wish I’d cease to exist why can’t I be a skinny white girl? instead of this pudgy mess of a woman with body dysmorphia who still uses the scale to determine her WORTH
I have a bad habit of making poetry out of almost anything it’s annoying, it’s cringe, and downright embarrassing at times how shameless I can be it teethers between the line of genius and insanity This monster of creativity of mine from trauma to my kids to childhood memories To the latest villain in my story to office supplies To my dreams to the trees to the clouds To my kroger apron to energy drinks To that ex from my 20s No one and nothing is saved from being used as a fountain of inspiration for my creativity Sometimes it’s a curse, sometimes it’s a blessing Most of the time, it’s just downright entertaining
silence is no longer an option if I continue to do so, I’d be suffocating the part of me who needs to be heard in order to heal I’d be failing myself, my ancestors, and future generations silence is no longer an option to do so is an act of violence against the writer and poet in me whose purpose is tell my story, my truth
I bet all of my female ancestors still remember their third of december
abandonment wounds run deep in my bloodline I’ve lost count of how many woman in my family whose lovers absconded, who’s lovers left them for their own version of Heather- maybe this explains my epic overreaction every time a lover absconded their departure triggers trauma in my DNA from the abandoned women ancestors before me
in my island of solitude, I drift further and further away from romantic love when I’ve tried to invite others to my island they always left, and it drove me into hysterics making a catastrophic emotional mess of me so now I float alone on my island of solitude and have erected walls of strength and confidence around it I will not allow another soul to break them down only to later leave on a whim, leaving me in pieces once again
I never asked to be born, much less to be a mosaic of trauma, insanity, and creativity I prayed many times to be normal-to be someone else but the day came when I had to embrace the masterpiece of duality and insanity that I am to understand not everyone will understand me to do the best I am with the deck of cards I’ve been handed
abuela Gaby sends me hints that she wants her story to be told but I can barely remember her she tells me to still try with the bits I have I ask her for patience I want to get it right, I want to do her story justice she tells me, “hemos vivido vidas paralelas” las palabras te vendrán fácilmente pronto” and adds, “es como vas a sanar, es como empiezas a entenderte” and I don’t understand what it means, I don’t understand her interest in me now and how I became a messenger of her story, “ni siquiera pensé que me querías Abuela, you always pulled my hair” and she replies, “es que era duro ver nacer y crecer a alguien que se parecía tanto a mi, me traía demasiados sentimientos encontrados, porque sabía que tu espiritu seria difícil de dominar” and while I try my best to comprehend what she tells me – it’s hard to wrap my head around her message and all of the conflicting stories about her from my family so I’m going to make it a point to find out her story through her letters and pictures- abuela, I want to do your story justice I can’t rush through this yours is one of the most important stories I’ll share in my lifetime
my craving for love has brought me to celestial heights of heaven and the rock bottom of hell at 40,I finally learned I suffered from the worst affliction –a love addiction– and time after time it tore me down something had to change, something had to give or else I’d end up jumping off a cliff so I gave up love for a while Until I could understand why it made me crazy Until I knew how to not make myself a victim in every single one of my love stories
Is it really so bad to assist others in ending their lives? couldn’t it be seen as a final act of love? to help them die with dignity and on their own terms without machines and tubes delaying the inevitable without anyone’s say over the little autonomy they still have left
I had to give up a lot of fun things in my life to get to integration an alcohol dependency, a shopping addiction, Relationships and sex- and the last thing was energy drinks This was all for me to become the mom my kids always deserved it was needed for me to meet my higher self who makes decisions with compassion and love Instead of out of ego It was needed for me to start living in the most authentic way possible and while I could dwell on all of the fun things I lost I now look at it as a blessing needed for clarity and to make space for this new version of me who no longer hides her jagged edges for the comfort of others Who loves who she is and no longer Wants to be anyone else Who finds peace in solitude and is no longer scared of it my integration of self costs me many things I was addicted to but it was worth it for the woman I am today for the beautiful life I’m currently living
the compartmentalization of life added a lot to the lore
google makes collages of how I’ve compartmentalize my life throughout the years- next to a pic of me and my ex is a pic of me and my son then a pic of me and my friend for a long time these realities couldn’t exist in one frame- it was blasphemous in my mind for one reality to bleed into another I never understood how this was killing my sense of identity and inner emotional stability That old version of me wanted everything kids, love, sex, fun, drugs, and alcohol to be many different people at the same time mother, vixen, friend, basket case and everything in between to be accepted, to loved and all of this compartmentalization lead to the worst inner chaos and turmoil It was emotional torture I couldn’t bring myself to acknowledge until one day I had a mental breakdown because of it
with solitude comes clarity and peace of mind I no longer rely on the actions of words of others to validate my existence I no longer feel like less of a person because of the whims of others with solitude comes an understanding that being alone is the best way for me to succeed in my recovery journey because any extra energy derails me from the woman of worth I’m becoming
breathing without a hint of romance is lonely but freeing it’s a lesson of dialectics I never wanted to learn it’s a lesson necessary for my recovery from BPD it’s not good or bad, it’s what I must do to get better
