I wrote this poem on February 22, 2021. I wrote this while I still in a relationship with my most recent ex. I really thought he would be the one to stay but it wasn’t meant to be and that’s okay. I look at year 39 that in spite of facing constant depression and craziness because of COVID, I still had something important in life and that was love even if at the end it didn’t work out. It was a year full of magical moments that I will never regret.
February 22, 2021
Last day of thirty nine and I look back on this decade with love and no regrets The decade started with my third miracle of life and ended with the miracle of love The decade started with a once stable and normal suburban life and ended with a chaotically busy and poly life The decade started with a half loved marriage and ended with an almost separation Toxicity ruled 2 and a half years of the decade but he left Now I’m left with a new determination to fulfill my potential and let no one or nothing stop me
I wrote this on February 22, 2020. I had started working at Kroger in October of the previous year, was still trying to stop my situationship with “C”, and had just started dating my most recent ex-the second Andrew. I was becoming hyper aware of my unhealthy relationship patterns and didn’t want to repeat them and had my guard up but life happens and well I fell in love.
February 22, 2020
On the last day of 38 I’m filled with so much hate Hate for the life I never had Hate for me and my soon to be ex spouse and for our toxic codependency The year has been filled with highs and lows- I was prolific with my poetry about my toxic lover My toxic lover that follows a pattern of toxic lovers since the age of 15 Toxic lovers that abused me, used me, and discarded me like trash- Toxic lovers that made me question my worth Toxic lovers that left me breathless with chemistry that felt like a drug Toxic lovers that I kept coming back to out of the habit of not loving myself enough Toxic lovers that never want to define an “us” Toxic lovers-that starting 2 weeks ago I will leave forever alone And on year 38 with all of my hate and rage for my mediocre life I decided to fight Fight with determination and purpose for the life me and my kids deserve Fight with my body working endless hours with fatigue and sore knees for the future I always wanted A future that looks independent and thriving on my own A future that will become my own universe who no one can enter I may cry, I may want to die but I will not give up- not when I’m so close And even though I met a ray of hope with my first lover’s name towards the end of year 38 My walls will stay up and guarded No piece of my vulnerability Will be exposed to him until I’m sure it’s not the same old toxic codependent story On the last day of thirty eight I work on inner healing I work on inner peace I work on goals to finally emerge as a butterfly on year 39 On the last day of 38 I say forever goodbye to toxic patterns and lovers I say forever goodbye to the old insecure me to welcome the new and confident me- I say forever goodbye to my once comfortable and mediocre life to welcome a universe full of great potential–
I wrote this poem on February 22, 2019, the last day of being 37. It was a chaotic year that was filled with lots of ups and downs. It was the year I met “C” and who I now referred to as my “good” ex Jake.
February 22, 2019
Last day at 37 and I am humbled By the calm that comes after the storm That was last year Several waves came In the forms Of the average millenial fuck boy Pretending to converse In hopes of DTF It was fun, it was sexy, it was tiring And when I was ready to quit the tinder world My blond hurricane Torpedoed into my life One sweltering and lonely July Night He took over my damaged heart And mind He took me on a rollercoaster of emotions From rays of happiness To rowdy winds of devastation With more hellos, goodbyes and I love yous That I’ve had in a lifetime It was crazy, it was chaotic,it was love And in one of our Almost solid goodbyes- In waltzed the amber of hope He slowly put back together The broken pieces of my heart The hurricane had left behind He made me believe hope Was within my reach He calmed down my chaotic thoughts He held my peace and happiness In his hands It was good, it was easy, it wasn’t enough And I just crashed back into My previous existence Of married monotony and routine Again, I am alone and empty In my solitude of motherhood and marriage
Escribí este poema en Diciembre del 2002 acerca de John cuando el me rechazo. Estaba bien enfadada.
Óyeme cuando te digo Que ya no te amo Me hiciste mucho daño Por eso se acabo Este doloroso cuento de amor En que no supiste Apreciar todo lo bueno que te quise ofrecer Quizás tu pensarías Que yo era demasiado sencilla
Escribí este poema en Octubre del 2002 acerca del padre de mi hijo mayor. Tenía bastante sentimientos encontrados pero mas que todo tenía rabia.
La Reina Maria Felix
Yo no soy aquella niña ingenua Que tu conocistes La que dejaba todo por ti La que creía en el amor Que tu le prometías La que te amaba Sin razón, sin condiciones Sin enfrentar realidades Esa soñadora quedo atras Y esta mujer que ves Es una mujer desilusionada, realista, Y pessimista No cree en nadie que le promete amor Y se ha vuelto fría Todo esto gracias A tu desgraciada ausencia
Escribí este poema en Noviembre del 2002. Fue inspirado por muchas experiencias que había tenido en ser siempre “la chica divertida del momento” para los hombres y nunca la chica con la cual quieren compartir su vida.
siempre
Ellos quedan acostados en la cama El la mira, ella tan dormida, tan quieta Y el piensa en muchas cosas Aquel acuerdo que hicieron Cuando todo esto empezó Las condiciones que el le pidio a ella Que ella nunca podría enamorarse de el Y lo único que ellos podrían tener sería un juego de sexo y nada mas Tan simple que todo esto empezó Pero el nunca contó con enamorarse de esta niña-ingenua, inconveniente, e inocente de la vida No contaba con extranar a esta niña Caprichosa pero con una dulzura tierna Y por fin Nunca se imaginaba con este dia que ahora no siente poder vivir sin ella y sus pequeñas riquezas
I wrote this in April of 2002 when I was depressed AF. I wrote this because I was in a toxic work environment where I was discriminated against, disrespected, and at one point even slut shamed. We could say by today’s standards that I was bullied to the extent that getting up every morning for this job was really hard. I was tired of it when I wrote this poem. I’ll tell the story of this toxic job in another blog post.
resilience should be my middle name
I wish I could throw up everything ugly in my life and only enjoy the beautiful Perhaps tell the put me down people to fuck off Or stop their pathetic attempts to change me into their idea of what I should be And stop getting talked into what they think is best for me
I wrote this in 2002. It was one of those moments when I was having one of those moments where my self esteem was high and I was like fuck love, I’m awesome by myself.
me in 2002 when I wrote this poem
She is not that woman who needs a man She alone fulfills her dreams Without him, her face still beamsme
She is not that beauty chick Who has all the men at her feet She’s got something else When the world of beauty fails
She is not that pushover girl Submissive with the golden curls She’s got her own mind Love is not worth her time
She is not that Ms.Prom Queen Who wants an engagement ring A husband she could care less about She’d rather not take that life route
Escribi este poema en el 2002. Habia tronado con otro desgraciado infeliz y estaba bien triste y amarga.
Me quedo inquieta Al saber que no me querias Que no más fui para ti Otra mujer que te dio el sí Para permitir que hagas Todo lo que querías con ella Ojala que algun dia aprenderas Que nunca ganaras Con ser tan desgraciado Con tus feos modos Y aunque me parte el alma Tendré que ser capaz De superar todo esto Aunque tenga muchos lamentos tengo que prometerme a mí misma Nunca verte mas en mi vida Por que verte denuevo Me traería los mas tristesrecuerdos
So today marks my 10 anniversary since starting this blog. I’ll admit that until the summer of this year I didn’t take this blog as seriously as maybe I should have. I started this blog in December of 2011 after my house was broken into and we were robbed. It was traumatizing to me and my family and I needed a way to process it so I started blogging. Here is that blogpost:
Since starting this blog, there have been a lot of life changes. I’ve blog about those life changes few times when just writing it down doesn’t do the trick. The way that I have explained it to friends and family is that the blog is like screaming into the void of cyberspace.In October of 2019, I started posting my poetry and this was another level of intimacy for me because I don’t share my poetry with just anyone. I will share my poetry or writing with one of my close friends or sometimes at open mic at my local pub .Then I started a second job and I didn’t have the time needed to dedicate to this blog but I always kept writing. Then I got into a relationship that lasted until July of this year. While I’m not getting into how that relationship ended or why (that’s blog content for late next year-lol) it was one of the reasons I started blogging again. The demise of that relationship was unexpected and devastating for me so I turned to my first coping mechanism-writing. Shortly before my breakup in July, I started therapy and was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder and that was a lot to process in itself. Being broken up while dealing with a new diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder felt like I had experienced 2 really horrible car wrecks within a week. I compare it to a car accident because that’s probably one of the most traumatizing experiences of my life. Except this time, it wasn’t my car that was totaled and unrepairable, it was me. I felt like I had lost part of my identity since I was no longer someone’s partner and I gained a new part of my identity in being diagnosed with BPD. I felt completely overwhelmed with no sense of direction; I honestly didn’t know what to do next. All I wanted to do was lie in bed and cry while Alexa played my sad girl playlist from Spotify. Here is that playlist:
And while I did do that some of the time; I understood I still needed to get up every day and show up for myself somehow. And showing up for myself meant writing. And so I wrote every day in my journal and in my numerous notebooks. I wrote letters at 3 AM that I would never send, journal entries full of immense sadness and rage, and tons and tons of poetry.
these are just a few of my journals and well Sylvia Plath is of course one of my favorite poets
A few days after my breakup, I decided to blog about my diagnosis to start to make sense of it and here’s that post:
After writing that post and it got more than a few views and a couple of likes, it made me realize that there are other people like me. I also got the idea at that time that healing for me would look like me revisiting past traumatic situations through my poetry and reflections or writing a blog post. And this was chaotic in itself because I started posting poetry from all stages in my life. So around late October and early November, I started posting poetry for the most part chronologically from the early stages of my writing with the very first poem I wrote when I was 15 and here’s that poem:
My writings and poetry are confessional, sometimes childish, and at times super emotional. It’s meant for people who have felt misunderstood in their anger and grief, it’s meant for people who feel everything at once and feel overwhelmed by it, it’s meant for people who have traumas they’re still not over, and it’s meant for people who have given their trust and vulnerability to the wrong people only to be broken over and over again by doing this.
so I kept writing
My future plan for this blog is to continue to post poetry, essays, playlists, and other writings. Without intending to, this blog has become a storytelling blog. And it’s a story about a woman who is far from perfect. It’s a story of woman who lies, who loves hard, who hates even harder, who loves sex, who has been abandoned by lovers and who has abandoned lovers, who’s crazy, and who feels immense sadness and rage when trauma hits. It’s a story of a woman who fucks up continuously but still manages to get up and try to become a better version of herself than she was yesterday. It’s also a story of a woman who has continued to triumph after trauma. Most importantly it’s a story of a woman who is done accommodating to people’s and society’s expectations of who she should be and at 40 has realized that being authentic and true to herself is the only and right way for her to be. I may have changed a lot within a decade but what will never change is my love for writing and my purpose to continue to share my story.
Here’s to 10 more years of writing about my vida loca
I wish I could’ve spent more time picking up a hobby than writing all of this salty poetry about this dude. LMAO. This is of course another poem inspired by the “great breakup of 2001”.
I wish I could Forget all of you And take back the time Spent loving you I wish I could make you see All of the misery you caused me I wish I could make you feel My pain that is so extremely real I wish I could see you hurting It would be something I would take comfort in I wish I could just not care But life isn’t always fair
When me and my family first immigrated to the U.S in September of 1986; Thanksgiving was a foreign concept to us. We were introduced to Thanksgiving by our extended family members who were seasoned veterans in celebrating this American Holiday. I was 5 when I immigrated to this country so my memories of our first or second Thanksgiving are pretty blurry.
What I do remember is going to my uncle’s house where my aunts, uncles and numerous cousins would gather. My mother sat with my aunts and grandmother while they shared the latest chisme (aka-gossip) while they cooked and later on served dinner to the kids and the men. Yay for machismo culture <insert sarcasm>. My father and my uncles drank together while they joked around. I remember playing with my cousins or following my sister upstairs with our teenage cousins to the bedroom with the TV to watch music videos with George Michael ,Rick Astley blasting on MTV. Maybe that’s how I acquired my sometimes basic taste in music.
I also remember that since we were away from adults, our cousins took the opportunity to teach me and my sister all of the bad words in English. Haha. Another fond memory that comes to mind is the newest babies being passed around the aunts or the older female cousins. There wasn’t such a thing as asking permission from the parents for their baby unless of course the child is being nursed. I also remember hating the taste of turkey. It tasted like rubber to me.
me and almost all of my cousins circa 1987, I’m in front in the frilly blue dress
There was warmth and laughter in this idyllic setting of Thanksgiving but that’s not the whole picture. There was also unpleasantness. My mom is one of nine children and with that many personalities; there was no way to avoid drama when all of them gathered in one space. There were more than a few petty conflicts between family members on Thanksgiving and other holidays gatherings.
My mother decided after a couple of Thanksgivings it would be better to celebrate Thanksgiving at home by ourselves. So my mother learned how to season and make a turkey and stuffing. Instead of the traditional green bean casserole or sweet potato pie; our sides were Peruvian Potato Salad and Macaroni Salad accompanied by Peruvian Hot Chocolate and Dad’s famous alcoholic Peruvian eggnog. We would watch movies rented from the local video store while we waited for the turkey to be ready. When my dad started getting tipsy, he would start playing Spanish Christmas Carols, Huaynos, and Musica Criolla. It was music that my teenage sister would cringe at and me and my brother would tolerate. I didn’t realize then but I do realize now that my father was in his own way trying to make sure that we wouldn’t forget our roots as we were living this new life in America. My parents tried their best to make sure that our strong Peruvian culture and traditions were not forgotten as we acclimated to the the new Americanized way of living. When dinner was ready, we would sit down at the table. I ,being the youngest and most impressionable by my then Catholic School upbringing, would ask the family to say a prayer and ask them to say something they were thankful for. I think I was seven or eight at the time but I guess my parents thought it was a good tradition to start. And of course, my siblings would get annoyed but they did it.
Despite those first few Thanksgivings when we lived very much under the poverty line; it was still a happy time for us as a family. My parents made sure that Thanksgiving was almost always filled with warmth, love, and laughter. One could say that what Thanksgiving meant to my newly arrived immigrant family then was learning how to incorporate our culture into a new American holiday like Thanksgiving. While my parents understood the importance of assimilation; they still made sure me and my siblings didn’t forget our culture. Today, I’m filled with gratitude that my parents brought the best of both cultures to Thanksgiving and most holidays in their own unique way. I’ve been able to bring these bicultural traditions to my own family while also making new traditions.
me and my family circa 1986, I’m the one sitting on my mom’s lap
Escribi este poema en el 2001. Estaba bien enojada y triste. Me sentia abandonada.
Dime que paso ¿Por qué rompiste nuestro lazo de amor? Dime que hice yo. Que me dejaste con este llanto Dime porque te fuiste Tu no sabes el daño que me hiciste Dime qué tiene ella Que ni siquiera dejaste tus huellas Dime que ya no me amas Y no te veo jamas Dime adios para siempre Y quítame estos amorosos lentes.
I wrote this in 2002 after a trip to California. That trip was strange for me. I was filled with nostalgia but also felt triggered by revisiting traumatic parts of my childhood during that trip. I did make peace with my past during that trip. I don’t talk much about my childhood because of the trauma attached to it but I think I need to. We should talk about the things that are hard to talk about. I believe that my childhood trauma played a big part in me having BPD.
The 2 bedroom apt I grew up in from ages 5 to 11 My aunt, me and my grandmother during that trip. My aunt was not a nice lady BUT thats another blog post .
Gone back to my old miserable childhood world Everything has changed and yet remains the same Old memories I had buried in the back of my mind Come crawling back to the surface Of the pain, poverty, and misery That scared little girl emerges once again But this time as a brave woman To proclaim that she is no longer Frightened by the people who caused her so much hurt
