Honestly, Openly Me

Why does it seem like some people were born without a conscience? I often ask myself this question and questions like it. Why is it that anytime I do something remotely wrong, whether something I say (it's usually something I say, I don't exactly do anything wrong anymore) or whatever, I have to think about it for days or weeks and Karma comes knocking almost immediately and I have to work hard to change my way of thinking and acting. But other people seem to just skate through life, treating people like shit, doing horrible things and they never seem to have to answer for it? Why do I have to feel everything so deeply and others seem to feel nothing? I believe I know the answer to that question. Now, I'm a Christian, so maybe I shouldn't think like this, but I truly believe that even though God loves us all and wants us all to be saved, not everyone is going to be saved. I think we all know this already. But I feel like there are people in this world God doesn't

I like to be alone. Just not for too long. My thoughts are what keep me sane. They're also what tear me apart. My thoughts. Like little people, running around all hyper and reckless. They build me up one minute and rip me to shreds the next. I try to quiet those little monsters with bribes and promises of a better tomorrow, just like they were my children. "Please, just rest now," I beg. "Let me rest." But they don't stop. Too much time alone can be a persons undoing. Believe me, I know. I used to quiet my thoughts with shots of vodka, slamming one after the next, praying that as it burned down my throat, that fire would somehow cleanse me - cleanse my soul, change me. But the chattering little monsters only got louder, telling me all sorts of crazy all nonsense. I drank so much I started believing their lies and their whole make believe world became more and more real. To me. Isolation and hopelessness go hand in hand. But sometimes I

It's been a few weeks since I've taken a moment to breath. To reflect. To write. Work is piling up quickly, just like all the thoughts in my head, building and building until it becomes unmanageable. I have to take better care of myself. The other day, during a rare moment of relaxation, I suddenly gasped for air. I felt like I was drowning and finally reached the surface for air. It was so strange and scary. I've never felt that kind of panic before, and I've had anxiety off and on for years. I felt like I had died for a second and suddenly came back for one more try. One more desperate attempt to get it right, not ready to call it quits. It had me in such terror for days, afraid to go to sleep, worrying if I will wake up or not. What's wrong with me? I work really hard at what I do. I love what I do. But maybe it is consuming me. Or is it something else altogether? I need to take a moment to breath, so I'm not gasping for air, unexpectedly.

He writes me letters and sends me beautiful quotes and poetry. It's his way of being romantic and showing me that I am special to him. The one and only woman he has ever truly desired. He says I make him feel things he has never felt before. I want to open up to him in that way, but I am cold and hardened, from past hurts and mistakes. Some of those his mistakes and some not. When will I feel what I yearn to feel? Will I ever? For me, forgiving is so simple; it's who I am. I'm a forgiver. But forgetting has become impossible. We could be perfect together if there wasn't so much to forgive. Yet, he's forgiven me for my past and moved beyond it. So what's wrong with me?  Why can't I?  Will my wounds ever heal?

I've done so many awful things in my life. Things that have brought great shame and guilt to myself and my family. Things that I never thought I was capable of. Because of those huge mistakes, I have learned exactly what I'm made of. I've discovered a strength in myself I never would have discovered. I've discovered a desire to stand up and defend those who maybe haven't discovered their own strength. I have the capacity to care for people that society has deemed "unworthy." Maybe because I once believed I was unworthy. Maybe I am still one of those people that society would deem "unworthy," because society lacks compassion and the ability to forgive. But I know better. I discovered my ability to SEE. To truly see things that many others haven't yet learned how to see. Maybe they haven't yet had to come face to face with their demons. Maybe their demons have never grown strong enough to overpower them. Their demons have never taken

When desire meets madness, you're screaming inside, so desperate to be touched, your body so awake and alive. Your mind is racing with a million lustful thoughts, all unheard. How can you go on, is this completely absurd? Life can be so cruel, when you want to feel something so badly and you know you never will. You will jest keep aching and thinking. Keep your feelings to yourself. Your desires are yours alone. They don't matter to someone else.

Photo by Tonya Marie She carries a book with her everywhere, "just in case," but she rarely ever finishes reading it. She always wears a jacket, even if it's 90 degrees out, because she gets chilled easily. She loves butterflies and turtles; butterflies for the pure beauty and freedom they represent; the breaking free from ones shell, so to speak. And turtles for the kindness and wisdom they bring to mind, and the ability to return to ones shell where they are alone and safe. She says "what the heck" and "I guess" and "I MEAN IT"  all the time. Just ask her kids. She hardly ever wears her hair down or make up; she's too busy for things like that. She loves candy and all sweet things,  especially Hot Tamales, caramel M&M's and Diet Pepsi. Oh, and Sugar Free French Vanilla Cappuccino. Diet Pepsi is her DOC. She feels fat all the time but can't control her sugar cravings well. It

The words I write often inspire more question than they answer. I'm a mystery; a different person every day,  yet locked away in my shell. How could you ever really know me? I'm an open book...if I trust you. But trust is hard to come by. Being vulnerable it too hard. I can't be open to being hurt. I've put the pieces of my broken heart back together too many times, to give it to someone else to shatter . It's careless on my part, but it's too late. Broken trust can never really be repaired.  Once it's broken, it will remain forever fragile,  no matter how many words try to hold it together. I'm careful with my words; I don't talk much. But when I put words to paper, they flow endlessly. Sometimes you read more into those words than what is there. Sometimes you don't read enough into them. Just take it for what it is, in all it's black and white imperfection; as imperfect as I am. Just cl

I can't watch the news anymore. It breaks my heart too much. We have an egomaniac, man-baby in charge of our great country, waging war against another egomaniac, man-baby. I can't take it. Can't handle it. It's too much. Anyone who supports this irresponsible behavior and has the nerve to get high and mighty with those of us who are far more ENLIGHTENED...(yeah, I said it.) Well, I'm fed up! I have a few choice words for them that certainly won't solve our differences. Not that those differences could ever be solved. There is only ONE who could solve our differences and that is Jesus Christ. He will have to descend from Heaven, and say very definitely which side is right. Or who is MORE right, because I'm sure there is plenty blame and finger pointing to go around. People don't know Jesus anymore. They are far too angry and seek a vengeful God. And God will get His vengeance one day and every single one of us will answer for our part in this shit

I want to escape.  This can't be my life. I'm bored. Unfulfilled. I can't breath. Nothing is what I expected. I live in my head, wishing and praying it was my life. I wish it was real. But it only makes sense to me. Nobody understands. Nobody gets me. It's lonely. It's sad. I'm so isolated. I isolate myself. I want more from this life. So much more. I'm not where I thought I would be.  I'm not who I thought I was. I'm only here to care for others. To take care of someone else's needs. I'm not complaining.  But taking care of myself is selfish. Wanting ore than what I have is selfish. My desires mean nothing. They are a problem to be fixed. They are too much for anyone to care about. Why can't I be happy? Is this depression again? I cry for all that I have missed. I cry for the person I used to be; or who I thought I was, rather, who I thought I would be. But I'm not her. She

The other day, I had and epiphany, a heart crushing epiphany that caused the floodgates of my soul to burst wide open and a river of tears flowed uncontrollably.  I was listening to my favorite rocker Chick of my youth, after years of not listening to her soulful voice and honest, open - even cheesy at times - lyrics and I asked myself why I don't write like she does. I call myself a writer, right? My heart crushing epiphany, the sudden realization hit so swiftly and left me to pick up the pieces of my broken heart and crushed dreams. I'm not a writer. I never was. And so I sat and cried - as I have every day since - and my husband looked at me with fear and confusion in his eyes. Yes, I loved to write and wrote some cute stories, but I wasn't good at it. I could have been good at it if I had stuck with it, but I didn't. I quit. I gave up. So how dare I call myself something that is so beautiful, so artistic, when I gave up.  I can't even blame

I'm taking the time I need for myself right now, thinking I should be inside at my desk working, making money, rather than sitting outside with this notebook. Rain is beating the tin roof like an inexperienced little drummer, loud and erratic tap-tap-tappity-tap.  But it's a sound I could listen to all day. It's a great day for reflection. It's a great day to start over. I want to stand in the rain and let it beat  wash away the pain and self doubt  and insecurities just as I watch it wash away the dirt and scum  front the sidewalk beneath me. I want to cry.  All the feelings I've held inside for years are clawing at my insides, determined to get out and let loose on this world. This sad, angry and fearful world. And despite what I tell myself, I am no different.

I'm not creative. I'm as basic as they get. I lie to myself every day and say "I'm special I'm Unique, I'm a writer," I say. It's not true. All Lies. You're not a writer if you never FUCKING WRITE! So who am I? What am I? Someone's mom? Someone's wife? Someone's Ebay dealer? All I ever wanted was to be a writer.  So why the hell did I stop chasing my dream 18 years ago? That's easy. A MAN. A BABY. Someone telling me I can't. But now I'm back to say I CAN.