Screaming to be Heard

I am screaming to be heard. And I hate to be ignored.

Call it insecurity, call it craving attention. Call it a relationship crusher. But call it what it also may be: the feeling of intense frustration and doubtfulness that overwhelm your emotions when you do not mean the same to someone as they mean to you. When everything you thought to believe sparkly and true, suddenly is cast in the early morning light and just looks gaudy against it's cheap display. Ugly. Fake. Fooled you.

Possibly naively, I give myself freely. I am guarded with only a few sacred secrets... and at most times am opened and unarmed for the world to touch. Or maybe that's how I used to be. I do believe that the world has made me hard - that the world hardens us. That somewhere along the way of dead-end jobs, failed relationships, and so many tough tests, the life we live begins to constantly steal our childlike enthusiasm, and our laughter. Love becomes a hoax. Miracles only happen in movies.

But I don't want my laughter stolen, and maybe that's why I fight so damn hard for what I believe in. I am an addict. I am addicted to positive energy, the high of love, and to someone that can make me fucking smile. As my Mae will tell me, I love what I love so much that I am the only one holding on at the end. I am the only one who thinks it was worth the fight. True Taurus... foolish me... stubborn.

My prey usually don't deserve my adoration, but when you combine the three above listed elements plus tell me interesting stories and maintain a good cuddling technique and by being charming enough that I want to reach in for the kiss, I am emotionally easy. And when I feel this way, my intentions and my actions- the warm familiarity of my nook in his arm, the stifling of the late night laughter across the bed, the mess in the kitchen trailing after things we have cooked, then devoured - become more than what he wanted.

I have never adapted well to change. It's odd... I am the the only daughter of two sometimes radical, asparagus farming, bluegrass loving flower children. My life, not to say it was abnormal, was not conventional - in all of my family's confusion, I did not grow up loving fishing or hunting or hiking. I grew up loving dolls and books and makeup. And though I should be accustomed to the unfamiliar -this girl wearing multiple layers of pink and thinking she should be Rainbow Brite got spaghetti for breakfast, was awoken at three a.m. to help cover the tomato plants in the cold August night, or, on multiple occasions, ran smack! into a gutted deer hanging from the sour-apple tree above my parking space. I don't like change. It's hard for your old sanctuaries to become your battlegrounds and it's hard to look at the person that shared your bed for so many nights and know they know some parts of you down to the core, but they don't look at you like you're magic, like before.

Beyond ego, and beyond pride, the truth is I have opened my heart to so many people, let them look inside and poke around, and they leave me with only memories of moments. And some of the moments can be so happy, but so sad. Like never knowing how to cook pancakes. Then... a swift flick of the wrist at exactly the right moment and... a pancake cooked perfectly golden on one side. I guess cooking a pancake is a lot like being heard and finding love. It's intimidating until you find someone patient enough to just listen to your fears and show you how.

Losing My Blog Virginity...

I am not a writer of fiction, although some of you would disagree. It is true however, that I like to "doctor up" the average story. Luke, my younger brother, would tell you that I "exaggerate", but like many storytellers before me, I simply wish to provide you with the best story I can. If that makes the night a little more scary, the response a little too absurd, or the fish a little bit bigger, I am sorry.

I believe a good story has a beginning, a middle, and an end - and lots of juicy details in between. I'm getting ahead of myself though. I am not usually the one to write the story... I think life is too devastatingly beautiful (and short) to not capture and therefore celebrate the moments that without proper documentation, can quickly start to fade and become dreamy, like dusk. They are the "I'm so fucking happy to be alive!" moments when life is so big and so around you that it has to be real. Sometimes it's real to the point you feel so blessed that it takes your breath away. And sometimes it's gonna be so real that it hurts, but I am finding that vulnerability is beautiful in it's own regards because it's so damn organic. When our happiness is compromised, we are fresh, minimally processed, and at times, raw. We see things a different way. We love our friends a little more for being exactly who they are and miss the way that the Lake Michigan tide sounds and you can listen to a certain song a million times because it makes you feel sad, but strong.

I would say that I am most comfortable and fumble the least on my words through the form of poetry. And my words, that way at least, are beautiful. None the less, I feel that I have stories to tell... the characters that are at my fingertips because they are actual people and I am cursed and blessed to interact with them daily are a writer's goldmine. And above all other worldly charms, words are my magic. I will probably rant and I will probably write a lot about my life - the odd vices and energy and chaotic habits that come hand-in-hand with being a full-time waitress, and I will write about my cats - Rasta and Knox - because I'm one more SPCA visit away from being a crazy cat lady. I will write about cooking, and food, and wine, because they are what make me happy. I will probably write about the search for love, because comically, I'm really bad at it. And, you can bet I will write about Lake Michigan, about her water - because it has been a peaceful place for my soul for so many years.

For now, I am I am having a hard time admitting that summer is over. I am outside, on my beloved porch in the dark, and someone nearby is playing bluegrass music. The sound travels through the September air, a bit more crisp than I would like, wrapping around streetlights and fading into shadows. I'm nostalgic. And things are a little different now, but hauntingly familiar. But, more on that later... I need to savor these quiet nights while I still can.