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Sunday, December 29, 2013

The Monster M

I have always written things everywhere; on napkins, old receipts, the backs of junk mail envelopes and in the middle of half full notebooks. A lot of it gets lost in my clutter or probably even thrown out. I should really start saving things in a box or something. Anyhow...I was making a grocery list in a notebook I found tucked between some old books I haven't picked up in awhile, and found the following piece of work. If I remember right, I wrote this about a year or two ago. 

**********************************************************************************************************

The Monster M

You said he'd never get to you
You're just too smart for him
You'd never fall for his dirty tricks
You'll never let him win

Go ahead, put on your mask 
The one your lies hide behind
Don't let your secrets all sip out
Keep them locked inside your mind

Quickly now, he's coming fast
You'd better start to run
That monster in the shadows
Just wants to have some fun

He caught up with you now, didn't he?
I guess you weren't that smart
Now you're struggling not to break
While you slowly fall apart

That monster, he'll be waiting now
Everywhere you go
You can never ever hide from him
It's sad, but now you know

Tuesday, December 10, 2013

Maybe...

           He was trying to hide in the hood of his sweatshirt. He pulled the sides down over his face as he walked, his eyes staring at the ground to avoid meeting the hostile glares that trailed after him. If only he could be invisible, maybe then those stares wouldn't bother him so much. Maybe then they couldn't pierce his fragile exterior.  But it wasn’t only just the looks; it was never just the looks. There were also words, wielded like sharp swords, threatening to cleave him in two.

            Whispered accusations floated all around him, invading the cocoon he’d created inside the cloth. Desperately, like a child grasping the sticky end of chewed up sucker stick, he clung to himself, to his sanity. Whore. Bitch. Brother. He heard as he passed. Did you hear? He was with her you know. The mouths spat the sounds like nails into a too soft board, ripping into his flesh leaving bloody little holes behind. His life was slowly seeping away with every thoughtless utterance and they didn’t even seem to notice.

            The long hall stretched out before him like the fiery walls of hell. His destination sat like black hole at the end, threatening to suck the air from his lungs. He continued forward, wading through pockets of thick, cloying perfume. Leering faces painted like clowns leered at him as he passed.

          Maybe he should just end this now. Why suffer through another day among these empty hateful shells who just didn’t understand? Maybe...

         The hushed voices continued to slap him in the face as he tried to sink deeper into himself. He quickened his steps and sunk deeper into the cocoon of his hoodie. The evil stares just continued to bore holes through his clothes. He felt vulnerable and exposed as he finally entered the black hole.

            Reaching his destination offered no relief. Feet snaked out from underneath desks, trying to trip him as he passed. Avoiding them caused him to trip and stumble up the isle, garnering high pitched squeals of laughter and more cutting whispers. The words sunk into his skin, penetrated his soul and shattered his already flimsy heart. What is the point? He thought, falling into his usual seat at the back.

            He slouched deeper into his chair, curving his back in a painful arch to avoid notice. If he could just hide, then everything would be all right. If he could just disappear, then so would the pain. If he could just be someone else, then maybe his heart wouldn’t be a shriveled up, blackened useless thing inside his chest. Maybe…

            A hand slapped the table top in front of him with a loud crack. A sneering face leaned over him, sour breath washing over his nose. He held back a gag and buried his face in the cave of his arms. Just go away. Please God, go away.

            “You are such a loser. You are nothing.” The pimply face growled over him. He didn’t understand why.  He never understood why.  Maybe he deserved this. Maybe he wasn’t worth anything and they all knew it. Maybe…

            He thought he was good, caring and compassionate. His empathy knew no bounds and he’d even secretly shed tears when that same sneering face had lost his mother last year. And yet, here the face stood, degrading him and treating him like less than shit. The sour breath was just another thing pushing him further towards the brink of nothing, closer to the maybe…

            He’s right you know. The pit of self loathing disgust whispered to him. You are nothing. You never will be. End this now and everything stops; the pain, the hate, the overwhelming sorrow. Everything will be better if you just…give…up…it coaxed in that gentle, sickly sweet voice. Maybe…

            The day passed with excruciating slowness. Every tick of the clock sounded in his head like a grenade blast, ripping apart his brain until he felt he could no longer stand it. By the time the final shrill bell rang, signaling his release from this prison of hate and shame, his skin was crawling.

He ran for the exit as fast as he could. The heavy bag on his back threatened to pull him back into the sea of swarming, hateful faces like an anchor but he refused to stop. Run. Run. Run. His heart beat wildly. Escape. Escape. Escape. His mind screamed. Maybe… Whispered his despair; and he paused for a moment. Maybe…

The door to his room slammed against the wall as he flung it open. He tugged desperately on the box beneath his bed for several minutes, struggling frantically to wrench it free. It was like the furniture could hear his soul screaming and was frantically trying to tell him NO! 
  
 Finally, the bed frame released the corner it had been stubbornly clinging to and the box shot forward into his hands.  A sliver of doubt wormed its way into his heart. Are you sure about this? it asked. He swatted the question away and flipped open the latches of the box. A loud click echoed through the room.

Carefully, he pushed the lid up and peered into the case. The metallic surface of the barrel gleamed at him from the velvety interior. The pungent scent of gun oil wafted out, assaulting his nose. He placed his large hand against the cool, hard wood of the stock. Maybe…the gentle voice coaxed. Maybe… he thought, running his hand along the smooth surface, tracing the trigger with a fingertip.

Suddenly, the front door banged open with a crash and a loud voice called out to him. He quickly withdrew his hand and slammed the box shut, shoving it roughly beneath the bed.

His heart raced and his hands shook as he raked them through his sweaty hair. He sat on the bed just seconds before his bedroom door cracked open. A smiling face greeted him through the crack, beaming love in his direction like a beacon of hope. Maybe…the voice hissed. Shut up! He snapped back.

Thursday, November 21, 2013

Age is just a number...

As most of my friends and I quickly approach an "age milestone (30)" (some of you have already met said milestone, I still have just under a year ;-P) I am left to ponder what age really means. Literally it means the passage of time...the time we have lived thus far on Earth. But what does it really mean for us as people?

I've been mulling over this question for some time now. The more I watch people, the more discouraging the answer seems. Sometimes what I see makes me very sad. As people get older they tend to lose their spark, that little something that makes you, you. (This is a blanket statement of course, not everyone is like this it just seems most people are.) The passage of time seems to pull faces down and flatten out emotions. It extinguishes passion, kills joy and dampens excitement. And if you don't succumb to these hallmarks then you are seen as "immature" or "unstable." At least that is what I have gleaned from my observations. And that is a fate I am unwilling to accept for myself, not anymore.

One of the things I have found beneficial about aging is becoming comfortable with myself. I never really have been before now. I didn't have the greatest childhood and I experienced many things most people don't experience as an adult, let alone a child. I was forced to grow up quickly and never felt like I had much of a childhood. I spent most of my teen years completely insecure and closed off, finding it incredibly difficult to relate to others and make friends. At times I suffered from extreme bouts of depression and self loathing. It was not a fun way to grow up. 

A lot of my twenty's has been spent hiding. Hiding my personality, hiding my interests but mostly hiding my emotions. It made me very angry and resentful. I have spent so much of my life caring too much about what other people think about me and not caring enough about what I think about me. I've spent so much time smothering my emotions and numbing myself to everything. I haven't pursued interests for fear of what others would think and I haven't explored passions for fear of rejection. I've tried to fall in line with what everyone else expects of me without a care for what I really felt and for a long time I lost what it meant to even feel. And do you know what all of that worry about other people's opinions or worrying about whether or not I fit in got me? A bag full of regrets and a wealth of wasted time and opportunity. 

But I suppose it wasn't all for nothing because it did teach me some things. Within the last year I have learned to really accept myself, warts and all. I've learned that I have a voice worth hearing, an opinion worth sharing and most importantly that I am worth something. I've never really felt this way before and it's wonderful. I have adopted a "fuck it" attitude and dived head first into the things I love. And you know what? For the first time I feel like I am learning what living really means. I am learning what it means to be really happy or really excited or even really sad. I am also discovering that I would rather spend my life loving fully, laughing loudly, crying when I need to and draining every drop of emotion out of whatever it is I'm going through than spend it worrying about what other people think I should be doing. Or worrying about being what other people think I should be. I am me and that is enough. It's also pretty damn awesome.

So what does age mean? It means I have been alive for 29 years and some odd months. That's all. I won't let a number define who I am. I won't let it define my interests or cage my passions. I define who I am. And I am Marcie. I love YA novels even though I am not a young adult because they have more feeling than most adult books. I listen to music extremely loud because I want to feel it and not just hear it. And no I don't care if I look like a psycho driving around singing and dancing. It makes me happy. Obscenely inappropriate things make me laugh and they probably always will. I love tattoos and say too many curse words. I love to give people hugs and I say a lot of awkward things in conversation sometimes. I can't help it. If I make you uncomfortable then I'm sorry. If you find me lacking then kindly, fuck off because I am ready to start living my life for myself and we'll see where that takes me. And remember friends that age is just a number. It's not a milestone by which to judge maturity or anything else because let's face it. We only get to go around one time. How do you want to spend yours? 

Wednesday, October 23, 2013

Waxing Philisophical...Well Sorta...






I’ve been thinking about something for some time now. I have always been fascinated by people…all kinds of people. I want to know how they work, what makes them cry, what makes them laugh, what makes them…well them…and when I think about those things I inevitably think about how we judge others. What defines a person’s worth? By what scale do we measure that worth? What right do we have to measure and judge and compartmentalize a person?

A couple of weeks ago I was having a conversation with someone I just met about tattoos. This topic is usually pretty polarizing. Either you are totally against them or you like them it seems. I like tattoos. Tattoos are an incredibly intimate form of self-expression. (They can also be ridiculous and bad but that’s another topic.) Anyway, like most people usually do, she assumed that I didn’t have any. When I mentioned that I do her response was, with a raised eyebrow no less, “You don’t seem like the type.” Let me say that I hate it when people say something to me like that. You surmised by a five minute conversation and by looking at my person that I am not the type to have a tattoo. And that is what I have been thinking about. It’s something I have thought about a lot actually. Well before this incident.

Most people know the phrase “Don’t judge a book by its cover.” Then why do you think you can judge a person by their cover? Not saying that I have never been judgmental or made snap decisions about someone because of how they look. Of course I have done that. I am human. I consciously make an effort not to do this however. I think it is an incredibly shallow thing to judge someone based on their outward appearance. People that operate this way are going to miss out on so many beautiful things. You are going to miss the most loyal, loving friend you will ever have because maybe they look a little odd. You are going to miss out on the kindest, gentlest heart because it might be covered in tattoos. You might miss one of your life’s soul mates because they didn’t look the way you expected them to. (And trust me….life is full of many soul mates for you. Maybe some time I will blog about what I think of soul mates.) You are going to miss someone’s pain, someone’s joy, someone’s creativity, someone’s beautiful, light wonderful soul because you didn’t stop to look deeper. You didn’t look past the outer shell to what it contains. You looked at someone and judged them without a second thought. You placed them in their preconceived societal boxes before you really thought about it. 

And that is a sad thing. We’ve segregated, stereotyped and judged each other into a society full of hate, intolerance and judgment.  How much are we missing because of these restraints? Because of these invisible categories we’ve decided to place people in? How much joy, how much love, how much talent, how much friendship, how much FEELING are we missing?  How much have I missed? 

This is what I think about. These are the things that drive me nuts in the middle of the night. These are the reason I keep to myself. The reason most people don’t really know who I am…who I REALLY am. And you know what? That is sad. Because it’s not that I don’t want people to know me. I don’t want people to place me in a box. I don’t want people to label me. I don’t want people to judge me. And that is why I try so hard to never judge anyone else. To never pretend to know what their journey is about. I would rather learn about someone without caring about what their outside looks like. Because guess what? The best people you will ever meet in your life probably won’t look like you thought they would. So don’t assume you know someone because of how they look. Just open your mind, try to dial down that judgment and see people with your heart and your soul. Not your eyes. J Just a few of my general thoughts.

Friday, September 27, 2013

Novel: A Love Affair

 “A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies. The man who never reads lives only one.” -George R.R. Martin

If you know anything about me at all...you know I love to read. Love is not a strong enough emotion for what I feel about reading. Obsession. Preoccupation. Immersion. My first love. Books. If I had to be exiled somewhere, I would choose a library. If I was the last person left alive on this planet, I would make my home in a book store. I could spend infinite hours of my life reading. I was the weird kid in school that actually enjoyed reading assignments and approached them with great enthusiasm.

 “Books are like imprisoned souls till someone takes them down from a shelf and frees them.”-Samuel Butler

The world of fiction has taken me places I may never see. Shown me things about myself I have never known. Offered up a world of possibility and perspective on love, life, death and emotion that maybe I would never have access to otherwise. It has saved my sanity. Enhanced my being. Offered comfort from a crushing loneliness that I have always felt prowling the dark places in my mind. Reading has been one of the only constant things in an ever shifting life I call my own. Without books I don't know where I would be.

 “Maybe this is why we read, and why in moments of darkness we return to books: to find words for what we already know.” -Alberto Manguel

Sometimes I think I need rehab. It's not normal to be so engrossed in something that isn't real at all. To place such heavy importance on ideas plucked from thin air and thrown onto a sheet of paper seems crazy to me at times. But I guess there could be worse things than having a love affair with a novel. It's important to have things that make you feel. Reading makes me feel. It forces me to confront myself. My fears. My hesitations. My failures. Me. I never feel more myself than when I am reading a book. And I guess maybe this love affair is a good thing.


“And she is the reader
who browses the shelf
and looks for new worlds
but finds herself.” 
-Laura Purdie Salas

Thursday, August 22, 2013

One of "Those" Days

Today was one of "those" days. 
One of those days where you want to rip your hair out and scream and run away.
One of those days where you can't seem to hold your shit together.
One of those days if you hear "Mommy can you please (fill in the blank)?" one more fucking time you might just shoot yourself in the face.
One of those days when you think you must belong in an institution because no sane individual would do this to themselves.
One of those days you really understand the phrase "it takes a village to raise a child."
Do you know why they say that?
Because on "those" days when your mind can't take it anymore,
When you feel like someone is stabbing you in the eye and punching you in the stomach,
The village can step in. 
It can do it when you can't.
But there isn't a village here.
There is just one of those days where you feel like a failure.
One of those days where you feel embarrassed by your lack of control.
One of those days when it's all just a little too much.
And on those days you will sit in the dark after they go to bed and think "Yea, you could have handled that better."
And then berate yourself in the soul crushing silence for all of the things you did wrong. 
Twist your gut into a thousand knots over having one of those days.
Squeeze out tears of simultaneous relief and regret for the end of one of those days.
And when the calm dark settles over you and the spinning ball of chaos slows,
You will go into their room to make sure one of them didn't fall asleep with a blanket over their face or a teddy bear under their back.
You will gaze down at their angelic, sleeping faces and you will promise yourself. 
You won't have one of "those" days again. 
And live in fear that you probably will.