Closed Until Further Notice

I think I've shut down for the time being. I haven't bothered looking at my phone or obsessively checking Twitter updates since about 7 p.m. last night. I have spread myself around too thin and carried everyone's loads without making time to carry my own. As usual. Nothing new.

I was sitting in my car, and all these words came out. I was babbling, blurting, being angry for things that are part of the past, explaining how bad it really was inside my head. Ricky just stared at me as I went from laughing, to crying, to screaming, to sighing and joking about just ending it. How it would just be easier for me to remove myself from the picture, rather than disappoint everyone and become a regret in their life. The whole time I was letting every single word out, my phone was going insane vibrating and bleeping for attention...it remained in the pocket of my hoodie. In all actuality, I wanted to slam it against the wall and just forget everyone. I'm only one person, and I need a break.

It's like...if I have time to tweet or update Facebook, that means I have time or the desire to open myself for everyone to come and take, take, take from me. No. It just means I thought of something funny, and I tweeted it. It doesn't mean I feel like talking. If I don't reply to you but to someone else I do, it doesn't mean I have time for them and not you. It just means I felt like answering something, and not another. I feel like every time I try to be there, the unmovable rock, I end up frustrated. Drained and exhausted. Because I get to vent .2% of what's in my brain before you turn it around and make the conversation about you and what you need. So. That's that. I won't be around much for anyone. No one gets to pour their stuff on me for me to carry around and fix. I'm tired. I need my own space to figure out my own issues and where MY life is going.

So, anyways, after my tantrum, I sat in the tub and just cried it all out for a good hour or so. I didn't feel great, but it was better. The silence was great. I curled up into bed by 10 and grabbed my zombie book. I read. I hadn't had the desire to read in months. Sure enough, I couldn't battle sleep from taking me away...in a few short moments.

I dreamed I was on vacation with my parents, aunts from PR and my friend Bryan in some sort of huge hotel in the Midwest. It was the morning we were all coming home, and two things happened simultaneously.

As I exited my hotel room, my dad pulled me aside and said he was leaving our family again, leaving mom. He couldn't take it being with her anymore, he was sorry and that he had tried to make it work. That he had already told her and he'd call me from the road. I sank against the wall and just mumbled "Not again. Please, not again". I went into their hotel room and saw mom, laying on the bed staring at the ceiling, with her arm resting over her forehead. Her eyes were swollen from crying and she smiled at me. That's just how she looked the day Dad said he wanted and divorce and was leaving, when I was 16. This was an exact replica, and it was awful. Dad went over to her and started saying how he was sorry, that he had really given it a shot and he wished her the best. She just nodded, accepting defeat and it angered me that I was once again, left to pick up the pieces of his mess.

At the same time...

I turned to look at the doorway, and Bryan was in his fatigues and with his Army duffel bag. My heart sank to my toes and I asked him where he was going, why was he in uniform. He said he had signed up to do another tour and was leaving in a 2 hours. That it was something he had to do. I demanded to know why he would do that after he said he was done, and that I didn't want him to die. He just hugged me and said "It'll be ok, sweetpea. Thank you for everything. Chin up.", and walked off quickly, slinging his bag over his shoulder. I was standing in that hotel hallway, with him walking away in one direction and my dad walking away in the other. I didn't want to chase after my dad and beg him to stay, even though I knew he would just for me. I didn't want to chase after Bryan and beg him to stay, because he wouldn't and I'd be broken beyond anything.

I woke up at 4 a.m. as my phone was ringing. I stared at it, and closed my eyes again, crying a bit before falling asleep.

And this is where I am right now. Focusing on getting everything done at work quickly. Clearing off my desk of any tasks and wondering if I can make it through tonight.

And yes, I cut. I hadn't in weeks.

I'm stronger than this...I just have to fight for it. I will be better, for my own sake.

Walking Dead...

It's only fitting that my new favorite line in a t.v. show comes from my latest obsession, "The Walking Dead".

At the end of last night's episode, there's this scientist recording himself with his little monologue where he explained what went wrong and how he felt guilty for the outbreak.

The camera backs out as he's rambling. He's alone, in a big room full of computers. The last one left in there in a new world run over by the zombies he helped create.

He's sort of laughing, musing, when he says something along the lines of: "I think I'm going to shoot myself tomorrow. Yeah. Kill myself. Unless I'm too drunk. Maybe I'll just drink a lot."

Yeah. Maybe. Sounds right. Tonight.

Re: (No Subject)

The cold filled every inch of the living room, crawling into every crevice under her heavy winter blanket and wrapping around her fingers. Those fingers that cracked as she typed methodically on her laptop, making her wince and hold her hands close to her chest. The winter made her bones hurt. This one would be no different.

She blew her nose and brushed away the tears that were falling faster than she had a chance to hide. Furious. Broken. Thoughtful. Tired. She read it over, one last time...

"I don't know how to not think of you some days. How to not connect every country song to your name and not let it tug at my heart, opening the wounds all over again. I am fine, most days...and I have no idea what good comes from not letting your memory go. Why am I wondering how your holiday was? If your mom cooked...and how your mom is doing. How I wish I could've sent you guys pumpkin cookies. How right now you're probably sitting on your couch, laying on two pillows wrapped up with your Gamecocks' blanket and twirling your hair on the left side of your temple, where you have that crazy cowlick... It's been a long time. I don't want to miss you anymore. Bye."

This was stupid. This was begging...this was painful. She clicked "Send" and slammed the laptop shut.

Her stomach hurt, but she felt lighter. Maybe after a few more months it would go away forever.

She was back at square one...

Do Not Say You Love Me

Why say it?

Is love a single, solitary feeling? A complicated set of chemical reactions? Words written by a drunken fool with a broken heart, centuries ago?

Dictionary say it's:

• a strong positive emotion of regard and affection
• any object of warm affection or devotion
• have a great affection or liking for
• beloved: a beloved person; used as terms of endearment

Apparently it has mostly to do with feelings. Alright. I'll concede to some of that...

However, I do not - in any way - believe that loving someone is solely saying so or expressing how much I am missed if I'm not there. It is not a parade of promises or acting one way in public, then being utterly different in private.

It is not telling me how lucky you are to have me in your life, or how happy I make you or how amazing I am. It's not telling me I'm beautiful or sexy. It's not telling me you're there for me. It's not using me for your own means, and your own happiness and good times.

If...IF I considered love a word...it would be a verb. An action. Do something!

When I love something or someone, I actively search for it and make it work. I make it happen. Whatever and everything I can do to show it. I give out of myself, materially or physically for someone...even if I don't have it...so that my loved one can be ensured, positive, certain that when I say I love them, I am the embodiment of it.

Do not say you love me. Find your passion in life and go after it. Show the world your heart.

Stop taking love's name in vain. Be free.

Numbers

I count things.

I didn't realize I did, though. Not until the last two years or so, when I found myself keeping track of random things in the back of my head, while present situations were being dealt with by the rest of my brain.

I'm sitting here, at the edge of the bed after a long bath, and I just counted how many times I passed the deodorant stick up and down my armpits. The same pattern, down-up-center. 9 times, on both arms...I have to have the same number of strokes on both armpits or I'll feel incomplete, dirty.

I am, at the same time, counting my breaths and the seconds it's taking me to get dressed. The steps it takes me from the dresser to the bed and back (6 each way). I'm detangling my curly, wet hair with equal comb troughs on each side of my perfectly partitioned hairline. Again, the numbers on each side must match...while I'm counting the deep breaths I'm taking. Breaths that I've timed to match my brush strokes.

This is how everyday is...or at least the days where the anxiety gets the best of me. I count my steps as I walk at work, my bites while I'm eating, the times my car blinker ticks when I have my turn signal on. I try to match the numbers to a pattern or make a rhythm game out of it...

I count everything but sheep...

Maybe that's why I never sleep.

Eye Candy

Red is my favorite color. Or at least I think it is...

How much influence does my favorite color have over my choices in life? My mood? My clothing?

I have recently become infatuated with gummy bears. It's like I've re-discovered how much I enjoyed nibbling off their tiny heads and limbs...how delicious the fruity, gelatinous treat slides in mouth and dances on my tongue. It almost sounds perverted...almost.

That being said...I typically start by eating the red ones first. Instinctively I dart all over the bag fishing out those bright red pieces of joy, and as they become fewer...I feel my smile fading. Why? The white clear ones are good. So are the orange ones. Why do I dismiss those other tasty treats so easily? I literally throw them away. Bryan called me the 'Gummy Racist'. It hit me like a ton of bricks and I felt shame. Then, I threw the non-red ones away.

I love ketchup on everything, and always have. As a kid I remember I loved it on all my food because it looked pretty in red. I tried the green ketchup and hated it. Fruits? My favorites are strawberries, cherries and raspberries. Bananas are awesome, but I never really eat pick them if they're next to some red fruit. Most of my jerseys are red. Every jewelry piece I create or painting I work on, must have red bases. What other candies do I like? Sweet Tarts are my favorite...the red ones. Skittles? The red ones. Now and Then's? ...The red ones. The others taste awesome, but they end up in the trash. My favorite chocolates are Ferrero Rocher or Twix, but always end up buying Kit Kats...red wrappers. Visual stimulation?

I'm not a big fan of green. So I never eat anything lime/lemon flavored. It grosses me out. Even though I like the actual fruit...

I don't know where my thoughts are...but I'm out of gummy bears...so I'm actually googling companies that ship them by the pound, in solid red. No other colors.

I'm a sad, sad weirdo.

Until later, signing off:

The Gummy Racist

Continuum

My eyes burn, sting and water. The yawns, like tiny contractions, are now 2-3 minutes apart. Every signal is indicative that I should be, at the very least, in my pajamas and curled up in bed.

I should not be worrying about things out of my control. Worry is for those with fear, doubt in their heart. What is gained from letting anger fester inside me like a burning ember that comes to life every time the breeze of a memory blows into it? We live, learn, love, lose and move on.

I'm standing alone, on the mountain. Just the wind and the clouds watching over me. I can do this alone, and welcome any company that arrives and chooses to walk the path with me.

I don't know where I'm headed. But I hope to discover the science behind sleep and the truth in the eyes that stare at me, like I'm their last hope.

I may be someone's love, heart, soul and reason for living...

I probably am someone's reason for hatred.

I am awake. Nothing and everything seems to be real at the same time. The line has been blurred beyond recognition.

Light to you. Courage to you. Blessed be, beloved friends.

I am, awake.

Lovey Dovey

I have been absent or absent minded. Both fit. But today I pulled into my house and looked at this scene for about 4 minutes.

In those 4 minutes my mind traveled down many beaten paths in my brain. That in itself never ceases to amaze me, how we are capable of looking at something and running through hundreds of thoughts, images, conversations, memories...one thing connecting to the other and you end up some place completely different to where you began.

I pulled in and looked at the dove.

In Puerto Rico, there is a superstition that pretty much goes like this: When a specific dove (Paloma Sabanera, kind of looks like this one) perches itself in a tree or fence near your home and starts cooing, for several days, it is announcing a death in the neighborhood. Unfortunately, this myth has been proven in many cases in my neighborhood...which gives it an eerie feeling. Normally you don't hear many doves cooing...but when you do, a death happens within a few days.

So, I looked at the dove and my thoughts went as such: Looks like a sabanera dove. This can't be good. Who is going to die? Nevermind. This is not home. I'm not home. I miss home. It's a nice afternoon. Grandpa would be getting home, right about now. The way our land looked at this time in the afternoon, when the sun was setting. My grandfather's voice calling my name. The dove. Grandma. Grandma loved doves. She had a ceramic dove on her dresser where she kept her rings and bracelets. The smell of her room. The sun setting and setting and orange hue inside her bedroom. Her sitting on the bed, combing her hair. Her with a bandana on, with no hair, staring out the window at nothing. The dove. The dove singing outside her window for days. The dove disappearing Friday afternoon. Grandma dying on Saturday. Pain. Pain. I miss you. Her casket. Giving her a bath while she was bed ridden. The scar on her left breast. Cancer. The dove is still there. Grandpa is getting old. I hope he doesn't die. Not before I can see him a few more times. I'm so broke, I can't fly home to see my family. The ceramic dove. She always loved doves. We put the ceramic dove on her tomb. Her name carved on the headstone, right under the dove. I've never been ok after that. I need to be ok. The dove came back after she died, and cooed for a week straight. That noise broke my heart. The breeze carrying the coo through the mango trees. I miss the breeze. I miss home. I let you down, Grandma. The dove flew away. What a nice afternoon. I'm hungry. I need to blog about doves. Good thing I snapped that picture. I knew I would blog it. My back hurts. I'm hungry. Need to get out of the car. I want to slam my phone and disappear. People need to back off and leave me alone.

All in 4 minutes. Because of a dove. She loved doves. Doves represent love.

C wut I did dar?