Can you still see.. the heart of me?

As soon as I get a handle on what I'm doing and where I'm going with my life, my past comes creeping back up on me and I'm left answering for actions and words that are nothing more than ghosts. And it's hard to be sure of how I really feel about anything right now. Past, present, future. It's all a jumbled mess that I can't make sense of.

A jigsaw puzzle torn apart and thrown up in the air, only for half of the pieces to come down.

How am I supposed to put this back together?
Is it even possible?
It hardly seems so.

Because I can't even hold onto dreams anymore, much less reality.

Things I wanted, all changed.
Prospects, endeavours, all lost.

No replacements. No upgrades.
Nothing.
Just gone..

I'm not even sure when or why it happened, if they were taken from me or given away willingly.
I can't be sure.

And so I'm left with writing my nothings into a notebook on my grandparents' couch, seemingly having left the City of Certainty and arrived in Wackadoo Land.

I have a mother who has long since checked out of Adulthood and opted to hitch hike her way back to adolescence with every bottle of booze and coke dealer she can flag down.
I have a father I've never gotten to see the true side of.
And a boyfriend I don't even really understand.

But I do nothing about it. Why?
It can't be out of comfort, can it?
I've never been so uncomfortable in my life.

Familiarity?
Maybe, but doubtful.
I find nothing familiar here, where my ground is always shifting.

I figure I'm just familiar with being uncomfortable all the time.

I know I'm somewhere in this body, however deep down. I can see myself in these eyes some days when I look into the mirror. But most of what is here isn't me at all.

I've hidden myself so well, not even I can find me.

Truth be told, I miss you. And truth be told, I'm lying.

Things change, it's a given.
It's to be even more expected that people change, too.

Life is forcing me to constantly rearrange myself, like redecorating and refurnishing the same old house. And even though I store away some of the 'old' to make room for the 'new,' there are still indents in the carpet of my soul that remind me where everything used to be.
How everything used to be.



(me and my cousin Chase, circa this summer)

As much as I miss everything I've had to let go of, I like my new digs. I'm gradually becoming more comfortable on this path I'm carving out for myself.
I don't claim to know what's coming but I can promise that I'm going to roll with it instead of fighting.

One day, I will die.
The only choice I have in the matter is whether or not I'm exhausted over petty things I have no control over.

I'll blast myself deaf with my music and I'll smoke my lungs scarred with these cigarettes.
They're vices, no doubt, but they're vices I chose.
They're vices I like.
Vices I want to live and even die with.

I'll pierce this body of mine and inject ink into my skin as I see fit.
My father and mother created this body I posses but not my mind.
God knows they didn't teach me anything about self-respect but, were they around or sober, I know they'd be amazed and proud of how much I've pieced together on my own.

It doesn't matter to me anymore what images they must have lived with in their heads while I was growing up.
Images of dirty drugs, dirty boys, dirty decisions.
Because I know I've encountered all three and have found myself most content to sit cross-legged beside my friends on their porch steps, flicking cigarette filters and creating falsified thug personas.

I was a good kid.
But they don't know that.
And they don't need to.

They don't need to know that my friends, crazy-haired and tattooed as they may be, are the most genuine/caring/hilarious people on this planet. They don't need to know that for every hole in my friends' clothing, there are probably ten stories about how they'd gotten me through a rough patch of my life.

Because somewhere along the line my degenerate friends took the places of my parents and became more important to me than anything ever before.

THAT will never change.

I promise.

X and O

So much has changed from the days I spent watching storms with my friends from my grandparents' porch. So much has changed since not long ago when I spent hours getting ready in my salmon-coloured bathroom, dancing to my ipod, all for Alex to come pick me up, fight with me, and to have all of my effort wash off my face in cakey sheets as I cried in my driveway.
A driveway I will likey never stand in ever again, crying for a boy I pray I'll never see again.

But I remember all of these things so vividly, no matter how in the past they are. It's a blessing in a cursed way.

Because back then, on that porch, in that boy's car, picking those songs on that ipod - that's what made me happiest at that second.
In that moment, it was exactly what I wanted.
Funny how greatly my 'wants' have changed over the 20 years of my life.

Funny in a tragic sort of way, I mean.

The one thing that has never changed is my love for honesty, written or spoken. To be able to look someone directly in the eyes and know they see me for who I really am. Having nothing to hide.

That will never go away, and whether I'm 20 or 90, I will never grow out of it.
All of the years after 90 are fair game though.

Yes. I miss those storms and those songs and that boy. I miss how they all made me feel. I always will, until the day I day, and perhaps forever after.

I'll miss them all because I'll remember them all exactly how they happened, and exactly how they made me feel. And I will smile, not sigh, because they will still make me happy; regardless of how each chapter ended.
I was happy then.
And I always will be.

I never let my butterflies turn into demons, and so I'm not afraid to look back over my shoulder.

I know what I've become..

..I'm just unsure of what tipped over the first domino and started the transformation.
I remember wanting to be that fairytale princess, falling in love, having a big family, being that mom that wouldn't care about the stray dog her kids dragged home.
Yadda yadda..
I remember it all vividly.

I say "remember" because as vivid as it may be, it's not my perspective now.
Not even close.

Fairytales bore me; I've become too cynical.
Too analytical.
Princess? Try Queen of Attention to Detail.

And I can't see myself giving birth to a miniature me when I can barely stand myself most days.
No sir, not for me.
Not anymore.

Don't even get me started on the "L" word.
Agh. I hear the phonetics start and my hands are already up over my ears, and I'm chanting "la-la-la-lalalala-laaaaaaaa!"
Sometimes I have such a dislike for the word that I find myself groping my crotch to make sure I haven't developed man-parts.
Yeahhhh it's that bad.

I've become the antithesis of myself.
I don't want love.
I want to use you up until I'm bored and jump ship.
That's it.
That's all I want.

I don't want best friends, it's just another term for 'convenience' anyway and as much as I'm all about convenience, I'd like to be able to get rid of you whenever I please.

Sorry, but honesty hurts.
And honestly, I'm not that sorry.

Don't get me wrong: there's still a select few (three, rather) that still sit inside my private circle - but you'd be surprised to find out who they really are.
And who they aren't.
And just where you fall.

Right now you're thinking back to every conversation we had and every topic we skimmed across.
Why? I can promise that even though you're conjuring up the worst possible scenario, you're right.
You're wondering about all the times I called.
But more importantly - all the times I didn't.
All the things I never said and never will, but also all of the things I never asked and never will - because I just don't care.

We're all aware of the famous saying by the famous person, "You learn from experience. Regret nothing."
And even though I am well aware of the fact that I mashed a few famous sayings together and couldn't name the famous somebodies, I'll tell you this:
You may learn from experience but you'll learn a lot more a lot faster watching everyone else burn themselves.
It saves on regrets, too.

Over It.

I'm sure I won't be the first or last person to tell you I'm sick of your shit.
I haven't played tug-o-war since grade school and to be honest it's a game that never held much appeal to me even then.
If I'm going to fight with somebody I'm at least going to bust a few knuckles. I'm way past arguing at this point in my travels.

You said you were done.
So be done.

Don't stick around and bait me.
Because I'll bite. Every time.

Don't demonstrate your compassion or maturity for me.
Believe me, I've seen both firsthand.

You talk a lot of game but we both know I'm not going to be kicking or screaming at your feet.

See I've moved on; a concept you made damn sure I knew you grasped.
Or should I say mastered?
Hell! According to you, you'd ALREADY moved on. So why am I the one further ahead?
Why are you texting and calling just to make sure I know not to call or text?
As if I'd forget.

You threw in the towel.
Hooray! You're free!
..then you ask what I want from you?

Nothing, baby.
I already have your towel.

Filthy Degenerative Lifestyles.

So in my blurred lifestyle, I seem to have forgotten that $15 parking ticked I got ages ago, buried deep within the center counsel of my car. Not a big deal. The City of Grand Rapids called my dad, to whom the plates are registered, and let him know. That's all well and good until my dad takes it upon himself to be nice and pay the ticket himself, thus having to dig through my car and find my cigarettes.

AND OH THE HORROR.

To me, it's not a big deal. To my dad, I don't think it really is either. To my step-mom, it's like getting SATAN tattooed across my chest.

The confrontation ensues. I get ousted from the household and family. I pack my shit. I leave. I get a super fun call from my father telling me that my phone is going to get shut off and blah blah blah.
So I chill at my cousin's house and watch the Land Before Time like a champ until my dad decides to call me back and play good cop.

He's my only ally, he says.
He's probably right, I say.

Because it's true. My mom is too fucked up to even know that 'ousted' is a word and my aunt is moving in the next two weeks anyways. I don't want to get any further from school and my sister? well. Let's not open up THAT wound.

Don't even suggest Alex.
Alex lives with his parents.

Plus there's the whole stipulation where I owe my dad the better part of $1300 for school. A mere speed bump in my situation.

I don't think any of this would be SO bad if I didn't have my step-mom hanging over my dad's shoulder the entire time, pulling as many strings as she can to keep me from spoiling her perfect world with her perfect kids and her perfect church.
I know, right? Gag me.

We've never liked each other and that's cool. I'll rock my 'unsightly' tattoos and piercings and she can rock her mom-hair and disproportionate flabby body. Agree to disagree.

I don't have a problem quitting smoking. I have a problem quitting anything that makes her skin crawl. And perhaps that is juvenile of me. In fact, I'm sure it is.

But it just makes me so happy inside..

Eleven.

It seems like yesterday you were asking me which bow looked prettiest in your hair. Nowadays you model your sunglasses instead. Before I know it, you'll be telling me to pick which seat covers I like best for your new car, and then which drinks are the best for your first legal night out.

I know where the time has gone. I just don't know how it got wings to get there so fast.
..how YOU got wings.

Everyone always falls in love with you. Your smile, your charm, your honesty, your youth. But what they don't realize is that it's just a taste of what I've been intoxicated on my entire life.

You're amazing. Always have been. And for being the one of us three that looks the most different, you're the most grounded - the best of us.

You ask me to help you make your cupcakes and I sniffle and wipe frosting on my face because I'm helping you, and not doing it for you while you watch from your perch on the counter. You can REACH now. And you just need me to watch while you use the stove because your parents are just like that, and I can't say I blame them after Courtney blew up the microwave..

You look so cute with your oven mitts on, hair pulled back but batter in it anyways. You smile that trademark smile but it isn't crooked anymore. Your braces and retainers have fixed that. Now, it's perfect. You don't need me to chase after the softball because you can catch it now, and I sit on the sidelines and photograph YOU during your basketball tournaments.

And here I remember when you could barely walk.
When you'd climb onto my back and I'd crawl around with you like a horse.
You loved that.
I didn't even care that you pulled chunks out of my hair just to stay on.
You loved that.
I loved that.

I loved you.
I always will.

Happy 11th Birthday, Cameron Marie.

Life, as it were.

..and on my day off from Aveda and the turmoils of memorizing head and scalp conditions, what do I do?
Type up my scalp condition notes.

COME ON.

I have seemingly developed a creepy need to be organized.
Organized to the point of self-irritation.
I'm not just keeping an agenda. No. We're talking re-ordering my music library, being two weeks ahead on my homework, making note cards (insert 'wtf' here) for things I ALREADY HAVE MEMORIZED (or, excuse me, compartmentalized..).
I have even gone through my phone and reassigned all of my ringtones.

Not only have I tidied my own bedroom, but Courtney's as well because she's in Florida on spring vacation so she isn't here to lock me out like Cammie does and dear god I cannot help myself.

Fuck an alarm; I get up before the sun and you can bet I'm looking for senseless things to preoccupy myself with.

I mean, who has their fridge color coordinated?

This bitch right here, thanks.

Oh p.s., I've passed all of my knowledge assessments and practical applications so far.
So woo.

Ch-ch-ch-changes.

David Bowie always had the words.
Me? I've got words too. They're just usually profane and I've got hand gestures that accompany them in cute little packages.

My mom spends all of her time in her bedroom, curled up with the Food Network, a plate of microwave pretzels, and a few fifths of Captain.
We don't talk.
She and my step-dad don't talk.

So we're never here.

Barry spends his time occupied at the gym or doing tree work, and I'm.. I'm just always on the move. Grandparent's. Dad's. Aunt's. Mitch's.
Things with Alex were spiraling like a flushed toilet and even though it's safe for me to say I'm beginning to feel better, I'm still not going to stick my neck out and forgive being called a slut.

I'm not a slut, thank you very much. And I don't need anyone to tell me so. I know my own morals and that's enough.

But I don't need my mom questioning why I spend so much time at her sister's. She talks to me as if I blatantly came out and called her a bad mom. Which she is. But I haven't.

I've been called a variety of things from a broad spectrum. Liar, slut, and hot mama. All in the past two days. It's tiring. I'm wearing for sure.
I'm just so determined not to even take my eyes off my horizon because I'm fully aware of all the holes around me that I could crawl into. That I want to crawl into.
I know because I keep tripping in them.
Tripping, stumbling, and desperately trying not to fall.

I'm not complaining - don't get me wrong. I'm not crying 'unfair!' or 'save me!' Just 'slap me in the face when you see me reach for my hair!' because I'm high risk for yanking it out at the roots right now.

And Alex? don't get me started on that story.

Isaiah Jakob.

I know losing a child is difficult. I saw my aunt go through it just a month ago. I clearly remember the funeral, the tears, the loss. I just never expected it would happen to me.

My little Isaiah Jakob,
You were born exactly 15 minutes after midnight on January 12th. It was a Saturday. At 15 ounces, you were almost a pound, and you fit perfectly nestled in my elbow. Even though you’d been growing for 5 1/2 months, I had no idea. But for 6 hours I knew you were there. I heard your heart beat.

You were one week and two days short of viability and it was goodbye before we even met. As much as I wished differently, I wouldn’t be able to keep you. You couldn’t come home with me.

I stayed up with you all night, singing to you and hoping that you’d wake up, or at least that I would. Yet you continued to sleep silently, swaddled warmly in the very blanket I’ve slept with every night since. When I had to get more medication or eat, your nana rocked you and cried quietly.

I’ve put all of your things away already in shadow boxes and displays, sealed up tight with plenty of tears and love, and I’ve proudly placed them all around this room. Everyone knows who you are.

You were perfect. I held your hands and feet, even muttering once about how your nails already needed to be cut, and I marveled at how much hair you already had. I kissed you a lot, of course, and told you I love you more times than I can remember. With my nose and my mouth, you were definitely my baby boy.

Goodbye was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I already knew that, because of the miscarriage and loss of fluid, there was no way to keep you inside of me any longer and protect you.. but I hoped. Even as Kevin, your aunt, and your grandma shook their heads painfully and cried, I hoped.

I think I still do.

Now that you’re gone I realise all of the missing things that should have told me you were there. My belly’s empty, sore, and aching, but it seems my entire body is too, although not as extreme as my heart. The hardness is gone, worse on the right side because that was your favorite. And, sometimes, I skip the pain medication just to remember what you felt like..

I’m going later today with your grandma to make arrangements for your funeral. We’ll put you at the foot of my great grandpa, beside great grandma and Cheyanne. I didn’t want you to be alone.

Everybody’s worried about me and tells me to focus on taking it day by day. It’s more like second-by-second. I cry a lot. Mostly when I’m alone. It tears me apart that I had no clue you were there, but comforts me to know I touched your little left foot and you felt it. You knew who I was.

You knew you had a mommy, and that you were loved, and that even in death, that will never change.

All I think about is you.

I miss you.
So very much.

I love you,
mommy.

forever and always, my baby you’ll be.

I know losing a child is difficult. I never thought it would happen to me. But it did. And if it weren’t for my amazing mother, I wouldn’t have known what to do or how to get through any of this. I would still be blaming myself.

I owe a lot to my sister for holding me and talking me through every proceedure.

Mostly, I owe thanks to Kevin. My boy. My breathing coach. My leg-adjuster. He didn’t have to be there, but he was - and he beat my sister. And as much as he didn’t have to be there, he didn’t have to stay all night, but he did. He didn’t mind lying in my mom’s bed with me just so I could fall asleep. I couldn’t ask for someone better.

Throughout all of this, I don’t think I could ask for anyone better. Toby was over before Kevin even had to leave, and she was content washing the epidural residue off my back and eating chili with me while we watched tv. Aunt Lisa, grandma, grandpa, Rachel, Mindy, Samm, everyone.. the support is just immense.

Without you, I doubt I’d have the will to get up out of bed.