Why Do You Want That?

Writing is love, writing is life. Writing is the reason I’m still here, choosing life. I mean…sometimes it’s a real struggle, but writing (and Nichiren Buddhism) have kept me going. So, I can’t help it if I have a few dreams up my sleeves about it. It would be NICE to come up from it, but even if I don’t, I would never stop. So obviously between the dreams, the “projects”, and the questionable poems, I would imagine myself having a “space” or an office to live out my dreams. I also have several backup plans. Teacher, Social Worker, Grant Drafter, Admin. Hell, I’m looking at Chicago to take some coding classes while I visit.

I have about 40k of student debt, so it’s not like I’ve got the ability to be super flighty and ultra dreamy. I mean, I’ll always be somewhat like that. I’m my mother’s kid. But I’ve become realistic about some things. Not all persons who have the talent to write become great, established writers. It’s upsetting, but I’m okay with that.

I feel like my jovial nature gives people the idea that I’m in great denial or something. That the goal is to be a writer without a 9 to 5. That, you know, it’s straight to the finish line with no questions asked. I think about the fact that this writing thing may not work out all the time. Still, I want it. I want a part of it. I won’t turn my back to it. I’ll probably die at a computer of old age, trying to complete a novel I started at the age of sixteen. In any case, I would like for the people in my life to realize that I’m aware it might not work out. I’m aware that I need plans B-Z to survive this world.

I also need people to understand that my dreams might just be that. Dreams. Let me have that.

What I have always wanted is a “writing space”. Which technically could be anywhere I have my laptop or pen and paper, but I mean a space like Carrie had in her apartment in Sex and The City. A space like Claire had on The Cosby Show to enjoy herself. I have been dreaming of this space for the longest time. From job to job, poem to poem, and boyfriend to boyfriend. Writing is one of many loves in my life, and I’d like to have a place to set her free.

The idea was always going to be some small country thing. Doesn’t have to be a barn, for frack’s sake. Some tiny little ranch house that’s so small, it can only be an office. Some hole in the wall in the backyard, set up as I see fit, financed by me. I would never force anyone else in my life to finance desires that I’ve been building up. First of all, because I WANNA DO IT. Second of all, if it’s not agreed upon, I ain’t forcing anyone to pony up dime one.

That’s super defensive.

And I mean it to be.

The dream of my writing space is sacred and special. Deeper than a man cave or a chick cave. Or whomever’s cave. It’s a space outside the world where I can sit, open up, get it out, and not be distracted. That’s the main part! Not to depart from the world forever and ever, but devote some time to the one thing that brings me joy. Now imagine if I gave side eye to someone I cared about, if they had a similar dream.

I would get chewed da funk out.

The writing space is an extension of me. I may never get my ranch house. I might have to settle for a corner of a room, or an office. That’s fine. Dreams change as my life has changed. But in my mind, it’s always been somewhere down South. Always either been a shed or a bigger space. Always been covered in cute stained glass windows, wind chimes all over, and crystal things.

I can always relocate. The South isn’t the only place with a countryside. And why should I silence my dreams, anyway? Because someone else thinks they’re too airy or too stupid? Or whatever, for that matter?

Smash your own dreams but don’t come for mine.

What else do I want?

Nothing that big.

A dog. A cat. Some kids, and a decent ass life. I don’t have to have a million damn bucks. Just the kind of comfort that gives me some kind of hope in this world. I would like to be happily married, you know? Just keeping it nice because I never needed a big production to be satisfied. Just let me have my writing. Let me dream of my office space. Doesn’t have to be forced. I’m not demanding it!

But alas.

It’s all a dream.

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Whoops?

Disclaimer: I was in my feels. I’ve been in my feels. I’m purging my feels. This is life, this is relationships, this is me getting it off my chest. How could I write it? CUZ I NEEDS TA LETITGO!

The day that the rulers of the universe/book of life/Creator decided to hand out manuals on how to be a good future adult, I was MIA. I was probably still getting my cells together, overslept, and sort of had to play it by ear. The year that they were handing out manuals on how to be a good girlfriend or whatever was probably the year I decided to devote myself to endless hours of Whoa, Nelly! on repeat, while playing The Sims for hours and hours. So forgive me–I am not a good woman, I am not a good adult, and I am the shittiest girlfriend/lay/lady you will ever meet.

I will not get it right, yet I am offended that people/a person thinks I needed to be molded. Why? To be less of myself? To be good enough for you? Also, I missed out on the seminar about overthinking. So I guess I’ve got that going for me too. I fight to get it right. I try not to say stupid things. I work to erase awkward silences, and I am much more considerate and thoughtful than one would like to believe. I have a lot of love to give, but sure, let’s focus on how odd I am, how sensitive I am, and well….how wrong I am. Always wrong, always with shaky logic, and heaven forbid I post a piece of the long-desired happiness I’ve always wanted on social media. My actions are not always the best, and sometimes my inaction stems from anxiety–not because I don’t care. I CARE.

I am a mess.

I can’t pick myself up fast enough, I can’t get over it soon enough, and my poofy hair (that I can only control so much) will never get me a job.

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Well damn, son. Why am I even here? Why did my mom lay on a table and birth my big ass if I’m such an awful fuck up?

Look, I spent a lot of my early 20s hating myself. And my mid 20s, and my late 20s. I have hated myself for a long time, and this ebb and flow of acceptance still is not easy. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to let other people–who, hello, barely fucking know me–tell ME who I am. Or tell ME how I need to be shaped to fit THEIR image. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let other people who’ve got their own skeletons of self-worth and character adjustment tell ME who I am with negatives, then pop off when I say what is and what is not.

LOOK.

I HAVE KNOWN MYSELF FOR 31 YEARS AND 6 MONTHS. Aside from my mother, my father, grandmothers, aunts, and a host of friends from school and online–you gotta take more classes on who I am, before you try and TELL me anything about myself. Keep learning and keep your thoughts to yourself. Unless you’re a psych major, you are honestly pushing me away from you. It’s not helping the cause, and I refuse to be in that dark place where I’m hating myself through the eyes and thoughts of people whom I’ve given far too much power to.

I get it–my jovial nature and my strong emotions can be too much. it gives the idea that I need a lot of help–but not the thoughtful kind. More like the kind where I ain’t got nothin’ but broken wings and a twisted beak. More like baby needs her bottle, but she can’t move to get it yet. But for frack’s sake, take stock and account of your own confusion and surprise. Take stock of your own shitty opinions about me. Is it that you can’t stand who I am, or is it that you can’t stand your damn self, and how you’ve let some of the same shit that has gotten me down get YOU down? Nobody has their life totally figured out. And if they say they do, they’re either super duper perfect, or they’re lying and winging it like the rest of us.

I’m sick of feeling dejected and pushed away. Trying to fix it and failing. Having it be one-sided like this is all my fault, and the other person needs to just sit there while I appease their fucking fickle whims. I’m sick of feeling inferior and idiotic, and having that torn apart when I express frustration. YOU. ARE. DOING. THIS. TO ME.

I did not sign up for this life to have constant judgment thrown upon me. Yes, it’s a part of life and we all face it, but holy shit–from the people whom I’ve trusted with the softest parts of me? From the people who seem to find constant fault with everyone else but themselves? Sometimes they don’t listen, sometimes they don’t consider. You’ll never catch me saying I’m perfect in any of this, but come on–it takes two. It’s different outside than it is in your head. Take that into consideration.

I have been aching to get this off of my chest. Deleting and cancelling posts, cowering back and then realizing–NO–I need to defend myself. I need to speak my piece. I need to stand up for myself and tell it right the hell as it is. And YES–I’m angry. I’m tired. I want to love with all my heart, but I’m not a freakin’ doormat. I try so hard not to let anger rule me, but this whole talking to me like an idiot and treating me like a child thing has gotten way out of hand. These feelings either need to be resolved, or chapters need to be closed.

I signed up to give love, not be judged. To help, to make folks feel secure. I seem to be failing at that, no matter what I do.

I signed up for a partnership, not a competition. Believe me–I’m just trying to live.

I signed up for a spiritual journey, not a toxic discovery. I’m working through my own crap, concerned about your crap, and let’s face it–the last face to face relationship I had was in 2007. (With occasional visits until about 2010-ish but shut up shut up)

I felt changes coming but ohhh that’s just in my head. BS. But it’s on me to fix it. Helllooooo you difficult ass person–been trying to do that. It’s not like folks are opening up and making that possible.

I cannot fix everything. I cannot atone for the sins of others. I can communicate, but not in abrasive or judgmental tones. I’m sick of that. I can only be myself–that is something you either like, or something you cannot get with.

THAT IS ALL OF ME.

If I have to sit there and navigate and understand and go tit for tat to understand and adore you, why can’t I have the same? I have it in me to bring up a lot of screwed up stuff, but that goes nowhere.

Stop judging me every single second, then expecting me to keep a smile on my face when you crush my spirit and hurt my feelings.

You will lose me.

You will lose me.

And maybe I’m just not good enough to be in your world. Maybe I’m not what you thought I was, and you can’t let go because you’re afraid of the world. All I know is that there is more negativity than niceness, and the things you think you’re saying are not being said. The things that you think are honesty are pure vitrol. (keep saying this, am not getting heard. Yet I don’t listen. sheesh.)

The actions of a month and some change ago are in the past. They were great/awesome/thoughtful but stop putting emphasis on them. You have more to offer. Look ahead. I’m looking at the present and the future. I’m NOT asking for the moon. I’m not asking for someone to mold themselves as I wish.

I’m asking for consideration.

Thought.

Sensitivity.

Connection.

Healing.

The same time and patience you want. But holy CRAP. Show me something. The vigor is gone. I am not forcing anyone to have it. You either have it or let it go.

I’m not at Burger King. I’m in a fucking imperfect situation and I want it to be better before just cutting the wire. I’m still growing, still changing. I will choose my path. ME. VERONICA. I am not perfect but you gotta be blind as shit not to know how much love, care, and concern is within me.

And that’s ableist, so let’s just say you’re oblivious. YOU ARE OBLIVIOUS. WAAAAAKE UUUP.

But that’s just a theory. Perhaps what I wish to have reciprocated is asking for toooo much.

*Cue the Game Theorist YT Channel music*

February Frost

We–most of us–have a month or an event that becomes hard for us. As the years go by, maybe the hurt gets a little better, or you just learn to adjust. Or, like me, you either suffer in silence or burst onto the world, somehow.

February has always been a double-edged sword. In previous years, it was because of Valentine’s Day. Oh what, that commercialized thing that I shouldn’t care about? It’s awfully hard, when all you’ve ever gotten is pity gifts. It’s…kind of worse when you see endless adverts for what to get s0-and-so, and people are saying up and down “oh it’s just a holiday, I show him/her/them love all the time, sooo…”, but end up getting their boo something nice, or THEY get something nice. It’s kind of like you KNOW the whack to the head is coming. You see it, you hate it, you anticipate it. Meh. Anyway…

Me?

Usually in the corner, sigh of longing escaping my lips. Sad eyes, wondering when’s it going to be my time to get a gift. I mean, I LIKE HEARTS, OKAY? I like pretty hearts and campy candy. I like fuzzy bears and love mugs. I like cards. I’m a sappy yutz. You don’t have to break the bank, but for fuck’s sake–I love love. I don’t think V-Day is THAT bad. The USA is one consumerism machine, anyway. So we can’t act like we don’t like stuff. Maybe not ALL the stuff, but you like stuff.

The interesting (not really.) part is that for the exception of one beau/boyfriend/boo, I have had one pretty decent Valentine’s Day. He had to work that day, but eventually found the time to slip me a little white bear, some chocolate, and some good ass lovin’. I was TOUCHED. He was the only one, bless his curly-haired, Undertaker-loving self.

The rest of them?

“I don’t believe in this holiday.”

or

“It’s a commercialized [insert variation of what it is here]”,

And I’m sitting there all defeated, trying not to show it. Just agreeing, but not really. It made me feel like my worries and confirmations about not being worth it were true. Not even worth a campy gift? Oh dude, if he can’t go to Walgreen’s to at least try to throw some shit together, throw in the towel. NOW. What else won’t you be worth enough for?

Then I also felt bad and stupid for asking them what THEY wanted. Like a child, if you will. Here I am, all wide-eyed and idiotic, asking these non-believers what they want. How innocent, how basic, how…embarrassing.

I sort of did it again this past month.

When that old feeling came back–the stupidity feeling, the not feeling worth it thing, I started to ask myself why any of this mattered. Why I wanted a gift, beyond my love of hearts and shiny baubles. I didn’t need the entire world, but I just like celebrating holidays. I can give and get love at any time, despite very few people crushing or desiring me. And yes, I was right there with A–but even that was complicated.

I was already feeling like extended time with me sort of turned him off from me. Which…really branched off into some soft ass feelings. I didn’t want to keep bothering him with my feelings. He has so much going on. I’m…here, you know? But to chase him and hound him isn’t my style. It also felt stupid/pathetic/odd to be defending the holiday, let alone hinting I wanted something/wanted to give him something, and he’s so…not for it. It means nothing to him, but the world to me. Anyway….

It wasn’t about being selfish or ungrateful. He did a lot of nice stuff for me. I realized that maybe–like most moments after February 1988–I just wanted comfort. I wanted to forget that one of the worst days of my life happened the week of Valentine’s Day.

To be honest, I never knew the exact date until I read a program almost two decades later. I knew it was cold when she died. I knew my dad didn’t want to take me to the funeral. I have written about this before. Yet as I get older, smarter, and mature–I realize that what my dad says is true; you never really get over the hurt of losing someone when they die.

Listen.

I get that this day is crap to some people. I get that stores and websites pounce on it to get sales. I get it. I get that love should be given daily. Believe me–being a single loser idiot for so long gives you a lot of time to think. Trying to cope and pretend and adjust will do that too. I just wanted love, okay? It’s hard getting sad in front of all these people I live with. Which makes no sense, but I sometimes don’t want them to know I’m like this. That I am 31 and weeping for my mother, whom I barely remember. That holidays colliding with the week of her death mean something to me. That I have so many memories of pity gifts and family gifts, and held on to the entitled comfort that there would be more.

How dare I.

I will never ask for the moon. Just something nice. Just some consideration.

I spent a lot of time online trying to find other sad souls. Reaching out to them, saying something nice. I wanted to spread the love. I still kind of feel like…an idiot for having these mushy feelings.

Then, last year, something happened.

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This beautiful, loud, wiggly nugget of softness and perfection was born. I started watching her February 2016. I think this was the first year the loneliness wasn’t as bad as it used to be. It gave me hope. I always feel like I have so much love to give, but nowhere to put it. Or that I’m so repulsive or annoying that people don’t want it. Then Imani was born, and it became different.

Her birthday is the 4th of February. She will be one this year.

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I love her. It was instant. I don’t care if we are not blood related, she is my beautiful step-cousin. Loud, silly, and a little diva, but she is my heart.

That pain will not disappear. The embarrassment of liking what I like won’t go, either. I guess there will always be an innocent coping method within me. I don’t really like my birthday either, and sort of need to escape the fact that my grandfather died the day before it. But, you can’t escape it. You can only soothe the soul for a little while.

I don’t think I will ever be able to voice my defense of Valentine’s Day. I hated it for a while, too. Whole neighborhood full of men, rushing to get their girl something. My dad, rushing to get his girl something. He got some some candy too, but….I mean…I wanted romance. I like romance. I like giving people attention and care. I like getting it back. It’s been a while and maybe I’m rusty, but romantic affection is nice. I’m grateful for the gifts I have gotten, though. Can’t stress that enough.

I then realized that love comes in more than the lust and romantic forms. Perhaps that is what I wanted, but love is everywhere. Love is within me. It’s lonely sometimes, but maybe I need to look a little harder to find other people to love. What if they’re lonely just like I am, and don’t have the Internet?

Please don’t think I’m a selfish and needy person. Or that I need a lot of stuff to feel a certain way. I like stuff, but I like the concept of giving behind stuff. Maybe I want the kind of love my uncle and aunt have–imperfect, but so often it is in sync that the little things seem so big to me. I wish I had that.

When A tells me to slow down, it kind of makes me feel like I am going too fast. It’s just that I know what I want. I’m not trying to rush it, but I just want my hands on it. I don’t want to always silence myself. I want to show someone I care about them all the time–even on campy holidays.

I like camp, sometimes.

My mother was a Pre-K teacher, for crying out loud. Campy decorations were sort of her thing. She was sort of sensitive like me, so…yeah.

So I’m starting my own tradition. Party City and Dollar Tree–just get V-Day stuff. Enjoy it, like it. I’m not going to hint at wanting stuff. I’m not going to bring it up again once the topic has been put down. I’m going to enjoy my campy commercial thing. I’ll…sort out the moist feelings later.

Or, eventually….

Get more used to them?

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Anyway.

Love you, ma. Miss you.

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