Is it possible to let empowerment get to your head? Is it possible to allow your painful past and the guards you’ve put up to dictate how you treat people? Or, in another case, those who have hurt you–even when they are long gone, is it possible that you make others pay for what they’ve done?

The week–past one–going into the weekend has been one that really took hold of my emotions. Seems like every fear and doubt that I thought I shoved away about my relationship are coming back, and they have new friends. Then Chester Bennington died. So on top of feeling like I’m the worst potential wife, current girlfriend, and crappy person, one of my favorite artists from the early legs of my writing (as well as the angsty years of my teen experience) dies of suicide.

You know how sometimes you don’t really realize what someone means to you?

Of COURSE Chester was an amazing singer and artist. But I stopped really listening to LP around the time they collabed with Jay-Z. It wasn’t anything personal, it’s just that my music tastes sort of shifted for a while. LP was still on every mix list I made, but mainly everything pre-collab. Hearing that he died, it sent something through me. I’d listened to some of LP’s newer stuff, and the regret sank in. So I’m going to binge listen to everything this weekend and upcoming week.

I already cried a little, sang a few songs on Smule Karaoke (my profile is here), and just got out all my tone-deficient feels in the process. It’s amazing how the lyrics just come to you after all those years. But let’s be honest–I didn’t go a lot of places as a teenager. I had friends, but I was still rather unpopular. I was odd because my Blackness didn’t match most of my peers, and for some reason that mattered when I was just trying to be myself. I didn’t know we had to follow a manual for being Black.


I spent a lot of time at home, online, writing, or playing video games. I spent a lot of time with music. Remy Shand, Prince, Gorillaz, Nelly Furtado, Norah Jones, Linkin Park. So while I was making sims, I was singing to a lot of their music. When I was writing my sad little poems, I was reflecting on the emotions LP showed us in their work. Maybe it encourage the wackiness that remains, but all I know is that LP really did save my life, and Chester shined the light on better choices concerning working out my problems.

He made expression an option, that’s for sure.

The doubt part is just kind of due to the way conversations have been going between A and I. I’m starting to worry that maybe I am too young for him. Maybe I’m not strong enough like he wants/expects. Maybe I’m not the best girlfriend or person for him. Unlike the “ticker tape parade” he talks about, maybe I just want the same general enthusiasm I give him when he talks about things in his life that interest him. And maybe I don’t know all the questions to ask, or the right things to do–but I do care for and love this guy.

The honeymoon phase has been over, and that’s cool, you know? We reached a place of comfort where farts and skin tags ain’t a thing. Just seems like sometimes when we joke, it gets hurtful. It stops being playful, and sort of turns into how he really feels or at least thinks about me. When I point this out, he gets uncomfy and talks about all he has done for me–which, yes, is a TON. But my point is that it often conflicts with how he talks to me. That part he doesn’t get, and says that’s just how he is.

When I get blunt, suddenly I’m not very nice, and how dare I….in so many words.

So, you know, feeling like your partner has a lot of truth behind statements like “if not for your [insert parts or aesthetic he likes], then I don’t know if….” puts you in a place.

Am I really that bad of a person that my looks (which aren’t that great, but maybe 4 people find me attractive) shield my overall crappy-ness?

I’m also kind of tired of having long, serious talks about all of this. Like–we’ve talked about all of this and it either dies down or rears its head at another time. It’s making me doubt whether or not I am really good enough for this person. It’s making me feel more like a stepping stone.

And one time we argued so hard that he looked me dead in the eye and said “I wasn’t just saying I love you to say it! I LOVE YOU.”

I know that he means it. A person doesn’t reach into their wallet for you or take you where he has taken me, or opened up like he has. So why are the doubts there?

It’s conversation. Some of them go fine, some of them remind me that we have an 8 year age gap. That we were raised differently. That we feel things differently. We see the world in different ways. We love, but we also clash….hard. We joke, but sometimes it hurts like a motherf*cker.

We have good times.

We have bad times.

But one of us is sitting there with fears and doubts, realizing that she isn’t like other adults, and doesn’t feel good enough or right enough for the person she is with. Or that his doubts are probably being fed with every mistake or stupid action. She isn’t that great, and it’s just a matter of time until….

It’s a bad feeling.

Especially considering how badly she wanted love in the first place. The most frustrating part is that she’s actually trying, and it just seems like she makes it worse every time.



Calm Down

A moment presented itself while I faced a huge misunderstanding, and I felt salty on day one. This is day two, and I’ve decided to plot things out just like my father. The love, deep thought, and compassion of my mother will always be with me–I’m not going to let one or more people stop me from being me, just because they’ve had their light stepped on and snuffed out. But like my father, I’m also not going to hate and beat myself up. I’m not going to sulk and feel bad while not loving myself.

I decided to take hold of the “advice”, and work it to the fullest. I was super offended, because it was more like a father talking to his toddler, and not a mate talking to his partner. I was PISSED. Not even in my worst moments as a kid did my own father talk to me like that. I know I’m young and all, I know I’m mad jovial–but I’m not a pushover. I’m not going to sit around and be judged and talked down to.

I decided to go into my “corner”. Not a real corner. I’m not in my room right now, cowered in one spot. My “corner” refers to the things that make me happy. It refers to things that need to be done. It’s just me shutting some outlets off, excusing myself from certain people right now, and just really doing me. Keep in mind–I was told to reset and come back when I’m calm. So, I’m taking a play from my father’s book.

All I can say about the play is that for about one or two whole weeks, he did his own thing. He stayed in his own lane, he was the best Ron Williams he could possibly be, and all was right with his world. Sounds like a plan. How can I enjoy some weeks putting energy into me, myself, and I? Lots of ways.

  1. Continuing to hack away at the depression nest I made, because my room always becomes a shitstorm when that happens.
  2. Staying true to this JC thing.
  3. Getting some cute workout clothes. I already did that. They’re on the way.
  4. Working out. 15-30 minutes as a starter.
  5. Taking better care of myself. It’s amazing how neglect can mess you up when you’re not feeling your best.
  6. Working on my writing. All of it. Poetry, short stories, novels. Entering contests and all that.
  7. Binge watching Star Trek. My dad is a Trekkie. Maybe I want to become one too.
  8. Playing Lost Odyssey. FINALLY got a copy, finally playing it.
  9. Salvaging my grades. Geology is a bust and that needs to be retaken. But I have three other classes that have hope. I let shit get to me. I let myself get overwhelmed. Never again.
  10. Doing the babysitting thing.
  11. Listening to music. Finding new songs. Liking artists I’ve never given a good chance.

There is so much to do. There is so much to work on, and I have plenty of time to work on it. This isn’t a punishment, this isn’t a ruse to make anyone want or hate me more, this is just me taking tactical charge of rude advice. I am very calm, and very busy, darling.

Confessions Revealed

When I question whether or not I have grown/am growing as a person, it usually branches out in a multitude of directions. What constitutes as growth? What’s something that’s still healing? What do I need to work on? From these questions, we get lots of sticks and boughs and blossoms. I’m very hard on myself, and it’s something I’m working on. I congratulate myself for not giving in to contacting people, but chastise myself for having them on my mind, or romanticizing certain events. “Remember, they hurt you.” is a common phrase.

I was searching through my old Photobucket account to find a picture for a tumblr post. I happened to find some confession pictures from my PostSecret message board days that made me cringe, laugh, and recall the person I was just about 4 and 5 years ago. It’s been so long that I can’t even recall the actual amount of time. I could just go to the boards and find out, but what’s the point?

I saw about five pictures of my ex boyfriend. I first decided to scold myself for being lazy and not cleaning out the album more often. If I could do it on FB, why didn’t I delete THOSE pics, that were much more intimate? (Okay not intimate intimate, but he was nestled underneath my comforter, dazed and probably annoyed by some asinine manic event I’d created…) Anyway, I deleted them. THEN, I found a couple posts I’d created and added to the confessions board.

 photo SakuraMarge.png
 photo prisonerOfLove.png
 photo 018-9.jpg

An odious arrangement of whiny, mopey “I miss you” and “please love me no matter what” messages that burnt my soul to read! The desperation! The sadness! The one with the pseudo-kid was RIDICULOUS. I looked at the the other night, wondering what was I thinking? I reduced myself to being at the mercy of someone who probably didn’t have me on their radar for one second. Here I was, tap dancing to the same song and dance, thinking about “old times” and hoping for another one of our world-famous go arounds.


I knew that those confessions would fade into the darkness of strangers who knew nothing of the twisted tryst. So it was safe to be as vulnerable and pathetic as possible. I was safe, and the other person would never have the chance to see me at my worst, pining for them. Once it stopped, I just abandoned my account and accepted the fact that I just might not ever find romance/love/lust/whatever again. (Which is a crock of crap, but the well has been dry for a while now.)

I won’t even get into the horror of the Whisper App, full of sticky, disgusting failures that popped into my head about two years after the PostSecret posts. It was like going through withdrawal. After denying any kind of pain, any kind of leftovers of that past tryst, it all came bursting out. Looking back, I can see the growth. I can see where urges and desires have died down. I can see where things have become thought, and not actions. Not petty behavior or contacting. Just thought. Even in my darkest hour, marinating in happy couples and timelines full of sap and romance, I’ve held my own. Sorta.

I’m coming to terms with the fact that yes, I think of certain times, certain people, certain feelings. But to pine, to dwell, to put on the red shoes and let them guide me across the stage? Nah. I kinda feel like that deletion of pics was another part of a long overdue cleansing.

Now, if only I could do something about that joblessness.