Tag Archives: heartbreak

How to get past “not wanting” to write (if only I knew)

There’s nothing worse than being afraid of the thing you live to do, the thing you exist for. Writing may not (yet) be how I make my living, but it always has been, and probably always will be, who I am, an integral part of my existence. I couldn’t ever see myself not being a writer, unless someone paid me never to write again, and even that would probably never happen (c’mon, I’m not that easily bought. I hope).

But writing means sitting down with my thoughts, and that is pretty terrifying. I have several projects going at the moment (ADD at its finest), and while working on them (and one day completing them) is something I want to do, it’s also something I don’t want to do. Because writing means dredging up the past, and reliving the bad parts is just not something I’m eager to do. I know it’s a part of healing and letting go (and it’s definitely a necessary part of my writing process) but bringing up memories of the things you’ve done and had done to you, and the people you used to know isn’t always easy or fun.

I often wonder what would happen to me if I didn’t write. Would my thoughts just back up into my brain until they explode? Would I go on living my life exactly as I have all along, unchanged? I’m constantly in a battle with myself over what to do: to write or not to write. Obviously the answer is to write, so I guess the better question is to ask: how do I go about doing it in a way that isn’t going to completely destroy me? How do I write about the things that used to tear me apart inside without letting it tear me apart inside now? How do you keep the old you from seeping back in and taking over the new, much less stressed, much less anxious, much less neurotic you?

I’m hoping I find the answers to my questions. Because to not write is to not be who I really am. To not write is to deny myself the satisfaction of doing what I know and love. To not write is to deprive you, my devoted readers, of my hilarious and sarcastically-delivered stories of randomness and idiocy. And let’s face it, that would just be criminal.

Now it’s off to tackle the thing I love and hate more than anything in this world: writing.

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Saying goodbye to a piece of our family

My sister came over tonight and cried on my couch after just having put her cat to sleep, and even though it wasn’t my cat, Cinnamon had been apart of our family for over 17 years, so I sat on the couch and cried with her. We knew she was old and sickly, so this wasn’t a total shocker, but I honestly wasn’t prepared to come home from spin (knowing full well my sister was coming over tonight, anyway) to this news.

I feel so sad for her, and for Cinnamon, because it isn’t easy saying goodbye to a furry best friend. I always joke that with my luck, my bastard cat will never die, she’ll just keep shitting on my floors for the rest of my life. But when that day finally comes and Felix is no more, I’m not sure how I will manage. Pets may not be as important to some people as other humans are, but when they’re in your lives for that amount of time, and they become apart of your family, it isn’t easy to let them go, even if you know it’s what’s best for them. I know there are varying degrees of loss and sadness (and I’ve been quite fortunate enough to not have experienced the most extreme cases of it), but any loss in general, when it affects the heart, is enough to make adjusting to life without that person (or beloved pet) almost unbearable. It’s crazy to think how, eventually, with time, these emotional wounds do finally heal (though we may never be the same again, it does get easier) and that we’re able to continue living our lives while that other individual no longer can. Life is such a funny, fragile concept, and I’m not sure I’ll ever really understand it, but I think I can understand that gut-wrenching feeling you get when you realize you have to go on without someone (because I’ve been there, in other ways). It takes a lot of strength to accept loss and move on, and anyone who has ever experienced it, big or small, will know what I mean when I say some days you just want to cry. And that’s okay. There will eventually be other days that you can look back on that person or pet’s life and know they lived a good one, regardless of how short or long they thrived, and be happy you had them in your life in the first  place. It’s not an easy place to get to, but just know it’s possible, and never give up the fight to get there.

I realize it might be ridiculous to write a eulogy for a cat, but I think if it makes a difference to just one person (that one person being my sister), then it wasn’t ridiculous at all, it was completely worth it. So here it goes:

Cinnamon was a good and loyal cat, one who preferred time alone to sleep in the sunlight, but who (especially in her old age) also enjoyed a good snuggle and back scratch from anyone who would give her the time of day (which was everyone). She loved sleeping squished in cardboard boxes and licking the water from a dripping faucet. In her younger days, she liked to sleep on people’s heads and stay as far away from Felix the cat as she could. In her wiser days, she preferred to curl up on a soft blanket somewhere and stay as far away from Felix the cat as she could. She was a pet and a best friend, and she will be forever loved and missed.

RIP Cinnabunner

RIP Cinnabunner

 

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Untitled

We are an infinite number of stars in the sky

We are a thousand sunsets no one ever sees but

the Sea

The waves lap the shore, the sand

Sticking to the empty spaces, the holes

Tugging the horizon to stretch and grow, to keep going, to never

Run out

Our eyes don’t see its end but we know it’s

There

and that’s alright

It lingers somewhere out of mind and

we’re okay with that

Because when the end comes

Even though we’re not ready to say

Goodbye

To the Sun

The Moon will rise to keep away the

Dark Hours

And the sun can finally sink and rest and

Blossom its fiery petals under the water,

the other side of the world

A sunset is temporary;

Though there’s sadness in

Letting Go

We know

We’ll see the sun again someday

Soon.

 

-For V

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My stream of consciousness is the only thing that keeps me warm at night

The thing that sucks about growing up is that you lose people. You find other people and you find yourself along the way, but you can never have back those times that got you started, and what you know now will never be the same as it was then. Memories are funny that way. You could look at a picture and not even recognize your own face but when you stop and let it wash over you, it all floods back like some impossible dream that came true, if only for a moment. You can’t live in that past, because it doesn’t exist anymore, it stays exactly where it used to be, it isn’t where you are now. You can visit it from time to time but every time you go back it gets a little hazier, a little harder to remember, a little less familiar. You can try and recreate it but you will never ever be that person again.

I mourn for the past. Some of my best friends live there. Some of my biggest mistakes take refuge there. Some of my favorite memories shape the photos and the “remember when’s” of that past version of who I am now. If I could only go back and hold them in my hand like warm sand from an empty beach. If I could only remember what it felt like instead of just pretending I knew what it meant to me then. If I could only do it again, just one more time. Would it make a difference?

I never used to care about the person I was. Until I realized I couldn’t have her back.

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What Easter means to me (absolutely nothing)

About 13 years ago, I found out the Easter Bunny wasn’t real. I was 12 years old.

I’m actually surprised I made it to that age. Nowadays, kids are finding out these mythical creatures don’t actually exist at much younger ages (or maybe I was just an unusually late case; or maybe both). My brother and sister never ruined it for me and my parents let me go on believing, probably (if I had to guess) because they didn’t want to ruin the magic for me. I positively hated them when they told me. I actually threw myself onto the floor, started crying and screaming “you lied to me! my life is over! they aren’t real?! how could you do this to me!?” Or something to that extent, I can’t actually remember verbatim (although my mom remembers vividly, and enjoys telling the story every chance she gets). I don’t blame them for telling me; I was, after all, in middle school by that point, and starting to get into verbal arguments with kids at school over it. Basically, other kids would try and convince me that it wasn’t real, that our parents snuck into our rooms late at night and took the teeth from under our pillows, replacing it with money, or that it was really they who left presents in our stockings and under the tree. I wasn’t buying it. I had hardcore evidence, after all. Like the time “Santa” (aka MY FATHER) left a boot print in the soot inside the chimney. Or how the cookies were ALWAYS gone. And how that one time I heard the reindeer on the roof (still not sure about that one; how could my dad get up on the roof, anyway? It’s not like he was a carpenter and had ladders and spent a lot of time on roofs anyway…oh wait…never mind).

So basically I had my hopes and dreams crushed by my elders, never to trust or believe in anything ever again. And then shortly thereafter, it was Easter Sunday.

We spent the first Easter after “the horrible revelation” at our cousin’s house in Maryland. I remember waking up Easter morning and being so bitter, watching the younger kids joyful and somewhat confused at how a bunny had snuck into the house while everyone slept and left them treats. I, however, knew the truth, and sulked in the corner. My mom pulled me into the laundry room, ashamed and belittled (as she SHOULD feel after destroying her daughter’s dreams forever), and offered me an Easter basket she had put together for me, claiming that even though I knew it was no longer real, she still wanted me to enjoy the holidays and believe in the “magical” part of it all. Whatever that means. I accepted the basket (obviously, there were toys and chocolate in that thing), but I never quite felt the magic the same way from that day forward. Depressing, I know. I never said this story would be happy. Oh wait, it gets better. Not.

So that night my dad calls from our house in Pennsylvania to tell me that my guinea pig, Hairball, had gotten really sick and didn’t look like he was going to make it. My dad stayed with him through the night, holding him and making him as comfortable as he possibly could while he lived out his final moments, but Hairball didn’t make it and I never got a chance to say goodbye. So, while everyone was all excited that Jesus had risen, I had to endure the loss of my childhood innocence AND my loving and faithful pet Hairball. Talk about a rough time.

So Easter doesn’t really hold a special place in my heart anymore. Not that it ever really did, because I’m not religious and don’t really care that “the tomb is empty” or whatever.

But really, what’s the point of celebrating a holiday if a giant (albeit, somewhat scary) bunny ISN’T going to break into your house while you sleep, eat your raw vegetables and leave you candy as a means of saying sorry for the breaking and entering? I just don’t see why I should bother anymore.

Does anyone else remember how they “found out” or have any Easter stories that maybe aren’t so depressing? Do share, I could use a good laugh right now. I guess if all else fails I can just go laugh at this Easter post from last year.

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