Drowning

Sometimes I forget to breathe.

Sometimes I hold my breath long enough for my lungs to collapse.

Sometimes I think I love the desperation for oxygen, that gasping half-dead inhalation.

It makes me feel alive.

Sometimes the weight of my words creates an anchor around my ankles that constantly pulls my head under and I know that everyone has their demons and that just because they carry it well doesn’t mean it is not equally as heavy.

But sometimes I compare my life to a car crash.

A car crash that I survive.

The car crashes and I crash with it, but I still survive, and what I mean is that I don’t survive. I live through the disaster, but I don’t survive it. The car is dead but I am still here to remember the screeching tire, shattered glass, and crash of it all.

Most days, my poems are composed of only the words why stuck on repeat like a scratching record.

That’s the thing, there is always somebody left behind.

There is always somebody left.

And sometimes you don’t heal right. That’s all.

They give you a timeline they allow you to feel sympathy and then, at a certain point, it’s “a pity party.” They tell you it wasn’t that deep, that worse things happen to better people and that you’re lucky to have your tongue and your teeth.

And sometimes recovery feels strange because for so long I got used to the loudness. The presence of pain and screaming thoughts in the back of my head became something I could rely on.

Everyone always says it gets better, but the truth is sometimes your situation doesn’t change, you do.

So when the pain begins to ease there’s a quiet that is so difficult to become accustomed to. And yet, I know this is what I need, it is what I must fall in love with to replace my mind’s attraction to destruction.

The truth is, you eventually have to learn to come around to the fact that life is at times mind-numbingly boring and at times exhilarating, yet we must keep faith that one day life will be more appealing than illness.

Last night I cried about dropping a plate, but I was crying about the guilt wedged in-between my bones, I was crying about the heartache, I was crying about how my life isn’t anywhere near where I want it to be and how time doesn’t seem to be working right anymore.

But the words get over it echoed through my veins.

I cut my hands picking up the pieces.

That’s how it works: if you handle glass before you’re ready it only ever serves to make you bleed.

Growing Pains

I haven’t attended a show in months. I haven’t written anything I loved in months. I haven't blogged, or journaled, or honed in on what I really love in far too long. I’ve become complacent and it’s scary when you watch yourself from the outside looking in and see yourself just giving up on something you’ve wanted your entire life.

Now the last half of 2019 was not kind to me. I went through some horrible and heartwrenching things, made very tough decisions, got sick over it, and it was like one thing after the next and I couldn’t catch a break. I fell off in a lot of my responsibilities, in a lot of my friendships, and many aspects of my life both professionally and personally.

I felt I owed an apology for being absent on social media since my entire brand was built off my online presence, but then I realized the stupidity of that. While I am forever grateful for the way the internet has boosted my writing career, I realized through all of the endless hours of anxiety-ridden manic episodes that this is not who I want to be.

It’s been a while since I’ve shared my heart — I mean sat down and laid myself bare for the world to see.

I’ve only done that twice in my life. Once, when I published my first book, and then when I published my second. I found in the last three years that it’s become so easy to get caught up in the hype of it all; the fame and recognition, and lose this true artist struggling within. Now, by no means am I claiming a celebrity status…as I am just a 20-something Jersey girl suffering every day with her inner demons. But in creating this platform to share my words with the world, I feel like I’ve lost a sense of who I truly am.

I’ve said it before, but when I first published “Excerpts from the Book I’ll Never Write,” it was for me. I didn’t do it for anyone else besides me and my growth as a woman, not even as an artist. I had this “aha!” moment, this awakening where I felt it was about time to do something for myself. I had always posted pieces on social media platforms like Tumblr and Pinterest, or blogged for various websites, but never something as huge as compiling a book.

In doing so, I created this message of staying true to who I am as a woman suffering through heartbreak, mental and chronic illness and then as a writer.

As my platform grew and the community grew with me, I fell into the routine of it. My presence online became more a business and less a genuine translation of my life. I gave into that “influencer” mindset of sponsored posts and advertisements and it became more about the viral content and new pieces posted for shares and likes rather than my true art.

I wanted to write to give insight into who I am and what my story is behind “Excerpts from the Book I’ll Never Write,” but I feel my words have now been muted down into relatable content for the context in which I post.

What do I mean?

In allowing myself to be vulnerable in my work and share personal pieces that represent feelings or situations I’ve been in, I’ve created this vague interpretation of who I am. In a way, in writing and posting more detailed and personal pieces, I’ve become more basic and ambiguous. Yeah, I can write poetry on how I can’t sleep at night or cry silently in the bathtub and force a smile at the dinner table amongst friends and family. I can create something beautiful from the pain and be praised for it, but there is nothing poetic about the darkness that feeds my art.

I’ve found most of the inspirational quotes traveling through the social media sphere to be cliche and ironic. Yet, here I am producing the same bullshit for shares and likes. Posting sponsored content on my Instagram doesn’t feed the starving artist in me, it feeds the attention-seeking little girl who never received proper recognition for all the times she's tried to kill herself just to be seen.

I think it’s so common now to romanticize pain. To personify it into deep artistic messages and create a symphony of heartbreak and suffer for a ballerina to pirouette to. They say that the most successful and well-known artists were mad. They were delusional, sad, and so engulfed in their art that the only world they knew was the one created inside them.

I kind of understand how that feels.

I've been so obsessive in my thoughts, wondering what my purpose is and trying desperately to immerse myself in whatever gold my hands touch. Though I am so blessed and humbled for the success I’ve gotten through my art, I feel sometimes it’s fake and doesn’t truly represent who I am as a writer.

I want to write something more meaningful than a few viral words that are so personal to me but dumbed down to be relatable enough for the next person to share and connect to. I’ve tried to be vocal about my struggles and in doing so I feel ashamed that I fell into that world of romanticizing depressive episodes and suicidal thoughts. There’s a beauty in poetry and this online community in that anyone can be a writer. Anybody can post something online and receive traction which later receives fame.

And I don’t want to be just another online profile peddling the same bullshit cliche poetry.

Not to discredit Rupi Kaur or r.h.Sin or any of those other poetry influencers who created a career out of posting their work online. I admire every artist and every person raw enough to let themselves bleed for an audience’s entertainment. I just think I’m more than that. I don’t want to get lost in the glamor of viral poetry. I want to stick with the original message that I’ve forgotten along the way.

These words are mine. They are for me and no one else. This journey is crazy and intense and the world of online profiles and insta-celebrities is weird and scary.

In all honesty, I don’t think I was prepared for this stuff to take off. I was small and didn’t know the power of my voice, and when enough people told me all the things I wanted to hear, I gave in to the shininess. Then, halfway through I chickened out and ran the other direction when I realized the potential of what I’ve created.

But, this is me owning my art and my craft. This is me taking a stand to not give in to the robotic world of influencers and lose myself as an artist in the process.

I want to reclaim my “fame,” and rebrand myself as the artist I am, and always have been.

She just needed a little push.

Beware of wolves in sheep's clothing

Originally written April 11, 2016 for TheOdysseyOnline.com

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I am a firm believer in never holding grudges. I refuse to bring my hurt from past relationships into my current endeavors. That being said, I should have trust issues. I should be this stereotypical bitter female who’s sworn off boys and goes to bar crawls on Valentine’s Day, but I’m not. I am quite the opposite.

I love to love. This has been brought to my attention in the past as some tragic flaw of mine. The idea of being a hopeless romantic in a society built on the foundation of a hook-up culture is somehow unwanted; too passionate, too intimidating, if you will. That being said, when I met this “Mr. Perfect” who shared similar values on relationships and pretty much checked off everything on my list; well… I just knew. 

Sometimes you know. You look at this beautifully crafted silhouette of a person and you ask yourself how you got so lucky. Maybe it was that smile, the way his skin formed crescents around his seductively pale lips when he grinned so absentmindedly. Or maybe it was those eyes. Those caramel coffee bean-colored eyes that looked like nothing less than sunshine gleaming through whiskey. Those eyes that looked at me and sent a jolt through every fiber of my being. 

I knew with him. I knew he’d be bad for me. Nobody that perfect is placed in your life so precisely, so blissfully, with the best of intentions. It didn’t help when he knew all the things to say to keep me swooning 24/7 yet consistently kept me on my toes. You hate to be this negative person but in a weirdly confusing way, it really does become too good to be true. 

I knew he’d tear my heart right out of my chest and crush it into a fine dust in his hands. I knew he’d be the most perfect heart breaker I’d ever have the privilege of loving. Somewhere deep down I knew he’d be the worst choice I’d ever make. But I went on choosing him anyway, day in and day out, through every battle and through every test he’d put me through; I chose him.

Then there comes the point in a relationship where you can’t keep ignoring the signs. The insecurities that build up, the doubts, the uncertainty; everything you ignored because you were so fascinated by what was in front of you with a big red bow and a tag that read, “All Yours.” 

But that’s the problem -- I hold on to the memories instead of people. I love so much that I continue to fall in love with a person that doesn’t even exist anymore. There’s a certain thrill to it, the danger of falling in love with the idea of somebody rather than who they actually are. 

I don’t know (I may never know) what it was for sure that made me love someone so selfish and inconsistent. All that I know is I loved him. My God, I loved him with all that I had, and that love broke me from the inside out until I had nothing left to offer. 

Moral of the story: there are plenty of wolves out there, and you won’t be able to spot them so easily at first. You’re going to find someone who passes so flawlessly on every relationship criterion you have. He’s going to butter you up and send you into this fantastic bliss. But beware, because that same person is going to be willing to shove love so far down your throat that you won’t be able to get the bitter taste out of your mouth for weeks.

Love yourself enough to know when to walk away. Don’t invest so much time and effort into someone who will be able to wake up one morning and no longer see the stars in your eyes. The best love is not manipulative, inconsistent or selfish. The best love is confident in himself; he knows who he is and what he wants and will turn those stars into constellations. 

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.” 1 Corinthians 13:4-8